Dear Arthur,
There is a lot to like in this poem, but I had 2 problems
with it. The first is the shifting POV. We begin with a train journey, with
the narrator, but in the next stanzas, the omniscience of the voice does not
match that simple premise.The obvious solution, if you would be prepared to
surrender the personal nature of the close, is to use the third person at
the end, so the 'we' of the opening is a generalised one.
Also, I found the section (iv) was much the strongest section of the poem-
so perceptive about the misery in which some people live that I found it
painful to read.Also I wondered if it had enough specifically seasonal
significance to fit into 'Christmas shopping' ? Because it is so powerful,
to me, it almost belongs in another poem. The effect for me was a string of
amethyst beads, interrupted by one big onyx one. Does this make any sense to
you?
Kind regards,
grasshopper
----- Original Message -----
From: "Arthur Seeley" <[log in to unmask]>
To: <[log in to unmask]>
Sent: Thursday, December 11, 2003 7:31 AM
Subject: [THE-WORKS] New Sub: Christmas Shopping
> 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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