FOUR CORNERS OF A BOX

Ok, so after the 4 Alchemy pieces, here is the pull-back-and-reveal: the complete piece. Alchemy is in the change all together produce as an overall effect.

FOUR CORNERS OF A BOX

 

*

The huge slab feet of Waterloo Bridge, and the Shard;

how office blocks shoulder together, and shine

in a river wind that burnishes blood, red.

In Manchester the banjo man sieves

daylight out into his black canyon of a box –

the city dips night-up to strange perspectives.

And Edinburgh’s Protestant tenements;

old preachers in black proclaim, no microphone:

live artefacts amongst the Festival tents.

 

*

A sister-kin of floods; and garden ponds.

The grim rain overstrict with the forced authority

of culverts, drowns men in reservoirs, the fronds

of unrealised dreams. How the Atlantic

is a sapping, smothering body, the busy

rounded rush and squall of cold North Sea,

are gathering their resources; continual; frantic.

 

*

The tinder-box of city streets; and a light:

how squads rush, restrain, and kettle; so nothing stands.

How fire, electrics, demand be made stronger, bright

and so feed, stand and be judged; their light

incinerates value, connection as they plunder, despoil.

And how you huddle over the grate, serve it

with bended knee and back, take out its night-soil,

it’s used-up corpses.

 

*

Feel the wind tug in your clothes, and the fall

urging: buy me, need me, come with me.

Loss of control, as the product placement, pratfall,

of the accessorized soul… it’s how abatement –

as grip fails and fingers clutch – is a panicked stillness

before shop window, clothes store… bank statement.

How, like sleight of hand, your bankcards rise

to the top, and below them, nothing…. How it’s all lies.

 

 

GEORGE

for St George’s day

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Listen,

this is what he did:

he narrowed his eyes, levelled his lance,

his mouth behind his visor set;

begrudgingly to admit at last

the road now led to the lair,

and all ways out used up,

or going nowhere.

The knowing smile of the earl’s wife

tucked away for later. He uncurled

to a back-twinge, a tooth niggling:

(a back molar broken as he bit hard),

and his horse fidgeting.

 

With a sigh, now turned his mind

to this matter: the dark of the cave,

no hanging grasses, scented woodbine,

but mill-stone grit, a gully that gave

onto a sounding river.

Palms damp, glove seams undone,

he nudged his lance tip, a sliver

of bright sun, into darkness.

Pawing and restive his horse

snorted, snorted.

 

And in a turning of the cave

where light fell diffuse, the huge

bulk turned its head and gave

a look of surprise, almost human.

‘Steady!’ to the horse’s flattened ears.

‘This is just him and me now. Walk on.’

And the dragon

smiled

eyes, muzzle, ears,

crinkled to their corners; teeth shone,

then hoodied. It spoke:  “You will not kill

me, George. You know that!” His father’s voice!

A trick? He’d expected something: the chill;

reined back; his horse trotted, neighed at the voice –

‘Whoa!’ Panicky, and picked up on. “Once before

I remember this” I was five! “You were five

and Torridon could not jump. And you swore.”

We were alone. My father has betrayed me!

 

And again it spoke: “George, listen to me;

I said to your father, I spoke to the bishop

before he blessed you…” My god, is it she?

My mother?  He patted, stroked, to settle his horse,

‘You should not have spoken to the bishop!

This is family business!’ “You would

not listen! Not one of you.

I know you better than anyone could.

My one blessing. My only son.

You are too young.” The voice insistent,

“Too young!” ‘Mother! Don’t go on!’

 

‘It seems you have us all here.

Let one go free. Her in the corner!’

A shape in the cave. The dragon, winking, cleared

his throat, growled “Now listen!

I am all that makes your world.

I make all that you value, the glisten

and the glow, that is your island;

all the fortunes – and the mishaps.”

And then smiled; a little smugly perhaps.

 

He hitched his lance, steadied spurs, then wondered:

Could I, he thought questioningly,

Be the booby who blows it? Is it me?

He remembered all the voices he ever heard,

the friends, the busy voices of tradesmen,

the businessmen, neighbourhood women.

He heard Scandinavian, African voices,

the Asian, and the European voices.

–         These are all who made us!

His horse stirred –

‘There has to be change!’ surprised

to hear himself: ‘If not conquering,

then concessions! You,’ he hurried,

overriding interruptions,

‘have to agree. What you buried

now must be born. What are corruptions,

rebooted – what you represent,

are how it was. If I can’t kill you, dare

I then… clip your wings a little? Tear

a leg for a trophy?’

As he spoke, edged to the side slowly;

fire blared down the cave: he was safe.

 

And as the dragon paused to inhale

he charged, pricked its breast, blood ran:

‘I may forget myself!’ he said wildly,

and the dragon blinked, backed up a span ,

and blinked again. He was off, blade out,

paused by the flank… “What do you want?”

a whisper from nowhere, everywhere.

 

‘Change!’ “Change can mean defeat;

for I am everything ….” , ‘I will take

what comes, and seek concessions.  Defeat

is integration, alteration. Nothing is ever complete

without this mix.’

 

“And what will you give?” That voice;

that final question.

‘If she goes free, the choice is

my bones on your hearth.’

 

Coda

 

And she did, lighting her way alone,

with a Chinese lantern:

part saint, part dragon

wholly her own.

This is what she said:

“He was hoping it would just take the horse;

but no, it took them both.”

 

 

 

ALCHEMY OF EARTH

 

The huge slab feet of Waterloo Bridge, and the Shard;

how office blocks shoulder together, and shine

in a river wind that burnishes blood, red.

In Manchester the banjo man sieves

daylight out into his black canyon of a box –

the city dips night-up to strange perspectives.

And Edinburgh’s Protestant tenements;

old preachers in black proclaim, no microphone:

live artefacts amongst the Festival tents.

THE ALCHEMY OF WATER

 

 

 

A sister-kin of floods; and garden ponds.

The grim rain overstrict with the forced authority

of culverts, drowns men in reservoirs, the fronds

of unrealised dreams. How the Atlantic

is a sapping, smothering body, the busy

rounded rush and squall of cold North Sea,

are gathering their resources; continual; frantic.

ALCHEMY OF FIRE

 

The tinder-box of city streets; and a lighter:

how squads rush, restrain, and kettle; so nothing stands.

How fire, electrics, demand to be made stronger, bright,

so you feed, stand and be judged; their light

incinerates value, connection as they plunder, despoil.

And how you huddle over the grate, serve it

with bended knee and back, take out its night-soil,

it’s used-up corpses.

ALCHEMY OF AIR

 

 

Feel the wind tug in your clothes, and the fall

urging: buy me, need me, come with me.

Loss of control, as the product placement, pratfall,

of the accessorized soul. It is how abatement –

as grip fails and fingers clutch – is a panicked stillness

before shop window, clothes store… bank statement.

How, like sleight of hand, your bankcards rise

to the top, and below them, nothing…. How it’s all lies.