a love song
by O. A. Unwin
for Joseph Rembrandt Clarke
poet of the Bronte Country
Immanuel Kant
'' We are rich not in what we possess
but in what we can do without''
I.
Midnight hospital rooms flicked eyelashes
off the slow duel of hours
imagine tall lynch mob grass
or Sing a Song of Sixpence or Bye, Bye Miss American Pie forever
Today I remembered my upbringing
spoke of Turner,Ginsberg,human rights,
painted, swore,tore up a newspaper
the Nurse looked at me and said
' Not doing very well now, are we''
Dear Roman Empire, Tribunals
Otherwise this Southern town's
all hills, steeples, clouds
unsteady heartbeat of sandstone swept sideways
occasional channel fog krimi & arthouse
and lives ending whiskey half way to the sky
Welcome,set down your bags
to you I am a stranger in your land
to me you were a visitor in my town
Recently I have learnt that those who love
live life on the wrong side of the looking glass
and are forever being given speeding tickets
I also wander Redcliffe Wharf these days by the swallows' nests knowing that Angels tread the earth in the form of people like you
I have been there.
I have seen the Light.
I have drained my soul
out in tears Absalom oh Absalom
I have known the Wall
of my prodigal body a Tempest
Angel wings clipped by old ladies
on Old Market bus stops
catkin feet rotating the underdressed night
under the Arsenic Wheel of Stars
I have gambled my future
on the mere shout of your name
I have risked my very life
I should be a woman serene as a fish by now in a pond by a mansion house beneath Redwoods
this is not dignified.
Dearest, did I **** up
may I call you this
or shall we be
empty footsteps
Stasi hallways
a disconnected phone
No. Wait.
I am doing this all wrong
Dearest, gentle zeitgeist poet
of Yorkshire and the North
the way your writing
fleets me of your subtle frame
remembered briefly from one night
the inner fire of your face
and eyes mysterious as pagan gods
or lonely hermit huts and bright
as Northern Seafront lights
blinking renegade the dusk
amid the heady din of amusement arcades
the smog lilt of your lovely voice
now I know these things about you
I am a Matryeshka lost
but at least it's easier to write
of imagined boyish swagger to Elvis
or the way you might also sing jazz
I belt out Duke Ellington in the bathtub
oh lets dance lets dance
Turn, turn
Sunset on Sunset
pages, pages back
I am an August rose
in bloom over you
in Welsh view suburbs
A Brothers' Grimm fairytale
that mother cuts down
and I tie it back onto it's stalk
with a vial of water
as if it's calling to me
to say 'thanks for letting me die here'
red, red, Russian red
that's no way to make your bed
but it reminds me of my Grandmother's garden
so it's also English
and then there's the thought of you
so it must be French red,
the color of love
Existentionalism and Rousseau
Elinor and Marianne
hothouse flowers or wild
I was always the latter
wild, wild
a bold freedom of a child.
in Jane Austen's ' Sense and Sensibility' the heroines, Elinor and Marianne's contrasting characters
are described by their love of flowers. Marianne prefers wild and this
is a tribute to her free, delicate spirit, the stern Elinor prefers hothouse.
I.I
This is bad.
I'm done dancing.
actually I was recently a mermaid
& my legs still hurt on land
I can't write good poetry about this.
It's too serious.
It's all je ne sais quoi
& unknown potential of star signs
I've read of the way you wrote
of a girl all bells and incense
and think now that oh you are Love, love
love itself-fragile and kind
beneath that manner bold
and cheek as a Sunday brass band bright
' Your name's a bit of a mouthful isn't it'
that's what you said,right?
but you can't fool me,Love
are you the all the vibrant flair of gentleness in my Soul
your trance of attention to detail
the way you've loved places and people
the thought that there is such a man
pierces me like Van Gogh's last hours
dearest, dearest
you're my drug
that's just the way that I am,
or used to be
I'm a Romantic.
Neither capitalist
Nor communist?
Me too.
Soulmate.
Yep..
Drastic.
But that's
all the word that's left.
Now I'm just in trouble
and need wine.
To think I'm usually
quite good at Scrabble.
I don't normally do Kitsch.
I promise.Be Kind.
I must remind myself of this:
Love is a house of cards.
could we just be a plane trail
a radio signal
a satellite
forbidden bliss.
I.I.I
You're right
the Southern middle classes are ****** up.
as for me Dad all kindly alcoholism
and Kolobok* frame died
Step-Dad walked out.
All my umbrellas broke.
I've tried
but it was pointless loving my parents
poetry and paleontology
just can't live together.
*
I should have been an heiress
but my mother
lazily lost the place
and kept me poor & this stings
or did till I grew a backbone.
Our landlord's in New York.
Our house
is surrounded by cypress trees
You only live once.
or so I thought.
but I've lived and lost so many times
that I'm simply glad that I just bought a typewriter
for a quid
and am proud.
* Kolobok - a character from a Russian folk tale, made out of dough.
I.I.I
**** this curiosity.
A question.
Arise, arise Atlantic dreamer.
Why are you you
America, Europe and England
and goodness knows what else
By Descartes's* fire
I beseech you
are you a dream
Am I Ariel,
or else
a marvel comic heroine
pick and choose
toss your dice
Lets face it
we are both gamblers
because we're not afraid to feel
& we are both Kafka
when I read you
I'm the Zen
of my transnational dreams
I can't help this.
Where are the boys I used to kiss in my head.
This is maybe just how the Mad are.
I'm mock bubblegum brains.
You are my roman candle
as I said
I'm not a little Bristolian
& Southerner at heart
so I'm a pirate.
that's that.
I am sewing our flag in neon thread
I am eyeing you up
the way Smugglers eye up cargo
the way Kings draw up maps
the way salt melts in water
& the way books looked and felt
has always been important
so you must know
my mother read me Ruskin as a child.
Tell me, friend
could we be Northern lights
by whom & what was the last film you saw
Woody Allen,
Wim Wenders,Gatsby.
lets make a list
have you seen
'Goodbye, Lenin'
it's hilarious.
tell me of yourself
Berlin, Berlin
einz zwei drei
no, this is not the Polizei
or Blitzkrieg grandmothers
just hide and seek
Do you like gingerbread
Why is my neighbor called Pete.
* Rene Descartes - 1596-1650, french philosopher
* Ariel - Ariel, a magical spirit from Shakespeare's ' The Tempest'
* Ruskin is one of Rembrandt's favorite authors
* I used to live in Berlin
* One, two, three, no this is not the Police
Please be kind. This is a highly personal poem. There is more to it but it's too long to post in one go. It's the true story of my love for a fellow poet & how I wandered 3 days & nights through the town of Bristol in the rain, without sleep, calling his name & later ended up in hospital against my will for what they called psychosis just because for a while I was scared for my life. A diagnosis I hope to overturn someday. The poem starts off talking about the hospital. At about this point I told Rembrandt of my love & of my tragic experience & he rejected me. This was 2 years ago now & I'm still trying to get over it. I hope to publish this poem someday as testimony to my love for R. & this experience.