Thursday, 15 March 2007

A Note on "Last Things" (2/3)

précis
(by Andrew Motion)

everybody even me is getting pussy except me

Justin Crot&co has been experimenting in “Dog Puke” with filleting tidy contemporary English lyrics, on the basis that many possess about one obviously good idea or bit. It hasn’t been going well; in particular the Movement Moneyshot – which I'm 90% sure is indebted but not enough to the Joycean epiphany and to the moment when a Metaphysical's poem’s conceit, having moved from suggestive to ridiculous, synthesises them – refuses to coagulate properly without a gruelling pornographic build-up of scene and subjectivity. That they disintegrate at a touch is part of the point of these poems, and they do it with pride, flowing their fertiliser into the myth of the poem as a hubbub of the inevitable and its poetry as that which is lost in translation. “Spring Wedding” could be improved by losing the first octet; it profits what happens next somewhat but not enough to excuse it; and the “trust me because I have cogivegetated deeply on this” sentiment exceeds the possibilities inherent in poet-reader relations (certainly in this size of text) whilst spreading malicious lies about those relations.



A. Motion
Last Things

I locked the door & went for – nothing much,
just supermarket stuff, the usual –
but felt at once how things I’d left behind
rejoiced to see me go, & be themselves:
a book sprang open, riffled, then explained
the reasons it preferred life off the shelf,
a knife-blade shivered at a fork’s cold touch,
two cushions reddened on each other’s swell.
And in the bedroom, tweaking from the bed
to make a taut, free-floating trampoline,
the sheet rose up & hovered in mid-air,
so everything about me that was dead
already – hair, & flakes of withered skin –
could bounce, & dance, until I reappear.



Andrew Motion, GOING TO TESCO’S

KNIFE SHIVERED @ FORX CLAMMY TOUCH
2 CUSHIONS REDDENED ON EACHOTHERSSWELLL++++
A book sprang open, riffled, then explained
the reasons it preferred life off the shelf;
IN THA BEDROOM, TWEAKIN FROM THA BED
TO MAKE A TAUT FREE-FLOATIN TRAMPOLINE,
THA SHEAT ROSE UP + HOVERED IN MIDDAIR,
SO EVERYTHIN ABOUT ME THAT WAS DEAD
ALREADY, HAIRS, NAIL, FLAKES OF WITHERED SKIN
COULD BOUNCE,
& DANCE,
UNTIL I CAME AGEN



I locked my door and went for nothing much –
Just supermarket stuff, the usual –



But felt at once how things I’d left behind
Rejoiced to see me go, and be be themselves:
A knife-blade shivered at a fork’s cold touch
Two cushions reddened on each other’s swell
A book sprang open, riffled, then explained
The reasons it preferred life off the shelf.



And in the bedroom, tweaking from the bed
To make a taut, free-floating trampoline,
The sheet rose up and hovered in mid-air,
So everything about me that was dead
Already – hair, and flakes of withered skin
Could bounce, and dance, until I reappear.




Last Thing
by Andrew Motion

for Frances Kruk

was I locked the
door and sprang open, riffled,
a preferred life, off the shelf.
I locked the door
and in the bedroom, supermarket of withered skin,

a book hair, a fork
could stuff me
could stuff, mid-air,
reappear. taut, free-floating taut, free-floating once how dead
already – hair, and flakes

a book hair, and flakes tweaking from them-
selves: & dance, so bounce,
until I book sprang about me
and I hovered at mid-air.
the reasons it to me go,
each other’s knife-blade open, riffled, and then I’d left shivered at a
things I’d left dead, touch
flakes cold hair



Love Poem

Sophie asked, astral?
& I hardly had the hard to tell her it was ass drool · quit
mothering me murmured misheard as
quit othering me, this for a moth
clipping
the limerence aura about your lips ·

it emitting in once
all relationships rainbow tints
bear one another, I feel so stupid,

by loopholes my motes
retain sensation long after they have floated out of my skin; spurs, wisps;
& in some afar shadow a daddy long legs
is groping me to orgasm; I meant to say,

as I nod enraptured on your tedium & scum
my ambient prick nods & is how I have the lost laugh.
suck it. God, suck it. chin kneads wisp spurs. law
laughed it along with me like the singer-songwriter’s lover,
Mary Bruton, Sarah-Louise MacDonald,
law I read today has broken its long silence,
“fuck you too, niggas with attitude.”
my blood is even drearier without my arm,

-- a.m.



Last Things
by Andrew Motion

I locked my door & went for – nothing much,
just supermarket stuff, the usual –
but felt at once how things I’d left behind
rejoiced to see me go, & be themselves:
a book sprang open, riffled, then explained
the reasons it preferred life off the shelf,
a knife-blade EGG LEG EGG LEG EGG LEG EGG LEG
EGG LEG EGG LEG EGG LEG EGG LEG LEG EGG LEG LEG
shivered at a fork’s cold touch,
two cushions reddened on each other’s swell.

And in the bedroom, tweaking from the bed
to make a taut, free-floating trampoline,
the sheet rose up & hovered in mid-air,
so everything about me that was dead
already – hair, & flakes of withered skin –
could bounce, & dance, until I reappear.

No comments: