Dorothy Porter The Bee Hut (retail) (epub)

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.I have come to a riverof blood and vinegarI have come to a riverwhere only painkeeps its feetI have come to a bridgeof dissolving boneI have come to a placeof burning coldI am trapped in a spacedeformedby my ownleprous fearhave I the strengthto pay suffering its due?* * *There is a calmthat is no cousinto courageThere is a calmthat sitslike a quivering apeunder the python’shypnotising eye.Everything makes youshiverThe hot wind.The rank river.The poisonous euphoria.But it’s your shrivellingfleshthat has the whip handYour fleshhas its own tumorouswillYou may thinkyou have been herebeforeYou may thinkyour quicksilver spirithas your furtive fleshlickedBut darknessis strongerthan lightThe flesh knows bestwho’ll win line honoursin this fight* * *The ninth houris hereThe ninth hourmakes no senseDon’t prayfor a flash flooddelivering miracleor clarityDuring the ninth hourreason dies of thirstYour blood stagnatesstaleas a base metalin your mouthYou danglein a cacophonyof retching noisewith no grandiose riffsof heroismYou will never forgetthe foul soundof the ninth hour.* * *I have come to a riverof blood and vinegarI am here,ninth hour,I am herestripped and shivering.But listen, ninth hour,listenand pay heedto a new soundin meI am not heresilent and aloneDo you hearthe fighting hissof this geyserin me?I stand my groundin the undaunted sprayand companyof my own words.NUMBERSI get magic(sometimes I get morethan I bargain for)but I don’t getnumbers.Numbers do worsethan humiliateor elude methey don’t add up.I am no algebra tartravishedby the meretricious musicof the spheres.My eyes and nosenever streamedwith incontinent ecstasythrough geometry classesas my disastrous trianglescollapsed in a cacophonyaround me.Perhaps it’s a failingto graspor even wantthe utterly perfect numberburning through my retinalike the utterly perfect morning.Instead I peerwith nauseating vertigointo the deep dark pitchof numberslike an exhausted mammothdangerously totteringon the edgeof a bottomless mystery.THE HAMPSTEAD HEATH TOADFor Roger DeakinIt was one of thosebeautifulEnglish summer nights.The lilac shimmer of silentlakes.The whisper of ghost foxthrough your heartbeat.But the toad in the handstank real.Stank through his palpitatingskin.Stank of fear.Is the fabled hallucinogenictouch of toadsjust as Macbethwitnesseda hypnotising snareof toxic apparition?What thrilling doors of perceptionopento the musky oozeof panting paralysedterror?Of courseintoxicated on moonshineyou wantedand will always wantthe toadto calm downsmell sweetand give up his phantasmagoricalsecretsgenerously.But the toad in the handprotected himself.The toad in the handstank real.CHARLES BAUDELAIRE’S GRAVEHow do you bury a poet?Surely nothow they buried Baudelairethrown in with his parentslike an infant death.It stretchesto a ghastly ironyPasternak’s remarkthat poets should remainchildren.Do poets really want to tradethe lingering savourof experiencefor guileless eyes?There’s somethingrepulsiveabout an empty freshadult face.Such baby facescan be seen in uniformor with a footon a slaughtered tiger.They can be capableof anythingor a long lullabyof nothing.I want to exhume Baudelaireand give him his ownmagnificent mercurial vault.From one anglean arching ebony cat.From anothersneering black marblespleen.No poetdead or aliveshould rotwith their parents.EARLY MORNING AT THE MERCYThis six a.m.momentin the cool-blue coolof early morningis not eternal.It will passlike the faint bat squeakof an early bird call.It is silent againeven as the darkfadesand the white eyes of buildingsemergeslowly gleamingas they drop their grey veils.But now the birdsare getting serious.More and brassiercallsas my first cup of teachills.And I turn backto Gwen’s poetrywonderinghow on earth she could writeso eloquently in hospital.Her spiritmust have beenas raucously persistentas the dawn crowing chorusof her vicious adoredgolden roosters.Or she was cheating –and the Bone Scan poemswere writtenwhen she was welland safely rememberingher Plague Yearas she put on the kettleand set out her shiningpens.MULTIPLEXEvery nightMULTIPLEXshines through my hospitalwindowbig blue neoned lettersaimed verticallyat the thick dark skylike a rocketsteadying its nerveon a launching pad.Hiya, MULTIPLEX.Whoever you areyou look likeyou’re going places.Take me with you.ODE TO AGATHA CHRISTIEIs this the crucial clue?The bug-like trilobiteI bought from a slippery gypsyin Prague,still staring through its crystalline eyesfrom the floor of an extinct sea.I am spookedby the abysmal depthsof my own life’s mystery.Like a belly-up Christie villageI’m nipped by the red herringsof every pyrrhic victory.Can I pocket and know this sunsetflaring over the rollersof the cold Bass Sea?No photograph, no poemwill make it anythingbut a still-born cliché.Is murdering timethe most true and convincingperfect crime?I tangle in the plotchasing the hit-and-run driverof my careless past tense.Why does my childhood swimming poolnow stagnate darklybehind a high wire fence?I rub my clever egg headand show off my waxedmoustache.O Agatha, what fun playingPoirotto douse my fear in farce!But how can I makemy solution ship arrive?To what shimmering portwill it take me?Or is it just an easy exilefrom blind faith and wishful talk?Death Comes as the End –Agatha, you threw out cosywhen you served up dread.As surely as my trilobitewith the right time, placeand gritty clout,may I be preservedas insoluble enigmawhen a killer comet snuffs me out.THE BEE HUTFor Robert ColvinThere is a dark placeon my friend Robert’s farmthat thrumswith the nectar smellof danger.A swarm of beeshas taken overa dozing old shedand no onehas the meansor gutsto move them.I think of slaughteredMycenean kingsentombed in their brickhiveglittering as they liegolder than honeyin the old blooddark.Entrancedmy bare handwants to plungethrough a hole –now a buzzing lethalhighway –in the shed wall.I love the bee huton my friend Robert’s farm.I love the invisible mysteryof its delicious industry [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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