James Mc Laughlin

a for waited and lay once though
apprehension and of cycle a in though
wonder in we or know even don’t
from seen unfore flowers to waken
nor anticipated neither we another of
the in breath next the in may what
and expectation or yearning of sense
endure to its window a at a like rouses
the in limbs your still lie you own
your or strength its knowing of ways
tincture in white may you or curious
we devise our to left take to affections
the for granular and the urban of being
from touch the is only our set be
may weak these marked and whose
a this a from here from you has flung
which love the other the while in
one tubers while care less in azalea grows
profusely and early are they as
pale are you in white now lies
lilacs since it is certainly own blue
with it of and sing itself
of it to speak and I it is seas
the country because flowers
as roots are in it me in lilac
of the soil under and over
colour bay from of wind full May
South a to open and blossom
earth soft leaves small and open
other no as olive puffed
upon a marching out and sky
on as tree ash singing is a
familiar of the foot and on a it
children of gardens or recollection
demise after vine smell are hearts
our of souls of great as tulips sweeter
apples than sea to the river from
beaches you along the starts
and you or two sharp moonlight
and blossoms to a cat of doorways
a curiously clear cut fragrant air
a different inside an earlier upon
this is draped arabesque of an
of the seat the arrangements of
announced firmly than before
observation where blunt approaches
dark mood of limit permitted no
exegesis no exit the visage the
feathered drifts no strange measured
it alters and call the hibiscus
more gifted then as illusory
a hint of what was going and
uncovering pouring out of leaf
it views of the lowering do not
walk as of risk that sets and
altitude asks drift it is as drama
some exchanged of meaning moment
and description signing sand sweep
as the distance passing figured
the simple a glass and tree lemon
the word itself to as grass as it lay forced
as patience looked at where ceased
curled eyes outside to search the then
gleaming and resilient word its eager to
and another as capable the possession
them both the being then second to
glide into the air and create a dimension
with and as a newly laid where might
to love the interplay of upon hints and flecks
the meal of beam presuming the of
rhythm as a relish red or poppy curved
might choose and devour before so much
was the and substance where word or
placed as rosemary their scent precipitate
as elder in the where voices warped
then straightened as a went magic on a
shadow of is the icons once dance
on a shadowed lights the distance
is the Icons to it come in capes
and their eyes their reflected or nomadic
reach from are in the room the screen
suspended the of a worker will upon
an axis and a frame which fills a plot
a quarter on verse to help green into
his dwelling and the leafage leaning
the tree casting upon the image.
the lies along the sun wide
and the scent of the do not say
ladybirds are on full on the land
slow the progress of the promise
evening a summer where the is
never high it crept ask anyone
at the trees and the all declare
within hours the will come up
with the fog you have come in
the and left in sunlight I on now
as a time only gentle with nothing
to be of this field or vented sheen
as torrent through the exhilarate
beyond only what is to this element
survive in the airless of it seethe
champagne as plum spray at as wall
and smoke from it fills or as abyss
it moistens the of the greening the lip
the of arid where some dark or plateau
they are drawn to stare and knock as
the boil into the mist swirls and veiling
from the core knowledge of which death
and the shaft of spotlight makes a of
those at the base into eyes are held
a luminous point outside there’s nothing
there is beyond the light we are left
on a platform as of dark no place
that we can is there to move and with
that intent a paralysis in no air a being
keep breathing with a circle fragrances
will push through until can rise to face
and begging out where dark thins to a how
gradually like a dimmer up strengthening
the light blush of filling permeates slowly
colours perspective suffuses a body through
which can move blind
the poem of in the act of what
will suffice it has not had to find always
a scene was it repeated as that in the
apple the of the mind in the of it
has been living to the of the place
the men of the and to meet
the women of the think about it
and it has to a new beginning to be on
and slowly and with meditation speak
in the ear of sound and wooded
and an insatiable slowly and exact
at the sound of which an listens
not to the but to emotion as of emotion
as metaphysical or nuance twanging
a string that gives passing through
sounds wholly or sudden containing
below which it descend beyond
which it has will to rise comb
design the and
appeared as crimson
easy its of form
and congruity the
light unalterable
leaves of its green
the tree as clutter
them among a small
of fact foliageous
on the pigment
and imposed
blunt and prose are
drying as forked
and orange to leave
as poppies not to be
of the afternoon’s
sun rise and in the
air solvents with
buds and apple
of things essential
idea a in the of a song half
reality a resting on an pass a of
sorts on shadow and through
forest up by the ice and pristine
utensil as a along forgotten
and means washing at rays and sun
colours like a or cherry a wrench
of rose a lustre as a hangs on the sweet
in the songs in open in rivers sweeping
rolling in the and spiralling
murmur to an abject to the
the to vistas and to the visible
and of disturbances a diagram
as waxed or mutations to and describing
and anticipate words a dream
stars were to have been gifts
when the funnel they both were fake
coloured stiff as she of hands in
grimy by a sweatshop rough table
lily iris primula pistils on in crowns
as sponge sepal perfect immune to
menace from tipped stamens
symbols of why not as wrong
arranging in a with dry and hydrangeas
in a vase alive or the of life
Two sides, really, of the same thing
a little ideas were even when to oneself
but train of carried her in its through
happened to up the moon its face
as always direction we see half
it was an decided share with but
when together there seemed no
to say the words would be wrong
ask or it at by ways for more
what for all can be for only
be on is its for to call in I think
or yet of who and most all some
or ask may it at by ways for what
all can for only be on is it
in or yet well in think or ever
or only is very who then as
as will put at rest stay thought
none it when pose on most
a means or asking inner as likeness
then almost when time is on
or over some just as once may
then call or seek yet only a mind
and outwardly less all come wish
as aspect then over by branch set burden
after is glow whence or went a habitual
idea forms in the dark: songs of a
half illuminated reality - a resting of sorts
on shadow and pass, through forest
floors lit up by the snow and pristine ice.
utensil as a gizmo along forgotten contrivances
and means: washing at sun rays and
colours like a ruby or cherry - a blood wrench
of rose white - a lustre as concoction. it
hangs on branches on the sweet air, in the songs
of birds in open space, in rivers sweeping
rolling in the helix and spiralling light -
murmuring to an abject silence - to the contorted
vistas and twisted explanations - to the visible
intangibles and multitudes of disturbance, a
diagram as charm. drawings, waxed wings
or mutations, pillars to Gods and creations -
describing other mutations and anticipated words.
a dream you know in a reflection, that tries
to meander in and out and up and down into
each eddy on each aspect - each desire always
- take it as red there’s an appetite a proclivity
of sorts: it sails on a gloze of moisture, leaf
sighing in low voice and whisper,
hurdle - capering up from a familiar
nuance a leaning to and fro - a partiality.
can you hear it or taste it smell all
those discarded memoirs on crack
and shoe movement: always
around a bend a sun slash -
that never really was. embarked it
takes its fancy – overwhelms.
a tazer etherized upon a table
stark lamp - like certain half finished
words, footfall rainfall come a
little closer - touch it. does there
always have to be an explanation:
why dragon flies do what they do through
an amber light, like an oil slick animated –
how fireflies and crickets intensify a
heat. lift on an up breeze evoke and
summon the inexplicable. then why
do spiders fold and all that. perhaps only
the wind knows or the lighting recalls
the formula of a times be times c. stand
on an upland ridge fumble for the right
horizon - its as earth bright or moon beam -
its as forest fire or perhaps a mushroom
cloud of roses and streams and glades.
of white on crag and every nuance - every
inclination, every awestruck connection,
every spirit riding a mad horse over
distillation. and always pink clouds falling
backwards in slow motion of time.
to anticipate
is to form some sort of answer:
as the unrolling of honey bees in spring,
how every sort of colour of amethyst is
possible on an inclination, in the heart of a thistle
a tinge of wings that drifts and soars, or takes
a deep breath and feels winter in the air, it is
taken of the green spirit, an army rested by a silver
steam - a fly past of nothing near catastrophe, mind
map and angle talk – recalling nothing or a red
bud, I must press on with the small talk –
put an ear to the ground – is there anything there -
a captured soul or gifted relic, sentiment
and a siege mentality, capture all of the past -
post operative night owls take to the wing –
there is a flutter of remorse in the trees.
distance curbs on an aspect: elimination
floats and dances along moons, stars, fills a
sack and sets it gently upon the tide, perhaps
heaps it over a cliff, throws them at the
clouds for ravens to catch, bird dust
shrouds and inclines, catch me if you can -
be my denunciation or fortune or empire,
dismissal hobbles along empty paths, eats
a solitary and meaningless banquet, suppers
way after midnight on its knees and face-
soaks a grim reality into twine and everywhere
flowers come out seas leap and colours return, ice
eases in the streams along fault lines, thaws in
bushes and regrets - a lush rectitude walks through
each new beginning, crackle and hope vie for
proposition. a numb cheek and staring eye -
fascinated by obsessions and cares - revealed
on the external everywhere.I can see
an outline of some ineptitude: a
release, a laitance of ability or something
restless. even on the wooded floor, a shaft of
magpie wing and paper lifts at futility –
a panorama that laughs at gratification, as
foot fell one after another in the white. I’m
in the imagination of a moment somewhere –
can you ever feel it, again there’s some
effort that can’t be satisfied, an ineffectual
rainbowed onion, a man is balancing a wheel
spending time on each spoke, taking small
steel tools and adjustments to rotation. all
around they couldn’t quite put their finger
on it – never the birds and the flowers that
wept for Lazarus - for a semblance of something,
anything. the snow lit up the whole wood,
it was amazing that Christmas day, I
imagined tanks in the Dordogne - tan
and black crosses, crashing through trees.
today let there be no more of ode or epic -
disregard all forms of grace sometimes
and often, I cant take it
all in: nothing of the melodrama - the
excited madness of birds and bees. of
sounds and sights on the mind. sometimes
and often statements things tend to baffle -
obfuscate in streams, lose direction
in beer flotsam and condom knots. as
ripple pulls and solitary clouds.
sometimes and often:only repetition rings true,
condition as a form of discipline. it carries me
in various directions of purpose, like
a falling hawk with its wings back. sometimes
no one gets the message –
no one knows where you are coming from.
sometimes and often you must whisper
in their ear with a gun at their throat.
what was it
that sprung eternal: an
obfuscation and it’s assortment of deputations:
thus so innumerable - myriads of globular
glass jars. all sorts of colours and aromas -
dead treasures in sugar, an embarkation
on a lemon field. an upland headland
woodland dreamland ruse or gliding in a shaft
of newborn radiance. faced and acrid on the
still cut moors, the burning fells and downs.
a ship drops anchor in this ocean so
blue so spectacular that the gulls shy away.
the mariner tots and rubs his tired eyes –
a silver shore, an azure sky, palm trees, the
sun so hot that the monkey’s freeze and
all is green and lush. a human breast lingers
in the warmth turns its bones over and over in the sand,
rejoiced in oyster shells and a barking glare.
come tomorrow deluge a each transmitter fasten
then release vertigoing each leaf and experience
then run run what is it they said about love: some
form of the unconditional - as the wind
through the trees today, scratching and being
incredible, swirling and dancing up posts
or along highways, leaves dying in the
damp gutters, in pools and streams. a
rose of absolute perfection, categorical
formations of ease, unreserved unfettered joy
and being – and silence. then there’s a tap,
it’s not a fixed idea or an inclination:
come solution and heal me, take each cell
and be dynamic, grope in the plantations
and prairies, rap at the sunlight. make
faces at the cracked mirror, again let
me experience the suckle of life nestled
in the spring swaddling and rosebuds of May
Can I
retrace my ancient odes to
Gods and objects of love.
ditty’s to the objects of objects and
things never constant. variance lingers.
there might be no need for this:
for the way rejection tips a wing
at the delicate snows, how
machinations and things remain focused.
ah don’t give me this!
I must connect my obvious observations -
all those twigs highlighted in the wood
a whole groundswell of texture
that reaches to the river now.
is it possible
that nothing exists:
that the birds don’t sing; perhaps even
the streams are a dream, that the ocean
today is not blue - so blue that the sky
flinches: a dialogue that has no ending, belief
with no set of imaginings or solid foundation.
an understanding expires in the trees - magnification
burns paper in the sand, see it. I keep searching
for an angel to call, for a hatter to sing to me –
to disappear through that looking glass,
pick cakes and chocolate for cherry roofs,
for all the little rabbits to sit up and read books.
and then I stand in a circle and the music begins –
or there’s dreams and dreams of magic.
like nine green bottles all in a row – and
if one green bottle should accidently fall –
without stagnation who is to know what is what?
if lemon is red or red a form of disdain –
and let me try to touch it or stop
impossible. another inexplicable gasps for air: just
there in the bushes - skids on one
leg along the river silence. ice sheets –
a foreboding and gauze light - just
when the birds don’t expect it - between
sun burst and hidden imaginings, waits -
rejoices on moments. a word nuance again
and again - or inclination or intuition -
subliminal - a mind saturation as affirmation.
always the river was the same a familiar like
the smell of hogweed or conviction.
how the water sunk in the mud and tiny
fish spermed and scuttled. gas came bubbling, flies
were cast along the dusk like rescue lines,
they fell so quite that the moon stalked and fell.
the trees shadowed and genuflected to unseen
Gods and spirits. breaking as surface tension -
pigeons and heron below a dripping bridge.
dusk surge and paper complaints - a bruised sky
now mellow. an illuminated sliver shapes and distorts: eye
shadows remains static like treaties and role
play. you never did tell me of neglect - how
robes fell from my princess, crimson and gold
falling in the sodden lake – coming and
dancing on a burnished throne. she bathed
in the stench of milk, variety came
and went - widows grieved along the harbour walls.
white fishing boats bobbed and masts dipped.
men sucked at white pipes and painted pale
blue lines along the horizon in a thick steady gloss.
then there were those paintings of downtown America,
the box buildings and the nodding oil wells, each
a set piece all American scene – it was lovely
that summer high over the town in the long grass,
there is something terrible about flesh and its needs,
far from the woods and the colours of flowers
way on a hilltop with the smell of dung,
there was something wonderful in the air
the always remains. what should we say
about appetite: how a bird can’t get
enough of the air, how the wind loves
the trees and long grass: catches
headlands unaware. they said it was all about
medication, a linctuses, tablets stripping everything
back to a red mahogany grain - powdered white
between coats. was it all those grim
fairytales with children in dark woods
scoffing cakes from walls. tell me if it was sitting alone
watching the steam hammer puff and stare,
feeling the hot air on my back and wondering
if I was the only non person in the world.
time flies by when you’re the driver of a
train and you stand on the footplate there
and back again. then there’s release, relief
and you’re head high in the lemon wheat.
mile after mile of solitude with the sun on
your face. other words come to me –
a family around a breakfast table - a bar
of chocolate, I remember the toast and the
warmth, she tried to kill herself that woman.
then obsessions: always waiting in the recess –
the one thing that can’t be satisfied - not
if you drank and parted the Red Sea. Oh tap
on that stone again Moses! shout up to God
for help lend me a fag again Moses.
I see much
more than a solitary exercise:
is it time for the birds to return,
for leaf and colour to come back -
shock waves to gather along fault lines and plate -
time for a swathe of sunburst - an
inside to come out, vessels on the high seas
meander in liquids of gold and oil.
for the Serengeti to empty of starlings -
for them to figure and fall in great black clouds.
you can always see snow through the woods.
all anybody really needs is a couple of trees -
a bird or two and a stream. the river can’t
take the cold it moves too statically,
a bad place of solace and shiver:
a phrase walks before me on the path -
something about warmth and spring flowers -
a hand clutches me whispering ‘Macbeth’.
i keep searching for that non dramatic moment –
the quietude of a Scottish ruin, high
above Cove, on a copse where the ancients died.
We all felt them that afternoon with
each mood drowning the last – but
an opening idea might form on a rose
so red that angels weep, listen for the idea -
for the ineptitude of understanding.
it’s time for the birds to start singing.
unfurl another
sort of blueprint:
it comes in the form of an observation: just once.
or those eyes and colours of Picasso - especially
when the sun tells the whole world to be azure.
indigo runs a palette knife of honey along sands -
flecks the hillsides and gorse with magenta. after
statements there are internalizations – we look
at the formulas and worn working drawings.
frames of oak ships and their calculations, how
the Spanish armada was built in stages took
millions of hours to carve mermaids and Gods
to be burned in battle. this morning I will tell the
sink to stop talking in the classroom –I’ll
take issue with the curtains increasing disdain
for my fantasies. it’s funny how the mind works
in stages, how mood is affected by everything
especially the sun. about suffering our new
masters are not wrong:not for the
blue sky and the warm air, not for anything
contained in the stagnant undergrowth.
it’s possible that I get it all wrong that
all this colour and vigour will die that
this incline of complete perfection disappear.
but not now not at this moment -
a melody drifts through the narrow pass
I hear the sound of blackbirds – a gull,
two lovers meet again in the flower glade,
something broken becomes whole.
there’s a chase for Roman gold men
scratch in the lush wet grass -
diamonds and encrusted crowns, rings
to Zeus and other half known Gods.
holistic medicine knows no thoughts of war
car tyres are inclined not to dine after midnight -
and Hugh, Phew and Barney mc Grew left
for space last March.

James Mc Laughlin From Dumbarton Scotland. Educated as a mature student at University of Glasgow 2003: with an MA in English Literature and Scottish History. Published in 'Stride' 'Great Works' 'Nth Position' 'Blackbox Manifold' etc. Loves all things abstract be it painting poetry literature or whatever.

previous page     contents     next page



Post a Comment

<< Home