Friday, May 01, 2015

With Differs Confined

Nostalgia: with differs confined to what is remembered, art unlocks nothing new.

When out walking along the footpaths with my dog, it is my habit to write verse. I write in my head but will also speak the words evenly to myself if nobody is near, and if competing with the wind, with asperities that inadvertently make my dog slink submissively to my side. This morning, as I was turning over the above line, remorselessly trying to find a way to connect it to a larger passage, I encountered a woman with two lurchers. I allowed myself, as I always do, a quick greeting accompanied by a smile, whilst continuing to audition the line mentally within various configurations. However, she stopped, and asked me a question and the ensuing brief conversation went like this:

"Have you seen the bluebells?"
"Yes!" I hadn't seen them. She was looking for me to elaborate. I did not know where they might be situated, and so added, "And I saw the um, the um, the winged, the er buzzcocks. What are they called?"
"The bluebells?", offered the woman, encouragingly.
The ambient line of poetry was still turning over.
"No, the, well the birds of prey."
I hadn't seen any of those either.

With differs confined to what is remembered, art unlocks nothing new –
With withdrawn mind, I appeased the past on courses connatural to
Concentrated thought, but distracted, I fabricate such wheeling birds.
Distraction makes a memory fictive through panting, faltering words,
But the colours, the colours are new, when, summoned back to this footpath,
I fabricate such wheeling birds.