Sheila, thank you so much. I am not sure I know what to say. It is as well
I must go home now L
On 20 November 2014 17:29, Sheila Murphy <[log in to unmask]> wrote:
> Such poise in transitions along a narrative suggestion that color is a
> story. A welcome mode of perception. Truly beautiful, Lawrence.
>
> On Thu, Nov 20, 2014 at 3:04 AM, Lawrence Upton <[log in to unmask]>
> wrote:
>
> > Not really. Just a series of images and fragments of stories, characters'
> > supposed feelings. Some of it might be, in colloquial terms, nightmarish,
> > as I think Doug says. xxx L
> >
> > On 19 November 2014 18:39, Patrick McManus <
> [log in to unmask]>
> > wrote:
> >
> > > L is this another of your nightmares?
> > > Fingers are getting tired; he can't hold on
> > >
> > > much longer
> > > P
> > >
> > > -----Original Message-----
> > > From: Poetryetc: poetry and poetics [mailto:[log in to unmask]]
> On
> > > Behalf Of Lawrence Upton
> > > Sent: 19 November 2014 13:55
> > > To: [log in to unmask]
> > > Subject: Triangle of light
> > >
> > > Bright triangle turning into a sharp dog's head;
> > >
> > > not a Border Collie's, but something like.
> > >
> > > It's sky blue with a fluffy white cloud
> > >
> > > as a break between canopying trees;
> > >
> > > and that becomes a furry canine skull.
> > >
> > > A seal comes up through triangular gaps
> > >
> > > in ice. Someone passes a macaroon.
> > >
> > > Traffic goes by outside. A fat-necked man
> > >
> > > keeps eyes shut tightly and continues talking
> > >
> > > to his wife though she is not listening.
> > >
> > > They close the curtains too early. It's day.
> > >
> > > It's still really very light. Brown shadows
> > >
> > > dart about the fourth wall of the room. Two hands
> > >
> > > beside guns on a low coffee table.
> > >
> > > Later, when it's dark, you go back into
> > >
> > > that room again, to the sudden darkness. Somehow
> > >
> > > there's light there as if there were inner shine
> > >
> > > in your head but you cannot see how much
> > >
> > > it's heavily smudged charcoal. The afternoon,
> > >
> > > then birdsong; melting butter loud-sizzling
> > >
> > > in a deep-bottomed pan. Sunlight on a loch;
> > >
> > > fishing rods upright in fishermen's hands; the hills
> > >
> > > opposite beneath the sun, detail in glare.
> > >
> > > Geometric shapes; industrial units
> > >
> > > above the prefabricated new estate;
> > >
> > > incandescence of the setting star; white light
> > >
> > > blinking in the video camera; notation
> > >
> > > of seconds being recorded with action;
> > >
> > > jagged pan across nineteen thirties' apartments;
> > >
> > > most of the curtains pulled back, but no sign
> > >
> > > of activity, yet a sense that all those rooms
> > >
> > > are inhabited. The Christmas tree from Norway,
> > >
> > > fifteen degrees from upright, being tugged;
> > >
> > > an expectant murmuring in a mad crowd;
> > >
> > > an oily blueness in the stream as it
> > >
> > > goes down, like petrol poured from a can. You know,
> > >
> > > dear, says his wife, she spends money
> > >
> > > compulsively. Everything she'll buy's sensible
> > >
> > > in itself, but she never wants anything
> > >
> > > of it. She spends money from need of work.
> > >
> > > Paste blue fractures of paint superimposed
> > >
> > > on the surface, breaking the illusion of pictures.
> > >
> > > A little ochre-coloured pendant of rock
> > >
> > > he does not recognise. She picks it up
> > >
> > > and looks at it and says chalcedony;
> > >
> > > but that's said just for its sonic effect
> > >
> > > and's not a realistic suggestion.
> > >
> > > Song of the reel upon the rod. Opens
> > >
> > > his eyes. Still going terribly fast. Always
> > >
> > > been scared of motorbikes. Am I on one?
> > >
> > > Fingers are getting tired; he can't hold on
> > >
> > > much longer. Horse with white down the middle
> > >
> > > of its nose jogs out of the black and white
> > >
> > > photograph crumpled up beside the gas fire.
> > >
> >
>
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