Monday, January 04, 2021

 The Blind and Haloed


There must be unsensed ecstasy
in faith, a thrill I cannot see
but you have both seeing eyes
held out delicately as proof
of martyrdom unsung and undone

and sightless eyes restored
to you by good and piety
that make new sight
of old sense and feeling
touching the delicate string

of remembered history
suspended forever dangerously
over the rolling oceans
of forgotten truth and war
and all the unseen meek

lacking alms and voices
for whom your eyes are payment
taken and not taken
in violence, unjust
as it was then and is now.

But Saints are so much mist
a feather of vapour on the wind
Wild Thyme in the river's walk
they stand for the dead they saved
and for the opposite pole.

These days they have armed you
against the assault which made you
but the sword they have you
steal from your executioner
is like wishing away Judas

and now all that remains to worship
falls like a leaf to earth
or like water over cataracts
unfeeling of all physics
pulling it to earth

so all that is left is goodness
the perfect glow of ascent
through incense and woodsmoke
to sainthood and patronage
both blind and sighted.



Saturday, January 02, 2021

 Revolution



The room in which the mirrors come and go
makes revolution easy, the plainness
of your clothes defines need without want
and marks the travel of light
a hundred years of sun to earth
disguising Petrograd
in at your grandfather's window
and on and off the looking glasses
so arranged to let you see your back
while painting frugally
the uniform of coup and statehood.

Defining its albedo through the clouds
You have detained the glow of that day
a century of imprisoned depth
a fisher of the changing halo
the mistress of your own image
wreathed with a smile, tempered these days
by failures of dogma, to a regretful
lift of the mouth in remembrance
of sunnier days, which government
would now call decadent
in the bright, marine aurora
of your dressing room
a decade earlier, before October.

It was snowy in Neskuchnoye that day
but you painted your room like summer
bare shouldered and elated
ecstatic at your dressing-table clutter
all of it practical but beautiful
each thing a gift of early wonder
and you not long not a child
recalled each thing arriving in the house
being unwrapped or unhidden
by your father, back from business
in some far city like Saint Petersburg
sleeping in this same mirrored room.

The stasis of these later, sombre hues
becomes your exile, all the ideologies
defined by idiots in false fury
meaning nothing but separation
and repudiation of your homeland.
The articles of revolution are dry dust
or spent rounds in a basement
though that is not it at all
say all your marks on canvas
your curves of snowy exaltation
painting the cold air with kindness
and compassion.

Friday, January 01, 2021

Cooperative         01/01/2021

This is a railway town
its city walls, a ring of rust
iron released to the green of England
nettled and abandoned

our train is hours away
a single connection of recession
hauling, empty, and implacable
the only light in misty flats

and ice that steels the stagnant
fleeting ponds of last year's rain
a sleepy, machine-made worm
of grimy yellow, crawling home

across a whitened prairie
its grasses stiffened
and fragile, papery in the cold
of January winds.

We have made ourselves alone
sole customers of oily tea
and stale biscuits, salvaged
from behind dusty, angled glass

together the subject of regret
but happy and not outside ourselves
we have no thoughts of anything
beyond a café and a locked gaze

our future is never to be together
but at this grim moment,
we are one over this greasy table
measuring each other's saccades

thinking of nothing in memorial
of children's infatuation
but the moment we were happy
and I was not the only person living.

Your tea is the first thing
I have bought for someone not myself
and the first time I love someone
unconnected.



Monday, August 24, 2020

World Lines and the Daughter Cell 25/07/2020

Oh God I forgot myself,

But there are other stairs to climb,

That pause of the dark and feline at the turn,

The false landing of a traitor,

But I am here and now,

Closing in upon this end,

That beats away the darkness,

Even now it crumbles,

Falling in pieces to the sticky floor,

Where the concierge does not stir,

As all my mind disintegrates,

In front of him,


I have stayed here an hour,

Seven hours perhaps

The truth, and smoke I smell,

Fourteen years of smoke,

Killing without coincidence,

It worms its way to me,

Through gaps and bad construction,

His whisky and his settlement,

Time equation ticks are audible,

Heard across the city,

Where the cars are stopped,

Their metal fading out at height,



I spent an hour yesterday,

Living in the gap between my window,

And the floor at which the sirens stop,

All of America in conflict,

Far below but not with me,

My enemy is me,

And I would fall and cut 

against the building,

And fall and fall into the sound,

Of nations tearing from their groundings,


But perhaps it's me,

Missing the ground to fall like Alice,

Through not space and earth,

But to the core of all of this,

The knot of axons,

The father neuron cut and pinned,

For querying of photographs,

For propriety I cannot see,

I am past the sirens,

Beyond the madness of the sidewalk,

Where the crowds walk and eat,

Into the slow of downwards,

Matching speed with blurry souls,

That also fall,


But they are all commercial lights,

Here is the fading of the day,

The last Sunday shadow takes this hall,

And we are ignored,

Just passing tokens of the city,

to the wrecks and relics of this place,

They step over us,

Apologise for us, the trespassers,

Forget us and survive another day,

I wake, a finger in my mouth,

My own, a comforter in dreams,

Chewed down until it bleeds,

Hear lovers in the distance,

Conversations, arguments and pain,

The purring operation of hotels,

Of rooms that can be rented 

     by the hour,


Then typing on another floor,

The clockwork of the mind,

The alarm that calls at 3am,

That beats inside the future,

That takes a step towards the plane,

     and is gone,


I'll cross that ocean soon and

Be myself the idol of the idiots,

That visit every day,

To leave me pens,

And flowers dying in the rain

    of England,

Among the black wind-blasted

   stone of it,

The small cold rooms,

Of small dark towns,

The houses gathered up like sheep,

Against the shriek of moorland edge,

That grabs a corner of the town,

And tries to lift the roof off it

   to heaven,


Wednesday, April 11, 2018

Welcome to Hell. Please Wipe Your Feet

The art of war: the artist who sketches under cover at arms fairs

In this article, the artist has sketched what appears to be a woman next to two missiles in a pose more suited to that of women draped across the bonnets in 1970s car shows. I suppose that this is just a side-show to the general perversity of commerce in this line of business. The fact that these events  try to keep out anyone not directly involved in the buying and selling of weapons and all their terrible peripherals, perhaps indicates some measure of shame at what goes on at these places. I'd like to think that this shame might be the wedge for their downfall but I am probably wrong. I am not sure how the marketing department for the missiles in question thought of using glamour to sell their deadly products; it strikes me as spectacularly inappropriate but maybe it just distracts from what the abominable end purpose of the product actually is.

I've always had a problem with arms fairs. They seem to attract the representatives of some of the worst regimes in the world, dazzling them with crowd-control devices which are illegal to use in this country. Many of these things look like something that would be carried by various special types of Star Wars Stormtrooper. Let's suggest that this country cannot produce or sell on anything which is illegal to use domestically. The trouble then is of course how do we know how much actually is illegal here. This is where my lunch hour fails me because I can't really do the research from my desk. Let's say what would be immoral to use in this country regardless of it's legality. And now a level up I begin to worry about the many people hiding behind keyboards who state they would happily do horrible things to anyone daring to express an opinion a fraction of a degree to the left or right of their own beliefs. Morality is a flexible thing. This is of course ethics and therefore introduces a whole new level of complexity. I have to tell myself that spinny-chair generals would never act on these threats and that their feeling of safety and immobility while using social media, like excess alcohol, accounts for the lack of filters.

We are delicately balanced between anarchy and civilisation and I have to believe that in the long term, as it has been with my little country for my lifetime, it will stay as it is, hopefully at some point without arms fairs.

Monday, April 09, 2018

On the Loss of Cousins

Charles Evans, Charles Geraint Payne, Henry Marten


I grew up without any first cousins, my aunts and uncles did not have children though later on I had step-cousins. Recently I have fallen headlong into researching my ancestry which has revealed many relatives, some of them quite famous, some from long ago being actual kings and queens within what must be an enormous margin of error. It is obvious that everybody is related to everybody else; the thing is to prove that link with double and triple checks on sources.

All of this is not the point of this post. The most sobering thing about the recent past is how many of my various nth cousins n-times removed were killed in the First World War. The tree stops short so many times with various reports of death or missing in action. The most poignant of these is that of Charles Geraint Christopher Payne who was killed in action at Neuve-Chapelle, France on the 12th March 1915.

This is not the end of his story though. Geraint (as he was known) was engaged to Kitty Clausen, the daughter of the painter, Sir George Clausen who was inspired by Kitty's grief at his death, to paint Youth Mourning. The details of this are in The National Archives.

Youth Mourning by Sir George Clausen RA © IWM (Art.IWM ART 4655)

 This especially but also the great many other premature ends to branches of my family tree have made me wonder how different the world would be without just one of them. Just a single person taken out of history removes a massive potential from the universe. Add in all their sisters and brothers in arms on top of the inestimable political differences that would be in force should the war and its continuation also be taken out, and it becomes certain that we are living in an alternative reality. Somewhere in that role call of victims is perhaps the inventor of Warp Drive or an unimaginable medical advance. All this is lost to us. History is fluid and humans are stupid enough to let this week's nationalistic target to get in the way of just living. We must look on the bright side and hope that all these lost ideas have been tossed forwards to a later more peaceful generation. But think of where we could be now. Just one Tommy who survived rather than was killed and the Starships of a United Earth are just now coming out of Hyperspace near the closest star. We have to keep hoping.

This is my father's father, John Joseph Brown, just young enough to join the war only as it closed. He had a long, happy and productive life. 


Sunday, April 08, 2018

On Why We Don't Blog Anymore

Respect What You Have Lost
Literally because there is too much else which can fulfill a need for a second or two of complex interest before passing. I have to leave all devices in another room simply to be able to read a book these days. My fortnightly reading of Private Eye (Other satirical magazines are NOT available) is punctuated by quick dives into the Internet to check a name or fact. On top of this I think that my mind has become rewired (like a Taxi Driver doing The Knowledge) to work better with short, complex images and phrases to the extent that longer prose does not quite sink in as it used to to. 

This is of course a bad thing and we have to do something about it. My first action should be to delete my Facebook account. I have been considering this for sometime now and the recent revelations regarding the obviously immoral harvesting of data have just made this more likely. Facebook is just too darn distracting. The design of its pages is flaky, and pretty much set up to drag the eye over whatever bit of information is to be promoted. It is micro-propaganda, the insipid feed of nudges in what is considered the right direction. We need to return to long reads which is why (after prompting by some in the family) I am hoping to return to proper blogging. 

Yesterday a friend of mine mentioned the fact that Molly Ringwald has invoked #MeToo in reference to John Hughes and The Breakfast Club, However, my friend had not read the New Yorker article which Molly Ringwald had written. The article is here. It was not a spittle-flecked denouncement of John Hughes, but rather a nuanced and well-structured analysis of the whole issue. It refers to the three films that MR and JH did together and examined the areas which would be a problem today. The article was not designed to express outrage but rather to point to complexities. Drama and literature are more often designed to be entertainment rather than moral lessons. These complexities can not be expressed in a Tweet, a platitudinous, moralising or motivational statement in Facebook or a single image in Pinterest. All you can do in this new media is express outrage, your disagreement, how upset you are with a point of view. 

There are things in the world which deserve simple, black and white outrage and it is sad that these things don't make the cut for Twitter/Facebook etc. Think what they might be as they are far more important for the future of the world that most commentary we see these days.

See you soon.