Hi Paul,
I'm enjoying reading this poem! Enjoying the simple language and the
pictures the words create... I don't know the woodcuts and I'd have to
travel miles to try and find the book you mention for a glimpse...
However, the poem...
It's quite difficult to read a poem that's based so closely on an unfamiliar
picture (or, I find it difficult to read a poem that...!) because I keep
wondering what's from the scene that's being depicted and what's from the
poet. Am I right in assuming that these woodcuts are to be seen together? If
they are then I find myself puzzled in trying to work out which image
belongs to which woodcut... (Perhaps I need to read it all much more
carefully!)
And I, too, find the word "pansies" has added meanings these days! (Well,
"these days" perhaps started, for the word, and then the flower, I guess, in
the 1960s) (How long does it take for a word to only carry it's original
meaning?) (decades or centuries?).
And I'm intrigued by the way the way the lances are "disconnected" after
being "placed" in their backs! (the Light Horse's backs!). Do you mean
"pulled out" "withdrawn" after they've been speared with them?
But there's one part that causes me difficulties I don't think seeing the
woodcuts could solve. You write:
"a formless vortex
And the old-placed evil was postponed
Sent off to some never never land
Beyond the sea."
and I can't help thinking of Peter Pan, and wondering what a "formless
vortex" can be. Vortex (or vorticies) seems s8uch a big word, woodcuts seem
to little.
I sense, in the above crits, I may be talking about the words you're using.
But now I feel I want to see the woodcuts, savour what you've seen. But the
poem's also about the woodcarver, about the subjects... and I do feel it's
working independantly of its soruce.
Bob
>From: paul murphy <[log in to unmask]>
>Reply-To: The Pennine Poetry Works <[log in to unmask]>
>To: [log in to unmask]
>Subject: Pome
>Date: Thu, 10 Oct 2002 07:19:38 +0000
TWELVE WOODCUTS BY DERYCK
Here you are, the thirteenth disciple
At the last supper:
On your left, no doubt is Thomas
On your right Judas –
Their unblinking eyes hone in on the
wood
A shower of Galloglaich is taking cover
–
The question is: will the English
lancers
Pursue the Irish horse for eternity?
The smell of sweat, excrement, horse
manure, blood:
A javelin is thrown, but still they
circle
And circle like the prettiest carousel
At the funfair. Twelve is more than the
Company, for there is one more:
Here is the artist, his hair is lank and
greasy,
He is drunk and sweat glistens on his
brow.
You are the absence that even Jesus
dared not dream.
Once the pansies, stones, trees were
Lifted up.
A dark mood, brown study
Things that are hidden, dark words,
backstabbings,
Blood at the dim gateway
All that echoes in a moment’s time.
For all the pansies, stones, trees
Were sucked up in a formless vortex
And the old-placed evil was postponed
Sent off to some never never land
Beyond the sea.
You, the artist, depict yourself as
Jesus
You are your own creation, the eyes
glimmer.
They love you, at last. As you gaze
beyond
Your creation, past the woods,
The hurredly-arriving Kern
With arquebuses alight, and the Light
Horse
Disconnecting the lances placed in their
backs
By your hand, and circling more and more
Quickly as another evening comes
Somewhere, sometime, in Ireland.
Paul Murphy
>
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