Human Archeology
Another revision - but this one was trickier...
Sometimes going back and ‘tweaking’ old work can be relatively easy — especially in prose. With poetry the challenge is of a different order, largely because the poems are more likely to have been created ‘in the moment’, in response to a particular — and fleeting — emotion. I would argue prose doesn’t share that profile; it’s more detached, both in terms of style and content.
Deciding to take a swing at Human Archaeology — my 2017 collection (and my very first ‘proper’ one) — has surfaced some of those difficulties.
The collection debuted at the inaugural Ripon Poetry Festival in the same year, when I shared a reading with Andy Croft (of ‘Smokestack Books’) and the late David McAndrew. My reading — the first I’d done for some considerable time — was, I confess, pretty atrocious, though not helped by some people choosing to come noisily into the room in the middle of my ‘set’.
Having said that, I’m not sure the material in Human Archaeology helped the reading that much; the poems are relatively long (for me, anyway) and a number of them were ‘found’ pieces i.e. based on material I had culled from other sources (the detail of which has sadly been lost). Going back to review the collection has therefore compounded the difficulty relating to the ‘in the moment’ challenge with the technical nature and composition of some of the poems themselves. Is it counter-productive to confess that even I found one or two slightly impenetrable?
Nevertheless, I have chosen three to share with you in this post. To the best of my knowledge, none of these are ‘found’ pieces — though my memory could be playing tricks again…
Relics I Touch it gently if you must for it is a relic of the past. Don gloves to protect it from the imprint of your fingers and the contamination of the present for this is History. Once, through that window, you might have seen the end of an era perhaps; or on the lawns beyond, Ladies marvelling at the majestic fountain, its marble rumoured to have been hewn in Tuscany. We may not know when this frame was closed upon the world, broken and giving way to time; yet that which was once a poor repair is now itself become an artefact of the past. Touch it gently if you must. II Touch it gently if you must for it will be gone soon after, imprisoned on the journey from the tangible. Once you might have stood ('in the moment', by modern idiom) and thought of now - today, tomorrow - and a present so easily become the past. Living exposes the lie of 'once', for 'once' is now and never and always. Examine memories as you do this ancient window; marvel at their legacy, and how they like you - have travelled through time from 'once' to 'once upon a time'… Take care of your history for when you are no more who will there be to bring it back to life, a relic crumbled into oblivion with your passing? Touch it gently if you must.
The Grain of the Wood
Do you see that face in the grain of the wood:
the hooked nose; the frown above bushy eyebrows?
Do you sense the menace in that warped smile?
There is witchcraft and entrapment there.
Do you see the wings of a bird,
spread wide in its swoop toward the window,
lured by sunlight and the make-believe of escape?
Perhaps it is mainly children who can see these things;
innocents who see elephants and alligators in clouds
through car widows on long motorway journeys.
Is it the freedom of imagination
or the chains of boredom
that opens their eyes this way?
Do you recall the copse near the lake
where we used to stray an age ago?
And if so, can you see, etched in your mind’s eye
the clumsy initials we once carved there?
Since you have been gone
I have not ventured to the lake, that copse;
but somehow, once again, I can see
monsters in the grain of the wood.Noise (or between God and the Internet)
Imagine a vast ocean of mirror-still translucent turquoise
so clear that you can see its floor,
so vast that its shores are become horizon.
Imagine that.
One day, from an invisible somewhere, a pebble
is dropped into the very centre of the ocean
and a single ripple forms.
All around the ocean’s edge
people watch in awe as the simple wave
glides silently towards them.
Imagine that.
And then, ignorant of each other,
two people (or twelve people) find stones of their own
and toss them gently into the water.
Others watch as multiple ripples now expand, intersect,
creating complex and wondrous patterns
on the gently undulating surface of the ocean.
They are besotted by the magic of movement,
of the motion they have created by their own hands
in the simple act of throwing stones.
Imagine that.
Soon everyone has found a stone
and the surface of the water is bombarded
with the volleys of the masses.
Everyone needs to make their mark,
to influence the pattern of the seas,
and ever larger stones are thrown, harder, further.
And what was once a mirror-still surface
moves beyond undulation into chaos,
its turbulence so great that ripples cease to form at all.
And where once the sea was clear and turquoise-blue,
it is opaque and grey and chill,
and nothing can be seen beneath it.
Imagine that.Posts relating to the reviewing of my other collections:
If any of my books meant something to you, an honest review on Amazon helps other readers find it. It takes about two minutes, and it makes a real difference for an independent author.
If you enjoyed this article, please ‘like’ or ‘share’ - your validation is really important to me. It’s writing’s lifeblood.