Jude Walton, Nadja – Léona (see PDF for details)
Oswald Von Wolkenstein (c. 1376-1445) Songs of Myself (harmonia mundi, 2010)
Orange, green, green, viridian | silver, green, green, green
Green, white, silver, purple, white, white – each inscription of song resists institutional folly.
Belief in youth? … Blotting paper? . . This little pig went to market.
Dull blows on wood; everything’s going down – better to be vulgar and use your legs.
‘Everything wrong has been proved wrong.’
Over Kabul there is the pall of burning everything, a bull-cloth over ‘ … our bitch-compound. They burn everything; we’re surrounded by them, by everything.’
Motorway verges . . and a few solitary leaves.
‘Wear a happy face or sink …’
John Berryman, Homage to Mistress Bradstreet, in ‘Selected Poems 1938-1968’ (Faber, 1972)
clay plant pots
Alastair Cook (Cricketer)
Fil D’Argent, Fil D’Or (Pierre Danican Philidor 1681-1731 & Michel Pignolet de Montéclair 1667-1737: six suites for two traversos: Outhere Music, 2015)
Robert Graves, Selected Poems, edited by Michael Longley (Faber, 2013)
Grid Iron Theatre Company, South Bend, written by Martin McCormick (2018)
handerchief’s (Alec Finlay, a feather in weather)
wooden clothes pegs
Brambles, thousands to a soul, march on the English aorta – and others of that species – intent on crusade in the moist arch of her cut grass. Aye, revelation in the food bank at suppertime: isolation, Fentanyl analogues, bevvy, et cetera.
The second wound: The land moved away starting to turn in the orient of sky. And as the land moved away so too a sour melody turned without light into the wound your lance made in the canvas; the Verfremdungseffekt of a supermarket trolley, contactless payment, dry cleaning, flies, et cetera.
In the sky about the wound that your lance made in the flesh, the ur-psalm of a goldfinch spread the sweet shelter of a lime tree on the bleached grass; a teenage girl slept peacefully-foetal in a space between Lenor and Comfort on the bottom tray of a shelving unit in the Household Cleaning aisle. I ask, are we all too late? Have I seen your face before? I need help from time to time: Yes, I said, we would need the guns by next spring.
L. your discovery was more than just the hole, more than just nothing.
Collecting sticks in the wood, I went over to where he was found by a dog walker, where they fly-tipped his body; over here,
This is where the officers danced the Scottish dawn.
Friday 5 January, 2018. The Hirsel, Riemore Estate, Dunkeld. Snow fell over everything. Voices grew quieter and fewer. I was no longer ashamed of my love for you. On the far hill the snow came on again, but softly, as I watched the blue numbers huddle neon deep in the weather, perhaps six hundred of a flock surrounded by brilliant light; an immense protecting veil of steam inside which were ten thousand and more eyes. You needed to be somewhere. I cleared the windscreen and windows with a flat five centimetre square piece of Plockton oak and turned the key in the ignition.
The fifth wound: A rabbit arched its back. A blossom-killing fog hung over everything. I watched a woman in grey sweats turn slowly away from a memorial of flowers that were tied to a fence. She stepped over a puddle and walked towards the other end of the car park and a spirit-blue Fiat; towards where sickly bushes rusted behind the fence, the ground around them a poisonous blush of deep red. A train went by. She pulled the key to the car from a clutch bag and a silver bullet fell to the ground – a Cyber Colours avocado lip balm.
Woven into the fence behind her car were thin strings of human guts; cold viscera; wet human guts starting to dry in the gentle breeze. The rest had been bagged by early morning, and hastily stored in a chest freezer in the Coated Fish aisle before the red mud had had a chance to harden on it; before he had had a chance to harden on her:
The night bled outwith her; her room, saturated in a porcelain silence that flowed and flowed like starlight coming into truth in the white-washed air at the end of her bed: linseed, yellow ochre, plaster of Paris, carmine and hawthorn, taking form;
Daisy, dandelion, smooth meadow-grass, orchard grasses … pitiless small birds flitted around the wooden kirk, and to everything later, et cetera.
M.H. Abrams, The Mirror and the Lamp: Romantic Theory and the Critical Tradition (OUP, 1953)
John Barbour, HARDSOFT (Australian Experimental Art Foundation & Yuill/Crowley, 2011)
James Brooks, Spoils (Offord Road Books, 2018)
14 degrees and breezy from the west north west.
David Hayden, Darker With The Lights On: Stories (Little Island Press, 2018)
Hinnonmaki yellow (Gooseberry)
Sean O’Brien, Europa (Picador, 2018)
Venus Durathin (Thin lead-coloured pencils / 50-9 Blue), Venus Pencil Co., Ltd. (England, 1950)
BASP UK – Outdoor Emergency First Aid
Highland, to plant limes beside the spring, to purify and sweeten the water.
Shaun Prescott, The Town (Brow Books, 2017)
The world, as wide as your sides, but masked by fashion and comfort.
‘Twice five, twice five, twice five …’
Vine black – rushlight.
Yevgeny Yevtushenko, Ivan the Terrible and Ivan the Fool. Translated by Daniel Weissbort (Victor Gollancz Ltd., 1979)
‘If I look at a cup I can name it, I can describe its design. I may be able to guess its value or describe its particular use. This is the everyday shorthand by which I orientate myself and make sense of the world around me.’
‘… In another vein of thought I may look at a cup and think of breakfast – a kind of first order association by which I logically connect a cup with a process or event of which a cup is a part.’
A wavy line of geese on the cool surface of the sky, like drops of water on black.
Donald Judd Writings (Judd Foundation & David Zwirner Books 2016)
Frost light on the slates of the helpless barn.
One day the patterned rug will go on without.
‘ … Things.
When I say that word (do you hear?), there is a silence; the silence which surrounds things. All movement subsides and becomes contour, and out of past and future time something permanent is formed: space, the great calm of objects which know no urge.’ (R.M.R.)
That life, perhaps, is no more than preparation for the hour suddenly stilled.
Talking to myself … the cherry tree’s going to blossom soon …
‘… Lastly I may look and see mainly a white curving shape. It might remind me of a bath or a seagull. I suspend my habits of vision – I let the object settle in my mind as an object and allow images to well up around it.’
The cup shifted on its saucer – by the nothingness of a bird – helpless.
Perfect day – Scotland, rain, ozone.