Performance of Nick Drake's The Farewell Glacier at COP26 in Glasgow, 2 Nov 2021, is now on YouTube. His adaptation for BBC Radio 3's Drama on 3 is available until 5...
Up here there is no signal;
it died at the cattle grid
where even the trees can’t pass.
In the listening station of these hills
bracken has its own system
to intercept the clandestine
wavelengths of streams and airs;
and the rain’s dark radiance
registers its impressions
on stonewalls and grey rocks
where highly sensitive mosses
gather the information of the stars.
At night, in the pitch black
of the wrong side of the moon
I stand with my fading torch
in the last phone box on earth,
a windowed coffin, a haunted mini-crypt
where a spider’s devised seven webs
then died inside the phone;
for down this cold receiver
which smells of strangers, mouth to mouth,
your voice is five thousand miles away;
so I shout can you hear me? I love you, I love you
until I hear through the rush-hour babble
of horns, airbrakes and squawking parrots
your delayed echo I love you too
while here I stand
in this crazy dark, feeding my last coins
to the insatiable seconds
counting down to silence.
*
Stranger Thing (The Whitechapel fatberg, c/o the Museum of London)
Chip fat, cold shits, dead paints, hate mail, grease,
used wet-wipes, condoms, nappies, cotton buds,
paracetamol, toenail-crescents, needles, hair –
the dregs, swill, scum, muck, slop we flush away
are harvest festival for the moony monster
who rules the empire of the upside down
beneath the illusion of floorboards, parks and streets;
stranger thing, behemoth, lonely ogre, shy
Caliban created by our multitudes,
dreaming where the sewers slowly flow
through whispering galleries and gargoyle crypts,
bringing offerings to the awful sanctuary.
We sent our heroes down in hazmat suits
to besiege it; now these abominable lumps
festering in sealed and chilled vitrines
on live-feed for the curiosity of the world
are all that’s left. The glass holds our reflections,
the beautiful ones who love to scare ourselves,
taking selfies with the alien bogey-beast,
our nightmare mirror image even now
regenerating in the dark beneath our feet.
*
Chronicle of the Incandescent Lightbulb
You had nothing but the moon,
the guttering candle, and the dish of oil
to thread the eye of a needle, read,
or cast shadows on the walls, until
you created us, the first light
that was constant in the darkness.
From a heart-beat twist of tungsten
and a single breath of gas to hold
our whole lives long, you sowed
one idea in our glass skulls;
to shine at your command.
We shed no tears of wax; reliable,
disposable, we lived where you lived,
lit your parties and wars; one by one
we brightened the hill shanties
and towers of your mega-cities;
when you were lost, we were home
waiting, just a click away
to save you from the small hours’ fears;
when your lives hung by a thread
we stayed as long as necessary;
we shone when you were gone.
When the invocation of our filament
broke with a secret tick
you cast us off – and now you wish
a light perpetual and free,
your highways and cities radiant
archipelagoes against the dark.
But if the lights go out from time to time,
lie back on the black grass, gaze up
at the banished constellations, take
ancient starlight in, and listen
for the dark song of our source summoning,
on summer nights and winter afternoons,
the antiquated powers of the moon.
Contents List
9 Through the Red Light
10 Inklings
11 Chronicle of the Incandescent Lightbulb
13 Maenad
15 Still Life: Plastic Water Bottle (used)
16 Ollamaloni
18 Dance
19 The Palace of Memory
21 From the Song Dynasty
23 With Helen and John at Kelvingrove
25 Saturday Morning
26 London Fields
27 For Sandra
28 Peaches for the Solstice
30 The Flies
32 Shame
33 In Medellín
34 Night Bus
36 Driving to Achiltibue
38 Cormorants
39 Out of Range
41 Anubis
43 The Foley Artist (take 2)
45 The Dancing Satyr
47 Self-portrait as a Moose
48 Three Arctic poems
53 Grace
55 Send
56 Life on Earth
58 Fragile
59 Stranger Thing
60 Colibri
61 The Back of Your Head
63 Notes
Related Reviews
‘A scintillating collection of poems…a mastery of form and tone, and a simple, uncontrived unravelling of emotional and psychological complexities… If you care about words; if you care about the impossibility but the nobility of trying to express the ineffable in language that is accessible but that stuns, then haunts you, buy this book.’ – Lloyd Rees, Envoi
[onFrom the Word Go]