One of our plots is on the left, after the shed, you can see the wood of the raised bed floating. |
This week has been
wet, very wet in fact, and the poor allotment has suffered a second flooding of
the year. The problem apart from there being too much rain is that the wet
summer has left the soil saturated and any further rain was bound to cause
flooding.
I was at my old
university this week during the down pour and the best line I could come up
with was:
Sheets of rain curtain
down the drive
But I could not
manage to link it up with any of the other things I had been writing. Such is
poetry, it will go into the box of lines that I dip into now and again.
I have been writing
a short story in the CO2 sequence, it has been weaving through a number of
forms. I originally wanted it to be a set of official documents with the story
weaving through them, it seems to be transforming into a third person narrative.
I am unsure at the moment how many of the documents I’ve already completed will
make it into the story. That is one of the joys of writing, don’t you think,
the unexpected paths that you end up taking.
While waiting for the water to fall and hoping it does not reach the broad beans and peas which are just now spring above the soil (if you plant them in the autumn then you can harvest them before the black fly infest them, for all you keen gardeners out there), I wrote a poem for my old tutor.
IN THE LIBRARY
Disturbed by the building work,
The ghost of my old professor
Skulks about the stacks,
Loiters by the books he ordered
-the few that remain,
Those authors he claimed to have known.
I just saw him,
As bored and fretful as if at a fresher’s fair.
I fucked up like he did;
For years he fought top corridor,
All for nothing, he cannot leave this place.
Management are having the last laugh.
I see him now, transparent in the fluorescent light.
I realise he will be here
Beyond the yellowing of the pages.
Magpies in the Quad
Magpies in the quad
bold as brass but more beautiful
they seem to welcome me back
some things never change
I’d be interested
what you make of the first poem, let me know.
I was wondering if you were afloat down there. Much the same here in Hampshire I'm afraid. I like your poem. It has a kind of dusty sadness about it. 'Those authors he claimed to have known' Maybe he knew them or not I guess, but there is a sadness in the idea that one is enhanced (or not) by the touching of hems. I also like that idea of that slight seediness of fluorescent light placed close to the word 'Management'. It creates that atmosphere of pragmatic banality which pervades our mortality. The theme is completed in the yellowing pages.
ReplyDeleteThanks Oscar. I think the poem came about because someone asked me who had been there when I was and it turned they had all left, and this particular one was dead. As you say, he could have known the authors, at the time I don't think I cared. It was strange seeing the physical remains of his lifes work, a group of yellowing books.
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