Yes, he means David Gascoyne

His place was only a few miles from Carisbrook

L

On 17 November 2015 at 19:00, Douglas Barbour <[log in to unmask]> wrote:

> As would any of us, L.
>
> But then the ways in which the thought progresses: I find it all
> intriguing.
>
> I take it it’s David G you’re referring to?
>
> Read a bit once, now not much at all?
>
> Doug
> > On Nov 17, 2015, at 8:01 AM, Lawrence Upton <[log in to unmask]>
> wrote:
> >
> > I’d be an old man but for medicine,
> >
> > watching each climbing leaf against
> >
> > local stone, tracing a time line
> >
> > defying the weight of silt and shit,
> >
> > seeking, if not the stars, the light,
> >
> > the sense of means possessed outside
> >
> > of time, seasons a sleeper stirring,
> >
> > rising or burrowing through strata
> >
> > of a dream, building memories to mulch
> >
> > new experience and let it grow to strength.
> >
> >
> >
> > One becomes reconciled to and used
> >
> > to the way things are imposed by force
> >
> > of circumstance and greed, the same
> >
> > vector in almost all caution.
> >
> >
> >
> > The river, now reduced by theft,
> >
> > still flows on the bottom of the valley.
> >
> > Up is still up and down still down.
> >
> > Gravity works and so too decay.
> >
> > These directions of Holy Spirit
> >
> > in whom I do not much believe
> >
> > nor ever did except as trained
> >
> > espaliered upon class walls,
> >
> > a drip feed in my head, measured
> >
> > and violent, its pain accommodated:
> >
> > Wrong Way. Go Back. Do not Belong
> >
> >
> >
> > I think of Gascoyne, close to Parkhurst
> >
> >
> >
> > This narrow belt of liveable fields
> >
> > chalk down and lowland forestry
> >
> > and then the turbulent ocean
> >
> > and further north ground wildernesses
> >
> > no one will ever grasp or love
> >
> >
> >
> > It is an exile from all continence
> >
> > where the animal rules or dies.
> >
> > Here in the south, the sun is kind.
> >
> > Things change but mostly say the same,
> >
> > Gascoyne the poet who knew much
> >
> > and put it to some distinction,
> >
> > letting his word take root and spread
> >
> > until it was forgotten, all
> >
> > forgotten, what had been said mounds
> >
> >
> >
> > overgrown, taken for surface features,
> >
> > some such are not recognised ever,
> >
> > left to fall from encroaching cliffs
> >
> > in millennia I would not care to count.
> >
> > There’s too much for us to learn now,
> >
> > too many of us, the time short.
> >
> > The world keeps going. Gascoyne is dead.
> >
> > All that’s irretrievable. But here
> >
> > the butterflies are numerous.
>
> Douglas Barbour
> [log in to unmask]
>
> Recent publications: (With Sheila E Murphy) Continuations & Continuation 2
> (UofAPress).
> Recording Dates (Rubicon Press).
>
>         Done in by creation itself.
>
> I mean the gods. Not us. Well us too.
> The gods moved into books. Who wrote the books?
> We wrote the books. In whose dream, then are we dreaming?
>
>                 Robert Kroetsch.
>