Train I ride is 16 coaches long After the sidings, The Palladian railway bridge Takes us through the sky of an enchanted valley. On your left, innumerable, unimaginable shades of green. On your right, innumerable, unimaginable shades of green. Leaves burning in a frenzy of gold and red You may also notice the crescent mirror of the ox-bow lake Gleaming through the beeches. Blue sparks explode from the wheels here Bleaching out the pillars of the parapet. As vista upon vista upon vista recedes into the mist God, and we accelerate at last Through the dark stripe of the distant hills unmoving. To your right, carnage of fallen trees To your left, carnage of fallen trees. The breath of Zeus has untenanted the dryads And we would like to apologise For any inconvenience this may have caused. Great pyres of cut wood pass on either side And 14 pines have fallen quite close to the track Like a diagram. Signalling the end of the sweep of black trees And the beginning of the silver birch. Pale wands of the necromancer if you like. And we are moving like a clot along a vein Towards the heart of London. Look up into the sky and you will see Jet trails converging in a monstrous fork In the purple air above the sand pits Yellow jet trails converging in a monstrous fork In the purple air above the sandpits. The station approaches now And I propose That all that links these facts Fading daily, repeating daily, changing daily Fading daily, repeating daily, changing daily Is the fact that I noticed them And repeated them in front of you. The magic sea bones of Hove I pay the slack line out into the air, Air angled at the same flat pitch of grey Far out to sea and drifting pallid there One red boat rides the swell that scours the bay. My kite Excelsior, swims the dry wind Likewise. A shining line connects the two To me. The one of sight, the other, twine. Both boat and paper kite are red and pinned Into the cortex. Like dead moths they do Not move. It's me that holds the sagging line, Inventing trophies of experience. Insatiable and inconsolable, My heart and tongue both stray among the stones. Separation unimaginable. My jaws hang here behind and chew on bones, While one foot dogs the other up the beach And hands begin to wander, fingers first Towards the curling spray and slapping surf. With night the parts and members each by each Return from cold dismemberment. The burst Veins sing high pitched, beneath the turf. Glistening strings that slip through flesh from sac To sac. The slack bow-string of tautening cord. Excelsior returns from gloom among the clouds And I to me again, and I to me. Instructions It's better if you can use a fresh bone To point with, but if you can't, then a stick Will do well. You must point the sharp end fast And when you do, you'll see a kind of red Glow at the end, as if it had grown hair And were burning. If the stick is still green You really must leave it well alone As its freshness will leave you thoroughly sick I made the self-same mistake, just the last Time I pointed and had a swimming head And a blackened right hand for days where I had held it. Of course she wasn't seen Again. A different world has her in care She will move in grace amongst its phantoms there. Sunday The black butterfly Whirring from within the envelope And its brief flight across the sunlit plane Of a Swiss drawing room. People who don't take drugs Just won't have a clue What to expect in heaven. As the circles get smaller and smaller, The heart expands. As the circles get smaller and smaller, Angel's hands Nudge the golden, misguided explorer To touch with her slipper the golden sands. The distant sound of waves Every time she thought of him As if to imply the way our lives Are permeated by memories of human loss. Torn paper, blurred vision. The trees outside were shaken By a great sweep of windy rain. Torn perfection re-awakens, crushed. Windy morning vision, The blurred form within the shaking boughs. The trees outside in great sweeps of windy rain, The trees in huge clouds of rain, The rain unceasing. The ash of the forest floor, She knew nothing Until she saw the fax in flames. Distant sound of waves, The man who went missing at midnight. The grand perspective, Apocalyptic and beautiful. Great clouds of rain. Crop circles forming in the vast wind That crosses the spring corn. Boiling rain pours through The roof of the railway carriage. Flight across the shoulder of the hill And down to skim the ornamental lily pond - Returning in a rush of air Above the surface of the Thames. At last, striking the great oak with my shoulder And a voice saying 'You know why you did that.' And beyond the distant sound of waves, The cold fish-eyes of the foolish boy who loves me, The balconies hidden by flowers and vines, The vengeful wrath of an austere god. Bone crests, bone chandeliers, Festoons of skulls, A raven fashioned from a shoulderblade, Hearts sealed in jars and stored in the catacombs. The highest philosophy and wisdom Is in the contemplation of death. Boozer's Gloom This is where the penny drops into space Forever and ever, and where the Ace Of Spades is always the card that you pick However you cut the pack. It is sick And leafless, and decaying; the tall tree That we sit beneath, all of us, and we Benefit from little or no shade As its shadow sweeps around the clock. All laid Out in rows, heads up and arms clasped round knees Eyes fixed; skin soothed by no comforting breeze. We are all naked here beneath the sun That will never set and never yet has done But burns ellipses through the yellow sky That trace clear lines upon each lidless eye. And the six who each sit nearest the tree Are all but unrecognisable. We At the heart do not seem human; each Face a relief map of Hell. When you teach Children about God be sure that you say A short word to them of the price we pay To climb the tree and gaze on endless Heaven. |
Jonathan Spooner |
Elsewhere Jonathan Spooner describes his work thus: Art Words Misery. I'd add brilliance. |