Genesis F4 3rd Court – a poem

Genesis F4 3rd Court

 

white hair

dark eyebrows

glasses low on the nose

laptop, open on its side?!

electric book

fragile bird chair nest

black trousers brown jacket white shirt

 

an African mask of Cornish shells

shelved

above vinyl rows of piled books

CDs stacked on records

wooden box, mother of Pearl

a note to self:

“Pushkin’s birthday on 6th

Yeats’ birthday on 13th

John’s birthday —”

tall wooden lamp

top-hat tilted over

students on a white sofa

wooden floorboards

 

I can’t work out from here what the framed sketch is that sits next to the samovar

 

small black eyes

the otters’

Simms’ otters

 

the note wasn’t a note but a birthday card:

“what an auspicious month!

            Love, Kate xxx”

 

Genesis F4 3rd Court

 

a learnéd life

living rooms

literature alive

book spines a spindly bind

 

how many things I’ll never know?

 

(but)utterly effective, smooth Melancholy thistle

whif(t) of whistle

 

otters exist outside

the humbling inadequacy of language

or arrogant artifice?

 

otters; objects; obsessions

a furry-oil pelt

 

I want to look behind me into the other room

 

quick

 

red brick fireplace

blue walls

painted not white wood

another non-bedroom

PhD after all?

 

his eyes are small

white whiskers

small slinking brown

curled around wooden twigs

slightly sagging

a selkie slipping

into watery words

 

I want to sit cross-legged and read them all

 

two hip-height speakers

side-saddle sofa

 

some bio-art is trash

luminescent lights, language lab

 

an umbrella rests in the fireplace

the young man with tight jeans

says surprisingly insightful things

 

the face contorts and the body fails

 

there’s an actual bird’s nest

before a card of blue felt tip

childish script

 

MacDiarmid and Bunting

spring otters from a cognate stream

sprung rhythm rhythm sprung

 

he hasn’t spoken

“some people haven’t spoken at all”

then eloquent courageous

he observed the way our conversation had constantly returned to arrogance versus humility in man’s attitude towards nature

 

kennings

Barry McSweeney’s wine-red odyssey

a tomb on a shelf

 

all you had to do was ask

 

well fuck

my only notes are this poem

thought-fox essay

 

momentary violence is innocence:

the thistle-flower

 

twice he lifts a laptop to his face and I don’t see the lift

look up from lines

laptop head !

 

it ends with Maggie O’Sullivan

clipped

shouting from an apple on the floor

 

why are you smiling at me? when everyone else lowers their eyes

 

he doesn’t pause

but mutes

 

 

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