A poem by Iain Rowley


download as a pdf:

'Birth From Above'

a problem / how small is the matter / harm shares / the solid is not all that / an I for what is / pragmatic fleeing / from the major projects / towards worm castings / at mouth / undergone without pre-text / beat urge to light of light / through conjoint action / rhizobium push / nodule on root / folate richness / residual benefits / sweet peanuts / sweet peanuts //

[...]

Poetry by Linda Kemp


download as a pdf:

from 'Lease Prise Redux'

Divested of evidence ensures high insurance &
business rates. S·he looks so hollow in
generation. Rates are so high
taking out massive recently vacated. If s·he tells
pay the borrowed
in the longing of appearance
originality
quietly agreed. The equanimity of
expansion in the private rental sector
goodness
regulating what s·he sees
leaning on the never
supply guarantee

[...]

New poem by Steven Waling


Download the poem as a pdf:

I Go Through The Door

In the black of the limousine
I go through the door to her flat

[...]

Six notes about Lee Harwood (while reading Penguin Modern Poets 19)

by Michael Peverett


1. The English Channel

Paul Nash, painting of Dymchurch sea-wall



[Image source: from Cathy Lomax's pretty wonderful blog: http://cathylomax.blogspot.co.uk/2013/08/paul-nash-and-dymchurch.html]



Lee’s poems had about them a remarkable tone. They were ‘quiet’ compared to the work of the Americans I was reading, but they were also surreal. It was a surrealism of everyday things. I often felt that surrealism arrived in Britain as flotsam; objects that floated across the Channel and sat displaced on a beach in southern England. It’s something you can see in the paintings of Paul Nash.


(From Laurie Duggan's in memoriam post about Lee Harwood:

http://graveneymarsh.blogspot.co.uk/2015/07/remembering-lee-harwood.html)


I wonder if Tim Allen (who grew up on the Isle of Portland) would recognize that particular psychogeographical configuration?

Thinking back to my Hastings days, maybe even (in early childhood)  my Eastbourne days, I'd say that I always had a vague sense of it.

A sense confirmed when, much later, I discovered Montale's poem "Eastbourne" (not that Montale was a Surrealist, but...) , and by the Channel-Islander Jeremy Reed's translations of Montale in The Coastguard's House, generously and rightly praised by Michael Hoffman in the LRB;  still surely one of Reed's most stunning achievements.

Maybe it's something about any town that sharply abuts the sea. The sudden, enormous sea-blankness always intrudes a kind of questioning commentary, a kind of provisionality, into the life of the land.

But maybe, too,  it's particularly something unique about the English Channel. Already when I was quite young, the experience here was not just of enormous sea-blankness but of a pressing awareness that, not very far beyond the blankness, though invisible to us, lay a populous, clamorous and totally different world; different languages, different history, different art, different thinking.

Plus it was a fact that continental visitors, like Montale, were a lot more likely to show up in South Coast towns than in, say, Derbyshire.

It always seemed to me quite natural that my own grandmother, an Eastbourne resident long estranged from her husband, should have nourished her imaginative and emotional life with visits to Paris and Austria. She even made me call her by a German name (Mutti). I never really thought of her as English.

Though I couldn't see across the English Channel myself, it was obvious that Mutti could.


[I've been here before.

In an essay I wrote in 2010 about Elizabeth Bletsoe's collection Landscape from a Dream (named after a Paul Nash painting), I felt concerned that taking an interest in Nash's South Coast localities might mean "an unsurrealization of Surrealism". I'm still not sure if it's true or not.]






2. Lee Harwood


Most subsequent poetry, at least the kind of poetry I care for, has been about trying to assess the cost and the damage of those delirious, irresponsible love-poems of the first New York school. Like, the complicities in this glad acceptance of the world. Wanting to share it. Should I share it?

chandeliers tinkling in the silence as the winds batter the gardens
outside             formal lakes shuddering at the sight
of two lone walkers
                                    Of course this exaggerates
small groups of tourists appear and disappear
in an irregular rhythm of flowerbeds

("As Your Eyes Are Blue...")


It's a world that's still recognizably ours, when we are leisured. The lovers wrapped up in their own impressions, which seem to interact with them and them alone; yet also a democratic world in which similar experiences affect all the tourists and tourist couples that stroll through it. The comedy, the high camp, yet the beauty, yet the sense of being absolutely clear-eyed, which asserts a moral power. By making no judgments or claims it maintains an integrity, as if the poem might, though it says nothing definite, have all the political awareness you'd personally wish it to have and a whole lot more that you don't have yourself.

The perfect grace and flexibility of Harwood's lines, his pacing, the layout, the use of spaces instead of punctuation: he can say anything, and it's all poetry. I'm still beguiled.



3. Lee Harwood again


Central Park Zoo, 1967 (photo by Garry Winogrand)

[Image source: http://www.christies.com/lotfinder/photographs/garry-winogrand-central-park-zoo-new-york-5600340-details.aspx]


I've been reading Robert Sheppard's pieces on Lee Harwood's poetry, and as a result have a bit more context for the early poems I'm reading in Penguin Poets 19.

Review of the earlier part of the Collected:
http://robertsheppard.blogspot.co.uk/2005/12/robert-sheppard-review-of-harwoods.html
Review of the later part of the Collected:
http://robertsheppard.blogspot.co.uk/2006/01/robert-sheppard-review-of-harwoods.html
Three sequences in Morning Light (1998):
http://robertsheppard.blogspot.co.uk/2014/12/robert-sheppard-on-three-sequences-by.html
Review of The Orchid Boat:
http://www.stridemagazine.co.uk/Stride%20mag%202014/december2014/The%20Orchid%20Boat.htm
A reflection on the above:
http://robertsheppard.blogspot.co.uk/2014/12/robert-sheppard-review-of-lee-harwoods.html
Poem dedicated to Lee Harwood:
http://robertsheppard.blogspot.co.uk/2015/07/robert-sheppard-for-lee-harwood-burnt.html
A laugh with Lee Harwood:
http://robertsheppard.blogspot.co.uk/2015/08/robert-sheppard-laugh-with-lee-harwood.html
In Memoriam:
http://robertsheppard.blogspot.co.uk/2015/07/lee-harwood-1939-2015-in-memoriam.html

The "Three sequences" piece ends with this, part of a list of features that may be said to characterize the world of Harwood's poetry:

a bit of camp (or the occasional kitsch ‘bad’ line) thrown in to unsettle the certainties of received discriminations in life and in the art

That's something that can be abundantly illustrated from "The Doomed Fleet".

This 'exciting narrative poem' (Harwoodian quotes) begins:

The entire palace was deserted, just as was
the city, and all the villages.... 

Not "the palace" but "the entire palace" (gosh) ... and that conversational but slipshod "just as was"... these are little opening hints of what's to come.

By the start of section 3 we're in full-on helpless-author mode.

Grey waves slapped against the sides of
the iron grey battleships. Seabirds screeched
above the wind; they don't sing.
Even the ships appeared deserted, except
for the occasional dark figures that would
hurry along a deck and then disappear
through a hatch-way as abruptly as when they first
appeared. 

The grand if somewhat hackneyed description is never quite in control of itself. In the first sentence, an ill-advised choice of plurality spoils a clear image; then the seabirds are improbably located "above" the wind; now comes the deliciously wrong but somehow comprehensible "Even"; and finally the clause about the dark figures, which gets itself in a tangle so that, in the end, the figures disappear at the very moment they appear. Even the decision to hyphenate, or not, seems chaotic.

The syntax is trying so hard! - too hard - but it's constantly undone by time and precedence and geography and multiple entities: it's all too much. You begin to understand "The Doomed Fleet" as a writing assignment.

Harwood, like Ashbery ("It was raining in the capital"), saw the possibilities of disastrous writing. Because, isn't all writing disastrous, really?

And a funny thing is, that as I was sitting here and teasing out these various stylistic infelicities, the attention made me focus on the image: the dark figures leapt to their syntactically improper life -

hurry along a deck and then disappear

- leapt, in a way they certainly never would have done if the grammar had been in order.

Though it did occur to me that what I was vividly imagining, and probably what Harwood imagined too, seemed a hell of a lot more like the multiple decks of a well-lit passenger ferry than a  gloomy single-deck battleship.



USS Alabama, in service from 1943

[Image source: http://www.navy.mil/navydata/nav_legacy.asp?id=128]

*

With David Bowie's death (yesterday) there's some hive-thinking about bisexual artists going on. I'm a bit taken aback by the intensity of people's love. I discover (as it were for the first time) that, passionate 70s music fan as I was,  he was someone I never really followed, and that if he meant a great deal to me it was only for a very short time, when I was 13. I think the only records of his that I ever bought were three successive 45s: "Jean Genie" (backed with Ziggy Stardust),  "Drive-In Saturday" and the reissued "Life on Mars?". Yet I did know the Ziggy and Aladdin albums quite well. I must have long-loaned them from school-friends, Anthony Aloof maybe, or John Vincent Scott. (Thereafter, David Bowie perhaps seemed a too predictable music pigeon-hole for the likes of me: so I gravitated to the harsh obscure (Can, Beefheart, Hammill) and to other people's mainstreams (Beach Boys, Dolly Parton, Al Green).

I don't really know if Lee Harwood should be labelled bisexual or not. Maybe that's part of what bisexuality is all about. But I associate Lee's hypothetical bisexuality with his binary focus, the effect that Sheppard quotes him as calling cavalier vs puritan.

Sheppard again:

An erotic liaison with John Ashbery (whom he had met in Paris in 1965), and a more general literary engagement with the New York poetry scene at its height, engendered some deeply felt love poetry, including one of the finest meditations upon clandestine gayness, erotic obsession and separation, ‘As your eyes are blue’, which Jeremy Reed has described as ‘a love poem as important to its time as Shakespeare’s androgynously sexed sonnets were to his.’ In those days homosexuality was still illegal.

(Reed said this in 2005, but I haven't found out where because Sheppard's The Salt Companion to Lee Harwood is only searchable in snippet view.)

It's tempting  (volley of sexuality-stereotypes coming right up...) to associate the gay side of these poems with the urbane, with art, museums, New York; the het side with Harwood the rock-climber, and the frequently adventurous scenery of his poems, the recurrent three horsemen, etc. Or, as in this case, the iron grey battleships.

But the poems tend to regard such Boy's-Book scenes (the Argentine, the wild tribesmen of the hills, etc) as ridiculous. Even so, it won't leave them alone.

Rupert Bear is a fighter ace.

Harwood takes the voice of Mrs Skewton and liberates it; for him, being "all heart" is a serious proposition.



4. John Ashbery's eyes


.... are indeed blue, but a greyish type of blue.

Lee Harwood's "As Your Eyes Are Blue. . ." and  "For John in the Mountains" are closely related poems, both recalling the same flowery and meadowy trip to the mountains. (I would assume, in France or Switzerland.)

In the latter poem, he writes:

                        a dark snow
darker than your eyes'
dark snow

Ashbery's eye-colour compared to the blueish-grey colour of snow in shadow. To spell it out.



John Ashbery and Lee Harwood, Paris 1965 (photo by Pierre Martory)


[Image source: http://jacketmagazine.com/16/ah-harw.html, where it was reproduced courtesy of Lee Harwood (I've blown up the small JPG, which is why it looks blurred)]


*

Kenneth Koch's much-quoted 1965 conversation with John Ashbery.
http://thisrecording.com/today/2011/1/20/in-which-john-ashbery-and-kenneth-koch-start-making-sense.html


Essay by Andrew Field about the early Ashbery and pragmatism:
https://andrewfield81.wordpress.com/2013/10/03/the-imminence-of-a-revelation-not-yet-produced-ashbery-and-the-pragmatist-sublime/   (with particular reference to the opening line of Some Trees, "We see us as we truly behave:")


Essay by Bob Archambeau about Ashbery's art world at the end of 1940s:
http://samizdatblog.blogspot.co.uk/2015/02/john-ashbery-and-poetics-of-art-world.html


5. The museum






[Image source (above and below): http://www.rugbooks.com/advSearchResults.php?action=search&orderBy=relevance&category_id=0&keywordsField=afghanistan]




These fragments I have shored against my ruins  


Somehow, modernism was in favour of museums. It was also anguished by them, by catastrophic history and a distasteful present, so the characteristic mode was irony.

By the time of the New York school, history seemed more catastrophic still. The poets begin to see the museum's contents in a different way. The details of the history you are supposed to be interested in became ridiculous. Irony died. A strong feeling of healthy irresponsibility blew through the room. It became apparent that the museum and its spaces and the items on display are crucially about now and here.

                                     whether it's the form of
Some creator who has momentarily turned away,
Marrying detachment with respect, so that the pieces
Are seen as part of a spectrum, independent
Yet symbolic of their spaced-out times of arrival;
Whether on the other hand all of it is to be
Seen as no luck.

(from John Ashbery's "Clepsydra", in Rivers and Mountains 1966. The first couple of pages of "Clepsydra", which include the above extract, are online here)

The third poet in Penguin Modern Poets 19, Tom Raworth, perceives the modernity too:

looking at the etruscan statues in the louvre there is a green
       patina on my hands my expression has taken its final
       shape
everything becomes modern inside these cases there is
       nothing without touching

children crawl under the glass      things are reflected several
       times

(from "Six Days", in The Relation Ship (1966))

Ashbery's idea of the "spectrum" becomes a "prism" in Lee Harwood's "The 'Utopia'" (Landscapes, 1967).

The table is very old and made of fine mahogany
polished by generations of servants.
And through the windows the summer blue skies
and white clouds spelling a puffy word.
And on the table the books and examples
of embroidery of the wild hill tribesmen
and many large and small objects - all of which
could not help but rouse a curiosity.

-----

At times it is hard to believe
what is before one's eyes -
there is no answer to this except the room itself,
and maybe the white clouds seen though the window.

------

*

ISIS destroys triumphal arches in Palmyra

http://www.nytimes.com/2015/10/06/world/middleeast/isis-syria-arch-triumph-palmyra.html?_r=0

As has often been pointed out, Daesh is philosophically just as western as it is eastern; indeed, the example of Daesh reveals such distinctions as inadequate to account for moves within a globalized world (though, of course, much remains in the stereotypes to be deftly exploited).

Daesh's intention to make a bonfire of both the nation-state and accumulated cultural riches is something that many of us will uncomfortably recognize as our own deep aspirations put into hideous practice.


*

"embroidery of the wild hill tribesmen".

Khamak and other Afghan embroideries are of course the art and labour of women. But owned and displayed by men, at least until they end up, - as a result of what transaction? - on this so-polished table...



*

Interview with Lee Harwood by Andy Brown in The Argotist Online - no date is given, but I should think it was around 2008.

http://www.argotistonline.co.uk/Harwood%20interview.htm

Recent short (but helpful) take on Ashbery's "Clepsydra", by John Koethe.

http://atlengthmag.com/poetry/short-takes-on-long-poems-volume-2/






6. Lee Harwood, "Questions of Geography"




"Question of Geography" has a three-part structure. The structure trembles a little, it's alive - "I can't remember... the details obscured..." - but for the purposes of now we'll stick with those three parts. Each describes a landscape experienced by Harwood at some time in his young life: call them "once", and "another time", and "now". This analysis makes the three seem more disentanglable than they really are. Really, the poem's discovery is a continuous argument. Nevertheless, here's the middle bit.

Ridge in the distance       everything the same
as before                  it must be
The moors edged with pine woods
in the south-west province     a repetition
but the cathedral town unchanged
It makes no difference who was there
all inevitably reduced to the question of
geography or memory


The text operates not with particularity but with the suggestion of particularity.  The landscapes are all different, that's the point of them, yet they must, we feel, have a lot in common with each other. (The repeated idea of a ridge-line confirms this.)

In this middle part of the poem the particularity of what is seen becomes momentarily clearer ("moors edged with pine woods"), just when the particularities of time are at their vaguest: we could easily suppose this was a scene being glimpsed in the present, until mention of the third scene dispels that idea. When, then? Unlike the two outer scenes, it isn't connected with a time of year.

Ashbery and Harwood are both very fond of the phrases "a question of" or "a matter of". They use the phrases in a gorgeous myriad of ways. But to generalize, these phrases assert a fixed point (e.g. geography, in this case) but not a proposition, only a preoccupation.

Never more subtly than here, when the postscript "or memory" immediately undercuts the apparent definiteness of the title phrase, and instead seems to shimmer with all of the earlier elements that were not geographic. I'll come back to that.

At the end, the poem gestures at drawing together its threads and making manifest its discovery, at least about how the two remembered landscapes underlie the present scene.

the others seeming somehow irrelevant in the present excitement
but still real like a very sure background
- you paint over the picture and start on
the new one      but all the same it's still there
beneath the fresh plains of colour

That last line resonates with hidden energies. It makes us pause for a long moment.

But the poem is not in fact purely about landscapes. All around its edges, reticently undefined, are other people. "our garden".. "house" ... "months gone by"... "a repetition" ... "It makes no difference who was there". These very faint footfalls, the experience and the thoughts inflected by other people, become amplified after reading other Harwood poems from the same era.

It matters because it changes the subject of the poem. The poem is not only about change of landscapes but about a lifestyle of impermanence, a lifestyle without "marriage" or "family" or "home", but with changing lovers and changing places. If there's even a certain briskness in that "you paint over the picture", then you might wish to call it a poem about ending relationships. Further, it's a poem about viewing the permanent, "the cathedral town unchanged", from the perspective of impermanence: already with a tint of the ridiculous about it, or at best experienced as "the present excitement".  It's one of the quietest, but one of the defining, British poems of the 1960s.

*

NOTE  "the south-west province".  Harwood uses the expression several times in poems of this era. It momentarily unsettles location by calling up some Waleyan translation of Li Po; maybe it's Harwood's light-touch joke. But there's no real disguise: you don't get cathedrals in Sichuan. In Harwood's poetry, generally, it isn't about reserve (far from it), it's all about reticence. Which makes so much possible in these poems.

That is, if the distinction between "reserve" and "reticence" can really be maintained. That's one of the questions we need to be asking about Harwood today.


Harwood reading the poem (very beautifully, too)

The full text of "Question of Geography" isn't available on-line.

But here's some poems that are:

"Soft White", "The Final Painting", "The 'Utopia'", "The Words"

"Forestry work no. 1", "Love in the organ loft", "The nine death ships", "Boston Notebook: December 1972", "Massachusetts or On visiting Walden Pond, 1st January 1973", "Portraits 1-4", "The destruction of South Station, Boston", "Nineteenth Century Poem", "Boston Spring", "Old Bosham Bird Watch", "Portraits from my life", "London to Brighton"

"Claret label", "A poem for writers", "Bath-time", "Text for two posters by Ian Brown", "O, O, O,... Northern California", "Coat of arms on wall in ancient city", "Hand from an Exeter cloud", "Summer Solstice", "The artful", "Waunfawr and after", "Cwm Uchaf", "On the ledge", "For Paul/ Coming out of winter"

Mark Ford in the Guardian, celebrating the Collected Poems, and quoting "Rain journal: London: June 65"

Lee Harwood (photo by Elsa Dorfman)

[Image source: http://archive.elsadorfman.com/housebook/flagg-street-III.html]


This Intercapillary Space piece assembles various posts from http://michaelpeverett.blogspot.co.uk, September 2015 - February 2016. 



Two Poems by Florence Uniacke



Rain boy ye!

A rainbow
jerking angel
on it!
Up here the heads got no heart,
the hearts got no legs.
There's a new man in my life...
he's everywhere
playing strings of hair -
nice soggy lead mesh -
to the air,
down at the angels
jerking
on the rain boy
oh ye oh ye.



Contact

Which
      silence
lit this argument?

Was it when you said
"Like a hug but without the awkward physical contact"
and i cried a bit in my mouth and invited you to feel my sweaty palms?

Humidity now marks lives in
expense clammy shorelines -

newfound hi zero tactility. 

Natalie Joelle - The Book of Ruth



The Book of Ruth

And all of the in the room

all the more you and all of you are hearing
and all in all of the jungle and our living

or in the morning or the most of the loan

You will burn in mind the value of the mother-in-law in law
in the cargo will gladly and so on.

already the remove the will in all

in the a nominal and back
in the local you don't look back Gleaner
are and in are the only loom of the
you all of you and your male the world

that his the there are a the

and your meal is that the working day
now going on about the only
so I'll have a being taken and more room

millet or something in the colossal media

still in a lay person (need on a you are you on about still
all doubt they are the only non-mover
been yielding a rack day working with me

the landlord thing imaginable your nobby no name

normally normally all the are a meal
all the people of the call its event yet legally

Gleanology are not the only likely my thoughts on the

or for the more salt from the gleaners
get the yard Ruth on the north of the bear letter
actually the all the that the likely

at the very government today all think I

felt that their lives will gather still me

known locally that the entire Gleanology

and claim by gleaning knowledge of
all the required legal and readily mobile
locally lean on the on the bow

you are on and now of any thoughts

on locally with lean likely now only
only your yet belonging beneath the Gleaner
and that all I like it or not there.

The more Gleaner at the the

you have in the from you as a peeling
widely known more people are
the gleaners that the back of
the leafy double law

ultimately most of the overall work

the the the the the thought of or before the field
about the birth
will use for your liver case actively and brilliantly monthly
the thing
we saw what lean the law normally family for the law you
with the

Mother of or the Law

Gradually Know Your Back Door
Gleaner Illegal or Value Aurore
They Are the Corner

Gleaning Only Sign

Are Gather All Gleaning the Steel
Are Arriving Sense of All
the Landlord Values Value Are
the Use of the Women of the
Gladly All the Value Are

the the the Are You Will Not Barley Going Normally

Your Vehicle Via Gleaner
the Body for Occupancy That Base
Girl in the Work I Will Not the More
They Are the Condom Also Allows the Family Robust
You Live the King the Alarm of the Micromanagement
Lean on Me If You Use All the Seem
for You the Value of a Stream

Gleaner or Will Be

Gleanology for Use All Arboreal
Are You There Was or Say
That the Law in the Ruthless Hawker
They Are As Sales

Now Gleanology the Gleaner or Value

You Gleaner Ignoring or Ongoing

the Morning Dawned on A Lot Of a Ceiling

you know that this is the core that the glory lily
monologue being the only that the's avoiding rape

the next morning the sun rosello mine

are you this morning at the border of the biggest week
the the sorting release


Peter Philpott: Fragments Of Vulgar Things



6.



upsurge so formal could

oh no, we’ll never know

crawling over the barrier to understanding

thinking it is the end of the world

when it all begins just here



never mind the showy throbs

I, Laura, know these too well

eleven children, Frank!

I didn’t have time for humanism

perpetually washing their clothes



you & Messer Dante — oh

dear, oh dear, oh dear

look, read your translators better

to love the world & your selves without shame





Read the whole sequence (PDF)





            
          Dan Eltringham: Summer Scrapbook (pt. 1)
            




            Go. Eager to quit the city, hardly gambolled at risk, unforclosed
                        free-of-debt
            yet not forsworn nor saken, leaving all this they strike for
                        pelagic waters,
            where the sea lets in a little light of surface glimmer but
                        depths tug,
            air is easier, the rim visible in green hills seen in instants
                        between steep streets
            keeping invested trust beyond the chosen enclosure called
                        the city,
            today. Lungfull to peak air time, using my loaf to fill the bread
                        basket again
            leaves milk on the step as metaphor again, butter spoils our chances,
                        no-one wants to be
            just a gateway drug to something harder, further down the line.
                        Bilberries.
            At the end of the line is the station, of course, that’s all. If
                        the head is bread,
            the stomach its basket, woven tight like the jumpers of drowned
                        Island sailors,
            Mull or Islay or Lewis legible in the weft, a grammar of belonging,
                        not trite but true,
            crosshatches remembered fishing nets, trellises copied the run of
                        drystone walling,
            the three point blackberry carded the trinity, double zigzags
                        matrimonial
            undulations, then now is it to unshackle the hierarchy binding
                        head to hand,
            stomach to mouth. To prefer repair to replacement, maintenance
                        to replacement,
            a patch-up job to replacement, the nation with the best maintenance
                        will recover first,
            staving off decay by daily care, what I love is continuity of usefulness
                        in buildings
            or failing that just the stone reused, the outline of a Saxon axe head
                        latched on its haft,
            traced on a sandstone ledge. What is left of earth, once flipped about,
                        taken out,
            but a monumental chimney ringed by rare dragonflies, orchids,
                        a good spot
            for lunch? Land once black as its subsurface, now the gothic
                        pit head
            reflects in the pit pool, pit wheels grace town greens, pit towns ring
                        the grene wode,
            concentric, depressed post-industrial communities, whence Red Robyn
                        flings cash back,
            centrifugal. Seasonal shift, heather purpled, blackberry soon. Fell
                        down a fell
            this afternoon, slipped off a rill down a hole in the ground Wordsworth
                        never saw,
            in the leisure box, feeling green around the ghyll, where once-open slate
                        rakes frame
            picturesque mountains, our picnic? Rebarbative wire no reply but
                        a snag on
            trousers, in the fabric of progress, torn like technique, narrow squeezing
                        through style,
            out the other side, to the plain top field where cows are kept.

A Poem by Rupert Loydell



BAREFOOT REDIAL

Increased capacity
showing configuration 

High fidelity research

Walked cold streets
still on the lookout

Couldn't stop his fingers
tracing network lines

The lower the number 
the closer the experience

Here comes the beep

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