the insularization of england

One of the themes in this debate was precisely the relationship between England and the Continent, between England and France, as well as, on a more symbolic level, between England and Italy. The rejection of quantitive verse based on Greek and Latin models in favour of rhyme led to a declaration of intellectual independence from the continent. “Barbarous” became a positive word, a sign of pride. … 

What one might call the insularization of England was however a process, not an event, a long process involving self-reflection that took place on many levels. As I have tried to show the defence of rhyme played a minor but distinctive role in it.

from No Island is an Island, Carlo Ginzburg

lou salome writing to rilke 20/03/1904 on the occasion of the Russo-Japanese war

Dear Rainer,  What a comfort it is to hear you speak of our war in this way... no one understands that Russia, however involuntarily, stands in for Europe against Asia in this conflict - always forced into this middle position where it must endure the collision of East and West on behalf of all, as it did earlier in the time of the Mongols.... but what is truly tragic seems to me that its own deepest destiny... is almost exactly the opposite, namely, to fight through towards a synthesis, towards a spiritually fruitful union between Eastern and Western culture, instead of prolonging that fierce uncomprehending split which, for the rest of Europe, will probably last forever...

mariátegui on rilke

Este juicio es fundamentalmente romántico e individualista. Supone que la obra del poeta se alimenta exclusivamente de su experiencia personal. De la riqueza y extension de esta depende el valor de aquella. El poeta es concebido como un mundo cerrado en el que se va sedimentando, poco a poco, lo bello. Pero este juicio tiene el defecto de que no nos explica sino un parte de la poesía. No abarca la totalidad del fenómeno… El poeta sumo no es solo el que, quintaesenciados, guarda sus recuerdos, convierte el individual en universal. Es también, y ante todo, el que recose un minuto, por un golpe milagroso de intuición, la experiencia o el emoción del mundo. En los periodos tempestuosos, es la antena que condensa todo la electricidad de una atmósfera henchida. 

ensayos literarios, Jose Carlos Mariátegui, 1927, Lima

on the way to queensway station, 7am

I once knew roses that grew in back yards.
I’d wait for them and most years they’d show up.
When they did, I was grateful, if not inordinately.
I thought we’d grow old together, somehow, the roses
And I, in our back yards. Duplicate that course of
Nature, inherit a thoughtless rhythm. My roses –
Although they were never mine, they belonged to no-one –
Came back to haunt this morning, cascading over
City walls, crying for gravity, flexing dormant
Memory muscles of shared seasons, long-forgotten.


+++

unfinished 4am poem, written in a hotel near barajas airport, madrid

Four in the morning is a transient moment in
A Spanish night. For some, the final minutes
Of a day which has ended in the soft
Enveloping grasp of alcohol and friendship.
For others in this functional hotel, it
Will be the last gasp of a day’s business
Which, far from soft, has gone on longer
Than was ever planned (twas ever thus),
And a night fuelled by lust for profit, or
A colleague, or mere security, which can
Only be attained at the price of nights like
This, a mortgage paid towards the family
Redoubt, the sound of your children’s
Exuberance of a morning still five years
In the future, a sound already heard as
The door is shut and you fall into bed, the
Fog of alcohol on your breath, an
Unfulfilled desire tempered by the knowledge
Of the investment you’ve made towards
The future you shall not dream about tonight,
But live one day, the day when the sight of
Your child in a sunhat playing beneath the
Pine trees beside the lake will trigger the
Memory of a bad joke, or the strange
Juxtaposition of pompous sixties
Architecture with the medieval wall
Hangings someone has chosen to adorn
The hotel’s walls. When your child trips,
And cries, you’ll smile at the investment
You’ve made to hear the sound of their
Bitter tears, and for a few perfect minutes
It will all make sense. Four in the morning
Is also the hour at which the earliest of
Risers make their way to the airport,
Wiping sleep from their eyes, leaving
Their partner and offspring behind to
Catch a bus, arriving as the lights come
On again, the bustle of international
Travel on the verge of spinning the world
Like a top; a world measured in the
Dead hours taken to trawl the very skies.

june 2010

+++

central line early morning

An Australian woman, hair curly, reddish,
Sits next to an African man who looks older
Than she does. She coaches him in the art of
Closing the sale. Explains how, once the direct
Debit has been agreed, he needs to cut to the chase.
He takes out a notebook to ensure he's got it all
Down. She glances at some figures on a page.
Asks, shocked: 'Is that how much you owe?' He
Looks sheepish. 'You have to pay twelve thousand
In a year?' He explains the details of his father's
Debt. She says it's a lot. He looks like a lost
Sheep being reminded he's lost. His arm, it
Is noted, is placed behind her, across her seat.
Neither betraying an intimacy, nor denying
The possibility of an intimacy. They get off at
Loughton, carrying London Energy backpacks.

+++

on a train heading east

If you were to ask how I felt, I would reply:
Permanently drunk. Drunk on dislocation.
Drunk as a split person who knows his
Sober self resides within but cannot be
Accessed because the opiates have shut
Him out of his own sober mind. Who stands
In two hemispheres, doesn’t even try to
Walk the line, befuddled by twin climates,
Languages, states of self. Lost in a blizzard
Of scripts, stories, fears and hopes. His head
Covered to protect him from the sun’s glare,
An Arctic sun which rains all the time and
Also burns. I am drunk on 24 hour English;
Unlimited Skype; tragic tales; the mundanity
Of city life. When do I sober up? And where?
In a ditch? At ‘home’? Speaking in tongues?


28.01.11

+++

Mosquito Wars 5.30 am, Montevideo

Seven, eight, nine perfect welts. White
Havens of blood-sucking frenzy. I scratch
The contemplation of a skin stripped bare
Of: nut-brown ale (natch); must (natch).
The whisper of cowslip in an unsung
Heat-haze. The threat of dandelion.
Round tables with forked iron breath.
Last orders. Breath like fire-flies in
The night made of ice-cream. Coal
Black ice-cream. Swans gliding down
A black river like a living movie from
The days before film existed. Swans
Like a mobile in a child’s bedroom.
Nut brown ale (natch): must (natch).
The snap that brings a day of bright
Terrier cold when you walk past spider
Webs frozen in an image of optimism.

+++

3 rio poems

+++


Copacabana, Sunday Afternoon

Fluid lines of black and white mosaic unfold
Beneath your feet. The Impressionist carpet.
Youngsters in their toy cars, Peruvian
Trinket-sellers, handball players, volley-
Ballers, families, tourists, zero-eyed
Beach bums, surfers, millionaires and paupers
Jockey for space, of which there is no sense of
Shortage. In the midst of this throng, a bunch of
Scruffy orphans fight over popcorn, squabbling
Like miscreant kittens, a whiff of favela,
As though by design. At a bar table drinking
Jugos of some yet-to-be-named fruit, three players
Assess a gun magazine, calibrating
Kill efficiency against aesthetics
Like true collectors, killer nerds. A youth
Shins up a coconut tree, throwing unripe fruit
At his friends, who pose for the camera. This is
The anarchic, democratic colony of
Copacabana, where every face fits, all souls
Are deemed equal.


+++

Hills

It seems against nature for a city to evolve
In a landscape such as this. Cities seek order,
Evenness, coherence. Instead, Rio surges
Out of the land like a drunken sailor,
All knees and elbows. Tunnels and bridges
Breach the geographical divide; join
The dots. Look up by night and a million
Spots of light speckle hillsides like a childhood
Dream of what the city might be: beach and cliff and
Bay, a home for elves, superstars and errant fairies.


+++



+++


Bomba

For breakfast a concoction made from
Acai, guarana, peanut, protein, more.
As dense as a Cairngorn fog. Fuel for
Morning, afternoon, night and the month to come.


+++

quotation from a plastic bag from libreria del teatro el galpon, av 18 de julio 1618-20

Uno no se llega a ser quien es por lo que escribo sino por lo que lee.

Jorge Luis Borges

+++

Vladimir

Russia’s previous capital, the town’s three hours drive from Moscow,
Down a straight road which leads to Siberia, renamed ‘The Road of
Enthusiasm’ by the Soviets. It’s cathedral contains
The grave of Alexander Nevsky. At Lake Pepius he lead
The Russians to victory against the heavily armoured Teu-
Tonic Knights, who crashed through the ice. The cathedral’s being restored.
Yellow plastic sacks adorn golden chandeliers. Masons lay floors
Between baroque angels and frescoes so old they can barely whisper.

14.08.08






+++

Dawn over Suzdal

Clustered crows reel overhead, cawing for the night being lost
To day, when their dominion’s supplanted by god and man,
Those tolerated foes. One day they’ll attack, tearing the
Lead from brute spires which invaded the sky so long ago;
Pecking flesh like the bloodthirsty mosquitoes, (already
Taking breakfast). The sky inverts. Flamingo pinks pale to
Pallid blue. The streets of Suzdal are empty, its churches,
Monasteries and convents dedicate to the glory of
Christ. The stand-off between meadow, reed, flower and white-washed walls
As fierce, yet tranquil, as it has ever been, or shall be.

16.08.08

+++

In The Monastery (Suzdal)

The monastery is the size of a village. Its
Fortified walls enclose a hotchpotch of towers,
Churches and tourists. It hums with the sound of a
Thousand twangling instruments. The campanologist
Peeling his eleven o’clock solo, competes
With a team of rubber booted lawn strimmers, who
Compete with the drills of building workers, enjoined
In more restoration of the Russian soul. In
The monastery’s museum of decorative
Art, all notes are written in Cyrillic, far from
My comprehension. I stare in ignorance at
A thousand years worth of rings, pendants, winding sheets,
Bishop’s robes, goblets, crucifi, icons and the
Rest, fragments from another, parallel, culture.

16.08.08








+++

The End of The Road

We drove cross-country, North East from Suzdal,
Towards a pretty town whose name I can’t
Recall, crossing meadows saturated
In wildflower, dusted by morning rain.
Reaching a small town with seven exits,
We took one leading to a road marked
Brown, not yellow, on the map. A Russian
Driving ahead turned round. The brown road was
Indeed brown, a gloopy quagmire. After
A hundred squelchy yards we reversed,
Discretion being the better part of valour.
Returning to the seven tongued town we
Opted for a safer, yellow route. This
Too proved to be a blighted track, the top
Layer of tarmac a memory of
Long-spent tyres. But it took us in the right
Direction, leading to a hamlet six
Kilometres from our destination.
Before deteriorating. After
The rain, it was no more than a sequence
Of gravel lakes. We cajoled the unwilling
Hire car through the treacherous pits, inching
Forward, awaiting the rending of an
Axle or the demise of the suspension.
Finally, we reached a raised, concrete track,
Of sorts. The car bumbled through a
Terrifying landscape of reed and giant
Yellow weeds. Midges bombed the windscreen.
After a meagre kilometre the
Concrete came to a sudden stop. Ahead
Lay more gravel pits, muddied, rain-soaked,
Stretching into the visible distance.
A four by four or a dirt bike might have
Done the job. But in a tin-can hire-car
In the fly-blown heart of Russia, we had
Reached our point of no return. Like so
Many other invaders before us, we
Conceded defeat, turned on our tails, and fled.

16.08.08





+++

Notes on the Ceremony

In one of several cathedrals contained within
The Kremlin of Segiev Posad, one of various
Never-ending services is taking place. The
Cathedral is a baroque, high-ceilinged hall,
Brightly frescoed, with hundreds of people
Gathered, negotiating their personal
Prayer space. The choir sings a constant refrain.
Light gate-crashes the prayers’ line of sight.
Head-scarved women cross themselves as they
Enter, and when the service dictates. Some
Have brought foot-stools for later in the day,
Others bag the benches on the sides, the
Only seating space. Devotees kiss relics.
A mobile phone goes off and is absorbed by
The energy of worship. I think of church
Services I attended as a child, dull in
Comparison to this palpable passion,
Bottled up for seventy years by the

Communists. Awaiting its release,
In spite of Soviet attempts to refract
It unto the fading glory of their cause.

17.08.08

+++

The Mayakovsky Museum, Moscow

A deconstructed shell of a building
Ripped to pieces and re-assembled
With all the clutter of his life and
Myth scattered like grapeshot, at the heart
Of which lies a small, untouched study,
Containing a desk, a divan, a
Fireplace and a picture of Lenin.
With a blunt gesture, the guide explains this
Is where the poet shot himself in the head.

18.08.08

+++

The All Russia Exhibition, Moscow

Set in a large park, the exhibition was created by
Stalin and called, initially, The Exhibition of
Economic Achievements. It features extravagant
Pavilions dedicated to every corner of the USSR:
The Georgia Pavilion, the Karelian, and so on.
At the centre, in front of a vast Lenin statue, is
The House of the Peoples of Russia, behind which
Is The Fountain of the Friendship of Peoples.
The site is capped by two Aeroflot jets and a
Duplicate of the rocket that took Gagarin into space.
(Disconcertingly cramped, man in space in a
Baked bean can.) Where once denizens of the
Soviet Republic marvelled at its glories, now the
Site is overrun by teenagers on roller blades;
Pumping Eurotrash which booms from strategic
Speakers; fast food joints; whilst the pavilions
Are devoted to tacky trade fairs selling computer
Parts or furry toys. Lenin looks on as a bright blue
Tellytubby prances below.

It’s as if the place
Has been remodelled to mock the regime which
Aimed so high only to fall so low. But this notion of
Design is misleading. All that’s happened is the old
Has been displaced by the new. The old may frown
At the brashness of its successor, but its forefathers
Felt the same way. No doubt the sparrows look at
Each stage of human development in bafflement,
Remembering the glory of a world before creatures
Walked on two legs and began chirruping
Their incessant, meaningless twitter.

19.08.08

+++

Kasimir: What Happened?

The New Tretyakov gallery, near Gorky Park
Shows 20th Century Russian art. At the turn
Of the last century, Cezanne’s influence is
Evident. Later, The Jack of Diamonds movement,
Founded in Moscow, emerges, blessed with its
Vivid, rough-hewn brushwork and a Fauvist palette.
Malevich belonged to it, but only briefly.
By 1915 he’d created his Black Square,
Which does exactly what it says on the tin: a
Work of savage purity which blew up art and
Made it start again. Two years later politics
Caught up. The ambition of Constructivism
Dovetailed with the ambition of Revolution.
For five years, Malevich, Tatlin and co explored
The edges of form, pushing it past inconceived
Boundaries. Then, the energy waned. Russian art
Began the long drift towards Social Realism.
Malevich’s work ceases to feature. Save for one
Piece from around 1930, called Sisters. A
Figurative picture showing two sisters, daubed in
Dull pastels . The avatar of modernity
Turned into a chocolate box craftsman. At which point
The Revolution could be called that no more.
Kasimir Malevich died in nineteen thirty
Five. He was accorded a state funeral and
Revered as a hero of the USSR.

19.08.08

+++

2 barcelona poems

3 People I Have Spoken to in Barcelona

The first evening, I spoke to the un-
Speakably beautiful waitress, just
Briefly, because she was too beautiful
And I didn’t want it to seem like I
Was chatting her up, even though she smiled
At me and spoke English better than
Spanish, a result, perhaps, of her
Being Polish. She said she was coming
To London soon and I wanted to say,
Well if you come you should look me up,
But I didn’t, because she was un-
Speakably beautiful, and I am
Human and then I would have been
Chatting her up. On the second day
I spoke to the cleaner of the flat
I’m staying in. I couldn’t place her
Accent and asked where she was from and
She told me Paysandu, in Uruguay,
Where once we drove across the border
So slowly it seemed we’d never get there.
(Or was that Salto?) The woman said
She had no desire to go back. She’s
Lived here with her eighteen year old son
And sister since splitting up with her dull
Machista husband eight years ago.
Since coming to Europe she’s learnt,
She said, that you have to enjoy life.
She gave me a cigarette and we
Sat and smoked and drank water out of
Wine glasses, muy fino, she joked. Although
She said she didn’t miss Uruguay, the
More she talked the more she softened in her
Attitude towards the mother country,
And by the time our cigarettes were
Smoked and the water drunk I felt as though
We’d known each other half our adult lives.
Though we hadn’t. We’d only just met. The
Third person I spoke to was a doorman
At a bar called Marmelada, who came
From Brasilia where I’ve never been and
I can’t remember much about that
Conversation, though I remember
Enjoying it, despite being,
At the time, extremely drunk.

27.07.08

+++


In Club Divine

The thing that was scary about
The transvestite diva was not
The powder blue outfit or the
Hyper-tensile hair. It was not the
Way she lurked in the corridor
Outside the loos whilst preparing
To perform her next number. It
Wasn’t the way she tried to tweak
My nipple as I walked past, and
Then, seeing I was unfazed, clapped
Her hands, violently, an inch
From my nose. The thing that was scary
About the Catalan transvestite
Diva was the fact that, beneath the
Powder blue outfit, beneath the nail
Varnish and the eyeliner, she remained
Irretrievably, resolutely and
Forever, masculine to the bone.


28.07.08


+++

thinking ahead to beyond midnight, a half hour before it dawns

Today, I shall be divorced. The word itself begs the question:
From what? My wife and I separated a long time ago now.
We are already divorced in all but name. Without ever going
Through the stages. One minute we were drinking and laughing.
The next we were done. I shall be divorced from my wife,
But I fear I shall be divorced from more than that which has
Already come to pass. Divorced from the land of dreams?
Some would say I did this then, the moment I betrayed a
Marriage vow I never took. I don’t believe so. Which in itself
Was enough to precipitate divorce. Whatever it might prove
To be, and as the unmade bed of words suggests, 'it' has
Slipped my neat parameters, I know that 'it', the it from which
I shall be divorced today, has left me lacking, has left me
Sadder than I wanted to have been left, has left me more
Stupid and more wise than I had hoped I should need to be,
Come this point in my waking, my thinking, my bed-making.

23.39 GMT

+++