Wolf Tongue Read Online Free Page A

is an Idea.
    You
    Swelling inside on the saltnessness of air, Air, in
    side him for the youth it is, it was
    in your black sea, raging.
30
    Inexplicable magnets (to human eyes)
    Draw out the
    Steel. The bullhead
    trout. It draws it, across
    country, from your
    feeble sinking heart. The
    heart sinks, heads
    for the stuttering plug
    & it’s a rare catch!
    It’s an Ideal which is an idea
    like eating your best friend. Chatter-
    ton ate himself in one brief rubidium glow
    & the birds lay down and laughed
    as the Great Sky Magnet
    drew
    him
    Up.
    1972

Homage to John Everett, Marine Painter, 1876–1949
    i walk to the annexe
    to dust the marine paintings
    of john everett
    who is out of fashion
    but whose work
    i like better than anything else
    in the museum
    the sky is a dome
    of madder and brass
    and it is windy and cold
    a letter arrives
    it is very happy
    but the last line is sad
    and there is a p.s.
    apologising for it
    at tea time
    the street-lights come on
    with an extra-terrestrial glow
    it is still cold
    and as i ride my motor-bike home
    the wind makes my eyes water
    in many of everett’s pictures
    the forefront of the canvas
    is filled with the overwhelming prows
    of cutters
    as if the onlooker
    were a man shipwrecked
    clinging to flotsam
    or just drowning
    slowly
    the park is dotted with people
    three men from the park’s department
    are cutting down an oak
    planted by charles the first’s gardener
    a party of mongol children
    on a charabanc trip
    are playing with an orange ball
    of the only two portraits
    of everett
    the first noticeable contrast
    is that in the self-portrait
    he is in a bright blue smock
    with corn-coloured hair
    a clay-pipe
    and a ragged straw hat
    whereas in the painting
    by his friend and contemporary

    he is depicted as a rather
    sinister character
    with a lean face
    dark brown hair
    and pointed beard
    with a top hat
    and black opera cloak
    hunched in a deep armchair
    surrounded by shadows
    but all of his paintings
    are bright
    with large areas of stark white sail
    bleached by tropical sunlight
    and deep red shadows
    along the mast hatches and deck
    and the sea
    painted either very flat
    or in seductive blue swells
    almost like smoke
    the rough tasmanian straits
    the limpid bay at montevideo
    or just cowes week
    with a cluster of startling parasols
    many painted directly onto sailcloth
    sixteen voyages
    over forty years
    seventeen hundred oils
    the only painter
    to watch and portray
    the last years of the sailing ship
    and it is the seventeenth century dutch
    who hang
    1973

ODES
    (1971–1978)
    for Elaine

Flame Ode
    (for Elaine)
    Two hawks and a plover swoop
    above as we run the
    quiet
    band.
    Listen. The mountain spring is music
    too.
    (Clear swell
    of
    breath in
    poems.)
    We cluster in
    the busy grass &
    talk. Rise
    up & live!
    It is really distinct.

Wing Ode
    The feet are white boats. Hands are
    unlocked keys of colour & shape. Love
    me.      Feel me beside you
    and within.
    (Boats
    in April rain
    pools)
    I break my chrysalis
    & Rise!
    Walk as a golden man.

New Ode
    Indigo robe her arm is wrapped within. Amber
    the hair and eyes of this woman. See
    them. There, the seal. Is
    broken, open.
    Shafts of gold in the pale afternoon.
    Plover.
    Lamb.
    Moon goes like
    a woman
    through time
    Un-
    broken.

 Chatterton Ode
    Time is a jagged mark upon the wrist. See
    the child does not weep. Or
    has any leaf upon his flaming
    side.
    He holds
    what blood there is in
    side an acorne-coppe.
    Spiky yellow buds
    between
    his making fingers.
    Bread.
    Cyanide.

Jim Morrison Ode
    Peristalsis writhes a sudden knot &
    hangs himself. His micro-
    lunch burns.
    The lamb in his horned
    Calipers moves
    afraid. He
    cannot find.     O riff
    of my pulse’s purple disk!
    Sheen & gloss.
    Snakes
    in heaven too
    Do writhe.

 Swedenborg Ode
    Influx of new crass mourning. Shrouds
    draw off the velvet caress a hand
    makes
    within yr breast.
    Is this a Thought-Robe? (See
    her gem of mind is a macrocosm.)