Sunday, 9 November 2014
Tuesday, 15 July 2014
The Introduction by Christine Murray to 'the king is dead' - Reuben Wooley (Oneiros Books)
songs of the redwet bones / the king is dead by
Reuben Woolley
mountain poem
put
that idea here
safe. hold
on to it . your
life
de-pends
on the next word
the king is dead is a Promethean gamble that pays off for Reuben
Woolley, a book that seems to be absurdly minimalist in its expression manages
to body-cage and reduce universal themes to striking symbols that set into
balance the agonies of existence along with a patient longing for death. Death
is a transformative process that has some inherent physical repellence. Its
leavings are everywhere, and can destabilise one for moments, or for
eternities,
panacea
death came early
this morning
I know . I saw
her
she came strafing
quiet houses .
slashing
infants with
shrapnel
gutting the sick
with bayonets . she said
I am only here
invited . I limit
damage
remove pain . I
am
the final cure
The body lets us
down all the time. It is the site of the vagaries of coming age that Yeats may
have hinted at, although he hardly put the cartilage and the blood-bag into a
poem. He put a tattered coat upon a stick and allowed us to derive what
symbolic meaning we could from it.
Woolley alludes
to medical processes and to bodily experience and perception at the elemental
level of being. Necessity advises the theme and subtext of this book. the king is dead is imbued with
physicality,
I collect
the redwet bones
of recent
unbuilding.
from prey
Here, an Egyptian
longing to fuck everything and transform here and now into a sacred and simple
animal that does not have all these complex nerve-endings and crosswires. I
think of Hughes’ dung beetle symbol,
Imagine
These
bone-crushing mouths the mouths
That labour for
the beetle
Who will roll her
back into the sun.
From The Dogs Are Eating Your Mother, Ted
Hughes (Birthday Letters, 1998)
Transformation
from the plane of physicality is explored at an elemental level in the king is dead,
we eat
the hearts
of kings we kill .
a
curious
transformation . are
alchemical gold
black veils
become us well.
The eponymously
titled series at the heart of the book explores the rage of human wastage and
the necessity of physical and psychical transformation. There is a psychic
economy to how mythos and ceremony are presented by Woolley,
& then
the final
procession through all these changes
fast & lethal
. a song for dawn
when the singer
was elsewhere
wasting his
stinking mouth
& from his
back
fusing
the ritual
firebird
in the sunshine
crack
from the king is dead (iii)
Woolley discusses
his approach to necessity and economy in the beautiful mountain poem, there is
little left for the poet but the words that form images of phantasmagoric death
queues and unearthly processions.
These are of
little consequence when the stumbling bird, the carcass, the news-media act as
revelators of the mystery. One need not look far because your death walks
beside you at all times, best become his familiar, after all there is no
eluding him/it in the final moments of a
life,
guides
my deaths sleep
with me
I shall not forge
· I
do not step
lightly
through bones · I
name
all the faces
they are my
necessary
ghosts · they
fall
like fruit sweet
plenty · putrid
beds of richness
· I am not
guilty · I just
survive · just
breathe and sleep
This
is an excellent debut from a writer that I have become familiar with on social
media. I have read some of his poetry and collaborative work on different media
strands. It's excellent news that Reuben Woolley now has a first collection.
Expect more and interesting work from him over the coming years.
A Preview of Reuben Woolley's 'the king is dead' (Oneiros Books)
mountain poem
writing
on the edge . an awe
full
balancing , each word
tight
. no room
for
whims . no fears
of
falling . finding footholds
hang
by fingers . no
crampons
, no ropes
alone
, you & the wind . put
that
idea here
safe
. hold
on
to it . your life
de-pends
on
the next word
unholy silence
living here
is no pleasure . the death
of things , the stillness
here
they do not cry . they stare
with blooded eyes , unseeing
black hills run down
to blacker water unheard , ears
pierced . the death
of dreams
is no pleasure . the death
of things , the stillness
here
they do not cry . they stare
with blooded eyes , unseeing
black hills run down
to blacker water unheard , ears
pierced . the death
of dreams
they are dry trees ,
stand
for no flame . no
red licks of bones
for no flame . no
red licks of bones
we lock these things
away
they will not return with stories
we cannot but hear . blindfold
they will not see
our secrets , our fumbling
games of wet flesh . hoping
for immortality , for
memory . our overwhelming
use-lessness
they will not return with stories
we cannot but hear . blindfold
they will not see
our secrets , our fumbling
games of wet flesh . hoping
for immortality , for
memory . our overwhelming
use-lessness
shadows
birds fly
heavily
over blooded land . it is
no matter . we
did not name
this place
still
singing hymns before
the sun . does not
rise . the shadow
makers came
before . stripped flesh
from all the living
stories , sucking
details from bones . eyes
are choice
for rats & crows
the nothing
that was done
casts long shade
& fear spreads cells
unseen . we do not
move . we are absorbed
in dark streets . we feed
the screams of all
the silent children . red
meat hanging to dry . we
lost this game . there is
no replay , no last appeal
orchard
I grow arms
& legs . a face
will appear & I
shall learn speech
if bleeding is needed
I'll open
the veins , bead
this orchard red
it will grow bones
this
is my graveyard . 'm
behind these stones
singing
with new lips . I grow
skin for these rites , coming
in profusion , renewing
dead earth
I grow arms
& legs . a face
will appear & I
shall learn speech
if bleeding is needed
I'll open
the veins , bead
this orchard red
it will grow bones
this
is my graveyard . 'm
behind these stones
singing
with new lips . I grow
skin for these rites , coming
in profusion , renewing
dead earth
the king is dead (ii)
hero , you have sold your golden
armour
for a night’s lodging · priest,
a lady has taken your robe for a
pillow
the ventriloquist’s dummy
has stolen his words
& all our eyes
have been pierced
by the same silken thread
we will make
the same mistake again , all of
us
when the time
comes again
those of you
who chew your food slowly
against the coming of the
rats
consider
the king did not go short of food
madame
the flowering tree
has been
corrupted
& the other parts of the body
fell off
long ago'the king is dead' is available from Oneiros Books, here
Jonathan Butcher
The Crawl
Entwined with those cold winds, edging our way
home; stoned, and wrapped up against the world that
has yet to inflict its climatic evils upon us. We held
our collected breaths, our lungs heavy under the onslaught.
You, stood on the corroding brick wall, that surrounded the
sky-rise flats, the lights of which stared down upon us like
a thousand disapproving eyes. Each one however, seemed
as blind as the last, raising their eyebrows at our
a welcome distraction from any mis-interpretation, our
hands never bound.
Hold Back
The cut glass slices through the sole of my foot,
through this dawn that carries its own stench, like an
abandoned, un-manned sewer that drips its condensation
down stained, broken windows.
My back slightly bent from the powder's onslaught, that
leaves its scars, each one a fond momentum and which are often
often displayed to retell stories; a convenient replacement for
unnecessary words.
to the point of collapse.
The jagged keys remain as filthy as yesterday, their
fading letters like a fisherman's rope, encrusted with dead
skin and blood stained dust, that still seems to creep its
way into my resisting lungs.
That concentrated breath, that is focused upon each
morning in this empty space. The bustle of voices and
screaming lights delays my sensors like radio static,
a situation you would avoid, like conversations
with coppers or landlords.
Over the clashing chatter my brain scrambles, a different
picture each time, the limited light straining the vision.
Each face here remains void, watching the clocks slowly
climb that greased mountain, never reaching its summit.
Entwined with those cold winds, edging our way
home; stoned, and wrapped up against the world that
has yet to inflict its climatic evils upon us. We held
our collected breaths, our lungs heavy under the onslaught.
You, stood on the corroding brick wall, that surrounded the
sky-rise flats, the lights of which stared down upon us like
a thousand disapproving eyes. Each one however, seemed
as blind as the last, raising their eyebrows at our
every move.
We left those squalid rooms of peeling tiles that curled
at the corners like sun blistered, peeling skin. The walls
as blank as they were damp, yet as inviting as the
abandoned super-market, that our idle hands could never
leave alone.
At the bus stop we leave tags and crumpled Rizlas, the
shelter at this time offering cover from the passing blue
lights and neighbourhood watch. Our sly laughter offeringWe left those squalid rooms of peeling tiles that curled
at the corners like sun blistered, peeling skin. The walls
as blank as they were damp, yet as inviting as the
abandoned super-market, that our idle hands could never
leave alone.
At the bus stop we leave tags and crumpled Rizlas, the
shelter at this time offering cover from the passing blue
a welcome distraction from any mis-interpretation, our
hands never bound.
As the breeze settled, through the transparent screens,
that were shattered into tiny fragments like mud stained ice,
we once again halted the orchestration of this shambolic
parade, and again remain the drunken conductors of
a soulless chaos.
that were shattered into tiny fragments like mud stained ice,
we once again halted the orchestration of this shambolic
parade, and again remain the drunken conductors of
a soulless chaos.
Hold Back
The cut glass slices through the sole of my foot,
abandoned, un-manned sewer that drips its condensation
down stained, broken windows.
My back slightly bent from the powder's onslaught, that
leaves its scars, each one a fond momentum and which are often
often displayed to retell stories; a convenient replacement for
unnecessary words.
Another blind stare of anxiety; to hold onto those scattered
thoughts becomes far too laborious; they fall like dice into
gutters that reek of rotting carcasses, floating like pools
of oil down cracked urinals.
A painted solace, that offers the same repetition year in-
year out. I hear the flesh stretch itself forward, no time here
for false names, and again, I once more reiterate- I'm sorry,
it's nothing really personal.
Shift
Now even this chair has become stagnant. Myself,
its ever compliant mould, I grace it with my presencethoughts becomes far too laborious; they fall like dice into
gutters that reek of rotting carcasses, floating like pools
of oil down cracked urinals.
A painted solace, that offers the same repetition year in-
year out. I hear the flesh stretch itself forward, no time here
for false names, and again, I once more reiterate- I'm sorry,
it's nothing really personal.
Shift
Now even this chair has become stagnant. Myself,
each morning. My fatigue never extenuated enough
The jagged keys remain as filthy as yesterday, their
fading letters like a fisherman's rope, encrusted with dead
skin and blood stained dust, that still seems to creep its
way into my resisting lungs.
That concentrated breath, that is focused upon each
morning in this empty space. The bustle of voices and
screaming lights delays my sensors like radio static,
a situation you would avoid, like conversations
with coppers or landlords.
Over the clashing chatter my brain scrambles, a different
picture each time, the limited light straining the vision.
Each face here remains void, watching the clocks slowly
climb that greased mountain, never reaching its summit.
Sunday, 13 July 2014
David McLean
mirror cracked --
it is mirrors cracked and time shattered
life & a fragment this is interstitial
like memory mostly
there are numbers & loveless
it is puppies tumbling forgotten
like socks are adequate an absence
for here the night is thirsty
& the thrifty sufferers
are living their terrible inches
still; it is memory was
& time to kill
the dreary dialectic --
sun comes up a dreary dialectic
dread is memory
electric; this is awkward bowls
always she is carrying to forever
an extravagant dishonesty, bad
faith and faces to replace
like one's own special singular death
a slice of heaven of watermelon
a memory stopping, some skin
invisible, forgotten
not to tamper --
we are not tampering with the absences
& ascesis is no longer knowledge
just the pathetic surrender
falling into gods and idiot;
we are missing things
& nothing is all this living
surrendering self --
we are not voting for all the corpses
but holding memory like a weapon
to fold tomorrow into paper hopeless
a forgotten absolution
as libation to all the nobodies gone//
a homeless god, an ego outgrown
flesh is rotting home
Aubade --
& the sun comes up
oblivion, we are leaving psychosis
lonely
here is day breaking, meletē
thanatou and nothing is, maybe, naked
sweet is certainty//
it is not bodies we are leaving
yet, except the sweaty
conventional/
we are leaving grim ghosts
alone, the anxious unanswerable
& the outgrown madman//
thus are we absent
praemeditatio malorum --
& it has always happened already
the worst/
the unimaginable is not Lovecraft's
unnamable behind a gravestone
& cold
here is good grown homeless//
the duckling is pushed from the stick
by his siblings
inevitable:
the dead men are ignorant
already, we have never been them//
stop it is nothing,
a good thing
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