Report on Arrival by Robin Skelton

Report on Arrival

I

They ask me where I was born.

I have no history

but the length of my bones,

and my religion

is the tablet of stone in climbing grass.

They ask me how much I am worth.

In pounds or dollars?

Dollars.

I scrawl dollars upon the sky.

And will I settle here?

Will I ever go back?

The rubber stamp

rolls like a whale on the pad,

and silence waits like a heron.

I can’t go back.

That is why I am here,

why I am breathing.

II

At thirty-seven I make a new start with the sea

and the peeling arbutus by middens of clamshells humped

up near the Reservation. Officers hope

I’m in work,

                 have a place to live,

                                               won’t let Faith down

by raging through roads that are underseas to green

rag-hanging chestnuts and oaks with a bottle or woman

or setting a mountain ablaze.

                                           I will fire a mountain

someday up-country where bears have the masks of people

and whales tunnel down through the seas, and I will call

back,

         (They said “Call us back”),

                                                spinning black charred fingers

round the numbering disk

                                     “Yes, I have settled

nicely,

          pretty well fixed,

                                   yeah, doing fine,

protecting the fire from the green,

the blaze from the cold”.

III

Would you say I was

                               dangerous?

Tell me

soberly under these trees that drag flat fingers

down on the English roses,

                                        Would you answer

I was a dangerous man?

                                    I don’t lie down,

ever,

        without recalling

                                 a woman’s mouth,

a woman’s hands, a woman’s breasts, a woman

mocking the folded roses,

                                       Would you say

now in your letter that I should be given papers,

rights, and freedoms?

                                 Could you ever say

anything safe of this

                               here

                                       where

                                                 grey quail

in wool skirts

                    walk in line

                                     down the sidewalk,

                                     on God Street?

IV

You would rather see photographs?

                    I have photographs

         (taken against the light)

                    of my wife and children

And of a big brown house upon McLaren

        where you think

                    (quite reasonably),

                              that I live,

Having written me there, and

                    getting this answer

        on the right paper,

                                   headed with the right name.

The evidence all points that way.

   There is even a mortgage

      And an insurance policy

                                         which is signed

                    (yes, I admit it)

                             with my name.

                                                   And you

Want photographs of the trees?

                           of the porch?

                           of a sitting

Family smiling?

                        Would rather have that than this

attempt at a genuine map

                                      of an entirely

                different country

                                        where

                           we are all alone?

Robin Skelton, The Hunting Dark (London: André Deutsch, 1971), 9-11.

[I’d have you, quoth he] by Anonymous

     I’d have you, quoth he.

     Would you have me? quoth she.

             O where, sir?

     In my chamber, quoth he.

     In your chamber? quoth she.

             Why there, sir?

     To kiss you, quoth he.

     To kiss me? quoth she.

             O why, sir?

     ‘Cause I love it, quoth he.

     Do you love it? quoth she.

             So do I, sir.

Lovers, Rakes and Rogues: amatory, merry and bawdy verse from 1580 to 1830, ed. by John Wardroper (London: Shelfmark Books, 1995), 134.

The Machine by B. C. Leale

THE MACHINE

The room exists for the machine

The machine is wheeled into the room

The machine contains the poem

The machine exists for the poem

         which is plugged into light

The rays of light converge on a blank

         freighted with language

There are dense textures and tones

There are weightless phrases

There are solids floating on colours

         as if rocks were the echoes of

         their fires and their seas.

The machine exists for the room

         it gives it meaning

When light wheels out of the machine

         it suddenly breaks.

B. C. Leale, Leviathan and other poems (London, New York: Allison & Busby, 1984), 66.

‘in heavenly realms of hellas dwelt’ by e e cummings

in heavenly realms of hellas dwelt

two very different sons of zeus:

one,handsome strong and born to dare

—a fighter to his eyelashes—

the other,cunning ugly lame;

but as you’ll shortly comprehend

a marvellous artificer

now Ugly was the husband of

(as happens every now and then

upon a merely human plane)

someone completely beautiful;

and Beautiful,who(truth to sing)

could never quite tell right from wrong,

took brother Fearless by the eyes

and did the deed of joy with him

then Cunning forged a web so subtle

air is comparatively crude;

an indestructible occult

supersnare of resistless metal:

and(stealing toward the blissful pair)

skilfully wafted over them-

selves this implacable unthing

next,our illustrious scientist

petitions the celestial host

to scrutinize his handiwork:

they(summoned by that savage yell

from shining realms of regions dark)

laugh long at Beautiful and Brave

—wildly who rage,vainly who strive;

and being finally released

flee one another like the pest

thus did immortal jealousy

quell divine generosity,

thus reason vanquished instinct and

matter became the slave of mind;

thus virtue triumphed over vice

and beauty bowed to ugliness

and logic thwarted life:and thus—

but look around you,friendsand foes

my tragic tale concludes herewith:

soldier,beware of mrs smith

The Oxford Book of Satirical Verse, ed. by Geoffrey Grigson (Oxford, New York, Toronto, Melbourne: Oxford UP, 1980), 391-2.

Exchange of Letters by Wendy Cope

                                   Exchange of Letters

‘Man who is a serious novel would like to hear from a woman who is a poem’ (classified advertisement, New York Review of Books)

DEAR SERIOUS NOVEL,

I am a terse, assured lyric with impeccable rhythmic flow, some apt and original metaphors, and a music that is all my own. Some people say I am beautiful.

My vital statistics are eighteen lines, divided into three-line stanzas, with an average of four words per line.

My first husband was a cheap romance; the second was Wisden’s Cricketers’ Almanac. Most of the men I meet nowadays are autobiographies, but a substantial minority are books about photography or trains.

I have always hoped for a relationship with an upmarket work of fiction. Please write and tell me more about yourself.

                                                              Yours intensely,

                                                   Song of the First Snowdrop

The Oxford Book of Satirical Verse, ed. by Geoffrey Grigson (Oxford, New York, Toronto, Melbourne: Oxford UP, 1980), 467.

Ballade Tragique à Double Refrain by Sir Max Beerbohm

             Ballade Tragique à Double Refrain

SCENE: A Room in Windsor Castle        TIME: The Present

           Enter a Lady-in-Waiting and a Lord-in-Waiting

SHE:               Slow pass the hours—ah, passing, slow!

                                 My doom is worse than anything

                        Conceived by Edgar Allan Poe:

                                 The Queen is duller than the King.

HE:                 Lady, your mind is wandering;

                                 You babble what you do not mean.

                        Remember, to your heartening,

                                 The King is duller than the Queen.

SHE:               No, most emphatically No!

                                 To one firm-rooted fact I cling

                        In my now chronic vertigo:

                                 The Queen is duller than the King.

HE:                 Lady, you lie. Last evening

                                 I found him with a Rural Dean,

                        Talking of district-visiting . . .

                                 The King is duller than the Queen.

SHE:               At any rate he doesn’t sew!

                                 You don’t see him embellishing

                        Yard after yard of calico . . .

                                 The Queen is duller than the King.

                                 Oh to have been an underling

                        To (say) the Empress Josephine!

HE:                          Enough of your self-pitying!

                        The King is duller than the Queen.

SHE (firmly):        The Queen is duller than the King.

HE:                 Death then for you shall have no sting.

                                 [Stabs her and, as she falls dead, produces phial

                                 from breast-pocket of coat.]

                        Nevertheless, sweet friend Strychnine,

                                 [Drinks.]

                        The King—is—duller than—the Queen.

                                 [Dies in terrible agony.]

The Oxford Book of Satirical Verse, ed. by Geoffrey Grigson (Oxford, New York, Toronto, Melbourne: Oxford UP, 1980), 371-2.

Binary by Chris Wallace-Crabbe

Binary

WHY does a cauliflower so much resemble a brain? All those pale curved protuberances and hillocks tease the mind into activity . . .  at this point I randomly remember the complicated architecture of a particularly gothic dream. But brains and cauliflowers, ah yes, is this the same kind of parallelism as that which holds between pine cones and pagodas? There we go again, seeking order or duplicity in the stubborn universe. We ask ourselves whether the resemblance between a rose and a cabbage is like that between a clipped hedge and a high tin loaf, coming up with no answer at all. The brain and the cauliflower continue to rise up on their cortices, bubbly fruits that they are. Moon goes around earth goes around sun, et cetera, analogues active everywhere. Echo redeems Narcissus, shadow is touching reflection. We ask ourselves what it all signifies. Somewhere, in shadow, aged sages debate such questions on a lawn all day, over their wine and bananas.

The Oxford Book of Comic Verse, ed. by John Gross (London, New York: Oxford UP, 1994), 438.

To paint a portrait of a bird by Jacques Prévert

To paint a portrait of a bird

First paint a cage

with an open door

then paint

something pretty

something simple

something beautiful

something useful

for the bird

then place the canvas against a tree

in a garden

in a wood

or in a forest

hide behind the tree

without speaking

without moving . . .

Sometimes the bird arrives quickly

but he might also wait long years

before deciding

Do not be discouraged

wait

wait if necessary for years

the speed or slowness of the bird’s arrival

has absolutely no connection

with the success or failure of the picture

When the bird arrives

if he arrives

observe the most solemn silence

wait until the bird enters the cage

and when he enters

gently close the door with the brush

then erase the bars one by one

making sure not to touch the feathers of the bird

Then paint a portrait of the tree

choosing the prettiest of its branches

for the bird

and then paint the green foliage and the freshness of the breeze

the dust of the sun

and the choice of the creatures in the grass in the summer heat

and then wait until the bird decides to sing

If the bird does not sing

it is a bad sign

a sign the picture is bad

but if he sings it’s a good sign

a sign you can sign

Now very gently pluck

one of the bird’s feathers

and write your name in the corner of the picture.

The Chatto Book of Nonsense Poetry, ed. by Hugh Haughton (London: Chatto & Windus, 1988), 409-10.

Confounded Nonsense by Thomas Hood the Younger

Confounded Nonsense

Alpaca pictures of the previous past,

    Droop on the hovering confines of a snore,

And yet one further bloom, conversely vast,

    Springs bright in the perspective of the shore,

Where porphyry wings bear up an ardent pride,

    And rainbows drip from evanescent crags,

Where peaceful popinjays smile side by side,

    And immemorial franchise furls its flags.

So let it be: imperious tumbrils howl,

    And palpitating fixtures utter screeds;

Afar the murmurous aspens hoarsely scowl,

    And purple pageants echo frantic deeds.

Farewell! I see life’s periphrastic orb

    Shiver to scantlings with a latent sound,

Dark ether pours, while shrinking minds absorb,

    And blatant wilderness close around.

The Chatto Book of Nonsense Poetry, ed. by Hugh Haughton (London: Chatto & Windus, 1988), 324-5.

Incantation by Laughter by Velimir Khlebnikov

Incantation by Laughter

         O laugh it out, you laughsters!

         O laugh it up, you laughters!

So they laugh with laughters, so they laugherize delaughly.

         O laugh it up belaughably!

O the laughingstock of the laughed-upon – the laugh of belaughed laughsters!

O laugh it out roundlaughingly, the laugh of laughed-at laughians!

         Laugherino, laugherino,

         Laughify, laughicate, laugholets, laugholets,

                  Laughikins, laughikins,

         O laugh it out, you laughsters!

         O laugh it up, you laughters!

                                                               translated from the Russian by Gary Kern

The Chatto Book of Nonsense Poetry, ed. by Hugh Haughton (London: Chatto & Windus, 1988), 371.

heart (w)rap by Shamshad Khan

heart (w)rap

i strap my heart

tightly

bind it strong

tough

was how i presented it to you

how you questioned me

on what was in this strange parcel

first tentatively

and then held it in your hands

and feeling the warmth

and faint beat

you guessed

and since

have tugged at the string

i so carefully bound

in protection

how you teased open

layer after layer

unravelled it all

until it lay open before you

how you were repulsed

when you saw

the pale blood drained flesh

i too drew back

hardly recognising the half healed mass

before us

disgusted by the scars

you did not ask

in what battle they were won

but fled

“the faint hearted”

i whispered to myself

“won’t inherit”

and began again

to bind.

The Fire People: A Collection of Contemporary Black British Poets, ed. by Lemn Sissay (Edinburgh: Paperback Press, 1998), 59-60.

Spider Woman by Shamshad Khan

Spider Woman

She spun the argument

with a thread

he could not follow

perfecting

the delicate construction

until he

unsuspecting

fell

entangled

to

his

gentle destruction.

The Fire People: A Collection of Contemporary Black British Poets, ed. by Lemn Sissay (Edinburgh: Paperback Press, 1998), 58.

Minerva by C. H. Sisson

Minerva

If silence were enough

I might well have it here,

And yet the word will puff

And blow until I hear

As it climbs the vast hill

From the dark pit where none

Can apprehend it till

It sees the distant sun.

In the pit only sleep;

In the sun only death:

One moment on the steep

It draws a waking breath.

I go to meet it where

It touches life at full:

‘Salut, mon fils, mon frère,

Touch hands, but do no pull.’

You pull, and I go down

Where silence holds me fast.

I pull, and with a frown

You mutter and push past.

Only a moment’s poise

Gives us a common mind,

Mere silence and mere noise

Shown up as being blind,

As when, before a form

Containing all I seek,

I recognise a norm

And do not try to speak.

C. H. Sisson, Antidotes (Manchester: Carcanet, 1991), 36.

Looking by C. H. Sisson

Looking

Look, looker, if you will,

But what you see,

That shape, that colour, still

Is no-wise me.

So beauty is a dream

And ugliness the same:

To seem, to seem, to seem

Is all that’s in a name.


C. H. Sisson, Antidotes (Manchester: Carcanet, 1991), 40.

The Birth of Venus by C. H. Sisson

The Birth of Venus

So she stepped naked on to the shore and broke

Into a thousand pieces as she awoke

To life in sunlight, and forgot the sea.

The spray blinded all to her symmetry.

Imagination saw a pearly flesh;

The hand that touched it found it cool and fresh,

And moulded it, complete from top to toe.

A liar then asserted that it was so.

C. H. Sisson, Antidotes (Manchester: Carcanet, 1991), 28.

Evolution by Edwin Brock

EVOLUTION

One wave

sucking the shingle

and three birds

in a white sky

one man

and one idea

two workmen

and a concrete mixer

one wave

shingle

white walls

bird and sky

two workmen

and a concrete mixer

white walls

wave and windows

bird and sky

wave and white rooms

walls and windows

lights and sky

five hundred men

and a computer

desks and days

white walls

lights and

one computer

rooms and men

lights

one computer

desks and days

rooms and windows

desks and lights

lights and days

and days and rooms

desks and rooms

days and lights

daylight in

dayrooms

and days

in desks

and days

in days

and one man

mad

dreaming of

one wave

sucking the shingle

and three birds

in a wide sky

Edwin Brock, A Cold Day at the Zoo (London: Rapp and Whiting, 1970), 16-7.

Autobiography by Edwin Brock

AUTOBIOGRAPHY

Draw three sides

of a square

cap it with

an inverted vee

call it a house

imagine the house

inhabited

call it a home

pin this picture

to a wall

travel by the sea

throw stones

for dogs

eat sleep

arrange things

until

quietly by the sea

the dogs

die

and the stones

have gone

then travel

inland

to three sides

of a square

capped with

an inverted vee

imagine it

inhabited

and arrive

Edwin Brock, A Cold Day at the Zoo (London: Rapp and Whiting, 1970), 11.