1918 Under a Black Star
tide sways through the crystal
a fluid & incremental rhythm with slightly scoured salt lung
pad pad padding well the view extends
in some kind of arithmetic progression
extending & extenuating
?till we get to the point where we see
right over the side
ah yes
now where’s this?
sky full of vapour & calculation
dialogue of insects
a bold crimson whippersnapper
roosting in your trumpet
cats eyes flare, dissolve
under the hunter’s moon
fat pale underbelly opened
to trees & steeples
walking uphill on outsize beach pebbles
away from the seething spit
with a sign in your head
temporary dwellings are prohibited
wondering what other kinds there might be
as the oldest rain begins to fall
1919 Composition with Black Core
wide expanse of sunset spilt all over the right
a little lateral settling & seatbelt manipulation
& it’s a headful of asbestos
rattling down the M11 past the 3 pretty sabres
of Essex into a string of backed up red lights
a distant glitter of the city in the gutter
Neopolitans on the hard shoulder
W. Tottenham from Fife
Caroline Seagull from Great Yarmouth
two crows a mile apart on the telephone line
dusk sifting between ribs & lashes
roadworks & treehouses of Odessa
Lane
ignore the BBC commentary on
one of the lost souls of Ukranian music
roll up feathers
lichens webs
budgies honey
pass the van advising Roger
the Florist
there’s no time to stop
Terry & Julie cross over the river as you come
round the mountain in the next & fatal phase of
hectic Cajun etching
1920 Moonlit Night
the new formalism is always the former prison
the deepening rut worn out
by relentless pacing to & fro
another channel for the water
which already has every tune in its head
you know where you are with
a hoover
you can locate your marbles
& be firm with one Dr Scholl
dovetailed to the starting block
although blue is still blue
as in a 1920 moonlit night
the sealed beam can’t exhale
who’s treading the perimeter
the grey juice of walking vision
eyelid thickness
all else out of sight
& mindless
fins cross
an inner sheen
of dark grass
1922 Point of Contact
morning dew has all but disappeared
from Dublin’s
fair stiff outskirts
everywhere is the point of contact
there must be a good deal of iron in this painting
is that a distinctive aura
or an arrow through your hat?
1924 Portrait of Madame P
I like to think of gravitons
they are better than tooth-fairies
you carted my rootball no distance at all
though you looked like a wheelbarrow
on its last legs
the window sticks still
come into the garden mauled
the point is already everywhere
& the line is the discharge of tension
between a couple of points
then before you know it it?s lunch again
& four points make a fork
people you never knew
admire the upside-down boat on your head
physicists prefer to talk of prongs
1926 The Menagerie goes on Parade
I dreamt I made a go-cart with Hart Crane
we called it Blue - my was it faithful
it carried Joni Mitchell
Miles Davis the Reverend Blue Hummock
Hilda Baker polishing a big plank of fluorspar
(we passed chandeliers malnutrition & a brass band
at the back of the lead-mine - ah these underground
years pressfluffed in your shirt pocket)
Blue Mitchell on trumpet with Horace Silver
thumping the dunnock
bobbing along on a staccato patter
of cats’ eyes over the crest of the hill
into the final Prussian blue miles
& this darkening blue into which you drive
is the night inside you can’t overtake
Copyright @ Peter Hughes, 2007
