Join Bloodaxe for this launch event for the winners of the James Berry Poetry Prize and the Mslexia Women's Pamphlet Competition. Live on YouTube Tues 29 Sept, 7pm BST.
A Few Short Miles from Herculaneum After the message came from Rectina, that she and her son had no means of escape from the eruption Pliny sequestered a cutter. All night long he’d watched towers of smoke, bellies of clouds crazed with crackles of fire. He’d heard the boom of explosions bouncing over the water. Sailing towards the mountain his men trembled – they were sailing against reason – ploughing through vessels fleeing the destruction of a world. He of course was overwhelmed by the possibility of describing the spectacle as art, its beauty, and above all its overwhelming power. Only later, when the wind turned onshore and they were forced to spend the night feasting as pumice tumbled onto the roof of the rented villa, did Pliny see that he, corpulent, heavy, unable to run like his companions back to the boat in the harbour, was now just an actor in a tale told by others. The stage quite empty, the world turning on its pivot, lights tilted towards him, crouching on a beach a few short miles from Herculaneum. * The Man Whose Brain Turned to Glass When the custodian of the Collegium Augustalium lay down that evening in the small chamber allocated to those entrusted with the care of the temple he had no idea that, as he slept, an ash cloud so hot it approached the heat of a sun, would envelop his sleeping body and melt his brain into a small heap of beads that gleamed, black obsidian, in the cup of his skull. All his desires and longings were turned to glass: fragments of twisted liquorice, shiny and dense, holding the light of a forgotten world. In the laboratory I try to read this broken code of dreams that had haunted him that shortened night. I hold one up to the beam of a high-wattage lamp. I want to ask him – Which of these is love?
* The Black City The plane drones low over the empty wastes of the Gobi desert. It has been flying for hours. In the distance the low walls and final stupa of Khara Khoto. Half buried in sand and wind. The plane circles. No one there. Too many days by camel. I switch off the videotape, press rewind, watch the footage again. The shadow of this emptiness imprints itself on my brain. I remember Genghis Khan besieging the city, diverting the river’s water, remember how King Batir ordered the digging of a deep well. Remember that when no water was found he hurled the city’s treasure into the pit, followed by the bodies of his wives and children. All of them tumbling, tumbling down. Remember how he went out to fight his final battle leaving a city of dark burial, sounds of the dead humming underground, how Russian explorers searched for the city for years, plundered it, returned to St Petersburg, no words for what they’d found. Remember that now a thousand tiny Buddha heads, memorial charms, blow through the empty courtyards in the sand. I watch the recording again. The circling view from the low plane. Someone next to the pilot stretches out a hand. I say to my dead husband, Remember this place we never went to,
its profound loneliness? The tape is still running. We watch it together without any sound.
* Ancient Days After the winds we strode around the valley where the huge toppled elms lay like dead elephants, and there was a great quietness around them, though it is true their leaves still rustled in the remains of the storm. That night I watched footage of elephants visiting their own graveyards, wandering restlessly with low moans. They could not accept death, tossed the bones. Hannibal took thirty-seven beasts across the Alps though they all died, unable to cope with snows and rough terrain. Battle elephants, ancient warriors, bodies abandoned on the hillside amongst tall pines, fallen boulders, grey and mysterious. No one to grieve them on the high peaks, souls adrift, dreaming of Carthage and sunlight as cold winds blew down towards the sea. Aftermaths haunt us. The low murmurings of elephants mourning beyond the range of human sound. We stand in the halls of silence, waiting for the stranger chapter to unfold. I remember the circus: dark vault of the tent, giants parading from the shadows, bejewelled heads, lurex-spangled riders swaying astride their backs, disappearing when the lights finally went out.
Contents List
7 A Few Short Miles from Herculaneum
8 The Man Whose Brain Turned to Glass
9 Machado’s Last Words
10 Lee
11 I have been trying to paint a picture of Simone
12 The Black City
13 Jirga
14 Du Fu
15 Exercises in Navigation
17 Portobello 2023. Turkish Earthquake Magnitude 7.8
18 St Petersburg
19 The History of Dictators
20 Prometheus
21 Photovoltaic
22 Unforeseeable
23 The Storm
24 Elisabeth Pauli tracing a relevé, El Ghicha, Algeria, 1935
25 Bison
26 S.O.S.
28 Nara
29 Camera Obscura
30 Conversation with a Miniaturist
31 Ancient Days