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Untitled
Martin Corless-Smith




local in his throne the nameless He (World) suspended here indefinite, indefinitely spans an immense universe-the night sky and the night we do not see the book a prostrate ANGEL and extended DEITY the lashes of closed eyes engraven midway in eternity our waking dreams are fatal-born on a collapsing wave perpetually W.W.
For such is the Benignite of God towards man, that he has implanted in his finite Nature an infinite
capacite, to take in and enjoy the first infinite Being. -Theophilus Gale Men do mightily wrong themselves when they refuse to be present in all ages -Thomas Traherne The duration of "forever" is in its entirety part of the "now" Life is operation and is lived in eternity Time plays over the surface of eternity A book, once written exists in eternity And understands its relation to all that was and is I understand ETERNITY to be existence itself -Spinoza, Ethics The world is never better It is not the world's responsibility to thus improve It is ours to notice Depression is a chronic disobedience of self Have you seen the blow, ablowin? Where be you awenting? I bin, thee bist, he am, we bin, you bin, they bin
In Romayne's Garden, June 5th 2003 When in the evening Beetles Hang the green sky in between Great plum great cherry trees Grown slowly upwards yards in to the (green) mantle Screen-our misty gauze is momentary lifted as a cherry amber buzzing ar electric animal.









The comedy opens simple violence-incontinence-malice Add these to unbelief or misbelief Add again the circle outside the river of Archeron (The Thames) The Year of the Vision is 1300 The sun is rising on Friday morning The moon sets (noon Jerusalem time) Again in the middle of everything Ah! (defecating in a cell of defecation) The birds hard at it-Under the cherry boughs in my shade-(anybody else's true) for all I care How long have I been this silent (have I been) The tick of the wren-the warbling Robin underfoot Words I repeat. Words I have heard another sing more gracefully. Why do you carry on their burdens/songs/their deeds A robin at his seed The great city outside the Walls roars on a pace-and I have come to fall in quietude my home between heres seated hopefully-but we have given everything (away) The Robin feeds made in our own image (How can we imagine otherwise?) A Light messenger Light may replace us-assail us/Light may replace the self Lifting the dark(ness) that we cannot none of the Earth was ever so blessed a flash of silver ( ) (The) blackbirds (noisy) noise Can you hear his misery? I feel a coward's fear. Upon the river which is of the sea Through me into the city (Along the river path, the wretched and the wealthy pass) The World has glory over them An ancient shouting by the banks On the otherside is autumn with all its spoils upon the ground a light drizzle in the foliage visible as my terror yields to sadness for my child and for myself holding him blind swallows skirt the houses a thousand colours nearly visible and you might call to them as they whirr in company a black air-or a magnificent green The red-eyed fly upon behemoth beans if we knew who to ask The town where I was born Sits with its river and canal underneath is everything a body falls continually a book who kissed my mouth the spirit speaking through the body a canal and heavy Rain descending far enough to see he in the middle who is looking down upon his breast locking and unlocking so (softly) the broken splint words bore to the (glorious office) heart the spirit quits the body briefly whenever like a grain of spelt up to a sapling-tree he therefore resumed then the wind turned into words which thus disjoined my leaves from me









Officers (off he soars?) cavort All heaven (all having?) a torn garment Hysterical (his terror calls?) running and falls (anvils?) A honey bird pinned in the wheat









Dean Prior-Devon (Downpour) Carswash onto Plymouth Where we stop (into) a dark and quiet church Dedicatory air the young girls All around here smile A wooden closet fastend shut Behind the pulpit by the aisle (If I had rhymes I heard no voice) (All my hidden ocean boils)









Eventually after a long eulogizing sentence The poet's name Among sane men who had disproved most things And proved the rest He was possessed By a fervour and fury of belief Without a clue for the hand Or a feature for the eye What he meant, what he wanted Tea-pot pieties and tape-yard infidelities It is not his art we envy but his belief It is not his vision we desire but his certainty The remnants of an invaluable quality of actual life










But if I feel the least distraction/the least weakness/if I interpret too much/if I intervene/why then everything is gone/mere personality-CÚzanne










It is a time of plague And great injustice I singe my beard And panic out my hairs I wear the shirt I had been given As it fits The whole enfolded city Fires all over Europe










Naturally enough the satiated species consumes itself A hasty disguise rigged to no end The labour and strife of the soul is as vivid and earnest as any bodily travail Loving makes change unbearable. When the old building passes into disuse and is eventually pulled down-to make way for new houses-we are burdened with (the responsibility of) its memory. We must know that our memories have become their own world-not holding closely to this one. In this section of underwall which remains damp even in high summer under the elm canopy with always the deep rich odour of cake moist earth. What does it matter that someone considers himself worthy? I shall be what energy allows. What my dreams of these avenues-of the deep pond means, as themselves-part of my vision lifts and there rest upon the just ingredients. All morning with sketch book in hand-leave rivers to the rivers themselves. Return to the avenues. Some poets almost by sense of smell-there are books I adore that I cannot read. I might understand them, but don't-it's a peripheral reading. Silent companion. The erotic expectation. A brooding figure. It is the self watching over me. I brush past this figure trailing a hand but the self cannot be charmed or seduced. There in the mirror, Behind the voyeur is a steely gaze. We know. My creation/frustration why my chest heaves in anguish is to be done with all this ordering and solving. The monotonous shifting of objects on the shelf. Even this one view, this ordinary Victorian terrace window, out to an overgrown garden, even this is beyond my every effort magnified a hundred life times. The agapanthus is otherworldly, the quince is faintly ridiculous, the buddleia a gaudy mess, and I am a stew of vanity and foolishness-my miracle is all that which I cannot affect. My greatest part is that of which I can take no credit.









I am tender about the friends I dreamt of last night-remembering our night time collaboration my heart moves as I walk along I am in love the street goes on marching through my vision down to the Thames where we all drown in unison. That is it about the Thames it overwhelms our stories. Even the tales of the drowned are kept secret, the bridge continues underwater but it is the reflection we see. Later I will meet my wife and child in town. How can this be? How can this have happened? One is always amazed when something is selling for what it is actually worth-R. L., Tuesday August 12th, 2003









(Bury the house opposite) When a mediocre building is knocked down, we are gripped by a fear. Found in the basement. Many are cleverer than me-so I can only do this, be myself, that's the best thing I can do-try to relax a little found in the basement hunched a few days later, having not left the flat it becamemore difficult to face the possibilities-falling off one's pavement walk into the territory of others-their own terror become hatred meted out in a stride you are supposed to repell. nettles and newspapers. No one in the allotments hears over the broadcast of cricket and the railway tracks hunched into a praying squat-ready to implode. Poppies and swan manage deportment amongst the trash. Poppies on the wasteland-swans in the canal. morphine seduction. greek passion. Milk and teabags. There is no place for God without a daily branding of fear.










Tumultuous versions Quite put out Really popular version Of this quit spirit You'd not even recognize The face of God or Love If she peeked through the hedge Offering herself Anima climax Mismanaged outfit No legs in these trousers Get home stay there










If I have anything to say I must surely be saying it. Can you find anything but here? The light is not ours. Our selfhood we experience it-but it is not ours.










that is on the trembling tree still reminds me of one morning the night in rain til the next day yet let me God live long enough that I may have my hands of her or a brief word that spreads itself As in a season fresh and new We don't see the messenger Nor whether he is questioned for Thus with a letter Our love goes thus









Reflections of a poor eye The viaduct, the Aqueduct called Telford's Aqueduct at Chide The stream supports a shadow where reflections lie Spread near the foliage of indigenous varieties Where are the walkers, where our fellow sufferers The sun, which we can know of in extent Seeks out in its enormity one side Its ulterior effect is this colossal Where we reap a noon and sow a shade









But I am prone to shadows, anxious matter in its dance Consoles and Lunges after emptiness, and properties defile the fields excellent midnight, the shade of surplus agency, which drains Heaven, makes a promise of the virtual or real.









The sheep-child in buoyant carriage On the waves? The image is so bronzed With pastoral memory, the child, the blankets And the mist of water over her.









Elegy for the worm Vermiculate who ate itself-(no) beginning middle end-and saddled with the passing earth rained out devoured Our soul's content















































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