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The Argotist Online |
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PETER FINCH Peter
Finch works in both traditional and experimental forms and is a
regular performer on the reading circuit. In the sixties and seventies he edited
the ground-breaking literary magazine, Second Aeon, exhibited visual
poetry internationally and toured with sound poet Bob Cobbing. From the early
seventies until the late nineties he was treasurer of ALP (the Association of
Little Presses). Between 1975 and 1998 he ran the Arts Council of Wales's
specialist Oriel Bookshop in Cardiff. In 1998 he took up his current post with
the Welsh Academy. He
runs The Academi, The Welsh National Literature Promotion Agency and Society of
Writers.
Quantum
Mechanics in
the work of R S Thomas Reciprocities turning large
affirmation inexplicable dominant
identity destiny intimate
hearing memoriam velocity reading
book cricket
bat lean
owl exaggerated
crag sheaf simulacrum stuffed
turkey ethos throughout
monotony denouement blood sky
blood all
blood sky
skeleton frequencies hide
hiding hidden select
winner from list: Joseph
Conrad; Jacques Derrida; H.J.Blackham; Ludwig Wittgenstein; Baruch Spinoza; C Norris veal blood memorial
philosophy particle probable sheaf
of poems so
large you wonder argument
ambiguity age butter
Zen
Cymru Abereiddy
! Ah,
Abereiddy, ah ! Abereiddy,
ah ! The
beginning of autumn Sea
and sea and sea All
the same eeeeeeee
eeeeeee eeeeeeee
eeeeeeee eee
eeeeees ssss
sssssssssss sssss
sss sssssss sss
ssssssssee Could
be moon Out
there Who
cares No
more thunder Hear
hard belching Outside
the pub By
a cottage collapsed Are
men Thinking
of money These
sheep So
happy How
do you know they are not? The
stars speak so loud In
the Preseli blackness It's
just rain Light
over Trefdraeth Behind
the clouds Then
clear The
days go cold And
I am still in my khaki Peg
pants This
Wales leaks there isn't one That
doesn't Is
there? Splottlands
! Ah
Splottlands, ah ! Ah,
Splott ! Tree
looks like wind Wave
is moon spirit Wrecked
car what we do On
the great gable porch of St
John the Baptist Sikh glory The
butterfly bush still blooms In
this vast Wales you must not help yourself to any meadow,
flower or rockoutcrop that belongs to another. Mountains,
springs, the peat wildernesses all have an owner; be
careful about this. Go
out and you meet yourself Come
home And
you're still there Is
that the cloud moving? Maybe So
what On
the headland Do
not speak This
is such a virtue R
S was once asked by an acolyte "What
is the meaning of the thin tongue inheriting the universe?" R
S answered "The
mangels in the fields below the hills" If
you know, you don't speak If
you babble, you have no idea We
are a nation of noisy bastards The
sea darkens You
can see the small boats dumping oil drums By
the light of the stars Sea Ahh
eeeeee Ahh
eeeeee Saunders
wrote, he could have done: poems
and science are opposed, the
former purposing immediate pleasure, unlike the latter
which is a hunt for truth.
Red
face In
the endless field Then
back to the tractor Going
to Paradise is good, and to fall into Hell also is a matter
of congratulation.
Old Buddha by the Golden Road
in the rocks of Foel Trigairn.
Still invisible. The
ships pass but make no move to leave their reflection, the
sea makes no effort to hold how they look. The
clouds drift it
is spring, it is autumn.. They
are young people.
Though they are not drunk
they still wreck the station and are
sick before the passengers. "But
what am I to do?" said Alice.
"Anything you like." said
the footman, and began whistling. We
hear the tune, you and I, but inside our ears it is always a different one.
After
The Row He
borrows her blue scarf she doesn’t know about this. He
runs out into the night of ginkgo and frost. He
is four times around the park
his breath is smoking
his bones like glass rods. He
is frozen to the cracked path and dead. He
is in
the deep woods lost.
He
is crying
into his hands.
He
is small so small but not
invisible. He
is smashing the street ice by stamping
People would look but there’s no one there. His
head is lit red and his breath is burning. He
is flailing his arms nothing works. He
has checked everything and still does not understand.
How could she? The
wind comes in from the east full of knives.
He winds the scarf
around him
her sweet smell for a moment
and then it’s gone.
No
Bike I have been speaking at my door with the distraught woman who has let her daughter go lost. I am playing Mendelssohn's Violin Concerto in here and feel like I am gliding up a highway in the sun. The woman says her child - you know her, the one with the pink bike and its little outriders - was in the park, went to the park, peddled passed here, came up this road, along this path, this way, you saw her smiling, you did. I have been deep in the music and my head full of wide spaces I tell her I have not I am sorry I shake my head. The woman has on a white blouse with a button missing and straggle hair that's been clipped ragged where it brushes her chest. Her shoes are flat and their leather is scratched. She twists her hands into each other. She looks back. Along the road there is no girl, no bike. I can't tell her anything. She has brown arms and a bangle. She'll turn up. I was with Mendelssohn. The street is hot. The music soared. She is burning, this woman. Her face is melting. All of it, it's coming off. For comfort I remind myself that in other places across the world there are worse fears in the faces of the destitute and the dying. Worse than this. I look at the woman again. No, there are not.
copyright © Peter Finch |