Aha, it was you who said nightmarish. OK then. Sorry.
That's how the poet got on top of the Christmas tree.
As I am in a silly mood, I'd like to quote you from The Times of 2 days ago
- from memory. That in 10 years, the journalist wrote, half the bishoprics
in England will be held by women.
I thank you
L
On 20 November 2014 07:23, Bill Wootton <[log in to unmask]> wrote:
> Certainly nightmarish, L, right down to the Norwegian Christmas tree!
>
> B
>
>
> > On 20 Nov 2014, at 10:46 am, Douglas Barbour <[log in to unmask]>
> wrote:
> >
> > Transform triangulations? Could be that nightmare, or just walking
> through a gallery of sorts...
> >
> > Hard to keep up with, but it invites & holds...
> >
> > Doug
> >> On Nov 19, 2014, at 6:54 AM, Lawrence Upton <[log in to unmask]>
> wrote:
> >>
> >> 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.
> >
> > Douglas Barbour
> > [log in to unmask]
> >
> > Recent publications: (With Sheila E Murphy) Continuations & Continuation
> 2 (UofAPress).
> > Recording Dates (Rubicon Press).
> >
> > that we are only
> > as we find out we are
> >
> > Charles Olson
> >
>
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