A new poem, written since moving back to England. My themes are altered & I am now beginning to find my stride with them, especially owing to my access to books being greatly improved; having a marked effect on my perceptions. I apologize for my tardiness, I read with gusto, insatiably; finding little time for much else, even submissions, blog posts etc. I have an unconditional offer for a place on the MA in English Literary Studies at the university of Exeter. Therefore, in anticipation I am reading a lot of Speculative Realism & Object Oriented Ontology (Graham Harman & Timothy Morton) as well as their usage in ecological studies. I am thinking of pursuing environmental studies in literature & these philosophies feel the right zone to be dabbling in to write something on eco-poetry, such as that of John Wedgewood Clarke, especially his book Landfill. However, I need to improve my breadth of reading in these areas so when it comes to begin my studies I’ll be ready. Give me some more time to ruminate & I foresee the formulation of something more than this brief aside. I hope you enjoy the poem, I think I am still there.
The daily orbit, the quarry-lake peripheral,
its wrinkled skin, dark & worrisome
—a skull with all its fuel scooped out.
DANGER DO NOT ENTER sign left up,
no longer meaning what it had to mean
when it deterred heroic youth with myth.
I took a northerly path, a colonnade of pines;
on my right, mature, my left, adolescent, barbed-off
with rusted razor-wire, the reformed quarry
now banked into a sea of knee-high grass,
pampas & soft mud rimming the lake.
At the rise of the path, I turned back
& unexpectedly, there was another weather system
: pristine skies, to my dim covering gloom.
A mountain—terrain laddering from grassland
into granite until an immutable taper of snow
couched under membranous cloud.
Fields of panicles in luminous rows.
Moving toward was moving against this portal, super-imposing
—confounding the expectations of my cortex.
I know the place, it’s on the tip of my tongue.
My struggle for recall, similar to my struggle
to hear the voices of dead relatives.
My exodus to southern climes no longer barred
by the blubbering wind, the uddery swell of furze spines;
nah… it’s this phantasmagoria now.
I’ll never travel anywhere again trapped
in this limbo between here & then.