12 October

Coastline

by Elaine Feinstein

This is the landscape of the Cambrian age:

       shale, blue quartz, planes of slate streaked with

iron and lead; soapstone, spars of calcite;

       in these pools, fish are the colour of sand,

velvet crabs like weeds, prawns transparent as water.

 

This shore was here before man. Every tide

       the sea returns, and floats the bladderwrack.

The flower animals swell and close over creatures

       rolled-in, nerveless, sea-food, fixed and forgotten.

 

My two thin boys balance on Elvan stone

       bent-backed, intent, crouched with their string and pins,

their wet feet white, lips salt, and skin wind-brown,

       watching with curiosity and compassion:

further out, Time and Chance are waiting to happen.

11 October

I con while I can

by Anthony Edkins

When I was a boy

                             Icons

(sometimes with a k)

                                   were

stiff hieratic figures

depicting Pantokrator

                                   or Christ

of interest only

to the Orthodox

and dead Byzantium.

 

Then

          as I grew older

the word

               (often

in conjunction with charisma)

began to slip

                     was used

to finger

‘personalities’

and their violent deaths:

Bobby and JFK

Martin Luther King

Marilyn Monroe

John Lennon

                     Che

and Princess Di...

 

Now

          (like myself)

                               the word’s

scraping the barrel:

                               Icon is

promiscuously applied

to any filmstar

                         pop star

                                         top model

or sportsperson

with seven-figure earnings

and a highly mobile

                                 photogenic

                                                     phiz.

 

10 October

Though flying is falling

by Carrie Etter

Why am I tempted to leap when the tall rocks point toward me like arrowheads? My body sags in the humid heat, it begs to fly into the river. As I perceive the level of gravity increasing, so my desire to defy it increases. Outstretch my arms. What is the consequence of wings? The rocks, the rocks jut out of the water. I want to fly, though flying is falling. The cool wash of the river. I stand on the bank, raising and lowering my arms.
8 October

4 texte

by Reinhard Döhl