19.9b

Swoop

Dylan Harris

19.9b

Swoop

Dylan Harris

Potato Press

by Dylan Harris

4 anticipating the metaverse, 3 nation six dog, 2 discard

chapbooks

20.0: s chew, r dye-de-ho, q antwerp, p tension nitro ego, o church is dangerous vital, n tin rush, m the A rush, l an engineering rush (ii), k Miss Demeanour, j flock state, i be infinity, h Namings, g nation six dog, f uncivil law, e dead write, d chase chase, c an engineering rush (i), b a much for we, a The Joy Of Tax

19.9: c Inn, b Swoop, a An Ode To The A14

19.8: c Rose, b Hymnen, a Darmstadt

Copyright © 1985-2007, Dylan Harris

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Published by Potato Press

Lëtzebuerg

http://dylanharris.org/

potato@dylanharris.org

(Specify “19.9b” in the subject line of any email)

Recitals of some of these poems may be found online

Poems

Swoop

Home Town

Her Catching Eyes

Bright

Swoop

1.

Drunk?

No, I wasn’t really drunk:

a single pint, an unfed mind,

made the world sparkle

just a bit.

The Theatre?

Yes, I’d mentioned Shakespeare:

you know, the usual

“would she be interested?”:

a corner in an email.

See her there?

No, I hadn’t expected to see her,

it was her day off.

Mind you,

I’m often there,

that time.

I had to ask.

I didn’t get the choice,

I just watched myself,

engaging.

In a week.

It was fully booked.

You’re right:

it seems a century.

Yes,

all the usual clichés,

but for me,

right now,

those clichés live.

2.

Swung:

my mood has swung

to heavy–eyed unhappiness.

Once we’ve seen the play

“she’ll stay with an old friend”:

not

to let

the chance

of us

establishing.

And, so foolishly,

I said some words of hope,

just once, elsewhere.

Now chatterers,

they swoop this privacy

and incomprehend so perfectly

they could be the pissing–in–the–wind parents

of a children’s film.

I fear their rumours spread

like hay fever

on a summer breeze.

I’ll call her,

hear if—

just hear.

3.

I was stupid in shock.

Her girlish giggles,

her “hold me, kiss me, fuck me” giggles:

I am a serial fool.

Her voice turned away

as I exhaled stupidity.

4.

The night was darkening.

He said to me,

"She’s my girlfriend,

look after her,

she’s scared of walking home alone,

walk with her".

With these words,

my madness flew.

So I walked with her,

and she talked,

she talked a never–ending harmony of fear.

And there was something of these darkening streets,

something of the light

too weak to illuminate where my footstep rang,

illuminating nothing.

And this darkening infection,

it was invading me,

it was riding on her voice’s chattering fear.

And I rode as though my undefended self,

a reeling self, looked up,

and saw the claws of madness dive,

a dive to snatch existence,

as we walked along the darkening.

I fought,

for an hour,

I fought.

I gave my sex

to stay.

And had I lost,

had I fought the easy fight,

who would I be?

5.

She might have said:

“I do so love these fireworks,

sparkles of bright moment,

an insistence in the sky,

flowering.

Then the pub,

friends,

the usual walk home.

And a familiar stranger passes on,

his eyes clutch madness

as though it were an overcoat

in a bitter wind.

We slow,

we gather time around us.

Then, in a luminous dark

on the edge of lamp–post light,

a something on the ground

breathes.

It is that madman,

a man collapsed,

shivering in the summer night.

And his eyes open anger,

and the street light

loses the power to form.

And it seems to me

he has a need

to strike his agony out,

to find its poisoning heart,

but that dark agony, devious,

telescopes his sight away

to those who flaunt existence,

coincidence.

And I know

as a bigot dare not look inside himself

to see his source of death,

so a madman, insane, cannot.

So he attacks when his agony tolls,

and his agony tolls at us.

And in this tidal darkness

I hear him howl his agony howl, a migraine howl,

and my instinct grips my reason dead,

and I run.

But his howls retreat beyond the distance

to someone else’s problem,

and I relax,

and I, alone,

I let my pride

walk me slowly home.”

And this is what she might have said,

but she won’t.

The bastard,

he:

me,

I had a knife.

Home Town

The evening fog

glows headlight rushing white

in serene yellow streetlight.

Ice forms.

The town,

yet knowing of traffic,

does not hear a between–lorry silence

fill, like a continuity error,

with the engine down of a slowing car,

turning, sloping, stopping

at an ordinary motel.

A cat that doesn’t care

cosies in a window

of homely light,

watching the movement.

No dog barks

its unnecessary warning.

Even the wind is still.

The visitor,

leaving his fussing car,

walks to the motel door.

Thin,

thirty or forty,

straight black hair,

a tidy working suit,

a familiar coat,

he has the stride of tired confidence,

the caution of strange surroundings.

Inside this mock–welcoming place,

he shares mock jokes,

and makes mock laughter,

and buys his night’s

mock home.

He walks austere white corridors

on cold grey carpet

and retreats beyond

a mock–locked door.

He can’t relax;

he can’t watch those television programmes

so familiar elsewhere,

so routine decides

to wash and bathe,

dry and shave,

brush and comb,

and sleep an early night.

Its great to have a coo and gurgle now

and then; although thank God that I can give

’em back to mum if they should scream and howl,

or stink and do what babies do. To live

a life of dreadful luck from careless thrill,

nine months of getting fat, and growing fright

of things gone wrong, then hospital who fill

you up with drugs and that’s if things go right.

I wouldn’t have the chance of looking good

for months, then there’s the bites and nipple strife,

a smelly child, a screaming stink, that could

not do the simplest thing, and grief for life.

A soul that’s caged, there’s no way that’s for me,

I don’t want such responsibility.

Awoken by the morning light,

“coffee,

where’s coffee?

Oh God,

instant sawdust”,

and long life thumb–pot milk

as sharp as dreaming

someone else’s memories.

Fog,

the weatherman gloats

to stop the country’s rush,

and ice, the weatherman adds:

a threat.

Having no urgency,

and it’s too early for kitchen staff,

the visitor wanders,

opening doors,

finding reflections

in the dance hall

His catching eyes attract as fire in hearth,

alighting on myself a burning lust;

the pub, the people, places, all of Earth,

vanish. I smile. He smiles. My eyes, in trust,

down–turning, blur. I know his psyche hums,

his eyes are bright with life itself. This dare

I’ll take, and him as well: he walks, he comes

to me. And I, I wait for him; to where

we meet and find that private space. His hand,

I shall entice to want, a need to touch,

adore my female style. We talk a grand

unworded stream of wish. In need, as much

in me, I find I dance and flaunt my curves,

and taunt myself as all his life deserves.

Eaten, filled,

the visitor,

he walks the town,

and finds

architectural finesse subjugated

by I’m here me–too shout–out signs,

by redbrick and rotting frame,

by rude commercial of the crude.

Yet the town’s nature survives

above the abject word of merchant promise,

in patterned brick, and chimney stack.

Less crass, a low line bungalow,

an architecture built to say

“honest, its going to be alright”,

the doomed assurances of a surgery.

The doctor said my body’s going wild,

the safest thing to do is to abort:

if I did that, I’d never have a child

again. He told me this is what I ought

to do, and so I told him where to go.

I want to take this chance of giving birth;

he said he thought that’s what I’d say. I know

it is a risk: some mothers bleed to death

because of what I’ve got. He said he’ll keep

an eye on me. It’s strange: I feel I’m like

the rope they strain in tugs of war—I need

to have my child, I want to live a life—

yet I’m relaxed. I’ve made my choice. I’ll ride

these rolling die. God knows I have to try.

Newspaper scanned, forgotten,

magazine thumbed and empty,

crossword incomplete,

the visitor drives.

And of complete control

stops sharp

as a young child,

who’s learnt the how

but not yet the where

of running,

skelters across the road

to be gathered

by her chasing,

fearing,

father.

Sweat.

No blood.

A moment crawls.

Still seated,

the visitor

hears a tyre howl,

a metallic slap,

and is kicked,

and his car

which had stop

now drifts

a helpless drift

towards the gathered child.

The father moves,

my God, they move.

Safe. They are safe.

Stillness.

And shock continues

as a young

thunders out

of the ego–music

lout–mobile,

abuse exploding

anger–faced

arms streaming mania.

A policeman comes,

with strength to quell a dozen tanks, with build

to match, a matchstick man, the constable,

a man to glare the sun back down, he comes

to be control. No dreams, no doubt, the now

of am, in small, in slight, in uniform,

he leads the calm he is:

he,

who walks with Gods who can’t exist,

a man the town has never seen before,

nor ever will again.

With eyes, all bow,

though none know why.

The youth: silent.

No words are said,

for now he knows,

without that shunt

he would have broken

the motherless child.

The visitor,

invaded by relief,

feels triumph

like hot water

washing his soul.

He leaves

shaken,

safe,

into the fog,

into the hills,

unseen.

Only the birds hear

the sound of the driven

finger

snap

mute.

Her Catching Eyes

Her catching eyes attract as fire in hearth,

alighting on myself a burning lust;

the pub, the people, places, all of Earth,

vanish. She smiles. I smile. Her eyes, of trust,

down–turning, shine. Her face, her features, glow

like understanding God exists. This dare

I’ll take, and she as well: I rise and go

to her. And she, she waits for me; to where

we meet and find that private space. My hand,

it has a need, without command, to touch,

caress her female style. We talk a grand

unworded stream of wish. Of heat, and much

in guile, she moves her dancing female curves,

and taunts herself as all that life deserves.

My lust, a violating fire of force,

can burn from silent calm in dark forlorn

to whims of torment striking out. A course

to deepest guilt, perhaps, but I was born

this way, and love this way, I must. That rare

courageous one, I seek, a phoenix from

the gulls, who gains her smaller death in fear

and suffered flames: we’ll share our burning wrong.

But here, with catching eyes, I fear my lust

unchecked could cause a grievous hurt; a bird

of fire is rare indeed. Alight, I must

infer her beaten path. I’ll risk her spurred

to disappointed euphemistic hate;

its worse to curse a gull the phoenix fate.

So evolution’s gift to me is like

mass market beer, unsubtle tasteless flow

of fizz to rue the morning after, spiked

with dreadful chemistry to lay me low

for years. Well, balls to that, I’ll go without,

it isn’t worth the grief. There’s better things

to do with life, of that I have no doubt:

create with deep technologies, or swing

a nifty business deal, reflect it all

in art, explore the world around us, look

to God’s creation, see that life is small

and weak, relax alone and read a book.

A shallow life, a loneliness, the head

the only thing. The empty heart is dead.

Bright

For Matt Bright

This is how it was:

work

exhaustion,

leaving

my brain

strained

like a cup

of stewed tea,

and I’m sitting amongst friends

and Bright words dazzle wit around me:

and I can see shock ideas sparking from mind to mind,

and I can see the air bright as each temple burns,

as I fight

to raise

my words

beyond

the dull.

Its like

trying

to make

espresso

using

dust.

That was me, tonight:

dull, someone kept saying.

She was right.

10.3.7

19.9b Swoop

A Chapbook of poetry from Dylan Harris

19.9b Dylan Harris poetry poems

(c) 1997-2004 Dylan Harris. This publication is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike Licence 2.0.
See dylanharris.org for details.

2003-12-14T19:12:26