Frontier Love: Revised

frontier love

to love = aimer

 

we love without borders

in limerance I give myself to you

no holding back, no baggage

our love is perfect

hold this/that moment

 

je suis

tu es

nous sommes

nous tombons

nous sommes tombé(e)s amoureux,

nous aimons

 

a border divides us, a sea, a language

I don’t know why I think I can love in French when my English love is imperfect

 

Nous nous aimons

nous nous sommes aimé(e)s

nous nous aimions quand …

nous nous aimions

nous aimons sans frontières

en limerance je me donne à toi

sans retenue, aucun bagage

notre amour est parfait

tenons ce moment

 

I am

you are

we are

we fall

we fell in love,

we fell loving

 

une frontière nous divise, une mer, une langue

je ne sais pas pourquoi je pense que je peux aimer en français quand mon amour anglais est imparfait

 

we love

we loved

we were loving when …

we used to love

 

 

under au dessous de La Manche, 250 feet below sea level, pour toi ca c’est soixante seize mètres, I pause, je m’arrête, weight of water (l’eau) crushing me m’écrase

as I travel again comme je voyage encore une fois

my life divided/ma vie divisée

from yours

no we. oui?

If you say tomber en amour to a French(wo)man, s/he/they/we may start looking for holes.

 

to see: voir

the sea: la mer

je traverse la mer pour te voir

je deviens une mère/un père

tu deviendras un père/une mère

nous serons des parents

unspeakable difference

 

 

 

Review: Kate Tempest, reading from her new novel @DLWP


This is a late review. I’m not sure why I didn’t write it up last month, I can only think that I had too much on. But anyway, last month I saw Kate Tempest read from her new novel, The Bricks That Built the Houses . Tempest is better known for her spoken word poetry, and was up front about this being her first novel. Up front is very much her style, uncompromising, and it made for a slightly awkward interview. Tip: if you are talking to Kate Tempest on stay, find an interviewer more empathetic to her style than a middle aged man. The question and answer session was stilted and awkward, with Tempest only finding her flow when she ad-libbed with the audience. (Interestingly, I pick up the same vibe from an interview with Tempest in the May issue of Vogue… doesn’t seem to be online but you can see the photoshoot here.) She brought her dog to the event and there was a nice moment when he let her know he wasn’t too happy to only see her from a distance.

This isn’t a review of the book, I haven’t read it yet – busy month, long pile of books to read, and in many ways I don’t want to read it. Instead, like a member of the audience requested, I want to hear Kate herself read it. In her hands, a page of prose became poetry, because transformed, became music. The way she performs the words dance off the page. This is a book that begs to become an audiobook, read by the author. There’s a review of the book in the New Yorker if you want an insight from someone who has read it. Interestingly, at the New York launch, the audience wanted her to keep reading from the book.

So, what have I learned from Kate Tempest? I’m just about to embark on reading some of my work out loud at a small event. In watching Kate Tempest I was totally inspired about finding the rhythms in my work when I read it out loud. I think for every writer, performing work changes it: when practising for my event I see extraneous phrases to cut that look fine when they lie unspoken on the page.  I’ve always been a writer, but not the person on stage. I need to find the performer in me.

The Bricks That Built the Houses costs £8/9/10 depending on format at time of writing.

Knife-edged Love

If you are broken I might be enough

sun in my eyes blind me to what stands

stone grey sea rise and fall with my heart beat

worship me you say

my fingers freeze

waves ride in relentless sea

wind in my hair

feet enclosed in fur lined boots

worship is not enough

I stay hidden

ice at my breast

unceasing sea turn me over

sun warm on my eyes

grey white winter skin and hair

 

what I want is fractured

knife edged love

chill freeze my fingers

rays caress me open

heaped spray spreads into sheets of foam

wind blows harder

knife marks your wound

 

out of place nothing before me

no more skin exposed than lips and nose and icyfingertips

 

sea slide up the beach bubble and roil

sun seeps through the cold

just like your words scar

other than as a mirror for you

what I want doesn’t exist

strip layer after layer,

expose my eskimo skin

I bare myself for you

 

still chill on my heart

roll no gold line roll on

you are hundreds of miles away

would you do the same for me?

Reworking: In ambit and catenary

In ambit and catenary he limits her still. As she walks the perimeter she knows each book, each pen, a girder, each fabric thread a chain, each bowl he used, a stop.

She stops, lifts, replaces it with care just where. If she leaves them he’s still here in traces DNA remains.

No crime scene here. He had that courtesy to leave their home, be gone before, in dreadful courtesy, she thinks, he chose with care just where         seventeen.

not two, not twelve, enough for no way back no track to follow, bring him out.

(The forest, dense, stands peaceful still, no crime scene there. Liberatur.)

No antidote, no undignified bout over days or weeks to drag him back.

She chokes on something in her throat. He swallowed seventeen (no boulders there). He made it stop before…

She’d seen him count each morning, night. Three, no more, kept him alive, go on.

His choice to leave.

She may grieve. Not yet. In grief a certain freedom lies, the chance to rage, to fly, to rave, unchained to earth, to let it go. Not yet.

She walks the house, perimeter. Pick up, replace, safe. A trace of him remains. In ambit and catenary she’s chained.

 

Blindsided: instructions

blindsided instructionsfrangĕre: to break

we must break first

 

facĕre: to do, to make

story

made, made from fragments,

from that which remains

 

 

interstice

 

 

something grows

between

 

 

give me a blank page

 

 

wait

 

then trace the lines

find between story between pages

 

 

tremble, flee, shift, turn, veer

shake these pages and see what remains

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

‘1.           True stories, false stories; half stories, whole stories. Old stories, new stories. Death stories, life stories.’

(Angel p324)

Knife-edged Love

If you are broken I might be enough

sun in my eyes blind me to what stands

stone grey sea rises and falls with my heart beat

worship me you say

cotton, polyester, wool,

fingers freeze

waves ride in relentless sea

wind in my hair

feet enclosed in fur lined boots

my worship is not enough

I stay hidden

next to my skin

chill at my breast

unceasing sea roll me over and over

sun warm on my eyes

grey white winter skin and hair

cotton polyester wool in layers keep me warm

food in my belly                love

what I want is fractured

knife edged love

chill freeze my fingers

rays caress me open

waves roll in       heaped spray spreads into sheets of foam

wind blows harder

knife marks your wound

why is it so hard to think about love

out of place nothing before me

no more skin exposed than lips and nose and icyfingertips

heat escapes      capillaries contract

sea slide up the beach bubble and roil

sun seeps through the cold

just like your words scar

other than as a mirror for you

what I want doesn’t exist

strip layer after layer,

expose my eskimo skin

waves roll and roll

role on

I bare myself for you

because I can imagine what I want

still chill on my heart

roll no gold line roll on

you are hundreds of miles away

will you do the same for me?