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kerkevik_2014Ok, so today I ventured into a secodnhand book shop in Blairgowrie and hit a veritable gold-mine of Poetry books.
Over the next (however long) period of time I'm going to post as many of the poems that catch my eye; first time around one from each book.
In particular order.
The first book I pulled from the overladen carrier bag is a collection of poems by John Burnside. Since he's not a name I know I'm popping the biog at the back in here :-
'John Burnside was born in 1955 and now lives in Fife. He has published six previous books of poetry, two novels and - most recently, a collection of stories, Burning Elvis. He has won a number of awards, including the Geoffrey Faber Memorial Prize.'
The poem is laid out here as closely as possible to how it appears in the book
THE DANCE OF LIFE
after edvard munch
It's the summer we'll never reach:
the final
arrangement of bodies.
Flesh
given to the air
becoming light
or evening
or the memory of rain
as grass is.
It's the habitable place
we make
not of death
or absence
but of how
the dancers move together
to become
these disappearances.
No aftermath or stain
though somewhere across the lake
amongst the rocks
where someone has hauled an upturned boat ashore
- the white of the hull in the moonlight
like a sign -
their conversation carries on the wind:
promises
lies
and the rhythms we've come to expect
from the painted dark.
May the Goddess watch over us all,
'tis ok to be Takei,
kerk tehkek
Over the next (however long) period of time I'm going to post as many of the poems that catch my eye; first time around one from each book.
In particular order.
The first book I pulled from the overladen carrier bag is a collection of poems by John Burnside. Since he's not a name I know I'm popping the biog at the back in here :-
'John Burnside was born in 1955 and now lives in Fife. He has published six previous books of poetry, two novels and - most recently, a collection of stories, Burning Elvis. He has won a number of awards, including the Geoffrey Faber Memorial Prize.'
The poem is laid out here as closely as possible to how it appears in the book
THE DANCE OF LIFE
after edvard munch
It's the summer we'll never reach:
the final
arrangement of bodies.
Flesh
given to the air
becoming light
or evening
or the memory of rain
as grass is.
It's the habitable place
we make
not of death
or absence
but of how
the dancers move together
to become
these disappearances.
No aftermath or stain
though somewhere across the lake
amongst the rocks
where someone has hauled an upturned boat ashore
- the white of the hull in the moonlight
like a sign -
their conversation carries on the wind:
promises
lies
and the rhythms we've come to expect
from the painted dark.
May the Goddess watch over us all,
'tis ok to be Takei,
kerk tehkek
