Super poem, Arthur. is it Leeds? Manchester? I dont know the streets, and
for the sake of thje poem I am not supposed to know - just curious.
'inisinuates in the detritus' might be a bit smoother but I dont know. The
run through the whole day works, and that is a hard thing to make hapen in
this legth of poem.
bw
SallyE
on 11/12/03 7:31 am, Arthur Seeley at [log in to unmask] wrote:
> Christmas Shopping
>
>
> (i)
>
> The canal, grey and still, is the city's mirror
> where phantom campanile drift
> and cranes compile quivering apartments.
>
> Frost along a leaf, sunlight golden through the frost.
>
> The train insinuates through the detritus
> of a city's back ways where graffiti blares
> over bleak walls and fallen factories;
> a red brick pub, stark and misshapen, stands derelict.
> We roll heavily, metal on metal,
> over the web and tangle of bright rails
> shudder and terminate.
>
>
> ( ii )
>
> She assailed him like fragrance from flowers
> in the meadow's heart. Walls melted as hills rose
> over the paved ways of the station mall;
> dew glistened where her feet adorned
> the shining pathways.
>
> Loudspeakers' nasal instructions
> resonated and destinations
> flickered across the boards.
>
> Demure, pale and pregnant,
> ripe as a gourd, she glided beyond him,
> rustled whispers of crisp taffeta at him;
> paused and turned,
> to check her platform, place and time.
>
> He never knew her, never dreamed to ask,
> but in the clamor of that vast hall
> he slept a moment in the garden of her face
> as centuries uncurled.
>
> (iii)
>
> The open market,
> is a cornucopia
> crammed for the Christmas
> of a heaving hoi-polloi.
>
> Perched on a roof
> a starling, beak agape,
> boot-black beads
> half-lidded in bliss
>
> harks to the rippling murmurs
> that flow
> from the dark rainbow
> of his throat;
>
> beyond his warbled taps,
> a milk-white moon
> breasts the ragged profile
> of the city.
>
> (iv)
>
> 'Toasted teacake for one'
>
> Insulted by poverty, badged with age,
> he musters crumbs with his grimy thumb.
>
> Away for the day
> from the malice
> and unreasoned rages of the estate
> that lap against his window
> like a morning tide of pain,
> shits through his letterbox,
> tries the latch after midnight,
> taunts him through cold mist,
> haunts him down the belling streets
> -wants him dead,
> he has sat here as long as he may,
> dared a lesser wrath,
> gathered the cossets of neutrality and warmth,
> the comfort of folk around him
> but already there are lights on outside,
> bent eyes and shrugs, whispers,
> so he leaves.
>
> Mother Earth billows up Briggate,
> all arse and anorak,
> rolls like a laden galleon along Kirkgate,
> four carriers per fist, and a family to feed, for God's sake,
> sashays to the music in the streets
> where avenues of Santas nod and beam
> but the night wind down by the bus stop,
> sharp and cold as a blade,
> plucks at his trousers,
> burns omens in his eyes.
>
> (v)
>
> The city falls behind
> dark grips the train
> evening papers mask us,
> each from each.
> I hold my grand daughter tight,
> watch the pools of light drift past,
> marvel at her small hands
> against the pane of night
> the miracle of her spread fingers.
> My ear against her back
> adores the tiny tremors of life
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