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Thursday, August 01, 2024

Mispers

 —Poetry by Stephen Kingsnorth, 
Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy
of Stephen Kingsnorth
 
 
 MISPERS

We think we’ve seen scene laid before—
for promenaded esplanade
recall when sea and sky seemed one,
lie hex, indistinguishable.
Horizon melt, waned ochre hue,
embracing both sky, briny blue,
for sunset haze but tepid glow—
but we assume staged sight, a norm.

The vanish point, feint watermark,
a silhouette, pair folding seats,
stark lines we too have lounged about
speak memories of sand on strand.
No paddle, sure, turn-ups knee-rolled,
green canvas deck chairs stacked in pile
by ticket man of UDC,
but empty frames yet unresolved.

Some make up stories, what’s at stake,
search Thermos flask, or bucket, spade,
a landfill site for that Celeste,
and dawning, wonder, early hour?
I hear no shrieks of grandkids, beach,
and question, have these crossed the bar—
a desolation from afar;
perhaps two mispers, files somewhere?


[“Mispers” is short for missing persons.]


______________________

WHITE LIGHT
After "Adlestrop" by Edward Thomas

Imagining a singing bird
too far for inner sight or ear—
too bleak for calling, colly wing,
the starkest change from Adlestrop.
Willow herb least growing, live,
and buddleias with wont survive,
to pull from air, their butterflies.

Fluorescent unknown name strip broke
by bottle thrown or stone from slab.
But who would want to recall tag?
The most lonely space I ever saw,
incomplete, for people-void,
white-light site with vacant stare,
without a shadow, perspective,
or gradation in the bright.
Abandoned cell, no prisoners,
insomnia, awake through force,
unstaffed pale face, station at night.
The pause was brief, the journey grief,
a vacüum, too far from home.

How distant Clapham Junction or
the omnibus, daily full,
populace, porters turn deaf ear
to luggage plea, livery, soot,
the pencil boy with spotter pad,
juggernaut brewing smoke signals,
bogies hidden, wind-up copied,
Dublo model, hobby track.
 
 
 
 

DOLMEN

Moors roll, slow-tectonic screwed,
next just like one before
except for megalith here pitched.
No stone circle, henge, ditch,
but dolmen for passing rich
in wisdom, leadership and wind.
It stands, rock resting nest,
granite witness for the land.
 
 
 
 

ROBIN HOOD’S BAY HEADLAND CEMETERY

They are packed in, a sardine tin,
salt-caked, stacked, domino effect,
too close for bodies, just the head
stones, neither bones nor flesh interred.
No coffers, lead, or rotting, would-
be leatherjacket larvae food,
but Verdigris, copperplate script,
brief only lines engraved to see.
So hearts of oak float, bloated, lost,
the cost of mariners, impressed,
from gangplank or the fishing nets,
who trawled, then lay them down to bed.
Gifts for the poor, their slates wiped green,
now buried treasure out at sea,
beyond the bar, strand, golden sand,
the riches of the wealthy drowned.

___________________

TERMINAL

A thousand terms that box the sand,
both terminal—as note above-
more open word, compounded here;
sandbank just beyond the bar,
sandstone cliffs that edge the beach,
while sandwiched in between those two
sandpipers shrill where sandals worn,
once beatniks, joss sticks, sandalwood.
It’s said the sandman eyes the rheum-
old men dreaming, as hourglass streams;
can sandbags hold back passing time?
 
 
 
 

Today’s LittleNip:

THE WELL
—Stephen Kingsnorth  

When others seen touched, moved,
the stinging brim, brimming sting
uninvite, consequential comes.
Why does kindness strangers overcome?
When loneliness, soul-mate required,
waves driving, breaching lidded eyes,
crest lash, invade the cheek;
source, springs, well that flows?

_______________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Stephen Kingsnorth for today’s fine poetry, as we usher in the month of August!
 
 
 
Click to enlarge...
—Public Domain Poster Courtesy of Medusa












 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
A reminder that
Poetry Night Reading Series
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VOICES 2024
tonight in Davis, 7pm.
For info about this and other
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