19.9c

Inn

Dylan Harris

19.9c

Inn

Dylan Harris

Potato Press

Some of these poems have appeared in The Citroën Car Club Magazine, Never Bury Poetry and Dial 174.

by Dylan Harris

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

chapbooks

20.0: 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 © 1985-2006, Dylan Harris

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Published by Potato Press

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Recitals of some of these poems may be found online

Poems

I Saw A Sleek Seduction

Driving The Trees

Inn

On Being A Nerd

Expanding Horizons

Doris's Day Out

An Ode To My Ego

Am Lemming

A Well–Kept Pint of Burton

Grey

Slough, Pronounced In French, Is ‘Slug’

I Saw A Sleek Seduction

I’m sorry I was late,

I saw a sleek seduction

as I was drinking up.

He talked of manual work

and made it rather clear

that he was very fit.

She watched him with sly eyes,

changing tales to meet

his ‘simple’ expectations.

She played along the bar,

was lounging to his class,

her elegance denied.

That’s when I had to leave:

so I doubt I’ll ever know

if seduction met success.

Driving The Trees

I’m just a driver sauntering an English country road the starlit

side of dusk.

Occasional rows of tall winter trees escort this white–lit route,

with branches as pikes presented high,

as though they were the honour guard,

and I were king.

But worry haunts;

were I that leader,

I’d smell betrayal:

I’m ready for flight,

a gazelle sensing a lion’s eyes.

Yet there is no movement in this empty lane,

no life in the unhedged fields,

no wind in the winter trees.

And now I realise what I’ve seen;

my dashboard is being flashed white by light above my car,

from what I cannot see;

yet the fields,

the road,

the trees,

all are still.

I feel the shock of standing at a cliff edge and the ground

starts to give.

I lean forward,

look up through the windscreen,

fearing what silent power could flash my car so bright.

I’m driving a row of naked trees across the full moon.

What a fool.

Inn

In memory of Pete Moore

The village pub, a homely inn,

the place where people, gathering,

discuss and solve the day’s concerns.

A simple bar, where shadow burns

the teasing fire on faces so

well known, the place of public flow.

A stranger’s eyes, as rare as lock

in use, yet once the minute’s shock

has passed, a welcome’s warmth is roared

for chance of news, or tales the Lord

would frown upon, or better still,

fresh music played with humble skill.

And once the common welcome’s done

and almost everyone has gone

to where their drink and chat were left,

the stranger won’t be made bereft

of company, for one or two

will stay behind, to talk about

the stranger’s life, or local tales

of tradegy in winter gales,

or rumours from the capital:

which minister “is full of bull,

which Lady’s caught herself a man,

which industry’s gone down the pan”.

Some strangers, though, are not as strange

as most suppose. For these, the change

they’d undergone since childhood days,

the hardship, grief, and lines of age,

it made their welcome bittersweet,

denying friends in deep deceit

for though they’d felt the need to leave

as adolescents do, they’d grieved

for memories of children times,

of playful pranks, of childhood crimes,

of happiness so long ago

with those they now deny they know.

On Being A Nerd

To forgo

time–stealing,

anti–creative,

social rules.

To exalt

from investigation

and clean creation

by a logical form.

The stain is in life, not thought;

in dreams of sweat, not action.

Age and exclusions accumulate,

collecting cents and civilised grey,

and realisation that complex human interaction

arises from the chaos of survival animal ways.

The “how” remains a mystery, until reason is

discarded, and instincts are accepted,

then we joins society.

The intellect relaxes,

the cash rises.

Until time’s toll

pulls all

apart.

Expanding Horizons

1.

I remember

as a child

standing

on a pebble shore

watching ships

at sea

sailing

uncaring

over

the edge

of the world.

I see

moon

sphere

of old age

visitor

in ancient days

and now

instrument

of early myth

and sun

mother of life

father of destruction

whose bloated death

one day

will burn

this iron

Earth

away.

2.

Look up

on open nights

see the cities

the suns

see the stars

the wild havens

the countable finities

mark

the horizon of light

mark

that ten

billion

years.

3.

Mark this universe

this space–time bubble

in the multiverse.

You remember

blowing bubbles

as a child?

4.

All histories

all possible

all happened.

5.

All

that can be known

to all there is

is like

an ounce of decency

to God.

6.

Expanding horizons

eternal

Russian dolls.

Doris’s Day Out

Doris may no longer be

the beauty on the block,

but she’s still a queen of elegance.

Now, she is too slow to catch

the young and fast, the rash,

but she does so love to run.

So I took her for a day out:

well, I took her to a wedding,

for the pleasure of the bride.

She was scrubbed

and cleaned

and wore two

pretty white ribbons;

she looked glorious in the sun.

But my Doris is getting old.

I must raid and pull apart

the corpses of her siblings

to keep her in good health.

Such things have got too casual.

Elle s’appelle Doris, ma DS.

An Ode To My Ego

Background

I was born in the village of Bleugh!

in the country of Coochee Coo,

on the far away planet of Tharg.

Of course, my background’s a secret;

I keep it by telling the truth,

there’s no one who ever believes me—

see, you don’t, do you…?

Self–Description

I’m a techie,

newsaholic,

beer–swilling beer–gutted,

Citroën loving,

photographing,

piss–poor pub–quizzing,

Red Guide applauding,

science consuming,

contemporary classical (and dance) adoring,

a Buddhist–ish,

occasionally entrepreneurial

fenlander.

For now.

Hobbies

Flushing baby reptiles down the loo.

Running the “Fenland Bayou Crocodile Tour” company.

Placing long–term bets that a local bog–snorkeler will be eaten by an alligator.

Appearance

Some people dress submitting to style,

some people dress expressing their guile,

but me, I get dressed so not to get wet.

Some people buy ’til sated, they drop,

some people buy mass–marketed slop,

but me, I nick things from charity bins.

Some people hide in everyone’s sight,

some people give excitement to light,

but me, I’ve panache of a motorway crash.

Profession

Yes please.

Marital Status

Thargettes rarely visit the Earth,

they don’t have the necessary sense of insanity.

So I’m only a lonely Thargoid,

subverting my angst with too many tanks

of ale.

Any other comments

Which of these deceptions do I believe?

Am Lemming

I’m looking for a lifetime gal

for all the daily simpletons:

love, our life, family.

But I am gifted contradiction:

I have a Buddhist guard,

and desire to flame a pheonix.

So I need a feminine

of her self to need

a love as low experience.

A Well–Kept Pint of Burton

I’m in a pub

drinking the beer

that got me writing again.

If it was wine,

with its minute–long aftertaste

flowing from bitter to hop flowers,

it’d be worth a bloody fortune.

But, being beer,

it’s two pound forty a pint:

which is pretty outrageous

for a pub outside London.

Actually,

this poem’s

not about

beer

at all.

I’m thieving from Bukowski,

trying to steal

his honesty,

his “right here, right now” presence,

his oh–so–easy working language

(I wish it was oh–so–easy),

giving something special

from something rather ordinary…

…the beer has it.

Grey

When I was a child,

the B1043

left the A1

north of home,

and wandered,

old and worn,

bumpily and windily,

through the villages

to Huntingdon.

Now,

this old road

is unnumbered,

and the B1043

runs with the new motorway,

as if an apprentice

learning traffic.

How dare it!

How dare it grow

from old to young,

from wrinkled line

to long and straight,

how dare a childhood fixture

regain youth.

Slough, Pronounced In French, Is ‘Slug’

Dark Slough’s barked howls,

hates and curses bombing verses,

secretly proud to be Betjeman’s enemy.

But packs so tat now settle at

hack school Blackpool.

6.6.6

19.9c Inn

A Chapbook of poetry from Dylan Harris

19.9c Dylan Harris poetry poems

(c) 1990-2004 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