Another Tale

Another tale



A load of your sorrows pulled by a worry,
Just as you painted them, joined up the dots;
From these pre-numbered lines you start to see
A working donkey, sore-shouldered, trots

Through a wood, dust in its eyes, exploited.
What have you done with the blank page? Take heart -
Ink’s all that’s there – a touch of green & red.
They’re the cortex trudges on, not donkey and cart.

The donkey’s safe in a paddock with fresh grass;
Gladly she takes soft saddle-bags to market
Packed with the sage her owner has to sell…

And then erase the lot. Pack up your kit -
The pens, the brushes, paper that will pass
For real, next day another tale to tell.

Seventh Sense

Seventh Sense





He walks through the forest, through light and shade,
Collecting lichens, herbs for his cell, thinking
That behind each tree is a hidden trunk,
A darker shadow hung before the glade –
The hardest part of living as a monk,
The space between each nodding asphodel,
A long time to call things. Self-sinking,
Self-doubting he walks on, ignores the bell

That calls him to a simple contemplation.
He goes into the profounder silence
That the roots themselves inhabit in their search;
Dark-sensitive like them, a seventh sense
Develops in him, like an intuition.
He stops to hug the birch and then the beech.



+++









Kenneth Hyam 25/05/07

The Sensual Crayon

After last Sunday’s German-English dual lingo reading in the Meeting House, some of us were in the mood for more – translating, that is. Maria Esdovin and several other poets came back to the flat and sank a few Guiness Exports – a good place to start. Maria agreed to give an interview and reading of her own and I switched on my reel-to-reel.

Lucas: Am I right, Maria, in saying that you have been translating your own Perovian these days?
Maria: You are really right.
Lucas: Er.. do you mean that I’m 100 per cent right?
Maria: I mean I have my reservations.
Lucas: You mean I am not really right or I am only rarely right?
Maria: Yes, Yes. You are. (uncontrollable laughter from around the room).
Perovian is very…. Is very hard language to translate, especially as there are so few speakers in this country, apart from the small Perovian community in Kentish Town. Perovian poetry works by resonance and association –
Helen: Yeah,so does all poetry!
Lucas: Look – this is Maria’s interview. O.K.
Maria: No, Helen is quite right. It is just that the resonances and associations are very hard to grasp outside of original Perovian, especially in the dialect of the province I am from.
Helen: O.K. cool .(Sighs all round).
Lucas: So what are you going to read, Maria?
Maria: I’m going to read from my long poem The Road – only short extract.!
Lucas: Is it O.K. if I get this on tape? You know I’m recording this.
Maria: It is really alright.
Lucas: Um… yeh.

N.B. Anyone interested in reading a transcript of Maria’s poem and other extracts please go to:
http://sensualcrayon.blogspot.com

or click on my profile and click on the link for The Sensual Crayon

Bricks and Mortal

Robert is now back from his adventures in Italy. We have come to an arangement.
He has a very unusual - even for Robert - story and instead of telling it on my blog he has agreed to have one of his own.
He says he thinks the internet has de-poeticised poetry and refuses to type anything except onto his ancient i-book which he then prints out as if it was just a typewriter. Yet, in spite of this high moral stance he asks me to blog his poems when he feels like it. O.K. Rob, I'll do it gladly 'cos I believe in yr talent.
For those who want to follow Rob's meanderings, then, click on my profile and click on the blog called "bricks and mortal."

Postcard from Perovia

It seems one of the last things Robert did before he departed Pero Airport for Rome was to send me a postcard. Sent almost a month ago, it has just arrived. It is a large format card with a typical Esdovian landscape, masses of ripening wheat - undulating not flat - disappearing to hilly grey horizon.
On the card Rob boasts of his visit to the controversial poet Noise Astute who is living again in Esdovia, his native province. The remarkable landmark house which he designed for himself has been "borrowed" by the authorities who say that its pear-shaped dome is ideal for the hush hush work that is going on there. Rob's journalist contacts say it is the government-backed Centre for Psychic Research. Noise's pear-shaped dome - entirely aesthetically concerved - is thought to possess remarkable properties for sending and receiving in paranormal experimentation - telepathy to you and me!
Noise is currently apparently housed in a local farmhouse where he enjoys views of his beloved pigs and geese from his two room apartment on the top floor.
According to Rob, Noise is planning to break his nine-year silence this spring. This has been partly triggered by reading the Mezzanine Esportu that Plautus posted to this blog a little while back. As pointed out this is a highly complex form, which takes years of practice to master. Noise was very moved to see it flourish from England and has replied with an Esportu of his own:
Yestremi testremi manu
clostroti whorly epran
Giggs Manchester United!
Acumentec tootie chestrud.

Robert has not bothered to translate and my schoolboy Perovian really isn't subtle enough. Nonetheless I have decided to blog it, as no doubt it is worth archiving.

More From Latin Rob

At least this time he's had the sense to email me, so I can paste it straight into the blog.
I've edited out the first bit where he berates me for accuately transcribing his spelling mistakes on that napkin (some folks are never satisfied). Suffice to say that he's recalled some more of his day in ancient Rome (from now on, AR).
He was walking through the market in AR, when a messenger ran up to him - suspiciously not out of breath, no dust on his sandles - and thrust this into his hand proclaiming, "Ab amico tuo: ecce haec epistulae" or some such doggerel.
Sounds to me as if the waiter has slipped some grappa into his tamarindo!


Bright Sun In The Square

I wish I could remember more - the whole letter:
some fragments come, no photographic memory.
I recall hanging on each Latin word and phrase
with goatskin vino, hunk of bread and cheese
seated at ease in oleander shade,
it seemed penned by th'exiled Roman bard,
no need translate - my brain was latin-wired.

Can still see my Chaucer notes 'bout Ars Amoris,
which crops up in the Canterbuty tales:
"A lovers handbook by the poet Ovidius,
literary giant of the ancient world."
And I, reading this key letter just yesterday
can now mostly see shadows on a page
of freshly folded parchment, bright sun in the square -
I shoulda done that Dale Carnegie course...
Two things are even odder: as I write these notes
now in Amato with a rum and coke
that messenger just rode by on a Ducati;
second is doubt - the doubt within my mind -
not that I was there reading that mint papyrus
my doubt was whether Ovid was the author
......sorry protocol at the Amato says my time is up with this computer - to be continued.

News from Roma

I had been wondering what's happened to Rob. Last I heard he was in Pero with Maria. Now it appears Maria is back - I ran into her today in Cafe EuroMed. She's very reticent about her visit to her homeland. Still no pubication date for her forthcoming volume "The Sensual Crayon"
When I got home I found a letter on the mat. It contained this. Typical of Robert not to include a letter - just the pome scrawled on a napkin bearing the title "Amato". Oh Well at least he seems to be having a ball.


ROBUTUS OVIDII AMICUS

Somewhere on the third hill
beside the railway line
above the Piazza Risorgimento -
home in on Google Earth
& you can just see it among the ruins
centuries old – the tomb of Robutus, my ancestor.

I found it, separate from the vaults,
a weathered slab, sloping encrustation,
almost erased th’inscription:

“Robutus Ovidii amicus
Corpus atque moenium generis muralis
Dithirambi et carmina pro Bachi pangabat
Coluit in Roma et in Roma
Ad suum moenium recurrit”

As I stood numbly trying to translate
I seemd to stumble, blankd – the empty world
replacd the full one, pod-like, dark
thousand-year preserver of seed.
stript of all photons a floating funnel
where Dante, Michelangelo and Fellini
could be heard laughing. Their
joyful giggles accompanied
my bumpy landing in a busy market
not far from… what recognised? Those toga’d
gents – such decorum at the Forum!

The speech I heard around me
not Italian, though it had the ring, was Latin.
That much I knew, marvelled how it bubbled
from their lips – mine also – my
hot lips! Spoke in Latin, for a day
down there.
Now, a touristo inglaisie
I transcribe these notes for you
my fine friends in Kentish Town;
I'm up among Fiats and Alfas again,
sipping a tamarindo in the Via Giadorno Bruno.

Perovian Song Bird Discovered

The following dialogue was picked up on the mic input of a media player in the Assembly House last night. I have transcribed it making no alterations except where the sense would have been lost without them.

Rob: Your turn, Lucas. I’ll have a pint of Pride.
Maria: Another of those fizzy wines, please Lucas.
Lucas: O.K – a pint of Pride and a spritzer

(Bar noises and me ordering the drinks)

Rob: Cheers Mate
Maria Cheers
Lucas I got some nuts
Rob: So Maria why won’t you read us one of your…
Maria: One of my poems you mean?
Rob: Yeah – you are mean not showing them to us
Maria: Yes – but it’s the translation: I still compose in Perovian and then into English. It’s like with the Noise poem – I have to search for the silence and out of the …
Rob: Yeah the silence…the Word comes from that…translate your own word!
Maria: Anyway you did most of the translating. I gave you just the literal meanings…
Rob: Nah. It was mostly you luv. Come in – join the mob. You’re one of us now. Let’s have one of your pomes. I know you’ve got one with you be… cause you were writing it when I got here. I saw that notebook you’ve been secreting about your person.
Lucas: I seem to remem’er you used to be quite coy – at the Frenz House when you first went
Rob: Save some of those nuts for me, Lucas mate. Yeeh!! We all need to get the right moment – nahmeen? Maria this has got to be it….
Maria: Mmmm
Rob: Good on yer girl..
Unidentified
Voice: Someone turn the light out – I’m goin to sleep – turn the light orf.
Second unid.
Voice No, don’t do that. I’m still reading.
Maria Well – here goes then

Maria reads one of her poems from her forthcoming collection.
(For copyright reasons I am not allowed to blog it. Maria would not mind herself. It is a fact that the publishers and her sponsors – The Perovian Institute of New Writing – have expressly restricted any pre-publication. Let’s not forget that the P.I.N.W is an important contributor to the literary scene in that small but significant country and we should not disregard its wishes lightly. Even Noise’s membership was suspended for several years when he was suspected of Romanticism. The charge was completely unfounded, of course, but he was left out in the cold for a while.
N.B. Robert and Maria are flying Pero this week for a holiday and hopefully will be able to get permission, while they are there, for Maria to release a few of her poems in translation.)

Rob: yes.
Lucas I really enjoyed that – Thanks Maria. The images from painting and drawing were so strong!

Unident.
Voice You’re not one of them bleedin graffiti artists are you!

Mezzanine

This poem has been translated from the original Perovian by Robert Trellisand and Maria Esdovin. As a Perovian speaker, and poet in her own right, Maria has been invaluable in helping Robert to produce the English version.

Noise's buildings have been largely industrial and domestic, innovating housing complexes and ergonomic plants for light manufacturing, but his early work was revolutionary.
It is said that he never fully forgave the authorities for rejecting his design for a building consisting entirely of Mezzanine floors.
In this poem, which is clrealy linked to that experience, Vecute's political reference are covert and extremely difficult for an English reader. The poem has nonetheless started to gain an underground audience, and it is hoped that a full annotated version will appear soon.



Mezzanine

It’s still there in the depths of me,
not far from the garden with its worn
grass and single tree:

it’s a storey on which many storeys
have been built – each year another story.
Tall and grey-clad now
I sway gently, imperceptibly
with the tremors and air-
disturbances of time.

In the depths of me, still there
and difficult to reach, since
all the lift operators were fired
and Maintenance were relocated –
and the stairs are dangerous!
On some of those middle floors
I wouldn’t linger, what with
well – you know – the rats
and the graffiti. I mean
the graffiti on the wall
and the rats on the bed:
those half-way-ups, where,
sucked away by the updraft,
towels disappear from window-sills.

It’s difficult to get back
to where I want to be,
and then – once there – I might not get back up
if my knee’s playing up.

Yes – it’s still there, a gentle curve of curtain,
those real brick walls,
multifarious brick, orange
and yellow and oddly tinged
as bricks are. Good old brick,
decent and honest – that’s what I miss!

It’s not the first floor
the one I’m telling you about;
it’s one up from adolescence,
or is it one down?

Any rate, it’s not
the central storeys that interest me, nor these
wind-buffeted facades up here,
where – to be frank with yer –
what goes round comes around.

Ah! If only I could get back
down there
down to my mezzanine
where you can talk to people from the balcony
or, if they’re playing football
with their kids,
just smile or do something
friendly and ironic with your eyebrows.

I’ve grown from the ground up
each year a little further
and – build we must – so I must live
with the building I’ve become,
realising I’m descended
from what’s below – what
was that Wordsworthian dictum?

Ah, Yes – the mezzanine
that’s what I was:
a balcony full of Summer
a ledge-full of scents:
the people who dwelled in me, friend and foe….
I remember once, one evening,
just before it rained,
somebody I once knew
succeeded in getting a glass of wine
out of the window, offering it down
in carnival gesture, as the taker
reached up from the… ground.


++++++

A Parish Mystery

Robert dropped by the Bull and Last the other day with a piece of paper he said he had got from his grandfather's chapbook which had in turn belonged to his great grandfather. The piece is not dated but the chapbook with ballads by local pamphleteers was published in 1832.
When I faced Robert with the fact that he claims he is descended from the wall at the bottom of the road he looked me in the eye and told me not to be so f---ing patronising. Another thing we differed on was our explanations of the reference to Headlong Hallies.
Robert believes it is his great grandfather's tribute to Thomas Love Peacock - Headlong Hallies being people who admire or who are hooked on the novel Headlong Hall.
My interpretation is different - I think it is far more likely to refer to the comet which was in the sky during 1832.i.e Hally's Comet The Headlong Hallies would therefore be the types who fling themselves through life like a comet and have no repect for the polite orbits of planetary folk.
Rob and I can't agree on this but have agreed to differ - we are therefore jointly posting the extract from Great Grandad Trellisand. Would be grateful for the views of others.

We Headlong Hallies disrespect
the venerable spires and their elect;
and focus our nightly long conjecture
on heavenly bodies' architecture.
We look ...... (askance)
at dull doctrinalism;
our more aitheistic schism
regards the material itself..

We have transcribed the handwriting as accurately as possible, though can't make all of it out.

Waiting

Waiting…


You could almost reach up
and touch the deserted balcony
above the busy street; its old
metal railings admit striped light
to a world you can’t quite see,
a forgotten stage, a proscenium
where a memory lingers, or a sense
of something about to happen.

Down in the streets, in pairs, women
walk, talk and laugh together;
men, in twos, stride manfully.

Two buses together
at the depot, ready to rumble
waiting for their driver,
are vessels, waiting to be filled.

Behind walls and windows people
are talking, or sitting and listening.
There are people going somewhere
or waking up at home
getting ready to go somewhere –
to staff an enquiry desk,
or get to their shift,
to meet in the park or
just to be in the park,
queuing for cinemas,
standing in bars,
on moving staircases,
like red cells in capillaries
or like droplets moving
in tubes of glass. Travelling

somewhere or returning
from travelling;
moving points in a panel
of sky connect up the globe….


And the stage, tiny and bare,
is still lonely, still waiting,
as the light alters,
for two actors again to enter
and play out their scene together.

+++

Ross's Riddle

Ross’s Riddle




It was past the last station on the line
Where philosophers go to perpetrate
The overthrow by positive virtue
Of amorphousness and indifference,

In the ruins of a Norman castle.
A fine rain fell the day I walked up there,
Making the trees and vegetation drip –
As if dipped in an Existential ocean:

The records of our world were washed away.
Engaged yet uninvolved, energised and yet
Laid back, I headed for the old stone walls
Which would have been deserted, save for Ross

Who’d worked his primus up to brew some tea.
We stood under the partly crumbled arch
With our enamel mugs, unsmilingly
Discussing the cycle of lake, heat & rain.

“Look, Trellisand, it’s like your bath –
Evaporation and condensation
Make water run in droplets down your walls
It’s simple really – that’s what rain is, see.”

Naturally, I didn’t quite see, provoked
And grumbled, “The lake’s not boiling, is it?
So how can it make steam, evaporate?”
“Your bath’s not boiling either, mate. It’s heat

It takes and just the change in temperature
In water, air and upper air to make
The droplets form and fall as bloody rain!
What nature takes out, nature puts back in.”

To fend him off, I nodded and agreed,
Taking a rich tea biscuit from the plate,
Which presented miraculously dry.
The tea at least made sense and quenched my thirst.

His close-cropped reddish hair, and beard,
A little more unkempt, conspired to make
His thin face seem perpetually strained
As if from touring in a Hillman Imp.


And still it rained whitening the green landscape
Veiling near trees and distant houses, both,
In its approaching, disappearing mist.
My question came from deep down, welling up:

“There’s something I have come to ask you, Ross.”
He tapped his mug against a stone to get
The tea leaves out, rinsed, then sighing
Stood straight, “Well, Robert, spit it out – all ears.”

“What I’d like to ask is this,” I started,
“Would I, if I had done things differently,
Be better off than I am now? That’s it.”
His face seemed more inanimate than rock

Or stone – metallic, his eyes looked past me
Diffused and distant as the hills they scanned
Time had not stopped. I felt a heavy and
Cumbersome frame pass too close for comfort.

Then Ross began to speak. The spell was lifted
“Done things differently? I’ll say you have –
Differently from me and from all men.
What you mean, chum, is different from different


Ly. But, had you done things “differently”
They would not, then, be different – nor the same.
The difference that you ask about can be
Between universes only, you see..”

He trailed off in rasping cackles, showed
An unfamiliar set of tea-stained teeth,
And then, once more composed, restarted: “Rob,
The past has gone – alright, chum – quite gone!

Don’t dwell on it. Read the philosophers
And read the actual words they’ve written down
And look at knowledge and the verb to know;
In silence find the word you cannot hear.”

Down through the dripping meadows, having thanked
My man, I headed for the station, wrapped
In my own thoughts, replaying Ross’s riddle
In my head – noticed the trees looked greener –

The rain had stopped & a bird perched
On the station fence, grey and white plumage
Sharply etched, seeming too to take me in
Before it flew: “Now”, now the answer came.


****

Chaser

A woman, calling herself Kentish Town, has appeared at the Torriano Meeting House. Robert thinks she is having a bit of a joke at his expense. Be that as it may, we went for a drink afterwards at the Assembley House and bought her a pint.
She thrust this poem at us which she says she is too embarrassed to read to the group. I personally think it's an amusing reply to Rob's poem, and Kentish has given her wry permission for it to go out as a posting on this blog.

Champagne is not my drink, it never were.
I see the point you're making about my letters -
Bubbly and white - but that's for smart go-getters.
Look, Mate, it's London Pride or Youngs that I prefer:
A well-pulled pint has white froth on the beer.
Simply explained, it's beer that breaks the fetters.
Do us a favour, let's leave the champers
Until our first book's published. Listen here:

This woman , or dame, drinking Thunderbird -
I think you undersell y'self there. Load a
Glass with a dram of whiskey, add some soda,
That's more like your style, Mate. On my word,
Thunderbird sounds like a hot-rod racer.
Scotch, Mate! I'm Kentish hops and your're the chaser.

A visitor to this blog has asked me to publish this photo and the following poem - it is my good friend Robert Trellisand - the wall man of Kentish Town. Robert and I met at the Torriano Meeting House and we have talked about pomes a bit. That's Rob's letters, his mortal coil, you see there up on the wall just beneath the brand new job by a local artist.

Face to Face

Super-graffiti’d on my wall, a name –
Not Hollywood, L.A. and not New York
Those bubbly letters seem to fizz and uncork
Champagne, a white froth promulgating fame,
While my letters have no such fancy claim,
No glass to catch them, ice to make them work.
Mine are the fine fume a New World dame
Exhales when she’s got Thunderbird to walk.

I share my being with this pride of place
My dreaming mansion suddenly a commune;
What twist of Kismet, quirky stroke of Fate
To pair me with this jaunty fellow, face
To face with: .Kentish Town! I’ll say, Fortune
To stand by him; am proud to call him mate.


*******

We reared him in the
kitchen with the spice and herbs -
feed him on sunlight.

hip hop beats

hip hop beats
from the cafe on the corner
have spread through the square

Just One Pint

"My poems just keep coming," mumbled Ant,
One sultry Tuesday, as he got up to read
His latest, to an aimiable sycophant
Who'd joined him in the Gardener and Weed

Suzanne could drink one pint while he drank four
And though he never seemed the worse for wear
She called a cab to take him to his door
And shared the mile to make sure he got there.

Now, helpmate, she whisperingly confided,
"I've sent your poems to the TLS."
The SAE came back, and soon derided,
Suzanne revamped herself, regrouped, no less -

She spends her Tuesday evenings poem-writing
with just one pint to see what it will bring

In the heat that has become cool
the Beats have become the beats...

Striped Space and Gardener’s Hut

They’ve made a garden stage of the old gardener’s hut
A piece of scenery within the garden’s heart
All winter a cage of wire went around the bench,
Scaffolding supports and January’s plastic sheeting
For the grass. Now – perplexing transformation –
The black-wood, plaster hut is clad in artful boards
That, portraying a full-size version of itself,
Encases and so protects. Lead windows, tiled roof
Proudly emerge from this suit of party armour
That guests surround in the hot June sunshine: they laugh
And touch, staying under the trees that rise untramm-
Elled over Soho Square – the Twentieth Century
Fox building and the Women’s Hospital stand up
As tip-toe lovers in their mutual height with branches
That stretch towards them in the grand manner of art:
In a white breeze the high leaves nod to sun-lit walls.
Where voices strum the air, quick heat wave seeds, light-borne -
Around and high over its pointed tiled roof –
Flicker down, striping the space of the gardener’s hut,
Tickling the throat that dreams of tigers, on the grass.

La Vita Nuova

LA VITA NUOVA

‘From out of corruption of their woe
Springs this bright flower that charms us so,
Men rot and die deep out of sight’
- Richard Le Galliene

Amid the harsh lights and unfamiliar voices
I lost consciousness, spirit sunk
Within my polished breast –
Treading down through rocky passages
Where living creatures dread to go;
Like Orpheus I left the upper air
Behind, went deeper through the caves
In search of her…..

I slept until
The poet lifted me in supple hands
And placed me on the table by his desk.
A pale waxy light picked out a room
With books and notebooks, papers everywhere;
We looked at each other openly
Without the sense of either in control.

The lines around his mouth
Spoke of a fierce non-suffering of fools and lies;
The eyes, where fires of humour and of sorrow
Burnt side by side,
Soothed my jangled energies.

Spinning cab wheels rattled on the street outside
And still we sat, no place to go
Until he turned away
And wrote for several hours.

***

An affair of the heart deranged his mind.

I saw the trappings of the demimonde:
Decanter and glass
Guineas and bankers drafts
Wantonness of dress
Flask and file,
Figures I could not understand.
The words “casino” and “fortune” flew…

He did not fall apart.
At the spinning centre of the wayward wheel
The unfaltering stillness was.
His visitors, though some had
Artificial manners, were not false –
Orchids in the desert night, a bright
Gaudiness enhanced their beauty;
And when the pearly fog surrounded us
Magnifying absences,
Their abstract perfumes or
Some sweet remnant of the distant person
Lingered on…

Although inevitably
To some his face became a mask
I knew the weight of sorrow in this ocean
That kept him to his task.

To him I told my story,
My feline history – he it was who drank in,
As if rehearsing mordant wickedness,
The strange concoction of my former days:
The lost Lord, the mistress
Missed, for ever missed –
A sense of knowing
A knowing sense
Surrounded us.

We glimpsed a fresh city
Bathed in new splendour, better than before,
Where differences discovered prospered
And grinding poverty was less;

Both saw
A valorous resistance
With streets burning and bombs falling
In a curtained future
A violence beyond imagining.

I saw my old house hit; he his favourite
Drinking hole go down; now, here
At last was something he did not write about.

____