Aug 2014
If we’re not careful we’ll destroy,
and all too soon, the privateness
of the local: what we come to own
when we walk out of the box of home
into the anywhereness of outside.
Let’s not say too much,
but keep what we find
to ourselves. Maybe share it
with the one whose heart
lies close before sleep.
Draw it, certainly:
her hanging dress, the kicked off shoes,
even that hairbrush you bring to your lips
to taste her, your tongue touching
her hair’s fine curl and tangle lying adrift
amongst the noduled prongs.
Let these things speak
of what is not there. Or, rather,
of what is not there in front of us.
and all too soon, the privateness
of the local: what we come to own
when we walk out of the box of home
into the anywhereness of outside.
Let’s not say too much,
but keep what we find
to ourselves. Maybe share it
with the one whose heart
lies close before sleep.
Draw it, certainly:
her hanging dress, the kicked off shoes,
even that hairbrush you bring to your lips
to taste her, your tongue touching
her hair’s fine curl and tangle lying adrift
amongst the noduled prongs.
Let these things speak
of what is not there. Or, rather,
of what is not there in front of us.
This poem points to a paragraph by Emma Bolland on the artist and writer John Berger:
Berger's own practice consistently references the outdoor 'nearby' (whether or not the nearby is London or the West Bank) particularly in relation to the reach of the walking / physical body, the encounter and the everyday. He writes at kitchen tables and draws objects and faces that are part of his material and physical immediacy
Berger's own practice consistently references the outdoor 'nearby' (whether or not the nearby is London or the West Bank) particularly in relation to the reach of the walking / physical body, the encounter and the everyday. He writes at kitchen tables and draws objects and faces that are part of his material and physical immediacy
(Wakefield, UK)
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