L Will we see it soon ??
-----Original Message-----
From: Poetryetc: poetry and poetics [mailto:[log in to unmask]] On
Behalf Of Lawrence Upton
Sent: 25 June 2014 11:54
To: [log in to unmask]
Subject: Film, with narrative interruptions
Everyone is outlined, figures gesturing at each other, a product of smoke;
and, while smoke clears, most vanish; and a dresser and other furniture come
into view, light through a grimy window. Water drips.
The furniture looks clumsy. Walls dissolve, to show the country beyond from
the air; floors dissolve - the building has risen - trust your senses.
Trust mine.
A single light caught in your hair, candlelight, illuminates the darkness.
What shampoo do you use? And, tell me, what scent do you use? Why is your
head bowed?
It is not her he fears but what she might do.
It is a barren country. A van rattles fast along the one road. A dog,
seeking to catch up or overtake, goes barking: its jaws open and close. It
bounces with the effort of it - somewhere between aggression and enjoyment
- they aren't that separate for any of us whatever species we belong to.
A friend told me a story of her dog let off its leash in a quiet part of
Sussex, far into the footpath system, which rounded up three sheep and
brought them to her, very proud, you know how people talk about their dogs,
and needing to be rewarded. And the sheep seemed quite content, as if their
obligation to obey were not a matter of fear but of duty, as people are with
the police, and as dogs are with their masters.
Hit a dog that would bite off your arm for doing so and, if you are its
master, it will probably accept the pain and injury, seeing it as right. It
is in their system of response: *that* is the way the world is, they seem to
think; as sand is blown on wind, as smoke fills a room with a bad chimney.
Just as people telling stories think it important to get to the end; and
people hearing stories think it important to listen.
The landscape has gone. Where we are now I do not know. It could be
underground. There's no light. The dripping water seems louder and more
numerous. A ring of small intense lights spins round a pile of dead trees.
It looks like trick photography. Meteors. The heat of an outdoor oven. An
old man talking to himself for company; the brain talks to itself...
|