some of the pier disappears

November 29, 2010

A good deal of activity around and on the poor pier. Dismantled steel shapes resemble parts of ships carcases. They make very strong sculptural features literally scattered across the beach – mangled and warped by the heat of the fire.

All heaped together  – unidentifiable pieces of fabrication – discarded but sort of attractive in their muddled groupings. 

And within the hour, a change has happened. It’s as though the tides and the forever moving beach provide us with a constantly changing spectacle. Very grateful – no human being could do this.

Things get broken
at home
like they were pushed
by an invisible, deliberate smasher.
It’s not my hands
or yours
It wasn’t the girls
with their hard fingernails
or the motion of the planet.
It wasn’t anything or anybody
It wasn’t the wind
It wasn’t the orange-colored noontime
Or night over the earth
It wasn’t even the nose or the elbow
Or the hips getting bigger
or the ankle
or the air.
The plate broke, the lamp fell
All the flower pots tumbled over
one by one. That pot
which overflowed with scarlet
in the middle of October,
it got tired from all the violets
and another empty one
rolled round and round and round
all through winter
until it was only the powder
of a flowerpot,
a broken memory, shining dust.

And that clock
whose sound
was
the voice of our lives,
the secret
thread of our weeks,
which released
one by one, so many hours
for honey and silence
for so many births and jobs,
that clock also
fell
and its delicate blue guts
vibrated
among the broken glass
its wide heart
unsprung.

Life goes on grinding up
glass, wearing out clothes
making fragments
breaking down
forms
and what lasts through time
is like an island on a ship in the sea,
perishable
surrounded by dangerous fragility
by merciless waters and threats.

Let’s put all our treasures together
— the clocks, plates, cups cracked by the cold —
into a sack and carry them
to the sea
and let our possessions sink
into one alarming breaker
that sounds like a river.
May whatever breaks
be reconstructed by the sea
with the long labor of its tides.
So many useless things
which nobody broke
but which got broken anyway 

Ode to Broken things  Pablo Neruda

a little person has arrived – a very important little individual  – hence no time nor inclination to be blogging of late . . .

 . . wee fingers perfectly formed . . .

 . . the father and the son and their ears. No doubt they will look alike but have unique identities. And although the snow has arrived blanketing the ground,  strangely the landscape beneath breathes through clearly and retains its own identity too.

Early morning with a sprinkling of snow on the beach. A grainy landscape – quite raw . . .

 . . . to the west, with Bexhill lit up and Beachy Head far away, somewhat warmer in feel and more mellow . . .

 . . directly to the south, a stretch of rocks called  Goats Leap is starting to emerge from the water as the tide goes out. When the natural landscape met the sea, the creatures came down from the cliff tops.

 

Across the road at the Burton Gallery, a sense of summery warmth in a picture by David Reeve and also . . .

at La La Rookh, summery clothes. But not today unfortunately. It’s bitter . . .

 . . little parcels of frozen snow clinging to the grass but bright shiny fruits on the iris gleam through the snow  + look quite festive . . .

 . . . and the spread of verbena has become a delicate frozen button headed landscape.

So for the little one, a lullaby that is all about the way it is sung with soothing notes – the words convey the uncertainty of life! 

Hush-a-by baby

On the tree top,

When the wind blows

The cradle will rock.

When the bough breaks,

The cradle will fall,

Down tumbles baby,

Cradle and all.

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