Documente Academic
Documente Profesional
Documente Cultură
Alan Reynolds
Reads
Alan Reynolds
thereof
in books
in US and UK magazines
and
on the Internet.
www.alanreynolds.nl
Preface
These are the poems by Alan Reynolds that Peter Crofton
Sleigh selected and read on the now sold-out and legendary
CD with the same title.
ACR
Monnickendam
Contents
2
Winter Fear
It’s harvest time in Hades. Fingers pluck
at collars turned in vain against the frost.
Iced chances treated as eternal luck
end up in boxes pencilled ‘Chances Lost.’
The neighbour’s plan to take up honest work
gets archived under ‘J’ for Jest and Jeers,
and my own hopes for hedonistic highs
run close to Cancellation. Winter fears
chill feet that slip on pavement ice, one jerk
sufficing to recall my soul. To shirk
one’s chances costs the earth and its best buys.
3
Our Song’s the Wind
Who will score the songs we sang together
in rooms we gazed from, hungry for the tide?
5
Gold Rust
The time that comes when gold will rust
is when I’ll want to leave.
Let’s argue then, enjoy now.
I’d rather hug than grieve.
6
Killing Your Darlings
Root up your favourites, post them somewhere else.
The land where you first planted them has died.
New settlers hang your mysteries like pelts
of squirrels upon their handlebars, and ride
across the melting ice floes where you dwelt.
They tan your loves they want to hoard inside
their ugly houses built on IOUs.
They desiccate your secrets for their news:
7
Found Sparrow
A sparrow sits upended in the bath.
Some cat has left it there, the aftermath
of too much catnip, a half jerry can
that, sad enough, became the Rubicon
for this poor bird. The cat took but one swallow
and left the rest unmerrily to wallow.
8
Two, Part Harmony
Investiture (she says)
It’s not the sex per se I am against,
but body heat, your weight, and how you yell.
I fancy breathing distance, violins,
discussions of the higher things; a well
of cosy friendship, cordial times we share.
I always try in my own way to please;
work hard to make us an attractive pair.
I trust in you and never mean to tease.
To me you are My Man. Our better friends
advise me age and long walks calm men down.
I’m pushing out all my, our, hopes to then.
When we turn forty (milestone and a crown)
we’ll be mature, together, and serene.
Come kiss my cheek. I’ve scrubbed it rosy clean.
9
Divestiture (his lines)
You asked me could I wait and, yes, I would,
while heartbeats we might share left in the night.
We waited while you sought the perfect mood.
I tagged along, pretending you were right.
I hoped you were. Near-blinded by your charms,
I tried to buy your proper world, its deeds
and charities. I crushed you in my arms,
apologized for being me. My needs,
you told me gently, coolly pulling free,
would bring us bliss when civilized. A kiss,
and I’d be left alone. Thin ecstasy,
I thought. I waited patiently. I miss
you less each day, and nights can let it rest,
for passion banked soon loses interest.
10
Afternoons Seem Early these Last Years
The cleverness of Eco
and the grave
contest for equal time
this afternoon
as shadows chase the lizards
from the walls
and damp obscures the sun-cracked
mountainsides.
Closure in a model
life needs style
to generate a meaning
for its length.
Failing that, a
glorious sunset
provides ersatz atonement
for the dark.
11
Mandean Sonnets
Life requires less consciousness than drive.
A baby, Aristotle, and a rock;
and all the bees in every extant hive;
and, through a closet, darkly, Mandy’s sock
employ simple compounds (CO2
and thinned glutaric acid or some such)
to set up store, and eat, and grow, and screw
encouragements to sticking points that much
resemble little souls as they ascend
the rills of time to rampage in the sun
and then to die. We watch their cells descend
to molecule and atom when they’re done,
their drives expired, their dreams returned to stock
for others’ use when others wind the clock.
12
your own way to eternity; come tell
us what you know of how the sweet life’s less
than permanent for people and for shells
while being still immortal. I confess
your wisdom shines, although you are inept
in finding terms for life I can accept.
13
Solar Pact
Don’t rush
to write or paint
but watch the ageless rocks.
Ask ants and spiders what they know
of life
This rock
is not the same
as yesterday at dusk
when setting sun drained warmth and life
away.
The sun
comes up with life
it lavishes on ants
and spiders, stolid grateful rocks,
and me.
14
Mediterranean Blue
Down here in the Midi
where the Med is crystal clear
and everyone has perfect teeth
though some have wrinkled toes
I take the sun and practice
how I will say good-bye.
Good-bye to love and summer
and to the sun down here.
15
Joining In
‘No member without member’
whimper men
who haven’t seen their own since
way back when;
and, scared of women’s bite,
attempt to bark
that only males can come
in from the dark
and break bread in this
sacred service club
you’d think was Heaven
from the way they dub
their fellows with grand
titles like ‘The Chair’
(who is, I note, grease-graced
with locks of hair
grown by his ears and
combed across his pate
and, when the wind blows,
oh-so-shiny pate);
or ‘Chairman’, who’s a master
of debate
on points scholastics
cherished long ago
that even now impart
an eerie glow
as ‘Sir’ and ‘Senior’ sit
to celebrate
16
that they’re inside (of what?)
and think they rate.
The women outside will,
succeeding, learn
that joining this club
cannot, will not, earn
them potions of the
earthly relevance
that men and women seek
in mortal dance.
17
Beholder’s Eyes
This garden where the blackbird lightly reigns
has lured me out of bed before the dawn.
I occupy the dark green bench, see stains
of captured flies that spider webs have drawn
and spider teeth have quartered. What a yawn
to contemplate when you are fly-speck small.
The spider’s eyes, so many, may enthral
its mate, but mainly make me want to run,
retrieve some counterbalanced spider maul
or get a laser-sighted spider gun.
18
Imagine if you will a standard foot,
say yours, or Sue’s. Most any foot will do.
Think of attire in which it can be put.
Forget the foot: fix focus on the shoe.
Imagine sitting quite alone, shoe hung
by laces from your neck, sole on your lap.
It moves a little and you see its tongue
protrude some more each timid time you tap
you finger on its toe. With some alarm
you feel its damp weight shift. It opens wide.
You make a fist to fit it on your arm
but just before you move to reach inside
the insole splits; threads fail to hold the seam.
A foot-size spider lumbers out. You scream.
19
Mud-flat Bat
The crescent moon hangs south, above the sea.
Out here in the Camargue the mud-flat bat
flies higher now. The atmosphere, you see,
has lightened. Insects lift, ensuring that
the mud-flat bat’s own mouth and mine won’t splat.
He flew so low on Wednesday that I feared
I’d swallow him in darkness, furry-eared
and sonaring the night. It scared him too.
Mosquitoes, ones who Wednesday rudely jeered,
become his meal, malaria his stew.
20
Fly’s Anointment
This silent spider’s legs are long and bent.
His body’s small. I sense he’s sentient.
21
Child Armies
I am not well. My soul’s not dead but sick.
It cries for leeches; bloating, would be bled,
or freed in modern fashion from the toll
extracted here by Caesar’s rule; and there
by children scratching at the scabs they grow,
or would, would warlords let them once just be.
22
where babies harboured happiness? It’s there,
among these baby brawler minds we grow
(yes, ‘we’) as fodder for a farce more sick
than serious or grand, I hear the toll
of hope’s demise, of what these tots could be.
Their bodies grow in spite of us (who bled
23
Neighbourhood Imports
When Lisette came to live here as au pair
our neighbour’s wife was furious we’d dare
import a beauty (and Lisette’s nineteen).
25
Padre among Men
‘That’s not the way we men make love, my friend.’
The Captain’s words on open intercom
astound the crew at Mass, make Padre’s thin
hair stand on end as if a whistling bomb
had whispered up his nape. His famed aplomb
recedeth like his part. ‘The knave is pissed,’
he hisses loud but rising winds persist
and hurl his words to God above who bids
the Padre’s mind know peace: it seems he’s missed
that the Captain but harangues his tank of squids.
26
Then
I believe there is something important
beyond this universe we see.
And that it is our purpose in life
to unite with that Something.
I can’t see that Something, but when
I try to talk to it —- to think with it —
Then Something happens, and flows
into our universe, and gives
it and me some Peace.
Then, I feel Good, and kick up my heels
and dance joyfully to
heart-filling, beautiful tunes.
Even while I feel, and am, in that moment,
Serious and Brave and, humbly, Wise.
Then, when that Something is sensibly for me happening
Well, then —
Well, then, and why, then, I know I am safe
and my restless head is at peace;
And all those people and animals and trees
and rocks and sun and snow and sea and stars,
I love them all!
Then, and only then.
Amen
27
Shaded Statue
Dry tears
that no one sees
crack furrows, fragile lines
in cheeks that no one touches with
kind hands.
28
Sweet One-Hundred
Our geriatric acrobatic dance,
our subtle art, goes sometimes undiscerned
by passers-by. And by you too. Your glance,
pale pilot flame from passions banked, has turned
my head for decades, and today. The trance
the nurse assumes I’m in is one I’ve learned,
to masquerade my yearnings. They run sweet,
while I doze sitting, silent and discreet.
29
Childhood’s Inn
It was without relish that he disrobed the whore,
saw flash burns scarring flesh that had
ignited senior hearts and been a sign
of what the wretched Tigers wished to win.
‘She’ll live,’ he thought, turning attention
first briefly to the bearded dead
ambassador and then back to David.
32
Every now and then
Every now and then I do feel Irish.
Every now and then I am alive.
I think of the music called Irish.
I think of celestial jive.
And I dance my small own roundelay — oh —-
I dance then my own celebration.
33
Twenty Thirty
Twenty
‘I spooked your dad there, saying I must score.’
‘He’s read of drugs. Don’t say that anymore.’
34
Thirty
‘Thirty-two? That’s not an age. A calibre!’
‘A small one, too. My man, you’re not Excalibur.’
35
Two — in a Series of Six
Hole in a wall, holy you all,
I think like a buzzard
I’m just gonna fall
Up, down, back, through
And all over you.
I took down your name, I’ll bring you some fame,
Eight seconds foreplay then burn like a flame
Up, down, back, through
And all over you.
Love you so much, thrilling your touch,
I need your sweet hugs like a gimp needs a crutch
Up, down, back, through
And all over you.
Smoke in your eye, it looks like you cry,
I can’t say good-bye ‘cause I think I would die
Up, down, back, through
And all over you.
Frog in the well, oh bloody hell,
I know I should leave but my love starts to swell
Up, down, back, through
And all over you.
36
The Heath, Stanza 1
The old man’s sing-song whistling empties night
of promise, hope and passion, even breath.
Inside his skull, his left brain tries to right
itself, remember when her lisping ‘yeth’
had brought him rapture. Rupturing his sight,
a scythe recovers moonbeams. He meets Death.
But Death for this old man holds no more fears.
He’s walked here whistling for Him forty years.
37
The Poets’ Dilemma
A cri de coeur can’t be a work of art.
Its zealousness drives sense away, pulls rhyme
to moon at June and here (I’m sorry) ‘heart.’
From paucity some poets may try on ‘clime.’
Aboard the wagons of the criers’ band,
the preacher’s prattle petrifies the mind
that tries to get away with sleight of hand.
We throw away the melon, eat the rind
when’ere we ‘press a thought down for the counts.
Because, as poets, we’re prone to masquerade:
we lose our raison d’être in petty flounce,
or lose our audience — it’s quick to jade.
We could express ourselves in prose that’s terse,
but then we’d be believed, and that is worse.
38
Bienvenidos
The last day of the first month of this year.
The oranges growing outside boost my cheer.
The olive branches fuelling cooking fires
contribute to the haunting haze that spires
from chimneys to the cemetery’s plots -
that thicken in the evening’s dream — that clots
imagination. I’m a Moor in Spain,
my family’s loss the Latin Christian’s gain.
Today, returning after many years,
I sniff familiar soil. Birds prick my ears
with song they taught to prototypes of me.
I’ll stay next month out. Look and listen. See.
39
Wayside
‘You must believe enough to kill, or else
it’s not a faith with content you profess.’
He praised his gods and roasted flesh and bones
of passers-by the odds had sent his way.
‘Pass-over bread’ he called the grim meal ground
from pilgrims shriven, freed of soul and baked
to slake the hunger of his tribe. They lived
among us not so long ago, his tribe;
in fact, their ways instruct us still: we kill
for oil, and other reasons we invent
to justify existence, on the wayside, in our tent.
40
We cared enough to kill still in Kuwait,
with rockets, rifles, flames: bulldozers shoved
hot sand and buried boys stashed far from home
in ditches they hand-dug to stop our tanks.
I’m sure somewhere some parson offered thanks
to Mammon or more modern names of gods
whom we invent to take our garbage out.
‘You said we should!’ My troops are sick with rage.
‘You said Hussein must lose no matter cost,
or else, like Hitler, he would kill us all.’
41
Old Dreams
What dreams survive the dustiness of age?
Why, all of them! In ageing they go prime.
While teenage angst is best at muffled rage,
and young adults excel at hustling time,
it’s old decrepitude that’s fit to climb
beyond the cage of flesh and sniff the stars.
Dim-eyed beholders see best what is wild,
anticipate where wheelchairs outpace cars.
It takes the wear of years to free the child.
42
Beauregard Afternoon
A French breeze teases through the garden trees
that shadow half-done paintings standing here,
where I, who would learn drawing, take my ease.
43
Cicada Song
I hear old news: each new cicada’s song
repeats scraped notes with no change I can hear.
Fidelity a million years can’t wrong
rings through the muted trills that reach my ear.
When dinosaurs watched forest birds appear,
cicadas sang this song. These are the notes
that serenaded Celts who shaped these moats
in years when Rhone and Nîmes had Stone-Age names.
While I react to terror’s newest ‘votes’
cicadas string their chants on ancient frames.
44
I walk alone into the careless wood
and claim some shade, sit on a rough-stone wall
I share with ants and katydid. I should
find peace. It’s hot. Cicadas call
in rhythms in which angry bombers could
imagine calls to action; or a parent might
hear announcements cancelling that flight
her children should have missed. They’re dead.
Old news. Cicadas stop their song at night:
the silent time that we survivors dread.
45
Amazon Night Call
Creaking! Central heating or her husband?
She kept eyes shut and tuned in on the sounds.
Radiator? Knuckle pop? FM band?
Perhaps her middle-ear bones. Coffee grounds
that gurgled in the drain? Sleep slipped away
and Susan gave up, sat up, switched the light on.
She wished she hadn’t when she saw what lay
much on the rug and more still on the transom:
an anaconda lounging in the light.
It didn’t speak, she thought, but Susan heard words
and Geoffrey wasn’t anywhere in sight.
Back home, where snakes were smaller and slurped
songbirds,
had never seemed so far away. She screamed.
Would Geoffrey reappear and say she dreamed?
46
Dead Weight
The women wander chained here, in no queue
but loosely shackled, they all whirl in drifts
of thwarted rage that’s punctuated through
with laughter, love and dreams: quick sudden shifts.
Their chains (not foisted on their sex as ‘gifts’ —
all men must wear them too) will never rust,
yet there will come a day when they, now trussed
(and all the men) will slip away, fly free:
escapees catching up on wanderlust,
unfettered by iron bonds of gravity.
47
Hymn of Veneration
If suns set into graves and did not rise
or if they hung continuously in skies
we’d think them less than we this moment do,
impressed as we are how our Sun swings through
its constant orbit that revolves round us.
48
Now everyone of us resembles God
as we portray Him: He’s well-dressed and shod
in golden slippers that reflect the Sun.
He shows His Face and makes sure everyone
is never sick or lonely or afraid.
49
Mesozoic Prophecy
We stand,
proud dinosaurs
in grass. The asteroid
that will obliterate our reign
locks on.
Look on.
Attend that Roach
who waits, wrapped in black wings,
to dog our doom. You think he waits
his turn?
His turn
requires more time.
He’ll bide, while mammals teem
this earth and steam our place with their
hot blood.
Odd, blood.
It’ll course in veins, emend
to humans’ time: they’ll chime
the knell for all they’ve left to board
their Ark.
50
Fair spark
from reddest eyes
of Earth’s unknown true god,
the Roach, will call in friendly fire,
as now.
51
Long Distance Blues
When I think of all those times I called long distance,
all those words I said and meant along the wires:
a love with such emotion that it choked on its own motion.
I’m going to paint my next truck blue, named after you.