On hearing Leo Rowsome's "The Coolin"
FinsburyParkCarrots
Seattle, WA Posts: 12,223
Those trillings, accidentals, soaring roars
of pipe glissando callings name my place
of mind beyond these wan and exile days:
Scrambling down a hill road in the rain-
fat sky of deep October, hedges plump
with berry redness. O those pulsing turns
of slow air song, fast fingerings of soul
that shape deep chanters: How they make my home
in noon gull shadowings along Slievemore
beneath an blackbog rainbow moment. Yes,
they show each broken scattering of beach
seashell emptiness; each crust of wall
the tides broke down to mica, quartz and sand.
These vestiges of flight, of loss, I hear
within the song. But yet I hear return,
in seashell lovers' ocean call, return.
of pipe glissando callings name my place
of mind beyond these wan and exile days:
Scrambling down a hill road in the rain-
fat sky of deep October, hedges plump
with berry redness. O those pulsing turns
of slow air song, fast fingerings of soul
that shape deep chanters: How they make my home
in noon gull shadowings along Slievemore
beneath an blackbog rainbow moment. Yes,
they show each broken scattering of beach
seashell emptiness; each crust of wall
the tides broke down to mica, quartz and sand.
These vestiges of flight, of loss, I hear
within the song. But yet I hear return,
in seashell lovers' ocean call, return.
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Comments
http://www.rowsome.ipfox.com/
The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird
s'pecially the last 7 lines...
perfection
Course it fakkin' is. I wrote it.
figgin A, yo!
like, omg, totally
fekka
redshank stalked,
flow, flow on through
Sheeanmore - fast, long,
deep otterspine moon rippling,
curving silver skin and seaward bulbs
of black night water, bog fringed, ceaseless,
moonlight salmon rainbowed, swoopbird feasted, flowing on
beyond dambuilding rushwisp kings - Charge, move, pulse, live.
I scamper:
Pebble toed
and shingle pawed
over my master's road.
Midges commune on my
blackfur matted back,
nesting in my lank fat coat
and running as I run.
I hear the ground's scratch
between sharp breaths.
I swallow
drafts
of hot peat mist,
of steam from the flanks
of the slow cattle I drive.
I will
move
these shadows
on the road, past Corrigan's Hall,
past the rush, past the hum of air
in the pitch only I hear,
past the patch of bootmuddied grass
on the turning,
past the wild iris orange,
and past the gulf stream fancy palmtrees
in the bogside gardens
that goats have made acidic green
with their lips and gums.
I
will
drive these cattle,
by scurrying,
by hearing my master's whistles,
and his wellies scrunching,
pebble mountain wet. I will drive,
let the midges lodge on me.
I will drive my master's empire home
before sunset falls on Aughness
and our own west tide comes to flood us.
I will drive home.