Karen Downs-Barton

A Line from the Impromptu

                                In response to Reuben Woolley 

If I could explain your poetry I’d say     it
reminds me of Francis Alÿs, his journeys – sometimes
pushing a block of ice, sometimes leaving a Green Line -

your mind / his line are unspooled in liquid threads, splashes 
and pools or thin streamed, unlocked between 
borders, crossing oceans and continents, creating 
novel peripheries, lyrically. It

reminds me of photography: photos of Alÿs walking, always 
away, walking through wildernesses, past
sentry box coffins of bemused men – always men – in
uniform, guarding continents and blind alleys. Challenging. Your  

green lines are verdant, Pollock-ally-potent, drawing on 
a lineage that includes Siqueiros, Miro,        your words 
are pareidolia          asserting themselves over    the page,  
confronting bordered con-
vention:   a lexicon,      thoughts,    sometimes hung, 

cliff-edged with space or offering breath      paused or 
clotted – each reader their own interpreter        of your 
invitation to hesitate,      think,       walk on, or freefall 
from your        brink.



The Seoul Train
                                             After the Hydrochromatic painters, 
                                             Monsoon Project, Seoul 


               My apartment window    
               the caged cricket chirps.
               The blindness of cities.    

Outside, arms wide as chollima wings, a crazy American 
paints paths with water glazes from rainbow-labelled 

buckets, spangling glassy contents across his canvas, 
liquids evaporating into summers heaviness. At the doorway 

I offer him strengthening Century Eggs: he paints oval emptinesses 
at my feet. People pass: girls chirruping English greetings in cricket 

voices while old folk rumble in slow Korean, clouding 
his foreign ears. I’m old enough to talk with strangers and crickets, 

happy with eccentricity and companionship. Ask what he’s doing    
he mimes zipping lips. I cannot guess his secrets hidden 

in the tiffanies of paint.   

He says: Don’t tread on the fishes; 
   he says: Don’t wade too deep;
      he says: Don’t feed the sea dragon, 
like a child 
    protecting imaginary friends; 
      sharing imaginary worlds; 
         scaring his grandmother.

Softly, crumbs fall from the crickets’ cage.

               Leaden morning.
               The cricket sleeps.   
               Solitude is a weighted burden.

Monsoon timpani. Magic paints fill paths with rainbow 
carp swimming in cartoon waves. A train 
of children dance umbrella quavers, calling to me; gifting company. 

               Beside my foot, 
               a sea dragon hatches 
               from an enchanted egg.



Crone Lore

of tales  /  lore  I shall 
impart to you  sister /
daughter       you who 
are    belly    full with
small    kicks    inside
- the  changes  tasting                
of   seaweed   soup in
swilling    viridescent  
marine greens  / fract-
ured    blues    coating 
the ‘O’ of your mouth

do not to            squat 
pissing            in wild 
places              gazing 
moonward    your un-
made child will  r i s e 
like the lunar calendar 
slip     your    filigreed 
fingers swim        sky-
ward  as silvered stars



Mukbang

We move    from communal to    cubicle      eat
as high rise singletons    nested      in pristine
offices    student dorms    bite-sized apartments   stacked
separated    but linked by modernity  /  technology

we substitute           face-to-face        encounters 
with screenings of our mukbang family        meals with
K-pop girls in pastels     or neon bright      playing 
coquettishly    noodling  in bowls         pulling knitted
vermicelli - interlaced and matted - glassily alluring 

the wetted clicks,   slurps    from interwoven  slicks 
swirled round chopsticks like emaciated 
legs /  wooden foodies coupling we watch their lips poutingly 
pliant. They will eat for  you       sucking         seductively 
marine drizzles    slipping lips      kitten pink       tongues

protruding licking them       back.     You need never   eat   
alone.            The online universe               opens
feeding ever diverse tastes        androgynous boy-men faux 
feminine  /  wannabe chefs  /  the gargantuan Sumo styled    man  eating to 
order    boulder big eyes flickering across     companion screens,     
update responsive.           They are waiting        for You        skin 

lusciously folding beneath their chins      breasts en-
larging   or the stick thin girls         toying with endless 
dishes          open wide      brimming 
thrilling as they break      taboos   emotions stirring   watched

filling computer screens  /  bowls  /  bellies  /  bank balances   Star Balloons   
decorating internet horizons      gastronomic voyeurism where you   need 
never eat alone or          eat at all    pledging allegiances to      live eaters
in money bubbles  anonymous as popup           conversations.


Mukbang is a Korean phenomenon of videoing the experience of eating while people pay to view.

Star Balloons are Internet currency

Karen Downs-Barton is a neurodiverse poet studying MA Creative Writing at Bath Spa University. She lives close to Stonehenge in a quarryman's cottage held together with mud and hair mortar. Her non-poetic occupations include magician’s assistant and dance teacher (Middle Eastern and tango). Karen work has appeared in Alyss, The Goose, Word Gathering, The Curly Mind, Failed Haiku, Three Drops From A Cauldron, I Am Not A Silent Poet, Poetry WTF, Thank You For Swallowing, The Fem Lit’, Smuese and Otoliths amongst others.
https://thepapercutpoet.wordpress.com
 
 
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