Vetch. And the tangled optimism of Viburnum opulus.
The bus does a minuet with the central theme of the
A38, scraping and bowing to silver BMW X5s with 10-
Mbps bus LCD technology that works in sunlight and a
Band-Aid fix to iDrive parked outside city-escapees’
bungalows. Mercedes was the daughter of Emil
Jellinek, did you know? The sports-field’s scattered
land squares up to me. Intruder! Where does he fit in
amongst lacrosse and the 100yds dash?
The bus does a minuet with the central theme of the
A38, scraping and bowing to silver BMW X5s with 10-
Mbps bus LCD technology that works in sunlight and a
Band-Aid fix to iDrive parked outside city-escapees’
bungalows. Mercedes was the daughter of Emil
Jellinek, did you know? The sports-field’s scattered
land squares up to me. Intruder! Where does he fit in
amongst lacrosse and the 100yds dash?
Land belongs to someone. Why does land belong to someone? Who owns
it? The sheep? The cows? Sidcot School? Who owns the Mendip? We do
make it all up, don’t we? The ants, the tangled roots of trees, the drip of
water, the sound of the drip of water? Who did you say owns them? In
Jamaica Mr. James, the gardener, would tief de Bombay Mango dem off me
father tree. “Iz God him mek de mango fe grow,” he would say when
challenged. True enough. If God him mek de mango dem fi grow, iz fus’
come, fus’ serve, to rawted. We iz all God’s chillun. We all have de same
damn right. But stop! Maybe the mango grows itself. Uh hu. Don’ mek we
argue over dat religion t’ing. Iz de same damn t’ing, over which no lives are
to be lost. I suppose you could say, "mebbe iz God Him mek de mango fe
grow - but iz me father him pay yuh wages. Yuh is fired!”
it? The sheep? The cows? Sidcot School? Who owns the Mendip? We do
make it all up, don’t we? The ants, the tangled roots of trees, the drip of
water, the sound of the drip of water? Who did you say owns them? In
Jamaica Mr. James, the gardener, would tief de Bombay Mango dem off me
father tree. “Iz God him mek de mango fe grow,” he would say when
challenged. True enough. If God him mek de mango dem fi grow, iz fus’
come, fus’ serve, to rawted. We iz all God’s chillun. We all have de same
damn right. But stop! Maybe the mango grows itself. Uh hu. Don’ mek we
argue over dat religion t’ing. Iz de same damn t’ing, over which no lives are
to be lost. I suppose you could say, "mebbe iz God Him mek de mango fe
grow - but iz me father him pay yuh wages. Yuh is fired!”
What is this lie we inhabit? Why do we inhabit
it? We make it all up – is this not astonishingly
liberating?
I leave the A38 behind, wind round some
cottages, through a dog-walk field and into
Shipham.
it? We make it all up – is this not astonishingly
liberating?
I leave the A38 behind, wind round some
cottages, through a dog-walk field and into
Shipham.
“Amy Winehouse self-harms”, says the Sun in the Penscot Inn dining
room. “I write songs because I’m (expletive deleted) in the head and have
to get it out,” she is reported as saying. Do artists create work because we
are (expletive deleted) in the head and have to get it out? Outside, hedge
sparrows ramp up the invective: THIS IS MY HEDGE, THIS IS MY MATE!
GET OFF MY TERRITORY! Altruism, anyone? Perhaps we should stop
thinking life is ‘for’ something. What are trees, rabbits, venomous cross-
grained adders soaking up the sun on drystone walls in Velvet Bottom
‘for’? Life is not ‘for’ anything. We are free.
room. “I write songs because I’m (expletive deleted) in the head and have
to get it out,” she is reported as saying. Do artists create work because we
are (expletive deleted) in the head and have to get it out? Outside, hedge
sparrows ramp up the invective: THIS IS MY HEDGE, THIS IS MY MATE!
GET OFF MY TERRITORY! Altruism, anyone? Perhaps we should stop
thinking life is ‘for’ something. What are trees, rabbits, venomous cross-
grained adders soaking up the sun on drystone walls in Velvet Bottom
‘for’? Life is not ‘for’ anything. We are free.
Here up on top behind shake hole, Roman fort, enclosure, tumulus;
amidst the life and death of landscapes, the drystone wall butts itself up to
gnarled beech. Or it could be the other way round. What butts itself up to
what – the living to the unliving, or the unliving to the living? The sentient
to the insentient, or the insentient to the sentient? The yielding to the
unyielding, or the unyielding to the yielding? The quick and live are vain
things to push at the stubborn inertia of things! Are we just put up with,
waited to be got over, or is there a dance? What are the steps? Is it a
minuet, a stately pavane, a death tango, a country jig? Who is the
composer? Can I choreograph my own steps?
amidst the life and death of landscapes, the drystone wall butts itself up to
gnarled beech. Or it could be the other way round. What butts itself up to
what – the living to the unliving, or the unliving to the living? The sentient
to the insentient, or the insentient to the sentient? The yielding to the
unyielding, or the unyielding to the yielding? The quick and live are vain
things to push at the stubborn inertia of things! Are we just put up with,
waited to be got over, or is there a dance? What are the steps? Is it a
minuet, a stately pavane, a death tango, a country jig? Who is the
composer? Can I choreograph my own steps?
I jump onto a solid-based wall further down the Bottom and catch a slither
of adder. I wait patiently for her reappearance. Something ancient in our
brain responds to the slither of snakes. We have known each other for
trillennia, watched.
This whale’s hump of Mendip, issue of a Variscan orogeny, rears its
carbuncled head above Triassic Levels. Flailing her tail against Frome,
tectonically challenged, she lunges for Steep Holm, Flat Holm, the open
sea. The walls barnacle her sandpapered back; ganglionated, nodes
fusing, transmitting outwards, feeding inwards. The nerve signals get
caught up in the slow growth of Alder, the diamondback pattern of adders.
They are soaked into the ground in blustery squalls, trickled down to
Radstock, Shepton Mallet, Wells, Highbridge, Weston-Super-Mare, Bristol.
Our index-linked lives are disturbed by wet dreams of Apollo-flung uplands
and dark-leaved combes, secret passages, Ebor Gorges, clammed-up
Priddys. The towns round the edges of the escarpment tremble at her
passage, populating her munificence with sheep, rambunctious cattle,
corn and alternative lifestyles.
of adder. I wait patiently for her reappearance. Something ancient in our
brain responds to the slither of snakes. We have known each other for
trillennia, watched.
This whale’s hump of Mendip, issue of a Variscan orogeny, rears its
carbuncled head above Triassic Levels. Flailing her tail against Frome,
tectonically challenged, she lunges for Steep Holm, Flat Holm, the open
sea. The walls barnacle her sandpapered back; ganglionated, nodes
fusing, transmitting outwards, feeding inwards. The nerve signals get
caught up in the slow growth of Alder, the diamondback pattern of adders.
They are soaked into the ground in blustery squalls, trickled down to
Radstock, Shepton Mallet, Wells, Highbridge, Weston-Super-Mare, Bristol.
Our index-linked lives are disturbed by wet dreams of Apollo-flung uplands
and dark-leaved combes, secret passages, Ebor Gorges, clammed-up
Priddys. The towns round the edges of the escarpment tremble at her
passage, populating her munificence with sheep, rambunctious cattle,
corn and alternative lifestyles.
I pick up my feet and walk. This is, after all, what
humans do, have always done. Picked up their feet
and walked. The Japanese master poet, Basho,
said, ‘we are travellers of eternity.’ Simon Schama
quotes an old Jew in the ancient forests of
(Lithuania?) being asked about his ‘roots’. Roots??’
scoffed the old man, ‘we’re not trees, we're humans.
Jews don’t have ‘roots’, we have LEGS. We pick ‘em
up and walk!’
humans do, have always done. Picked up their feet
and walked. The Japanese master poet, Basho,
said, ‘we are travellers of eternity.’ Simon Schama
quotes an old Jew in the ancient forests of
(Lithuania?) being asked about his ‘roots’. Roots??’
scoffed the old man, ‘we’re not trees, we're humans.
Jews don’t have ‘roots’, we have LEGS. We pick ‘em
up and walk!’
And so we do, through all human history, in every age and time. We pick
them up - and walk. Neolithic Man, the Beaker Folk, Bronze Age Man, the
Romans – they all picked them up and walked here, to these hills, and
over them, and beyond, and into new lives, old deaths. Wave after wave.
Where is their voice? The wind soughs over Black Down; fleeting cloud
casts doubt on their remains.
them up - and walk. Neolithic Man, the Beaker Folk, Bronze Age Man, the
Romans – they all picked them up and walked here, to these hills, and
over them, and beyond, and into new lives, old deaths. Wave after wave.
Where is their voice? The wind soughs over Black Down; fleeting cloud
casts doubt on their remains.
The path dives into Roeberrow Warren and I spook a horse. “All the
horses in the stable shy at hikers with rucksacs. Maybe it’s the shape,”
says the rider. Once, long ago, Oh Best Beloved, a young horse was
freaked by an odd-shaped wandering shadow that passed over the land
and left no imprint on wood, stone, or water. “Humans, our masters,
those who feed and water us, provide shelter, are THIS shape, not
THAT,” quoth the wise old showjumper. “Beware of wandering ghosts of
indeterminate outline, my children, my frisky young foals, they are not
known to wood, stone and water. They are not embraced WITHIN. They
mean Horsedom no good.” Ever since that day, Oh Best Beloved, all the
horses in the stable shy at hikers with rucksacs.
A fellow hiker greets me. “As it’s a nice day I’ve decided to play hooky
and bunk off work,’ he says. We work ourselves to the bare bane, then
we die. Why are we rushing into our graves?
horses in the stable shy at hikers with rucksacs. Maybe it’s the shape,”
says the rider. Once, long ago, Oh Best Beloved, a young horse was
freaked by an odd-shaped wandering shadow that passed over the land
and left no imprint on wood, stone, or water. “Humans, our masters,
those who feed and water us, provide shelter, are THIS shape, not
THAT,” quoth the wise old showjumper. “Beware of wandering ghosts of
indeterminate outline, my children, my frisky young foals, they are not
known to wood, stone and water. They are not embraced WITHIN. They
mean Horsedom no good.” Ever since that day, Oh Best Beloved, all the
horses in the stable shy at hikers with rucksacs.
A fellow hiker greets me. “As it’s a nice day I’ve decided to play hooky
and bunk off work,’ he says. We work ourselves to the bare bane, then
we die. Why are we rushing into our graves?
Further down in Roeberrow Bottom, rabbits gambol
in a field. Rabbits came over with the Romans from
Italy, si? Whereupon they bred like, er …rabbits.
Roeberrow Warren, Dolebury Warren. Since
decimated by myxomatosis.
Who is the joker on this particular strip? Does he
go doodle doodle doodle all the livelong day? Or
squat in the long grass? Oh Mothers, your son
wears a pickled gherkin upon his wanton brow.
in a field. Rabbits came over with the Romans from
Italy, si? Whereupon they bred like, er …rabbits.
Roeberrow Warren, Dolebury Warren. Since
decimated by myxomatosis.
Who is the joker on this particular strip? Does he
go doodle doodle doodle all the livelong day? Or
squat in the long grass? Oh Mothers, your son
wears a pickled gherkin upon his wanton brow.
He needs:
Aggression
Ruthfulness
Naked Ambition
Vanity
A strong dose of stupidity.
Paul Felix Armand-Delille had them. The rabbits died. Correction. The
rabbits die. Correction. The rabbits die slowly and agonisedly.
Correction. Everything dies.
Yes, but this way?
Aggression
Ruthfulness
Naked Ambition
Vanity
A strong dose of stupidity.
Paul Felix Armand-Delille had them. The rabbits died. Correction. The
rabbits die. Correction. The rabbits die slowly and agonisedly.
Correction. Everything dies.
Yes, but this way?
Emerging out of the green heaviness of trees and the arch skittishness
of horses the Redshanks line up coquettishly to offer me scabious,
early purple orchid and eyebright. I am vacant here in nonchalant
Paradise, perfunctorily bedded down to sleep. The valley weaves away
below me, off down to the A38, Churchill, Bristol, the rest of the world.
Its complicated twistedness follows the natural way, mirrors life – why
do humans not?
Things are to be done, and heavinesses squat upon the sea. Below
me the trees trace their signature in the clouds’ passing. Do they come
and go, or is ‘coming’ and ‘going’ only the human representation of no
coming and going? Uji. Here I can see your peaks and troughs. The
voice of the poet is heard in the Land and speaks with slow power of
the Unravelling. Echoes of subtlety pervade a scratched Universe.
There is nothing here enabled to throw a shadow over the land. And
yet dreadsporn ameliorate through cowgirt meadows and the squirm of
moontides.
of horses the Redshanks line up coquettishly to offer me scabious,
early purple orchid and eyebright. I am vacant here in nonchalant
Paradise, perfunctorily bedded down to sleep. The valley weaves away
below me, off down to the A38, Churchill, Bristol, the rest of the world.
Its complicated twistedness follows the natural way, mirrors life – why
do humans not?
Things are to be done, and heavinesses squat upon the sea. Below
me the trees trace their signature in the clouds’ passing. Do they come
and go, or is ‘coming’ and ‘going’ only the human representation of no
coming and going? Uji. Here I can see your peaks and troughs. The
voice of the poet is heard in the Land and speaks with slow power of
the Unravelling. Echoes of subtlety pervade a scratched Universe.
There is nothing here enabled to throw a shadow over the land. And
yet dreadsporn ameliorate through cowgirt meadows and the squirm of
moontides.
I am asked again whether double-yellows are riven embryonically. Oh
yes, this is a very arcane simplicity: this land is old; her Mendip bones
simmer in cauldrons of susceptibility. Lava offloaded spills track that
moment that hamsters believe in. We are technotrollops, culpable in
this kalpa in which bandits reign and the unquantifiable is outfoxed by
the dunderheadedness of days. Our ‘wisdom’ breaks at the edges.
What is this that is going to consider us, oh shufflers of paper? The
endlessness of stupidities downloads on recondite hills. That blueness
of orb; and a sickle moon ascendant.
The soft belly of the sky pins me to the ground. And they collect; and
they recollect, and they gather; stone upon stone, and they are
partaken of THIS one, and THAT one, and of lambs’ eyes behind an
equation. Let us say it: no-one knows the purposes of this Universe, so
no-one knows what is more important than anything else, so one thing
is not more important than another, so everything is important, so what
we do is important. Does this not release us?
yes, this is a very arcane simplicity: this land is old; her Mendip bones
simmer in cauldrons of susceptibility. Lava offloaded spills track that
moment that hamsters believe in. We are technotrollops, culpable in
this kalpa in which bandits reign and the unquantifiable is outfoxed by
the dunderheadedness of days. Our ‘wisdom’ breaks at the edges.
What is this that is going to consider us, oh shufflers of paper? The
endlessness of stupidities downloads on recondite hills. That blueness
of orb; and a sickle moon ascendant.
The soft belly of the sky pins me to the ground. And they collect; and
they recollect, and they gather; stone upon stone, and they are
partaken of THIS one, and THAT one, and of lambs’ eyes behind an
equation. Let us say it: no-one knows the purposes of this Universe, so
no-one knows what is more important than anything else, so one thing
is not more important than another, so everything is important, so what
we do is important. Does this not release us?
Let us consider the usages of walls:
to keep out
to keep in
to include
to exclude
to keep out
to keep in
to include
to exclude
Decine the ontogeny of ‘wall’:
Vallus
Vallum
Weall
Wall
When building a drystone or any other wall beware:
bellying
slumping
bowing
tootling
Oh come on, you’re:
off the [ ]
up the [ ]
Anyway:
the handwriting is definitely on the [ ]
What does it say, soft sister?
Vallus
Vallum
Weall
Wall
When building a drystone or any other wall beware:
bellying
slumping
bowing
tootling
Oh come on, you’re:
off the [ ]
up the [ ]
Anyway:
the handwriting is definitely on the [ ]
What does it say, soft sister?
An incubation of night sinks in around Black Bunny Hollow in Nether
Wood. My tent peg grates against clinker and refuses to go further.
Fused bastard silicon mother for whom the arsenic boy died! Man-
made, obdurate and slyly winking! Perverse metal: lead – dead! Yet
rabbits’ merry skulls disintegrate into it with song intact, moulder into
compost; to this is added their compatriot’s shit, the offerings of roe
and red deer, leaves dead and alive in every season. Then bladder
campion explodes into the life everlasting to harepace the long, slow
oratory of progression. Life is that which life is which life is that which….
This edgeways slant of incantation comes at the bidding of nostrils and
will where to and away. I am the Wanderer whose soul is cloaked in
chickenwire; armpits pass away at my bidding, though, granted, this
aspect of things may be a shibboleth. An internally verified cloud revels
you out on burgeoning skies whose terms of abundance adhere to
land. I am the Wanderer whose soul is cloaked in chickenwire; I am the
roving man the rambling man who roves o’er the shire. Of all the ten
thousand thousands only one will know it, only one will grow it, only one
will taste it, all the rest will waste it. Siegfried? Siegfried! The
apocalyptic NOW summarises the funeral of disdain. So grass out on
fungicides.
Wood. My tent peg grates against clinker and refuses to go further.
Fused bastard silicon mother for whom the arsenic boy died! Man-
made, obdurate and slyly winking! Perverse metal: lead – dead! Yet
rabbits’ merry skulls disintegrate into it with song intact, moulder into
compost; to this is added their compatriot’s shit, the offerings of roe
and red deer, leaves dead and alive in every season. Then bladder
campion explodes into the life everlasting to harepace the long, slow
oratory of progression. Life is that which life is which life is that which….
This edgeways slant of incantation comes at the bidding of nostrils and
will where to and away. I am the Wanderer whose soul is cloaked in
chickenwire; armpits pass away at my bidding, though, granted, this
aspect of things may be a shibboleth. An internally verified cloud revels
you out on burgeoning skies whose terms of abundance adhere to
land. I am the Wanderer whose soul is cloaked in chickenwire; I am the
roving man the rambling man who roves o’er the shire. Of all the ten
thousand thousands only one will know it, only one will grow it, only one
will taste it, all the rest will waste it. Siegfried? Siegfried! The
apocalyptic NOW summarises the funeral of disdain. So grass out on
fungicides.
This is the way to build a wall:
stretcher
layer
bind
watch the batter
bonders
pop holes
pudding-stone
And earthquakes may shatter it, Mercedes Benz 1-9-2-4 tipper lorries
on their way to Callow Rock tumble it, runaway tractors demolish it,
grockles scramble over it, sheep-seeking missiles explode it on Yoxter
Range. NEVERTHELESS: we are human. Build it!
But let him who lays the first stone bear the responsibility for all the
rest. Who, what set this ALL in process? ALL that is ALL? Where is it
going, where will it end? Ah, ‘going’, ‘ending’. Evoked and sandblasted
by recalcitrant dogmas this is where language cleaves to the roof of the
mouth; sticks to mucosa, is run out on bellwethers of campanula to the
chimes of soft-drizzled mornings across the lagoon:
Cambridge Surprise Major
Oxford Treble Bob Major
Stedman Triples
Double Norwich Court Bob Major
Plain Bob Major
Grandsire Triples
Bristol Surprise Major
stretcher
layer
bind
watch the batter
bonders
pop holes
pudding-stone
And earthquakes may shatter it, Mercedes Benz 1-9-2-4 tipper lorries
on their way to Callow Rock tumble it, runaway tractors demolish it,
grockles scramble over it, sheep-seeking missiles explode it on Yoxter
Range. NEVERTHELESS: we are human. Build it!
But let him who lays the first stone bear the responsibility for all the
rest. Who, what set this ALL in process? ALL that is ALL? Where is it
going, where will it end? Ah, ‘going’, ‘ending’. Evoked and sandblasted
by recalcitrant dogmas this is where language cleaves to the roof of the
mouth; sticks to mucosa, is run out on bellwethers of campanula to the
chimes of soft-drizzled mornings across the lagoon:
Cambridge Surprise Major
Oxford Treble Bob Major
Stedman Triples
Double Norwich Court Bob Major
Plain Bob Major
Grandsire Triples
Bristol Surprise Major
Bullocks wall-eye me high on the fields off
Greendown Batch, nudge each other. “Hiker!
Let’s put the shits up him – flanking
movement!” They mount an, um, cavalry (?)
charge. “Remember Cudjo! Brown coats to
the fore!”, then wheel as one when ten yards
away, “Whoa! Hold it boys, hold it, he might .
Greendown Batch, nudge each other. “Hiker!
Let’s put the shits up him – flanking
movement!” They mount an, um, cavalry (?)
charge. “Remember Cudjo! Brown coats to
the fore!”, then wheel as one when ten yards
away, “Whoa! Hold it boys, hold it, he might .
call the farmer!” and thunder off up the slope. “Still, I reckon we scared
him, don’t you?” Sure did, Junior
him, don’t you?” Sure did, Junior
Companiable in sudden storm the cows’ older cousins’ sleek water
streaked back-on-back rolling eyes log me in tobacco white over the
usual beech-lined drystone wall. Harmless. At least in need to shelter
from the rain. This … wall, which separates us from the rest of
Creation. But a companionability of cows. A bundled swallow sways on
the electric fencing. According to swallows, what is electric fencing
‘for’? According to pigeons, what is ‘a cathedral’ for? To strut and coo,
nest in. Ikkyu says that ‘stone Buddha deserves all the birdshit it gets’.
What are things ‘for’? Yet ‘for’ is too strong a word. Is that not
comforting?
Ah hummmmm…. the refrain sits on stone walls yellow with summer
sunned saxifrages. The ghosts of Mendip miners peek shyly at me out
of gruffy ground. Some march me off to Nordrach sanatorium, where I
am bedevilled by weaslings and quacks. Where is this in the
culminating aesthetic of opera singers?
The hills abide. But this is no longer true. We have crumbled the hill
into valleys and raised the valleys into hills. All that is solid shall fade
away. And shall and shall. Shall what? Our fingers are in the cracks of
Being. We wrench the very earth apart. Mind touches this and skitters
off, touches it and skitters away. Is it to the solidity of stone we can
beckon?
The mind is drawn to a widening gyre of carboniferous foraminifera 350
million years ago, to algal motes spiralling in stabbing sun in shallow
seas, falling, gliding, sinking to the bottom of warm sea, trillions upon
trillions over dreamless time, corals, mussels, shellfish pounded in
Ogun’s forge, bent over the anvil, journeyed from Ikole Orun to Ikole
Aiye, split, riven, raised. This we call ‘solid’ danced in tropical waters to
a patterning of sun. Is there rest for the restless here?
streaked back-on-back rolling eyes log me in tobacco white over the
usual beech-lined drystone wall. Harmless. At least in need to shelter
from the rain. This … wall, which separates us from the rest of
Creation. But a companionability of cows. A bundled swallow sways on
the electric fencing. According to swallows, what is electric fencing
‘for’? According to pigeons, what is ‘a cathedral’ for? To strut and coo,
nest in. Ikkyu says that ‘stone Buddha deserves all the birdshit it gets’.
What are things ‘for’? Yet ‘for’ is too strong a word. Is that not
comforting?
Ah hummmmm…. the refrain sits on stone walls yellow with summer
sunned saxifrages. The ghosts of Mendip miners peek shyly at me out
of gruffy ground. Some march me off to Nordrach sanatorium, where I
am bedevilled by weaslings and quacks. Where is this in the
culminating aesthetic of opera singers?
- In green, in green-slippered Paradise
My love, oh my love shall lie;
At one with clay until dies irae;
And all world, all world shall be One,
When humans are eradicated
And our time is done
- (sing to whatever tune you want)
The hills abide. But this is no longer true. We have crumbled the hill
into valleys and raised the valleys into hills. All that is solid shall fade
away. And shall and shall. Shall what? Our fingers are in the cracks of
Being. We wrench the very earth apart. Mind touches this and skitters
off, touches it and skitters away. Is it to the solidity of stone we can
beckon?
The mind is drawn to a widening gyre of carboniferous foraminifera 350
million years ago, to algal motes spiralling in stabbing sun in shallow
seas, falling, gliding, sinking to the bottom of warm sea, trillions upon
trillions over dreamless time, corals, mussels, shellfish pounded in
Ogun’s forge, bent over the anvil, journeyed from Ikole Orun to Ikole
Aiye, split, riven, raised. This we call ‘solid’ danced in tropical waters to
a patterning of sun. Is there rest for the restless here?
Earth strikes a note: it sings. Heaven
responds – it chimes. This is the prima
donna of whom Scarlatti spoke in tongues. It
gives rise to a certain tardiness of cue at the
borders where language lies bedazzled
before the grievous inscriptions of mortality.
Why should this be of use? Of what use is
responds – it chimes. This is the prima
donna of whom Scarlatti spoke in tongues. It
gives rise to a certain tardiness of cue at the
borders where language lies bedazzled
before the grievous inscriptions of mortality.
Why should this be of use? Of what use is
the galleon oak of Blagdon? Man’s parallel strips converge (or
converge not: this is the Devil) to lie with the corn-maiden in her fruitful
fields. Let us take the Devil: ‘parallel lines extending to Infinity’. Then
the rub of skin on skin: Pocohantas, silky pubic hair of corn. A New
World opens out, but is congealed into innerness. We ground on the
theme of ‘usefulness’. Of what things are ‘for’, strung out on the line of
heavy artillery, ‘pushing our systems through the snow’ (Derek
Walcott).
But see how it lies in Rowberrow Bottom. ‘Nice horse, what’s his
name?’ ‘Blue’. What could be more unequivocal? Did the horse call
itself ‘blue’? Let’s sub this one out, farm it out to allotments,
semaphore it out to the skies, trudge it through the wet grass, scope it
out to a generous mother and her babies at Fernhill Farm.
converge not: this is the Devil) to lie with the corn-maiden in her fruitful
fields. Let us take the Devil: ‘parallel lines extending to Infinity’. Then
the rub of skin on skin: Pocohantas, silky pubic hair of corn. A New
World opens out, but is congealed into innerness. We ground on the
theme of ‘usefulness’. Of what things are ‘for’, strung out on the line of
heavy artillery, ‘pushing our systems through the snow’ (Derek
Walcott).
But see how it lies in Rowberrow Bottom. ‘Nice horse, what’s his
name?’ ‘Blue’. What could be more unequivocal? Did the horse call
itself ‘blue’? Let’s sub this one out, farm it out to allotments,
semaphore it out to the skies, trudge it through the wet grass, scope it
out to a generous mother and her babies at Fernhill Farm.
The inevitable black dog bays behind The Mount and lollops towards
me to check out my olfactory status. Satisfactory, here, at least, on
neutral ground. Humanity fast-syncs forward over tump, mump, bump
and barrow. We are always testing the water. ‘Is this enough?’. What
is ‘enough’? “Never is ‘enough’ enough”, the barrow wights sigh.
What's on the News? What other people want us to be fearful of, feel
guilty for. This destruction testing of the earth has no external
yottabyte hard-drive. There is no back-up file, we cannot curl up world
and put it on a memory stick. Remember us? Humans… Whoops,
error reading 666, file corrupted. Reformat the hard disc, start again.
The imprint of someone’s hand is on each stone. Sweat-drops, over
each one flowed rough vowels. “Tiz getting dimpsey, zo cummin yer
an wet thee's whistle.” They retrieve the flagon from the pop hole
First, the Romans. No. After. There is always something, someone
after. So long as there is a before. What is before the before?
Imperators have always scribed their name into lead pigs, gouged it
into the land. Pax romanum?
Have we heard this before? THIS IS MY HEDGE, THIS IS MY MATE!
GET OFF MY TERRITORY!
me to check out my olfactory status. Satisfactory, here, at least, on
neutral ground. Humanity fast-syncs forward over tump, mump, bump
and barrow. We are always testing the water. ‘Is this enough?’. What
is ‘enough’? “Never is ‘enough’ enough”, the barrow wights sigh.
What's on the News? What other people want us to be fearful of, feel
guilty for. This destruction testing of the earth has no external
yottabyte hard-drive. There is no back-up file, we cannot curl up world
and put it on a memory stick. Remember us? Humans… Whoops,
error reading 666, file corrupted. Reformat the hard disc, start again.
- High on Black Down
The ancestors slumber in sun-scurried tumuli;
Sweet the bilberries that grow on their graves.
The imprint of someone’s hand is on each stone. Sweat-drops, over
each one flowed rough vowels. “Tiz getting dimpsey, zo cummin yer
an wet thee's whistle.” They retrieve the flagon from the pop hole
First, the Romans. No. After. There is always something, someone
after. So long as there is a before. What is before the before?
Imperators have always scribed their name into lead pigs, gouged it
into the land. Pax romanum?
- [THE PROPERTY OF] TIBERIUS CLAUDIUS
CAESAR AUGUSTUS, PONTIFEX MAXIMUS,
[HOLDER OF THE] TRIBUNICIAN POWER
FOR THE NINTH TIME, IMPERATOR FOR
THE SIXTEENTH TIME. FROM BRITAIN.
Have we heard this before? THIS IS MY HEDGE, THIS IS MY MATE!
GET OFF MY TERRITORY!
high over Pride Evans Hole the roar shatters off the walls, inviting a
comeback challenge from cave-drawn minotaur. He paws the earth,
bellows in turn, locks horns. They blink first, pull in to a layby for
experiments in bubblegum and steaming up windows. Per ardua ad
astra? This … cleft in the mound, this engorgement, rammed up by
the testosteronally-challenged – have we been here before?
comeback challenge from cave-drawn minotaur. He paws the earth,
bellows in turn, locks horns. They blink first, pull in to a layby for
experiments in bubblegum and steaming up windows. Per ardua ad
astra? This … cleft in the mound, this engorgement, rammed up by
the testosteronally-challenged – have we been here before?
Tourists pour into Cheddar Gorge almost as
fast as the Yeo pouring out. Socially-
excluded young people in danger of
offending and offered preventative schemes
through YISPs ASBO up the gorge in a hot-
modded matt-black ’93 Vauxhall Astra GSi
petrol injected 2.0l 16v. From where I sit
fast as the Yeo pouring out. Socially-
excluded young people in danger of
offending and offered preventative schemes
through YISPs ASBO up the gorge in a hot-
modded matt-black ’93 Vauxhall Astra GSi
petrol injected 2.0l 16v. From where I sit
Stone-closed edge; and a gap through which gorge is viewed. Does
the view exist without the constraint? We are framed by beginnings
and endings and the Sisyphusian haulage of stone. Build them up,
they topple; build them up again, they topple again; in lifetimes if not
in days. Their edges do not round off with age, they become
sharpened, more angular; cast flat black shadows to sun’s gaze; we
move in this twisted mechanism at random, a torus of ‘within’.
Charterhouse (again), Priddy Hill Farm, a schism of crows, square
wood, Yoxter Firing Range, Bowery Corner. Stretched and torn the
landscape knits itself together, self-heals, and rears towards an
epiphany of skylarks: Priddy Nine Barrows!
This partial landscape counterspeaks an epistemology of despair as
chuntered down swallets to nothingness; gawp-mouthed, involute,
violated. I vault from HERE to the end of sideways, and settle down to
peace.
the view exist without the constraint? We are framed by beginnings
and endings and the Sisyphusian haulage of stone. Build them up,
they topple; build them up again, they topple again; in lifetimes if not
in days. Their edges do not round off with age, they become
sharpened, more angular; cast flat black shadows to sun’s gaze; we
move in this twisted mechanism at random, a torus of ‘within’.
Charterhouse (again), Priddy Hill Farm, a schism of crows, square
wood, Yoxter Firing Range, Bowery Corner. Stretched and torn the
landscape knits itself together, self-heals, and rears towards an
epiphany of skylarks: Priddy Nine Barrows!
This partial landscape counterspeaks an epistemology of despair as
chuntered down swallets to nothingness; gawp-mouthed, involute,
violated. I vault from HERE to the end of sideways, and settle down to
peace.
The peace which soughs through pine trees
Peace
The peace which runs down the inner side of thighs
Peace
The peace which hops in frogs and unmediated shopping trolleys
Peace
The peace which sits in put-aside meadows
Peace
Do not try to understand.
Only comprehend
Peace
The peace which runs down the inner side of thighs
Peace
The peace which hops in frogs and unmediated shopping trolleys
Peace
The peace which sits in put-aside meadows
Peace
Do not try to understand.
Only comprehend
She will get us in the end. Her inimical
spittoons fester on ice; her specs tango to
read-only docs. Her cauldrons of
undifferentiated loss space out the
milestones to infinity; she atomises
perpendicularity.
spittoons fester on ice; her specs tango to
read-only docs. Her cauldrons of
undifferentiated loss space out the
milestones to infinity; she atomises
perpendicularity.
Yet this is the best we have to deal with. Not the brightest, just the
best. We think some things are more important than others but the
universe doesn’t doesn’t. After all, we are granted mortality. I am
looking for the words that unlock this. To fishtail down the singing
slope above Fair Lady Well to a nonchalant pass of tree and the long,
slow dance of stone. We are here to know what is noble, and what
weight it will bear, to absorb the exigencies of mushrooms’ lives, the
silence gathered under beeches on Nordrach. That note of freedom
sticking to the crags of Draycott Sleights, overflying the streaming guts
of The Levels where cloud-galleons swashbuckle up from the
Quantocks, reform ranks in Bridgewater Bay, then sail majestically up
the Polden Hills to bombard the Goddess and Her acolytes in
Glastonbury. We should be capable of LIVING again, not just of
inhabiting the tunnel realities force fed us by the media.
best. We think some things are more important than others but the
universe doesn’t doesn’t. After all, we are granted mortality. I am
looking for the words that unlock this. To fishtail down the singing
slope above Fair Lady Well to a nonchalant pass of tree and the long,
slow dance of stone. We are here to know what is noble, and what
weight it will bear, to absorb the exigencies of mushrooms’ lives, the
silence gathered under beeches on Nordrach. That note of freedom
sticking to the crags of Draycott Sleights, overflying the streaming guts
of The Levels where cloud-galleons swashbuckle up from the
Quantocks, reform ranks in Bridgewater Bay, then sail majestically up
the Polden Hills to bombard the Goddess and Her acolytes in
Glastonbury. We should be capable of LIVING again, not just of
inhabiting the tunnel realities force fed us by the media.
The catechism of the ages plainchants
solemnly, measuredly under the vault of
Heaven.
Unperturbed, serene.
Stone be in you and stone before you, stone
to cup you and stone under you. Where is the
stone that in-closes, where is the stone upon
which it is inscribed we are free? Take the
tablets and go down the mountain, the hill,
this Mendip. Proclaim it to the people. We are
free, there is no ‘for’.
solemnly, measuredly under the vault of
Heaven.
Unperturbed, serene.
Stone be in you and stone before you, stone
to cup you and stone under you. Where is the
stone that in-closes, where is the stone upon
which it is inscribed we are free? Take the
tablets and go down the mountain, the hill,
this Mendip. Proclaim it to the people. We are
free, there is no ‘for’.
FROM
WINSCOMBE
TO PRIDDY
NINE
BARROWS
WINSCOMBE
TO PRIDDY
NINE
BARROWS
A MENDIP
JOURNEY
JOURNEY
from 27 June
to 5 July 2007
for the Mendip
Lifelines Project
to 5 July 2007
for the Mendip
Lifelines Project
| Heritage Lottery funded |
Blog of actual journey plus photos plus
other Lifelines projects
other Lifelines projects
MAP OF
RAMBLE
RAMBLE