“Do you never listen to a word
I say?” You ask,
balking at further repetition.
Pointless any protest that I've
(so audiology reports)
hearing of an eighteen year old,
since already my ears are full
with the creak of timber in wind
and some distant chain saw's buzzdrone;
with squelch of muddy bridleway
as trains grumble through the valley;
with a bird scarer's fitful claps
and crows' indifferent croaking.
And besides I'm otherwise occupied
searching hedgerows for sloes and rosehips both;
cross-questioning feathered small talk all around;
translating the tinnitus of a stream.
Yet I misinterpret a tone of voice
and over my own tongue stumble:
its barbed wire excludes the public
from what has been fenced in.
Abruptly then aware, I rush to meet
head on your silence waiting still
within earshot, at the next stile.
vi - vii.2011
A clumsy poem, not the sum of its parts.
ReplyDeleteI'd had a couple of the key lines hanging around homeless for a long time and – since I wanted to reprise the conversational voice used in A KEEPER OF KEYS – have tried to stitch them onto the soundscape and diversions of a country walk. The biggest problem is lack of a coherent rhythm. Listening to a recording of myself (helpful but always torture) unveiling it at WordSouth (Havant) a few days ago, I could hear the joins between ill-matched jigsaw pieces.
This is a revised version: a line has been lost and some words changed to fine tune the diction. It should read better, but I don't feel a great urge to perform it again just now .