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oh yes it's usually the intelligence of crows that defeats the many I used to patronise a noisier cafe where I did once ask a muvva to keep her child from screaming like a crow she objected that he didnt sound anything like that; and I gave up as she was making more noise than the child bird she was ignoring sometime later, the little tweet was climbing on an empty table - he stood up, spread his arms and launched himself into space in one fearless movement he didn't seem to have the idea of flapping his arms and fell straight down hitting the ground, he began to scream, as I believe I would in similar circumstances the mother came to collect him, glaring at me, but I showed no emotion neither of us exchanged a word I see him now and then - I think it's he -- sitting on a branch of a tree near the Carshalton ponds. He's only vocal near tea time; and once he was in the middle of the road, seeing off a magpie L On 17 July 2014 12:03, Patrick McManus <[log in to unmask]> wrote: > Thanks for clarifying that L > I've heard poets who sound as if they are turning into crows! > > > -----Original Message----- > From: Poetryetc: poetry and poetics [mailto:[log in to unmask]] On > Behalf Of Lawrence Upton > Sent: 17 July 2014 11:44 > To: [log in to unmask] > Subject: Re: sorry for being late,let's pretend it's still Wednesday please > > Well, I'm there at the present. For the last hour we have overblown singing > (volume and decoration = emotion = good) drifting down and mixing with the > MOR of the coffee shop and for many hours an ever-changing convention of > mothers with babies who sound as though they are turning into crows. Not > sure that Sutton has much to do with this poem though. > > > On 17 July 2014 11:32, Patrick McManus <[log in to unmask]> > wrote: > > > Sutton has it all going on what! > > > > -----Original Message----- > > From: Poetryetc: poetry and poetics [mailto:[log in to unmask]] > > On Behalf Of Lawrence Upton > > Sent: 17 July 2014 09:59 > > To: [log in to unmask] > > Subject: sorry for being late,let's pretend it's still Wednesday > > please > > > > *Film* > > > > > > > > an arm sprouts from a person like a tree > > > > details of architecture draw attention; > > > > peaks and cliffs among the rooves and towers > > > > turn into clouds and dissipate upon > > > > a wind; she lights a cigarette; she coughs; > > > > the sun shines on her body; grass takes on > > > > the colour, texture and warmth of fur; a gate > > > > opens on to a chasm to which she strides; > > > > she sits and inhales; breeze tugs the hair; the tree > > > > sways, the new arm foreshortens, then withers; > > > > moss grows on its stump; how tiresome, she says > > > > to someone else about something; a many; > > > > multiple bird song and people making notes; > > > > much dead wood; decay upon rivers; as if > > > > film had been cut, and joined by another > > > > with the same actors > > > > she begins to hit a client > > > > on his erect penis, with twigs, grinning > > > > lasciviously; he takes it, > > > > pained and excited; small figures in a box > > > > in a luxurious doll's house; a washing machine > > > > spilling water over a polished floor > > > > a glistening weir; shining electronics, > > > > toys gleam at the lawn's centre. > > > > She leans forward > > > > to get a better view, totality > > > > curving or seeming to; and yet bony, > > > > meat scraped; and now, like some ship's figure head, > > > > ghastly of colour, ambiguous; menacing; > > > > wind opens the kitchen door, rattling the high cupboards > > > > above the empty work space; a radio > > > > starts; a loose wire connects; an idiot talks > > >