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    Talking Crow
    Talking Crow
    Talking Crow
    Ebook205 pages55 minutes

    Talking Crow

    By Jim Clarkson and Camilla Davis

    ()

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    About this ebook

    Jim Clarkson is a lucky git.
    He has written poetry since he was 17 and mostly he has done this in pockets
    of time in-between doing other stuff.
    His is a poetry which has sprouted like a weed growing between cracks in the
    pavement; a poetry which has spread like mushrooms in a cellar. Often he
    has referred to it as b

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherBook Printing UK
    Release dateNov 25, 2015
    ISBN9781911113133
    Talking Crow

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      Book preview

      Talking Crow - Jim Clarkson

      HALLELUJAH HERE

      A place of snapped pavements and small victories;

      of things cobbled;

      of nothing coming together.

      A falling into the sun place,

      a place where spirits and long-removed fence posts

      have more substance than what actually exists.

      I think these things coming back from the shop

      bringing breakfast milk.

      I will forget the better part of them.

      Or if I remember them,

      then I will think only about their failure as words;

      as word disease.

      Such is the hallelujah place;

      this place of searching.

      So search in the most profound deep

      if you want even the smallest signal in the dark -

      use the most sensitive instruments.

      Search and search.

      Search and still there will be nothing.

      But at least that door will be closed.

      THINGS TO COME

      Voodoo maraca-shook beat of an indicator

      ticks in time with a nodding line of trees

      that wind noosed by a loop of train track.

      The rest of my car whines along too, as a spider hangs

      between wing-mirror and wet driver’s-side door.

      Tiny, soused, demon-black hobo-traveller

      moving with what I endow it; its web

      a useless, oily, return-entry chute

      bobbling on a false flow of air.

      On the passenger seat there’s a bag stuffed with Chinese food:

      Chicken balls; spittle-thick sweet-and-sour;

      my half-arsed conscience food of tofu in satay sauce.

      Each concoction

      fumes in its plastic box,

      gassing the windows with an exotic stench.

      As the engine vibrates,

      spiced shaky droplets descend

      in bomb-runs to damp-blast the rubber seals.

      With a hard lock left I am left facing an old person’s home

      where I see them behind glass, suffering

      the reverse exorcism

      of pig’s-blood-thick children’s voices

      long after the little turds should have gone.

      Lord knows why it is that they must bear them,

      showing off how they

      will continue to exist when

      these trapped shakers have passed on.

      Luckily I can blot their misery out with Our Jimi.

      If I don’t meet you no more in this world… Will I? Will I?

      I’ll meet you all on the next one…

      …and don’t be late. Don’t be late!

      Beautifully put.

      So I leave that universe and get stuck into the next one

      at a set of traffic lights

      where middle-aged people

      hum hate from their exhausts.

      Our lives probably are about recurrence.

      Which is depressing

      when the car lopes into its ninth pothole.

      The same fate again and again. No rest and no ending.

      Horny little animals, snatching at scraps; living and suffering and passing.

      Unbearable. But then again…

      just think of the Sahara and think of vastnesses.

      Just think of the wasted girdle of stars

      spread wherever you look.

      NEW YEAR’S DAY

      I

      Morning, coming to under clouds

      rolling above some old shops.

      From the house, marijuana fumes

      gently pummel the pavement, spilling its guts

      into v-shaped ruts that create signs on its surface.

      There’s a dead bird at a line

      where the verge and path meet:

      tarmac black and grass green are held by long thin wing bones;

      head and beak bleached and bacteria-clean.

      You move through this easily

      knowing the shifts in pressure between hedges;

      the bulge and tilt of the paths.

      Above, Jupiter’s solo struck-match brightness.

      The year is heralded by a distant storm.

      II

      Still living birds glow in the wind,

      cantilevered shapes against strips of sky.

      Two giant leylandii mesh loudly,

      their threshing trunks suggestively spread.

      They are an entryway to a dingy, backwoods kingdom

      of golf balls and high teenagers.

      By a busy newsagents, two younger children giggle,

      pushing their way in for fags or chocolate.

      An older woman leaves, pelvis like a double-edged axe,

      coughing up whatever toked battle-toxins she’d just ingested.

      There was another cough from inside the shop too,

      masculine, but lighter, like a eunuch.

      III

      Now the day progresses

      with just enough light produced

      to fuel your carnivorous visions of the street.

      Odds and ends of wood spike in a bin;

      houses are smothered in strings of outdoor bulbs;

      a bundled national flag rags in a bare cherry tree,

      its white and crabby red flashing.

      It had been nailed to a plank, but was freed by the wind,

      cartwheeling until it was caught in the claws of a branch.

      Nails and wood, people and coughing, you and yours.

      Souls pinned down by the effort

      of being something for something else.

      It’s time to move on.

      Light-weight quanta lift your view from

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