Ken Bolton / September Poems / 2.
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2. Geography choppy weather this morning the water on permanent cycle of squash, rinse, splash (& a noise that sounds like “squulp”)— a fresh wind. Whether to do another drawing—or wait for these Roy Fisher poems to kick in. Tho is the Aegean really Roy’s territory? —(A correction. The Adriatic, actually.)— Or not? Every sentence has to end. (“The bill.” The reckoning.) (The tough tone of Roy Fisher.) Across the lake a line of houses, all dun cream with salmon-pink roofing — olive green behind them in balding striations that ascend—a grey, sharp ridge (against the impassive blue of the sky), severe, forbidding; the stark elemental separation of colours— whose tones say “Croatia”— as opposed to “Italy”, “Australia”, “England” or “Greece”. Roy? Jim? (James Schuyler: for whom the Aegean, maybe—the Mediterranean rather, Ischia, Majorca.) The drawing catches just that bit where Cath & Gabe & Yuri swam & Anna, too, Leigh & Stacey— yesterday, where the metal rails that step down to the water stand & gleam. Where Cath stands now, her white jacket against the narrowing strip of blue. Her hands in her pockets, thoughtful.