Is it still Wednesday?
(For the memory of Veronica Forrest-Thomson)
the best cannot manage any proportion:
"sufficient unto thy death is the day thereof ... "
In slumberland, the ghosts glide driftily ....
so long the agony, so long the grief:
*such* an enormous sorrow.
... yet another Wednesday,
yet another grief
(lente lente curite noctes equae ...)
wounds dripping from a page torn from a diary --
how long the irony? the grief?
Off the edge of the page, Madonna Bones?
Sometime, nevertime, everywhen old grief --
too sad, too bad, too
long the algebra:
cold locus where we once played games.
Nevertime as such a time, as that time when -- once again, old chug
... there was a griefy time I'd have liked to end this in prose, but the harsh lust for rhythm cuts in, inexorable.
too sweet. too pure. too clear.
I must drift into prose sometime again still, but it's difficult - that long morning on the mountainside ...
That long Wednesday which we once called home.
don't worry --
-- not ever seriously, or ever to die for,
don't ever trust this,
or ever trust me again:
Every which_one, every where/when.
4U my dear
est one }
... for Veronica, who was born the same year as me.
Robin Hamilton, Loughborough, UK
Awake at ten, unusual, and
words in my head. Fragments.
Marion saying, "Why do they all hate him, Robin?
Is it because he's so handsome? Or successful?"
(A propos of our current lariat, Andrew Motion.)
Well, there's a quick answer to that, but one
I didn't say to Marion, she being his daughter's
It occurred to me last night, and this seems somehow
connected, that people not brought up on the Street
baffle me -- Glasgow Washington Florence Birmingham --
Different codes, but the same body-language. Give me
thirty seconds and I can tune in, as when
I diced with a Washington crips gang -- they took me for
a CIA nark, at first -- silly, really, to be wearing
a camera there and when. But no problem.
was Denniston in the sixties, gives you
a sense of perspective. There are some rougher --
I doubt I'd like to tangle with the New York maff --
but not many.
But cowboy saviours --
That's James Baxter, the term seems to fit.
I understand him, I understand dave,
The Street's the Street. What I realise
I don't understand are all those nice well-bred
polite English people who never walked the Street.
I like them, I even sort-of admire them, but
they're not me.
(For Cassie and Jen)
Robin Hamilton, Loughborough, UK
I wake-up and realise it's still Wednesday, if only just
In my head, "cohorts".
The grunts are pissed with their Top Sergeant.
Anglice, the squaddies are pissed-off with their line-manager:
Slang, like Good Wine, doesn't travel.
... add to this the notorious flattening-of-tone in email
Words may die, like the slaughtered dodo, and in my sad
moments i regret the
death of a word more than the death of a species.
In due time, after the Singularity, they'll resurrect the dear
from the ashes of its dna.
But a hundred years on, who'll know that a rude boy is not
more broadly Jamiacan slang?
Sad that, but.
The Toy Boy.
AND ATTERCOP SAT SMILING ALL THE WHILE ...
For some reason I remembered attercop ...
1. A spider.
c1000 Sax. Leechd. I. 92 Wi' attorcoppan bite.
2. fig. Applied to a venomous malignant person.
3. Misapplied to: A spider's web.
Oh, well, tomorrow's from Basin Street to Broadway at the Town Hall.
And yesterday I picked-up a CD of Blind Willie McTell at the cornershop.
So now I know why the laid lady laid upon Dylan's big brass bed.
I wish I could work-out how to sell this stuff ...
Somewhere, there *has* to be a rich & hungry grad student who'd sell
eye-teeth for a line on how the final version of Bembo's speech in book
of The Courtier draws on Pico's commentary on Benivienni's Canzone, not
My Italian is so useless ...
Maybe I should advertise on ebay: For Sale -- germinal phids, offers
Or maybe not.
Tomorrow I decorate the hall.
It's always tomorrow, isn't it?
If it's not yesterday, so far away.
"And that one which is death to hide does not lie with you
Did I ever tell you I was taught by Ernst Honigman at Glasgow in the
Briefly, tangentially, he was on his way up and out to a chair at
Later, he shafted me over a grad application to Newcastle which turned
on Donne's Spanish authors and he zapped me as I didn't read Spanish.
... which was more than mildly lunatic as Donne was reading his Spanish
Authors in Latin, which i knew but Ernst apparently didn't.
Like an old lag who complains because he was fitted-up for the one
he *didn't* do, that annoyed the hell out of me.
Ernst was a real tight-assed bastard, but he said one thing that always
stuck in my mind, vis a oddly enough vis the sonnet you reference --
"A disagreement over the punctuation of a Milton sonnet is quite enough to
justify terminating a friendship."
I was maybe eighteen at the time, and it struck me as more than somewhat
mad. Little did I know ...
I do so wish you'd get off Milton-L. Jeezus that list has to be the
American noyau hierarchy. If you want a scholarly one, try Ficino,
the haunt of recidivist Neolatinists. There simply aren't enough
in the universe to create a hierarchy. Or if you can stand the heat,
SHAKSPER -- deeply take-no-hostages.
Ho hum my watch tells me it's 7.20, but whether at night or in the
... Whatever, it's black outside.
Robin Hamilton Loughborough 19.35
"any feedback you choose to leave after it arrives will be returned the very same day"
Daddy, what's your ebay name? Password?
What max bid should I put in?
Daddy, bite your credit-card.
Loughborough. 1.57 pm.
i. m. Sarah M. (Mulcahy) Schwartz,
born this day --17 December 1897
LOOKING AT THIS SCAR REMINDS ME ...
(after Edwin Morgan's Arnheim)
Having no memory, I collect
postcards / and such
to remind me of holidays.
I'm looking at one now:
From hell, the souvenirs are stones.
L'bro // 53 minutes into Wednesday
Somewhere in Raynes Park
a boot stamps down.
Save me save me save
from that rainy zimmer frame.
Tomorrow Patrick will solve global warming.
Robin Hamilton Loughborough. 5.12 pm.
When i was very, very young, i preferred Lowell to Berryman.
Then, one day, i was sitting on the top of a Glasgow bus,
reading Berryman ...
(the Faber Selected)
... and the rhythms chopped across every bump
the bus made over the old tram-lines.
Now THAT'S rhythm, as Fats Waller said.
I really admired Berryman (as well as his art):
he put-off suicide for as long as possible.
Comes down to it, life is simply a process of postponed-dying.
ROBIN HAMILTON L'bro
Poetryetc is a listserv relating to poetry and poetics which provides a forum for poets to debate their critical and creative work. The list has over the years run a number of projects for its members, of which Snapshots has been the most enduring.
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