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Poet 5 - Lawrence Upton
A selection of poetry 1
I am limited in what I can do here
because a considerable amount of my writing is either awaiting
publication or is under consideration, and I don't feel able to
use any of that; and so a couple of pieces I would use here are
excluded. Nevertheless, I hope the following will give some sense
of my writing. If you're still reading, thank you for staying
with me. Here come the poems.
[This poem, written as from
Greece, the Dodecanese, is the second / third in a sequence
addressed to Eric Mottram, within a bigger sequence of verses. It
refers back to the first, written from Poldhu in Cornwall. It is
split in the middle, a split filled with letters to others.
"The Point" = Lizard Point. "Gilbert" =
Gilbert Adair, who convened the colloquium No one
listens to poetry? in 1992. "Petar
Hektorovic" was a Croatian poet, the first to write
significantly in his own language, I am told - who wandered into
my poem - his house on the island of Hvar is built like a
fortress.]
- Letters to Eric 3 & 4
-
- Dear Eric, I'd thought my
next thing to you,
- which must be this; there's
nothing else to send!
- unless you count that card I
sent last month,
- would be written somewhere in
West Cornwall,
- adding to what I'd said; but
nothing grew -
- I don't like rush; perhaps
I'm like a bulb
- that feels itself well set
before it grows -
- I'd used up my energy at
Poldhu;
- and I was booked towards
Byzantium;
-
- Thus I took the seeds of my
speaking voice
- to Thessaloniki then half
round Greece
- here
- .............I paused and stuttered...
- .................................................My poem set
- at the end of Britain's an
outsider's view,
- ready at any time to riot
like
- alien exotic plants round The
Point,
- expanding and exceeding the
garden walls.
- I am no longer English all
the time.
- I'd tried to clear some
ground, turned it over
- if I like, for splitting, new
growth, seedlings,
- in order that ideas might
spread and bind:
- the garden as a building, and
building
- as gardening: love of calm
and caution -
- bring them together, add
experiment
- and an imperative to honesty
- ..........which stays open to law and law's
overthrow
- .....................which knows that what is spoken
makes knowledge
- ...............................and knows knowledge can't stop
gen'ral fear
- and you have poetry -
assuming skills
- that many writers lack - the
gathering
- of structures to get by, in
which to bloom,
- shade from wind and sun,
artificially
- co-operating, well-framed for
suppleness,
- strength and an eagerness to
work alone,
- so that we may, sometimes,
work together
- so that we may survive
outside chaos,
- a defence, hospital and
meeting place,
- a place to be in love with
one's own life,
- a place where friends retain
their own power,
- a garden and a home. The
place to be.
- In Cornwall and in Greece,
and Bosnia too
- if they'd just stop fighting,
I'd make my home
- in England, now a foreign
field cornered,
- but one I know my way around.
I see
- tumbles of bright hydrangeas
down old walls
- and seek to simulate the wild
effect
- like many a Saturday
gardener.
- Or the hot sun blocked by a
roof of figs
- has me designing barricades
to keep
- myself from the edge of dying
London.
- I don't let go my anger or my
hope.
- Okay; do I start again or
build on top?
- The Cornish note is done but
could extend
- like modular Mediterranean
blocks
- (Greek not Spanish) or
Croatian palaces'
- with bits out each end like
cardboard models
- which still have some more
work to do on them.
- Plans make the future which
the future fails
- to validate. Nothing's ever
finished,
- the modern state stacked bone
mounds much as Troy
- in which scared individuals
try to guess
- whence comes the next
marauding incident,
- the causes out of our control
but clear.
- Most buy insurance; spare
beds are handy;
- things change. Our
reproduction of the world
- is unstable. We lack
security;
- and anything organic needs to
age:
- a garden, good stews, wine,
friendship, memory.
- And so we reuse, like
Beethoven humming
- his old tunes inside new
melodies; and all
- art repeats, without or with
intention.
- All competence is
recognisable
- because it's a use of
repetition;
- to go beyond that is to
abandon
- the likelihood of wide
comprehension;
- what's not already seen's
invisible;
- but, in the daily graft of
writing verse,
- who has the time to think
about such things?
- My strong desire to celebrate
you
- forces me to awareness of my
purpose...
- "strategy" is such
a hateful metaphor -
- I mean: "what I
intend". That's all I mean,
- to my knowledge; I don't know
all I mean...
-
- This is a way of making,
these letters...
-
- I think that's it; they're a
way of making;
- but some listening will reply
"Making what?"
- Tyrants and creators use
intransitives.
-
- The concept of
"creator" is worrying;
- we lack some words. Tyranny
opposition's
- not strong enough to validate
its own
- methodology; everything's
shaky;
- one false word and the
foundations of the
- argument one puts move out
from true;
- then none sees straight;
perhaps a new business
- opens up; cracks widen;
dereliction
- follows opportunities and
dead hope;
- towns become ghost cities
filled by loud noise;
- weeds grow; memory fails;
food goes off; friends die.
- Something that worked, like
Jugoslavia,
- goes gangrenous, won't start,
rejects itself
- (thanks to the winning
cabbage, Helmut Kohl)...
- All it needs is one human
with power
- to hate their fellow and
we're in trouble.
- And we have so many stupid
people,
- seeking blindness. "What
do you write about?"
- is the usual form, asserting
the stance
- of those hoping to make a
quick - Ah!
- what may I say here?
"killing" would complete
- the device; but it's somewhat
decorative,
- the device; I'll let go and
leave it hanging...
- The question I have razed
remains. Some stores
- make large profits marketing
glossy pictures
- of scenes and animals that
don't exist
- and don't propose anything
that's contrary
- to the vegetable thought
underneath hate.
- If people want realistic
pictures,
- pictures that are about
something, then why
- purchase images of nothing
nowhere?
- I wonder: who is listening to
us?
- as Gilbert asked us sev'ral
years ago.
- Are there many more than us?
How many?
- What do I write about? God
doesn't know:
- not only is God not, no
reality!
- A man dreaming of Eden on
Death Row
- might be fair analogue for
our mistake
- in thinking that there's
anything to say
- and that, as you'll know, is
the main subject
- of any poet who's worth that
used word.
- Maybe it wasn't always so,
but now
- that's how it is...
-
- .........................I didn't know till now.
-
- I haven't let you speak -
I've talked that much;
- chattering's led me to this
understanding:
- that nothing we can say is
worth the light!
- I needed someone patient in
that role
- as one calls up a poet's
speaking voice
- in their printed words - if
they're any good.
- I sat you in my imagination
- and, without actual words
from you, found words
- for things that can't be
said. That's what I hope.
-
- I walk further faster with
less effort
- than ever before. My brain's
state is good
- and this despite being on my
own, quite broke,
- three weeks before I can go
home - and that's
- to be an endurance test. I'll
survive:
- black birds are flocking
overhead, gold hills,
- an illusion of the sunset,
round them
- and me, except where the
sea's vermilion
- and the sky over it sort of
amethyst.
- I've scrumped figs and
almonds half the day,
- saving for my evening meal.
All's well
- if we only have the space to
feel free
- and I do now. Time to rebuild
paradise!
- If we can believe in it then
surely
- we can rebuild what's never
been, thank god,
- knowing we'll never make it.
Well, so what?
-
- You've laid down much advice
to consider.
- I trust in your continued
presence too.
-
- So then, Professor Mottram,
three weeks left!
- When I return I'll fight with
you against...
- What do you suggest? You'd
better tell me.
- I think tyranny's what we
need to destroy;
- I'm tired of bullying; tired
of lies.
-
- I need to talk. I need your
guidance still
- Lawrence, Greece, 6/8/94
-
- and it seems to me, Eric,
regarding
- these bits sticking out the
ends of houses
- which somehow withal seem
elegant although
- I may not have it right in
memory -
- What I have in thought is
more Croatian
- than Greek - they're like
their arms to link dancers
- with the hand leading pushing
out, unlinked,
- determining the course of all
in train,
- locomotive to carriages,
shepherd
- to dogs, dogs to sheep and so
on, but more
- dynamic, more interactive -
you know
- I love the words the wankers
steal! Take this
- seriously, a little, and one
sees
- houses around amphitheatrical
- valleys, which foster
villages, dancing,
- winding in organised
haphazardness,
- their roads about themselves.
In Croatia,
- Hvar and Korcula especially,
- the houses are far too stuck
down to dance -
-
- ..........as I imagine him,
- ..........Petar Hektorovic
-
- ..........would not have danced
- ..........his house could not -
-
- I have it pictured in my
outside loo,
- understandably fortified,
full weight -
- I have locks on all
the windows out there -
- but the idea was too good to
let pass.
- The local worlds we make
determine lives.
-
- I was up, captived, all
night, in the hills,
- listening to a lyra player,
six hours,
- ended at dawn by eating a
boiled sheep's head
- though I'll not say more on
that! And today -
- Which day? It's heading
towards further dawn.
- I've been harbourside talking
half this night
- of police and lawyers and
advisors
- and other forms of dying. I'm
full of
- an octopus and slowly music
swamped -
- last night's band's playing
the village. I'm home
- in my white room, fan full,
the window back,
- and the songs, the music and
its singer, 'll play another hour,
- I have to rest,
- sounding not just directly up
the hill
- but echoing off the cliffs
two kilometres away
- and round the whole bay's
curve
- an interlocking charmed herd
breaking
- tethered by the musicians.
- ......................................... Here the houses
- point upwards, metal
reinforcement like
- shoots from tubers stuck in
the roof, structures
- which seek high cooperation -
the word
- acropolis acro polis, high
town
- in ancient Greek. Their music
lifts me up.
- More so last night. I'd had
more retsina
- and concrete creates such
harsh short echoes.
- In the hills it's less
distorted afar.
- You hear almost perfectly. He
leading
- in these dances will often
break half free
- and circle the line he has
attached of
- people dancing, performing
complexities,
- leaping, stamping, kicking
his legs higher
- than I'd like to
-
- ...................II thought of this
- ........................................... not sure
- how content I am with it
-
- ...........................................of poems
- which are extensible, half
unlinking
-
- my locomotive loose
-
- ..............................developing
- a theme
-
- .............and then recombining themselves
-
- .............................................................with the rest
-
- ............so that sequence becomes
-
- maze like;
-
- ..................it's contingent;
-
- ........................................it is secondary:
- small stories grow to several
stories
- and ricocheting narrative
builds up
- like the possible routes
through a smallish town
- in growth. Like here -
- ...............................It's half past two!
- ........................................................Good night
- Lawrence, 24/8/94
- *
- [This poem was written for
Gilbert Adair in 1992 to mark his departure from UK and
read to him at the all day reading held in his honour.
Gilbert Adair founded, and ran for 12 years (1980-1992),
Sub Voicive Poetry, almost regardless of the size of
audience and often at his own expense; and one of his
books is Frog Boks (Writers Forum).]
-
- Subversive Activity for
Gilbert Adair
- One has in that virtuality
called mind
- an overlay of medium and
organisation
- a sense of how things should
work.
- It is false, an
oversimplification,
- a sighting on the map and not
the sun.
- Thus starts every act
- including war and other
failure
- To last reliant on bitty
mental-mapped data
- in an environment of
unplanned order
- which we do not comprehend,
except partially,
- lacking referents to supposed
reality,
- and do the same thing for a
dozen years
- and keep it energetic and
keep your spirit
-
- is almost magical
- one suspects the use of
gadgets
- Some on death row survive as
long
- but they have lawyers and a
clumsy system.
- Few want to gas or burn us;
- no one wants to film it.
- This is our cruel and unusual
punishment.
- Gilbert, I wonder!
- Where do you come from?
- Some time in a reign of frogs
- and other species
supplementation
- perhaps you were dropped
- and started running on your
inside motor
- where most would lie
dribbling
- like things birds drop.
- It's hard. I've just passed a
sign saying
- "We adore thee O Christ
- and we praise thee
- because by thy holy cross
- thou hast redeemed the
world".
- Where does a poet's strength
get waxed?
- It always was this difficult
I'm sure of that.
-
1992
*
[I'm not sure what to say about
this. I could tell you the personal circumstances at the time of
writing, which are very clear in my mind, but they are not
relevant to the poem. It's to be read quite fast]
LARGE PAINTING
absence of blue in blue,
rectangles, tending to round, forest cross trees branch; a
metallic bird chants, stop-switch broken; a woman walking by,
squinting from short-sightedness into middle distance, hair
fringe overhanging the tops of her eyebrows; root stumps among
purple weeds, silvery as an effect of the afternoon's diffracted
light.
malt brown sun, glistening sloppy,
melting when you shade your eyes with your hand; green star too
low to be seen distant; an engine revving in an out-of-sight
clearing; creak and swish and repercussion crash, a tree trunk
falling.
we're rooved over by trees'
outgrowth; a parrot voice is asking "where's the other
one" repetitiously in between the notes of the one note
bird, like avoidance of gaps between paving stones; a loudspeaker
broadcast invites us to a helicopter excursion, but no price is
quoted.
sunlight between two trees is
paling fire, a column of dullness bright enough to make me put my
hand over my eyes, like solid honey glowing; and it fades
as I or the sun move, like sugar melting syrupy into water; in
the space it leaves, narrow where the roots curve out towards
each other, one like an arm thrown over another's, though rigid
as in death, a slight haze of reflected light and of vapour and
of hovering insects; a wasp on a broken sign or once-upright
fence post tilting among tubers easily thrown back by my sudden
breath blow starting to walk, beginning to die; walls like
turrets out of a marsh, galvanised steel painted grey; a gun
unsafetied but not fired; a river floating sluggish with the
weight of its own detritus; brown-streaked sputum on a plate of
white fish, smell of drains; a face, from recent memory, overlaid
into what one is seeing now; see this?, he clicks his fingers,
the paper cat falls apart, the drill chuck lets drop the router,
someone opens a door into a dark place and goes inside; oh, yes,
I confirm, I do see it now, still unsure what I am seeing
or why he is interested unless it is to take money from me; his
clothes are well-fitting, he smells of soap all day, he smiles,
his hands move into others' pockets with the best of intentions.
the bar and all who're in it
become transparent, dissolving; their substance fills my
recollections; my senses ring to the high-pitched oscillation; a
kind of synaesthesia wipes out localised desire; one is no longer
sure of the base location; the idea of location is awry; all that
I can say, one begins to clarify, is -
a gathering of grass stalks in a
clenched fist, coming towards me so it's not my own; but I
have, to let you know, a lack of feeling in my
either arm; I do not believe which way to face or who you are or
where it is I'm feeling who I am?; is that a question; sand each
every way on an artificial surface; wind in all ears; silver and
grey, as I splash into a river, shuddering; a bridge over yards
of concrete; a wall between eyes; cable boxes coming open; an
Easter egg collapsing in the heat; honeysuckle; rose; heaven
knows nothing; there is a war everywhere, the big estates
breaking images overturn and imprint images; a rich youngster
forced under the protectorship of opportunists; hands spreading
smouldering seeds; danger - high voltage; you keep vomiting like
that I'm going to hit you, course there's no point to it; come
back to bed; give me a cuddle; that's nice; there's nowhere like
this on any map; why are we whispering?; give me the
compass; give me the notebook; give me a sandwich;
give me your love; give me your trust; give me
an hour and I'll pay you back; give some help and I'll help you;
give me your hand and I'll pull you up; give me the code and I'll
save the world; give me the time and I'll take you there; put
your foot here, no here, good boy, here, that's it, and up;
well done; give me the sun and I'll give you jewels; give me;
give me; the hat's pulled over her eyes to make her look
fetching; I keep smiling all the time; his face distorted by
water flowing, otherwise he'd look peaceful; a child whining for
no declared reason; is this your car?; keep playing; a factory
surrounded by scaffolding; don't let your accent drop, we may
actually have managed to fabricate the stuff of life; the front
door rattles as the bailiff and the ghost, each invisible,
unknowable and unpredictable to the other, try to get in; garlic
and chains and the smell of ashes; someone holding a fox glove is
telling me about digitalis; but why are they called fox gloves?
she asks, she is only six; midwinter storms; diagonal lines of
sunlight crossing the diagonal lines of her dress as she sits on
the tilted easy chair, diagonal patterned fabric; you can't
describe everything, can you, officer?; I didn't think it was
central to your inquiry to mention when I fed the tropical fish;
can you really deduce anything from that?; if you say yes I
shan't believe you; that would seem to me a quality of purely
fictional detectives and you, unfortunately, are neither
fictional nor pure; get to the point, snarls a detective
sergeant; the point is it's half past four and in this house that
means it's time for tea.
indelible ink on a white blouse;
I've said all this before you know so many times; a
bottle of rioja; a marzipan delight unwrapped and presented in
its paper as a mark of respect; thank you, darling, says granny;
stockings pulled down to the knees; a windscreen wiper missing a
beat; an orchard attracting humming insects in millions; a
brimming reservoir; a mutual orgasm with the one you love; a car
almost submerged in flowering heather; a half-remembered hymn
heard now again; thank you for calling dominos pizza; sun upon a
plastic-glazed greenhouse; melting sorbet; a duck on a wooden
table, eating my sandwich; now the-re are thre-e steps to
heav-en, wa! wa! wa!, just follow steps one two and three.
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