Matthew Francis, who recently moved from England to Wales, teaches creative writing at the University of Glamorgan. His first collection, BLIZZARD (Faber & Faber, 1997), won the Southern Arts Literature Prize and was shortlisted for the Forward Prize. DRAGONS, his second collection, was published by Faber earlier this year, and he is also the author of a novel, WHOM. Reviewers of BLIZZARD called it "an ambitious and likeable book" (SUNDAY TIMES), "nicely understated" (INDEPENDENT ON SUNDAY), and "genuinely chilling" (THE GUARDIAN). In a forthcoming review of DRAGONS for POETRY INTERNATIONAL, Joseph Duemer asks: "Is there such a thing as a mainstream experimental poet? If so, Matthew Francis would qualify for the title on the basis of his new book.... Here is a poet who delights in playing with traditional meters, turning them deftly to his own uses." This selection of poems will be followed by an interview with Matthew Francis, who has a thing or two to explain: What DO "the cuttlefish do"? Who's "underneath," "on the edge," "off the ground"? And what's with the forest décor? Poems from BLIZZARD Outside My Window In the shaped darkness where I used to be, something is shouting. I'm awake. The voice is a girl swearing in the not-quite place you have to cross to get back home to day. It is a place that wants to be elsewhere. You never think about it till one night you leave the pub or party, and the street is stretched out waiting for you. It is here, empty and cold, your sleeping theatre, rinsed with a lamplit silence which you share with everyone who's stood out here before. Some bastard starts to play a bass guitar. Sounds like he's playing over the telephone, a hollow, basement music that you feel rather than hear. Ponderous. Comical. You'll be all right in a minute. You'll just lean on somebody's gatepost till you get your breath back, while the houses stand not holding theirs. You clench your jacket, ready. This is yours, this stretch of midnight, to do something with. It is a long receptacle of shouts. Now you feel better, don't you? Now they know, the upstairs dreamers, that you live here too. Your words run naked through their curtained nights. And then you go home and you go to sleep. The whole town sleeps together, except them, those hoarse, white memories you can't unscream. They stand outside your house and wake you up, you being me. Now it's years later. The face is someone else's but the same words still wrench it apart. What are they after? Well, they've done with me now and I want some peace. I'm heading for the other side of what I take to be a sort of game reserve full of bird-noises and the whining of that bug the milk-float settling on the street. _from_ Occupied City 2. _The Cathedral_ Next morning a herd of stone reared up at me in the sun. There are white oxen on the medieval towers, and a hippopotamus (nineteenth-century) thrusts out unexpectedly above the west door. I climbed a tower and rested my hand on the head of a wolf mangy with yellow lichen. An eagle, a bat, a lynx, some devils and a drunken monk gazed with me over the plain. Whoever made these figures knew what a fiend looks like, his tongue between his teeth, fearer and feared at once. The armies were moving again. A long slate-grey column shuffled along the main road. The tanks were glinting beetles. The aeroplanes from here were no fiercer than the swifts that tore at nothing below. I thought of my muttering guards patrolling the nave inside, blotched by the rose windows, talking no doubt of women, one they had left behind or one they hoped to find in the supine republic. The sacred is just a light that sometimes stains the skin of the old profane faces. I put my hand on these faces crusted with dried-up green and warmed to them, as the sun must so often have done. I remembered Rimbaud's line about Europe's parapets as I stood on one that might have been carved out of the air, overseeing the fields by some seigneurial right-- that of just being here-- and I wished that the great towers were suddenly very small so I could hold them as one holds someone else's child, with a sort of courteous love. _from_ Blizzard 1 How it began. I don't remember. They all said it was too cold to snow but to me it seemed that the weather was on the move. There was a chill glow in the air; sunset was delicate and distant. Then it began. I know it must have, a first flake in the night. There are no witnesses. In the dark when everyone was asleep, too high and small to notice, the forming flake locked up a hint of water while I may have stirred in my bed. There was no whisper, no streak in the curtained sky, and things do not begin. But they do. 8 Snow on snow on snow on snow on snow Coming down again. Coming down a I didn't go out. I didn't go Lovely weather for geese. Lovely wea It snowed on and on. It snowed on and The falling grey. The falling grey. The Endless. Endless. Endless. Endless. End We're talking serious weather now. It's been on the news. No more of those smiling girls. Not just the odd snowplough out in force either. Could be the freeze of the century if it keeps up. Maybe a new Ice Age. No one knows. Doesn't stop them talking. Doesn't stop 9 Now where was I? Standing at the door. It was dark again. This evening's snow had half-filled our footprints. I could hear soft voices, an opening window. Cut off, we watched the lights on the west side of town with envy. There were no stars here, and the road was overcast. In the republic of candles each light is created equal and there is provision for darkness and such spiders et cetera as heretofore resident. See the margin. You'd be surprised what has survived. Let them here, each according to its lights, run free. 11 Outside Marks and Spencers they gathered with their lanterns for the Festival of Northern Lights. Their snowmen glittered, and their snow women, and a snow whale. Where had they come from? I hadn't seen any of them, these gleamed-on people in rich fake fur. When did they blow in? Tattered bonfire flames. An Innuit torch song. Then dancing. A fire-eater. Pagan hymns. Jugglers. The jingling hat. The joint passed from glove to glove. Later we sat in the wet ash dawn and talked bears. We slept in the shopping centre in the slush among the jetsam, wrecked. Poems from DRAGONS Dragons It was not the ideal day to go looking for dragons-- drizzly. You want it crisp, what you call dragons' weather. They stay inside when it's wet. Dragons are great ones for forty winks. There must be dragons snoring underneath us this minute in the old dragons' tunnels. All right, Craig, let's go. We got in the Dragons Unlimited Land Cruiser, just four of us, shivering, and the two Dragons Agency registered guides Craig and Dylan, who said he saw dragons' spoors in the mud and knelt down muttering, dragons were here all right, two females and some halfgrown dragons. See, the bracken's charred where the yearling dragons were playburning. You don't get that with the bull dragons-- when they flame they mean it. I've seen dragons-- Dylan, it's gone ten and these people are after dragons. Those cinder droppings are stone cold. The dragons will be miles away by now. We looked at each other. Dragons seemed unlikely in the grey drip but Dylan smelled dragons so we slithered up the road and found a field where dragons had rutted. It looked like scramblers but Dylan said dragons. In any case the ruts were still there but not the dragons so we ate our sandwiches while the guides talked dragons and sheepburnings and farmsteads torched by dragons and places you couldn't grow dahlias for the dragons-- the colours seem to enrage them--and how male dragons display at night on the summits. I've been here when dragons lit up the sky for miles--it was just like the dragons talking to each other in firework morse, dash dot dash. Dragons don't burn so hot as they used to and some dragons have gone out completely, from the conditions. Imagine, dragons extinct. It was all too easy. The afternoon was white now, dragons out of the question, so we climbed back into Dragons Unlimited and Craig drove us back down saying, I saw dragons only last week, a small one anyway. As for us we saw dragons all the way, a nostril sculpted in shiny rock, a twist of dragon's breath in the fog, the stunted vestigial dragons' wings in a crest of dry-stone wall. Dylan said dragons are like that. Sometimes you see them everywhere, dragons. By the Forge _John Keats in Winchester_ Say you had been for a walk by the river among fields of dry yellow and brown whose smell was baking, as if the earth were their oven, but the afternoon was warm and cold at once and you had noticed a numbness in the sky, a shiver in the water, that made you yearn for things with sun in them, apples, corn, honey. And say the air had been fidgety today so the gnats couldn't keep still, and overhead it was crowded with excitable swallows. This was your season, the time of departure. You could feel that edge in your lungs, like the tang of unlit bonfires or a foretaste of snow in the last of the sunshine, as you turned back. And you had nowhere to go now but a room that stared at the blank side of a house, a street you could listen to all night and hear only the punctuation of footsteps and a cane, so you walked through the city, where the people had the look of those you see on holiday as if only pretending to be themselves. And London was waiting for you, a poem you were almost ready to try again with. There was another room, a woman, a book, and a cold blur like rain you couldn't make out from this far away. You had to be inside writing the words before you could find their shape. Say you were thinking of all this and standing all of a sudden, in front of an open shop where a basket of coals was seething orange and a man came and stabbed it into yellow, a cornfield of sparks. Say you watched him hammer and thought he was beating light into a bar, making the street dark. That's when you'd hug yourself and say, I should like a bit of fire tonight. Interior Designers in the Forest A complete environment of raw furniture! Fairly unupfront colours, brown and green, but with strong verticals, and gaps between to allow for the circulation of the air. The aim is never to know quite where you are, so it rearranges itself. This moving screen in front of us is made of natural fern. What do you think? Perhaps I'll just sit here on this organic bench in the sunlight effect. Dry rot is in, apparently. I've seen some illusions in my time, but hey, this place is somewhere else. And this is great, a pond you can use for washing in, or treat as a wild mirror. Look, a _trompe l'oeil_ me! Museum of the Forest We drove to the forest. It was in a museum. At the door they handed us a mudspattered map already separated by too much folding into its nine panels. Chanterelles grew in the carpet. We weren't sure if they were exhibits. We were asked to wear wellington boots to protect the mud. We put our noses to a little hole. There was an autumn day in it, dry and mushroomy. The next room was perfumed with resin, warmed by the greenblueyellow of an infrapine lamp. We rolled up the sleeves of our anoraks and the prickle of rain was applied by tiny hypodermic syringes. In the next room we had to leave all our sounds at the door. It contained the noise deer don't really make at all when they run off. Then we were in a disorientation room with multiple paintings of the same tree and the sun always in the wrong position. They locked the turnstiles half an hour ago. The cry of the last child has faded and the sun is setting in the north. No one has told us if the carpet is for sleeping on. Sleepers _The Retrochoir, Winchester Cathedral_ There is a tomb here that attracts butterflies-- some property of the stone that holds the sun. Black stone with the shape of a bishop in it. Space beneath, where the man was, Peter Des Roches, as hard as his name now, a stone among stones, and mourned by no one except the butterflies that seem only a nuance of the sunlight or the air remembering the way he went. * Places have their own tombs. Asphalt and houses have hardened over the downs where he hunted and rode out of the wood in his purple cloak with his men nowhere in sight and the stag gone to find the country had got away from him leaving a foreign hillside with a palace. Welcomed among the trumpets and tapestries and peaches out of season, he somehow knew that this was the country underneath our own and that his host was Arthur stirring in sleep, who gave him a small gift as a memento-- to open his hand and make wings flutter out. * Sometimes on a winter day light disturbs them and they fly between the white growths of marble, among cut chrysanthemums and the encased remains of sounder sleepers the sun can't reach. Late June As soon as the heat starts, neighbour murmurs, sprinklers, barbecue aromas, permeability. And the deaf man leaves his window open, TV rebounding everywhere-- Wimbledonmania. Nor is the air left to itself. Tripper balloons sunsetcrawl fireblurting indefatigably. How it must seem up there, downland, cornfield contours, boundaries overlooked, simultaneity. It is what June makes one believe, roomy twilight welcoming flowerscents, interchangeableness. School sports day, and time for outdoor vocal pursuits, afternoon loudspeaker echolaliating the one two three of the unseen, shrieked-at races, hectoring vowelsurges, incomprehensible.