Rupert M Loydell

from October’s Language

STORIES ALL AROUND US

Having previously forgotten I now choose

to remember. Poetry is not the answer

nor is interrogating the text you wanted

me to read. New students are talking outside,

in here my class are learning to write to order

and make sense of incoherent instructions.

It is not as easy as falling off a bike,

it is more like chewing on a cloud:

there’s nothing there, just wisps of thought

and dream, songs that won’t go away.

The ego & the id, superman or chosen procedure:

life is up for grabs if only you remember

to switch off the light as you leave. A door

slams behind me. I want to make more sense

but in the dark it’s difficult to see.

What am I attempting to define? If we cling

to the essence, we will come to no harm,

but it does not make the advice universal

or it easier to police the distance

between forward and backward motion.

The landscape has not changed and

this is not a manifesto for waiting.

In the human mind’s vast reservoir

something as well as nothing has happened.

THE LAST WORD FROM PARADISE

There is nothing to be frightened of.

I could write this in fire, point out

that exile is a mapless geometry,

a short life of trouble in the library

of dust before uncertain alchemy

and a procession of constructed drift.

At the heart of this cheery reading

are stark images from the archive,

fake letters to the editor from those who

have no truck with established thinking

on the subject. The present alone is

our happiness, the balance between then

and becoming. It is easier not to think,

to memorize concern and understanding.

Competing visions pose a threat,

associations are often rapid and musical.

What is there to believe in? How can you

ask me that? It is obvious that there is

a wider social and artistic context,

no reason to despair. Every individual

is the author of their own repair.

DO YOU EVER GET LONELY?

Good question. If I wasn’t talking

to you, I probably would. But I am.

The rain has suddenly eased,

it’s been drumming on the roof

for best part of an hour. I’m

supposed to be elsewhere right now,

answering questions about nothing

in particular, but I can hardly see

through the pockmarked windscreen.

You’ve been gone for several days

and I still can’t get used to driving

the other car. You phoned to say

the snow had settled, that there was

no power to your parents’ house.

The kids were still awake, they

don’t believe you that it’s dark

when you shut your eyes. Well,

they kind of know it but they don’t.

Maybe we pampered them when

they were young, perhaps they just

like light? Either way, there are

no more questions to be asked.

If I were you I’d be lonelier still.

And if you were me? You’re not,

so let that be the end of that.

My job seems to be disappearing fast,

creative writing written out

of the equation. New maps and plans

proliferate, I trace obsessive forms

and count the days still left to go.

Ephemera piles up, along with

further attempts to understand these

moments of indecision and delay.

IN EVERYTHING GIVE THANKS

The man who does not exist

keeps sending me books and records.

The letterbox is full of well meaning

poems that seem to feature me,

and CDs of bands I’ve never heard of.

In momentary breaks, opportunities

arise and nothing has happened yet.

It is always a surprise, that moment

of recognition and engagement,

the startling noise of caterwaul

or electronic fidget. Do you know

the story of the boy on a ladder

and what he climbed to see? No,

neither do I, but I would like to.

When you left I found your watch

and several empty wine bottles,

words we spoke last night still

circling, loud music in my head.

The things you do not know

are an opportunity for me to send

the wrong object, or hold forth

in drunken erudition. I am the king

of thieves when it comes to culture,

and you’ll miss me when you’re gone.