Been rummaging—again—through the poems I wrote on my return to England. Found this one, with a refrain, a repetition, & repetition is very much puncturing the days without mercy.
I don’t recall the exact details of my disposition at the time of writing this. Poems tend to fall into a constellation of activity, a particularly industrious period, with poems of variable timbre & matter emerging in succession, like a beaded lineage of lotus flowers from a dirty pond.
I detect sadness. I was looking for work, full of guilt, worry, in need of friendships. I haven’t changed much, I am still needy for the company of others. I’ve never been like this, maybe I am getting old & want ease.
I find despite my faffing with poems, they tend to coagulate together into a sort of opaque, abstract narrative held in a hug of time all their own—imbricate with each other—in which I was & never will be again. They are suspended frame by frame attachments to a gossamer moment, unaware of its origins once it ventures into peripheries. We must think of our poems as agentic, eventually. I give my poems ‘response-ability’ to borrow Donna J. Haraway’s term. They affect, they are effected. There is nothing in this world that is not processual. No thing in its most stunning inertia is ever perfectly still. Active is everything. This is not New Age thinking, this is onto-ecological thinking. Nothing pauses, ever. It is impossible. A poem never stops moving, even in a dark cupboard in a world where language is lost. Poems are themselves in the instant we deracinate them from their unfinished status plonking them into the paths of readers, for we must have readers. Even the dust will read them in its dusty way, as will the sunlight, time itself, the empty air, the insects that crawl their inky facades, the surveillance capitalist’s machine intelligence.
Morning on & on If day, each day, & dawdling through hour on hour should never pass beyond morning, what effect on the business of the lungs, the circadian pulse, light to never expand nor contract, umber light, oaten love; the mercurial wetness of eye & lawn morning on & on? The will of morning-sense must change. To learn to live in a mode of dew would be to never say farewell to fluency, or throb;—to ignore the candid pale of punishing decline, in the occasion come of breathing this circular oxygen, until we cannot —morning on & on. The palinode on its way, where crucial fictions do handstands, draining their pockets of pearls & dew. Magpie & squirrel, arrived to cozen them, haemoglobin rushing into their head & hands; fazed by turning, they’re snaffled of dewy pearls from under their noses : morning on & on.