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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