Thursday, 15 March 2007

A Note on "Last Things" (1/3)

Last Things

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 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.

Andrew Motion published this in Poetry Review (Summer 2006) presumably hoping for some advice on how to finish it. Nobody’s said anything that I know of (despite gallant manoeuvres by the likes of On Company Time, this blog, this exhausted angel, Fanatique, Terrible Work and Readings, the appraisals which pre-exist our writing of them are all evensong-infected sleep-aid nature-sound and nobody knows why). So I’ll have a go this evening. What it really needs is a poet with an ear. Here's Peter Manson (photo (c) Tom Raworth) reading at Soundeye in Cork (July 2006):

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