10.4.17

minnmouth


From the roof of Humber Street Gallery there are glimpses of the broad expanse of the river – and it really is brown, like one version of the name’s origin.

Humber
Shadow-covered Water

Humber
Fortunate River


The name is recorded in Anglo-Saxon times as Humbre, and was formerly known as Abus, from the Latin abdo. to cover with shadows, conjuring an image of the dark river, from the tidal churn. Humbre, Umbri, umbro. Some prefer a native root, humbr-, one of the many words which mean river, or moving water – *ambri-, meaning channel, river, makes sense in proto-Celtic, like the common Avon, Britthonic *abona, the river, which could become *Su-umbro, good river, where *su-, good, has the same meaning as the Welsh *hy-, as in the mythic isles of the west, Hy-brasil – in my mythology the isle is an array of wind turbines on the sea horizon, the turning blades glinting in the sun.


SPURN HEAD, SPIKE POINT


m reachin oot mm– m inder ite mm–
m headin sooth mm– m widdar storm mm–
m an bit an bit mm– furr th marram mm–
m id awlready be mm– gawn mm– gawn mm– gawn...

Spurn Head is the spit of land that guards the mouth of the Humber. Here a medieval fishing village, Ravenser Odd, was lost to the depredation of the sea. Formed from shingle and sand, continually washed from seaward to landward, the entire spit reforms over time. The promontory is known as Spurn Head Spit, or Spurn Point, from spurn, ModE, spur, projecting piece of land. In my blues the dialect includes Inder, Yorkshire, in the. Flite, Northumbrian, fall lightly, showers. Marram is the well-known sharp-edged grass of the dunes, sometimes known as bents. This poem is from minnmouth.

Spurn Point, Guy Moreton 2017, c-print, 132 x 105 cm
 
The sea is, once again, a theme for our time. Our relationship to the coast is changing. Minnmouth bodes the inshot and ootshot tide: sea rise, coastal inundation, and the promise of marine renewables.

The poems are anchored by place-names; they are composed in and impelled by the regional languages of the East Coast of the British Isles, from the Out Stack of Unst to Great Yarmouth, including Orkney and Shetland Norn c.1800, recorded in the dictionaries of Jakobsen, Marwick, Stout Angus, and Graham, the poetry of Robert Alan Jamieson, and, traveling down the coast, Dictionar o the Scots Leid (Dictionary of the Scottish Language), and records of English regional languages, including Forby’s The Vocabulary of East Anglia, and Bill Griffiths’ anthology Fishing and Folk.




As well as a book of speculative language research, minnmouth is accompanied by tidesongs, a composition for multi-layered voice and vocal processing, composed and performed by Hanna Tuulikki and Lucy Duncombe, from elements of words and phrases derived from poems. The piece carries the listener from mouth to sea and back again. It can be listened to and purchased here. Listening through headphones or quality speakers is recommended.

The book and audio are an integrated piece; the book is available, priced £5, from Studio Alec Finlay, and the audio download can be purchased from bandcamp priced £4.

The artworks are being exhibited in 'Somewhere Becoming Sea', a Film and Video Umbrella curated exhibition in Hull, April-June 2017; and at 'FLOERS', a joint exhibition by Alec Finlay and Hannah Imlach at North Light Arts, Dunbar, June 2017.

 

‘People say a poem must be understandable. Like a sign on the street, which carries the clear and simple words “For Sale.” But a street sign is not exactly a poem. Though it is understandable. On the other hand, what about spells and incantations, what we call magic words, the sacred language of paganism, words like “shagadam, magadam, vigadam, pitz, patz, patzu"– they are rows of mere syllables that the intellect can make no sense of, and they form a kind of beyonsense language in folk speech. Nevertheless an enormous power over mankind is attributed to these incomprehensible words and magic spells, and direct in uence upon the fate of man.’

– Velimir Khlebnikov, tr. Paul Schmidt, ‘On Poetry’ (1919)

‘The poet’s justification is the richness of his vocabulary.’

Sadok sudei II, A Trap for Judges II, Russian Futurist manifesto , 1913, D. Buriuk,
E. Gure, N. Buriuk, V. Majakovskii, E. Nizon, V. Khlebnikov, B. Livchits, A. Kruchenykh


Russian Futurist or willbeist poets referred to themselves as wordmakers. I propose wavewright and windwright for designers of energy devices, and speechwright, for makars who follow the precepts of tidalpoetics. Minnmouth riffs on willbeist poetics, especially the inspired speechwright Velimir Khlebnikov, who grew up by the Caspian Sea among the Kalmyk people, ‘Mongol nomads of a Buddhist faith’, and of whom Shklovsky said: ‘his entire being pulsated with the future’. Vladmimir Markov explains that ‘the sounds of foreign tongues’ marked Khlebnikov’s zaum poetry, with its use of neologisms, dialect, and ancient languages, lending it ears for sound over sense.

The book includes three introductory poems that pay homage to the willbeists, including this riff on Khlebnikov’s famous zaum poem.


WAVECANTERIN (AFTER VELIMIR KHLEBNIKOV)

aye yu wavewrights, waveit furth
aye yu wavewrights, waveit rth
   wavo! wavo!
yuwho waveit inanoot
waveit oan wavily
waveit up rewavily
waveso th wavy wavily
ootwaves th wavethons
   wavo! wavo!
waviness o thwavin wavies
antiwave th waveairts
   wavo! wavo!
biwave, rewave, wavies, wavies,
   wavies, wavies
      ntidesangs



 These are followed by the minnmouth poems, which are composed in a phonetic synthesis of contemporary speech. Even though the vocabulary is sometimes archaic it agrees with Tom Leonard’s determination to ‘challenge that fixity of word by site-specifying it in the mouth of a particular speaker...’.

The poet and folklorist Peter Buchan denied there was any such thing as ‘the fisher tongue’: there are, or were, as many linguistic variations as fishing villages. Speech need not be a formula to make a gang of people, and some of the richest languages have no state. In an interesting sense this project rebalances my work supportive of Scottish independence, for, ultimately, my politics are those of innovative localism.


Minnmouth seeks a potential vocabulary that exceeds conventional orthography, and which could, speculatively, evolve into a locally-aligned resource aligned with offshore technology.

Design is metaphorically engaged with the sea in marine devices such as The Oyster – seen here in the process of installation for tests at Billia Croo, in a photograph by Alistair Peebles from  2009 – and Pelamis’ Sea Snake. This new book follows on from Ebban an Flowan, which includes photographic documentation of devices being tested on, or off, Orkney.

The folk-myth, common to the Northern and Western Isles, of how the tidestream originates in a quern that grinds all the salt in the sea, offers a foundation myth for marine turbines. Energy landscapes like Orkney and Scoraig are sites of power that exemplify localism in a way the Brent Oil Field arguably does not.

Their local wavewrights and windwrights are an island avant-garde in their approach to design – Scoraig may be attached to the mainland but the journey there by boat makes it an honorary isle. Annabel Pinker characterises the design philosophy of Hugh Piggott, which de nes life on Scoraig, as ‘deliberately working with materials that aren’t already adapted to one another, nding ways to build relations between them – to make them commensurable. The frictions between the parts is – partly – what makes the technology so vibrant and alive’. Pinker and Piggott could be speaking of the poetics this project aspires to. As isolated as these places may seem their influence is international, remote only to The Palace of Westminster.

The third volume in this ongoing engagement with language, coastal culture, and renewable energy will be titled Broken Flowers, and appear this Autumn. It explores the Western Isles, which are about to become an extractive site for devices developed on Orkney. The tensions between the renewable energy industry and the creative localist approach of a figure like Piggott will be wrestled with in that book.


As Vahni Capildeo says, there are still people who think they have no accent: their speech has a hold on power, but it lacks energy. The sequence of detached sentences that minnmouth contains is my way to propose a fluxus, from poetic devices to energy devices, sketching a history, part-lost, part-imagined, whose roots are bedded in the experimental analysis of wind by EW Golding, at Costa Head, Orkney, in the early 1950s, and which stretches forward to today’s wavewrights working at Billia Croo and Fall of Warness, Orkney, and Bluemull Sound, Shetland.

My fictional movement, Tidalpoetry, dreams of an alliance of wavewrights and speechwrights, energy devices and poetic devices, to create comradely inter-disciplinary spaces for energised speech production, to apply poetics to problems of design (and vice-versa), to counter petrolio, and forge a post-carbon culture – or, at least, devise a poetics for a drowned world. There follow some of the sentences that were left behind by the tide.

 
‘…his tidalpoetry was a blend of Roman Jakobson and Jákup Jakobsen
(Davy Polmadie)

non-standard speech is technically innovative

dialect is the order of words as much it is their orthography

dialect’s drift / song’s fetch

Schwitters was the Magellan of TidalPoetry

writing in dialect is a way to bathe – most poetry prefers to lounge by the pool

some may speak of dialects, dictionaries, and the renewability of the auld leid, but really we’re still struggling in the dinghy of the lyric trying to unclip our lifebelts

with typography the problem is always: how do you get the waves in?
with handwriting the problem is: how to keep the waves out?

a placename is a sequence of sound – wave-crest-trough


This is the opening sequence of poems in the book, exploring minn, Scots, minni, Shetlandic, the mouth, a child’s word. Mynnye, Old Scots, moy, Yorkshire, mother, a child’s instinctive utterance; also bay or inlet, sound or strait. This confluence of meanings was the root for the book.

BANNA MINN   TETHER MOUTH


Burra teddirt by ða sandy rib )
puckerin ða lip skoarnin ða bod

soondsa mooth nammas ða childers
murmurashen needfu r mynnye


Burra, tethered by a sandy tombolo, puckering the lip, (scornfully) imitating the waves – sound is a mouth, and amma is the children’s discontented murmuring, needful for their mum, minn


SCORE MINNI   MOTHER SOUND


soondsa scar / markéd i / ða sea- / boddam

ða brimtuds øddin ða mooth   fuwi sounds
faain       laumin       swinklin       baetin
apo ða chord                                 oða aert


sounds is a scar marked in the sea bottom – the bay of tidal breakers is the mouth, as it lls with sounds, falling, owing, splashing, beating, on the chord of the earth


BLUEMULL SOUND   BLUEMOU SOUND


staundin alane bi ða desolat sund
did yi glint ða bloofyns tirlin?

has du tocht backlins
frae ða shoormil   tae ða moder-dye
recantin o dir saatie querns origin?


standing alone by the desolate sound, did you glimpse the blue ns turning? have you thought back from the shoreline to the mother-wave, returning in your mind to the origin of the salt quern?


MINSMERE   MOUTHAVEN

Lida                                    shippn out suffn deep in th blue O

Hredmonath                     or havn maw offa bowl a suffn tidal


(July) shipping out something deep in the blue O [the sweep of the sea’s horizon]. (March) or having more of a bowl of something tidal [the safety of harbour]. 





Minnmouth was commissioned for Hull UK City of Culture 2017 and North Light Arts, Dunbar

The book was designed by StudioLR with Alec Finlay

I would like to thank to Harry Giles, Katrina Porteous, Ian Duhig, Peter Trudgill, Alistair Peebles, Leonie Dunlop, William Patterson, Laura Watts, and Ken Cockburn for their guidance in terms of Orkney Norn, Scots, Northumbrian, Yorkshire, East Anglian, and Danish words and names. Harry Giles’ Orcadian version of Rimbaud’s ‘ Vouels’ was commissioned for this project. Thanks to Golden Handcuffs review for publishing some of the poems. Thanks also to Hanna Tuulikki and Lucy Duncombe, Pete Smith, Amy Porteous, Jenna Corcoran, Annabel Pinker, Caroline Wickham-Jones, Kat Jones, Vahni Capildeo, Peacock Visual Arts, Lucy Gray, Dave King, and StudioLR; and to Steven Bode, Hull UK
City of Culture 2017, Susie Goodwin North Light Arts (Dunbar), and Creative Scotland for supporting the project.

Minnmouth is a companion to Ebban an’ Flowan, a book made in collaboration with Laura Watts and Alistair Peebles, published in 2015, available for £10 from Studio Alec Finlay.
 




4.12.16

‘poetry is still beautiful’




This essay was first published in a booklet, to accompany five poem-objects, an exhibition at Ingleby Gallery Edinburgh in 2012.


(I) father is the war of all things

Although their sources are unrelated, placed together these five poem-objects draw themselves into intimacy. The first text, 'father is the war of all things', transposes one of the fragments of the pre- Socratic philosopher Heraclitus. When I was at primary school, a signpost bearing the inscription the way up and the way down is one and the same appeared at the foot of our road. Every day that Ailie and I went down to meet Ramsay’s minibus in the morning and back up in the afternoon, I was less inclined to agree.

A few years later I encountered an equivalent, walking up the track in the pitch dark when the torch batteries failed, as they always seemed to, exchanging the world of eyes – fence posts, wireless-poles, sleeping sheep, molehills and thistles – for the lone I of the black Pentland night.

I followed the footsteps of my daytime self, feeling for the texture of loose gravel through the soles of my boots to tell where the ruts of the road led up, imagining where the gate would be, reaching out a hand for the cold metal of the top bar, keeping on until I could see the single low star of the front porch light.

Family walks at Stonypath followed a settled route. Dad would say, let’s go a walk to see the vale, and off we went. I hadn’t a clue what the vale was but, over time, a poetic fret settled over the asperity of the moor. We followed a sheep-trod close to a narrow, nameless burn with water-grasses floating in arrows across its surface. As we approached dad would give one of his wee smiles and, dipping his wellie-boot, say, you can never step in the same burn twice. Grown-up I learnt that, like the sign at the road-end, this phrase came from Heraclitus. His waters are elemental, but it was the grasses, in the manner of their floating, pointing downstream, that were the local revelation of time and flow.
            
Burns were IHF’s fondest things, for their gentle containment and for memories of fishing trips. At each new home his first letter to friends began with a description of the local burn and his hopes for the trout its pools and overhanging banks may conceal. Our walk to the vale returned home via a circular sheep-fank, down the eastern boundary of the Anston Burn, by sycamores where herons nested, suckered hazels and one wee pool that could take a two stroke swim. The burn hurried on to the River Medwin, which defined the valley’s different world of old woods, hump-bridges and red tarmac roads, remote from the poet’s hillside garden.
            
There is another burn at Stonypath, conducting the water into the garden, which IHF made by hand, laying a bed of stones filched from the dykes on the hill, planting grasses and ferns, in memory of the rills of the Boltachan that flows and falls by his Perthshire cottage, Dunira, where he lived in the 1950s.
            
If the Heraclitean burns at Stonypath are associated with childhood idylls, then the embroidered poem father is the war of all things recalls a contrary fragment: 'War is the father of all and king of all; and some he shows as gods, others as men, some he makes slaves, others free' (Kirk & Raven); to which we can add the emphatic: 'It is necessary to know that war is common and right is strife and that all things happen by strife and necessity' (Kirk & Raven). The poem, father is the war of all things, seems an autobiographical confession – though one which leaves open the question as to whether father is the subject or the source of war – but, together with its companions, it also reveals itself as a fragment
of philosophy altered. Performing a revolution, the text turns the ‘strife’ of the philosopher topsy-turvy: father and war demand to be exchanged, their dialectic symmetry renders the transposition inevitable.
            
The contention of the Heraclitean universe is refracted through our Darwinian and Freudian inheritances. The text resonates, but we have learnt from bitter experience – from the destruction that hid behind known knowns and known unknowns and unknown unknowns, things we don’t know we don’t know – to be suspicious of linguistic operations. They run the risk of nullity; a doubt remains whether this generation is capable of overcoming the cycle of conflict. It is left to the texts that
follow to attempt a resolution.

 




(II) mother’s word is ward

The source of the second embroidered text, 'mother’s word is ward', is a line in Paul Celan’s memorial poem ‘The Travelling Companion’.

            Your mother’s soul hovers ahead.
            Your mother’s soul helps to navigate night, reef after reef.

            Your mother’s soul whips on the sharks at the bow.


           
            This word is your mother’s ward.

            Your mother’s ward shares your couch, stone by stone.

            Your mother’s ward stoops for the crumb of light.

            (translated by Michael Hamburger)
             
In April 1970 the incommensurability of memory drove Celan to throw himself into the River Seine. The poet had already sought to escape his tragic inheritance, altering the ‘natural’ order of his name by the generative means of an anagram: Antschel / Ancel / Celan, as if such an act could reverse history. To friends, Celan spoke of a monstrous event, one embellished by guilt: holding his father’s hand through the barbed wires of a Transnistrian transportation camp, he was forced to let it fall when a guard bit fiercely into his fingers. Both his parents would die in the camps.
            
It is to the ‘mother‘ that Celan awards the muse-like gift of speech. The dyad ‘Mutter‘/‘Mündel‘, becomes, in translation, the surety of the mother’s ‘word‘ and the guardianship of ‘ward‘. It is she who, through her words, provides reassurance and protection.
            
From parliamentary elections and hill names – Ward Hill appears on maps of Orkney and Shetland – we know that a ward is a measure of the human world, an enclosure. From word to ward we catch language in metamorphosis, just as on the hillside at Stonypath the exchange of a single letter translates curfew into curlew, as the bird’s call tolls the tocsin bell for evening across this patch of earth.
            
To Celan, poetry revealed itself to be divinatory; a rite of speech in which words spill, reveal and prefigure; the poem, a message in a bottle which may someday wash up on heartland. He pictured his own unfathering and unmothering in the perilous reefs and menacing sharks of ‘The Travelling Companion’, imagery inherited from an earlier poem, ‘Love Song’, a shipwreck in which the lovers drown alone at home, peering through the translucent deck of a war-damaged flat. Such poems are written for the other, the one who comes after. Texts may be oracular, but the poem is fated to appear in time – in the strife of history and the deluge of wartime slaughter – fated to land among us as a remembrance.

























(III) family is a shipwreck

This scene of dispossession sweeps us on to the third poem, 'family is a shipwreck', which reduces cosmological strife to a singular event. Given its position in the series, the text inherits the melancholy of Celan’s familial loss. The source is an essay by the Brazilian poet and theorist Haroldo De Campos, in which he characterizes the poem as 'a shipwreck in time and space'. The image is suggestive of a poem warding meaning into a fitting matrix, constellating words, identifying poetry with the plural form of human relationship, family.
            
De Campos inherited his image from Mallarmé, whose Un coup de dés was one of the inspirations for his Noigandres comrades in their revolution of the poem-constellation. In the pages of Un coup de dés blank space assumes the translucence of an immense sea, in which the phrases of Mallarmé’s poem float like the ribs and joists of a sepulchral shipwreck – a culmination of the wreck images that appear in 'Brise Marine', the sonnet 'A la nue accablante tu', and in the notes for the memorial poem for his son, 'Pour un tombeau d'Anatole', in which the eight year old boy figures as a sailor setting out on his final voyage. Over time wrecks loosen themselves from the catastrophic event of their foundering and, scoured by sand, bleached by salt, embed themselves as littoral, even loved, memorials.
            
The five poems are embroidered on handkerchiefs, with the same homely charm as the linen squares my mother would stich into sails of blue and brown for my father’s model boats. Being read in their familial context, De Campos & Mallarmé’s wrecked boats call to mind IHF’s fleet of vessels, the clinker-hulled fishing-boats, Fifies & Zulus, the sleek technological menace of the destroyer, the gasoline-honeyed island of the aircraft-carrier. His wooden toys and stone models shelter from storms and battle actions; look at their reproductions in books and cards, they are never scratched, damaged, nor sunk. The boat’s form was solace and shelter in the face of the ocean’s void, a curative for agoraphobia, a poem-vessel to tack through time.
            
Melancholy as the family poem may be, there remains the care of thread and sentiment of the handkerchief. The embroidered texts reflect upon and distinguish themselves, one from another; the five poems assume assigned places and, as they do, the texts themselves, with their interpenetrating meanings, become familial, renewing the possibility of a shared sense of belonging and relationship.

 























(IV) children are the revolution

To complete the coeval pairing of father & mother, the third poem, family, stands opposite a fourth: children are the revolution. Alone among the texts, this one has no source. It springs from the others, writing itself, as it were, by dint of the different positions they press one another into. The child is agent of memory; children learn to remember through song, rhyme and poesis, the technologies of language.
            
In the mythical account of history, fathers beget wars and children inflame revolutions. Here though, alert to the ways in which the texts work upon one another, we allow the pun, for it is children that revolve the familial wheel.
            
There is a playful echo here with an earlier poem-object, a small ‘tirlo’ windmill-turbine, the blades of which bear a circular text after John Cage:

            turning / toward / living

When the wind blows the poem disappears into a blur; when the breeze drops and the turbine is unproductive, the poem asserts itself, as an energy.

 




(V) our lives are a carrying stream

The fifth poem, 'our lives are a carrying stream', gathers the other texts into its current, immersing them in an awareness of time beyond individual or familial life. What is sewn may also be unpicked; each thread is a trace of the time in which the poem was patiently made, but, with the right needle, the text could flow in another way.
            
The text came via my mentor, the folk-singer Hamish Henderson, who characterized the tradition bearers and anonymous lineage of folk-song as a carrying stream, and the great songs as licked into shape like pebbles by the waves of countless tongues.

            Tomorrow songs
            Will flow free again, and new voices
            Be Born on the carrying stream

            ‘Under the Earth I go’

Hamish gave me an empathy for song and poetry, as he did for so many. When I first moved to Edinburgh I would do odd jobs at his home, fetching lunch and, as he had a gammy hip from an injury he’d taken at El Alamein, helping him get in and out of the bath. I’ve never forgotten a conversation we shared during one bath-time, reflecting on the war in the desert and the tide of history that flowed through the ruined tombs and the single column, 'die eine', at Karnak, a scene he recorded in the Eighth of his Elegies for the Dead in Cyrenaica. That afternoon Hamish was moved to recite the Tenth of Rilke’s Duino Elegies in German, from memory, tears welling in his eyes.
            
'There were our own, there were the others': more than anyone I’ve known, Hamish sought to go beyond the inheritance of contention. Being himself ‘fatherless’, he tried to elude the rhyme that bonds father to war. From the wound of his illegitimacy he embellished myths regarding his paternity, wrapping himself in the mantle of old ballads and the lives of the outcast tinkler-gypsies. Like Celan, with his Bukovinian polyglot tongues – Swabian, Yiddish, Ukranian, German and Romanian – Hamish insisted on the hybridity of cultural inheritance, growing up with English and Scots, hearing relict Perthshire Gaelic, to which education added German, French, Italian, and later, collecting songs in the fields, he caught on to traveller cant.


(VI) ground, river and sea

The stream of my own memory begins and ends in water. Its source is at Stonypath, outside the bounds of the garden, by the spring that rises on the moor which feeds the burns and lochans and provides the peaty water we drank. Over time, as accounts of the garden detach the landscape from the reality of our lives, the spring came to symbolize the familial spirit of the place. Few critics have cared to follow the burn upstream to that original spring, overhung with ferns and rushes, from which the farm
and garden were born.
            
These two summers past I’ve made journeys through the highlands and islands and, along the way, tied paper wishes to burnside alders, hazels and birch, in memory of friends. Following Basho’s Oku-no-hosomichi, one day I found myself exhausted – shipwrecked, if you like – in an enclosed glen part-way up the Inverianvie River, able to get beyond the waterfall, but still far from Loch a Mhadaidh Mor. When I got back I found that the namelessness of the glen resonated with Tom Lubbock’s brave memoir of living and dying, as he recorded the fading of language from the effects of a brain tumour.

            poetry is still beautiful

            taking me with it

            quiet but still something

            ground, river and sea

            my body my tree

            after that it becomes simply the world   

Later I discovered that some of these riverside sites were associated with the first goddess of Scotland, Annait, Anaitis, whose name was brought to these lands by semitic tribes from Anatolia, long after the ice had receded.

Annat – Annet – Andat – Anaid – Annatland – Anatiscruik – Annatstoun – Annatfield 
Longannat – Craigannet  – Ernanity – Coire na h-Annait – Alt na h-Annait
                                  
The first site was Balnahanaid, by the River Lyon; the second, the well Tobhar na h-Annait, at Kilbride, and the nearby temple at High Pasture cave, where archaeologists recently discovered the wooden bridge of a 2,300 year-old six-stringed lyre; the third site, a temple mound by River Bay, Waternish. The goddess is traditionally represented by a votive stone which the river has smoothed into a female form. These Annait were ritually washed in the water, and at these sites the community cast the ashes of their dead into the river to be carried under the earth, down to the underworld. Annait, travelling companion, Earth Mother, Bride, who John Latham recalled in Niddrie Woman, whose new name is Gaia: there are no sacred texts describing her mythology and yet, in little burns and springs, She is the source from which the carrying stream flows on.

            Annait

            shafts of winter light
            pink the hoar
            on Beinn Na Caillich
            and glint a sun ring
            over the garnet aureole
            of Beinn an Dubhaich
                       
            catching Annait’s
            river-worn form
            laid by a hazel burn
            in which bone & ash
            were cast to wash
            down the chthonic sink

            (High Pasture Cave, February 1)


Bibliography

Kirk & Raven, Heraclitus: the Cosmic Fragments (Cambridge, 1954)
Michael Hamburger, Poems of Paul Celan (Persea Books, 2002)
Haroldo de Campos, Novas (Northwestern, 2007)
Hamish Henderson, Collected Poems and Songs, (Curly Snake, 2000)
Stéphane Mallarme: Poems in Verse, translated by Peter Manson (Miami University Press, 2012)

 The linen handkerchiefs were embroidered by Jean Malone

With thanks to Peter Manson, Luke Allan and Richard & Florence Ingleby

photography Ingleby Gallery, 2012