Icarus

icarus

fall

sun

son

The sky as thin as paper

this membrane,

to night

yet as before me
the light rises
as day falls

in side

-

following the light
not as a path
but more of a scan
a scan of arc
( twilight as reverb )

this after glow
as shine
as everything

Acquiescence
a
pale
reminder

and then
high jets
their tales
tails
light and electric
rising
falling
fast/slow

spoked rays
fanned
over
ending

night crown

-

jet in ether
towards the blue
icarus
lid of night
compress the day
eve
a chink
a closing gap

iris

lens

for a moment

-
a cloud
hovers above me
febrile
as if moving
just forming
resonates
as if to touch
form
to come
and then
go

form moving through air
air moving through form

hung before me
as a thought
a notion
its belly becoming more solid

as I grasp it
it falls away
and becomes a cloud

-

this air
is
silent

and then a crease of sound from above

-
time dissolves
time as a carriage
I halt
to stop

and this wind
makes a measure of it

-

the light in the west
its shine
last forever
in this moment
stretch
bend
curve
horizontal

amulet
its lamp
brighter
as the edges
the periphery
grow dim

no reddening
just a paling

-

light

as a psalm

as a communion

October ground

Bottalack Cliffs
Here again, at twilight and my mind is blank to the outside
words
A question I have been asking myself recently - is my work riddled with death?
Or pointing toward it ( even in youth )

-

The air smells of the west
There is a space with fragrance
scent
a natural odour

Scilly
in the dull effervescence
a twilight gloam
pink muted to orange - one way
and to grey violet - the other way
vertiginous

its vague smear southerly to the left
there is one part of the sky that is a pale gold window
as the day dims
sinks
it saddles the night
the colour is almost rich
getting richer
as this darkness forms
from the east around me, a shroud

last window
riching splendour

greys turn through blue towards violet

the world's jet streams in china blue

the orange glow
still shifts southerly
westward day

earth's rim
a pointing towards
(not extraction )

sometimes the ' spirit ' - in the solaplexus is absent
empty
sleeping

and then a bright star
many jewelled
opine

above -

the orange hue from the west

through fugged clouds

looking for an ecstasy

02 10 07

Back in the land of green, chips and antiques
I am at the Windy Ridge Cafe outside Plymouth - pensioners special
This is cuisine
my number is 43
A nice cup of English transport tea
My sleeping was not good last night

At Plymouth Ferry Port met a Danish cyclist/eccentric who was ‘doing’ Europe on his bike
He asked me directions to Harwich, i said follow the coast
He was very interested in the morgan
talked about the fumes on the car ferry and had to do his exercises to clear his lungs
Also something about they only used the one vw in Auschwitz to kill the jew.
It seemed to go on
I couldn't understand in that English way of polite dismissal - I was home

The windy Ridge was on top form, Antique roads show on the TV,
It puts me right back in it
I hope I am not too beige if I ever get old.

“ Its very reasonable here “

Chips

Chips are to the English what coffee is to the Italians

Chug along west in ill bella,

some car

home to my loved ones with open arms.

01 10 07

At breakfast trying to listen to some great easy listening over the tannoy, but Rob Brydon and Tracy Emin here are doing a good job at driving me nuts clanging and
banging about getting ready for he next coachload of Englaise

Through green Spain to Santander
Park up at the port in my line
Go to the shop ‘fantastico’ and by some Rioja from Haro - Rioja Alto which I suppose means altitude
Carrying 20 bottles of wine back to the car nearly kills me I must say
didn’t think to take the trolley

The English live on chips it seems
I don’t, I ........

waiting now

Then the french experience ferrying Brits home from Spain

Leaving Santander
Mountains in the west, soft hazed blue
the sun breaks through the autumn haze
distance all the way to Galicia
leaving mountains, again to the south

My problems with watercolour are technical ones
I like the initial mark, or a record of the mark/stroke
buts this gets dissolved in the process
back to calligraphy

three hours leaving santander - sicilia and the south


i can watch the sea for hours
It is myriad
almost infinite
nearly uncountable
and a mirror to the sky
uncountable
infinite
myriad

today it is like emulsion
mosaic
patterned
like cheap copper tables
it is all surface
as if nothing will come from beneath
as a milked light
in space
it is itself
the wind has lent it some time

( like crossing that first time to Lewis)
passing into a remote twilight
leaving mountains to the east
finding mountains to the west

Elephant skin
tabioca'rd
viscous
oiled
like treacle

arcs
pitted, patin-ed fingers of wind
poked, pattered
spread
multi- tudinous
refracted
this diamond sea - arabesque

the edge of the wake
is a curve like deep sea beasts
the curl as back

like star maps - reversed light now as cross- stitch
feckled
on the dark lips of mermaids
the skin surface
mottled and kissed

and then the ocean roll
from a big space

a time to not look beyond the subject

a spindled horizon
set dancing
( it’s own axis )

leaving land
the light of the sun
throws open, as a door
pathed
to the bulge of brightness

and a warmth
amongst a cool air
as from afar
countenance
meadowed air
brightness as to blind -
beyond gods shadow

( back to a northern clime where the sun is an event)

on leaving the south - behind
to itself
somewhere as a place

past a moment of youth
and into somewhere else

I put this


dip and brow
the golden flecks
twilight’s kiss
along the rim of the world
hasten to a dark

an infinite

held outward

cupped

placed


I sit on the deck and do the poetic thing
watch the sea and write stuff
did a watercolour
a finale to the trip -
that is why I like coming this way
You can watch the sea

it passes
appears the same
and passes

now its limbo time
had the meal
looked around the shop
read the headlines
‘ body found’
heard the banter
this is holiday time

I shouldn't be a snob buts its an English thing
there is no hope
normality

In the cabin

sea washes past through the hull
peoples voices in the corridor