Miles Whinfrey © March 2015.
Scholars Cinquain
I jactitare
“This was good book,
Recently found about great Adelaide Crapsey,
Mortality and Haiku- wondrous and sparkling, Makes think,
New works?”
Clergy Entomology
Leisured Clergy,
In grass with nets,
Century ago hunting insects in parish,
Never white ones; exhausting children’s souls, bad luck,
Vast Collections.
Hi there I am posting to make in the public realm my progress on ACB firstly, well I have done 3 speeches on speaking to inform and shortly and add to that 1 on interpersonal communication. THe next speech is another on on speaking to inform on the subject of ‘living in the moment’ on the 30 march. It is a businesslike speech and done with powerpoint slides.
On the 31st on march I do a poetry recital infront on 2-3 poetry clubs and some interested walkers in off the street at Derby Museum. I am attempting to memorise this so I can be equally a performer and a poet. I am going to feel great if it goes well.
The ‘reading’ is a shared experience between 10-12 amateur poets and the real honour is that they are going to happen in the Joseph Wright gallery more specifically the events room in particular. I am having a great time at the moment and if things continue in this vein I will be delighted. Cheers everyone, M.
PM poets Derby Museum
Miles Whinfrey (c) February 2015.
The Coat
In the course of a worker day, if you don’t have one
you’re not properly dressed,
Girls and guys go for Parka with fur or something
in indigo denim,
With one you’re ready for anything.
They can make you look right, to tell someone from
a good home,
Wear it your way,
Turn the collar, or push up your sleeves,
Be current with fashion,
I’m proud that mine is shop fresh.
We benefit from their warm hug,
So we sew on cuff buttons, preen, pick and keep
away from snags,
To justify such upkeep we say they must last,
The coming year, cameo in out-of-season too,
Staying with us we make ensembles- to go with the
suits, sports kits, scarves, gloves, and hats in colours.
Though coats speak to some like we wouldn’t expect them to,
Just like no two days are the same,
Hadn’t changed and gone into night mode,
Sweet moment.
‘This guy is great!- I love a biker jacket,’
Which everyone knows is like a suit of armour requiring
a patina,
It’s a smut-spoilt scabbered-skin, pock-pittered, with weltered-
welts,
With shining zips and moving fringes,
There is something about a leather coat.
Sylvia Plath (c) 1956
Black Rook in Rainy Weather
On the stiff twig up there
Hunches a wet black rook
Arranging and rearranging its feathers in the rain
I do not expect miracle
Or an accident
To set the sight on fire
In my eye, nor seek
Any more in the desultory weather some design,
But let spotted leaves fall as they fall,
Without ceremony, or portent.
Although, I admit. I desire,
Occasionally, some backtalk
From the mute sky, I can’t honestly complain:
A certain minor light may still
Leap incandescent
Out of kitchen table or chair
As if a celestial burning took
Possession of the most obtuse objects now and then-
Thus hallowing an interval
Otherwise inconsequent
By bestowing largesse, honour,
One might say love. At any rate, I now walk
Wary (for it could happen
Even in this dull, ruinous landscape); sceptical,
Yet politic; ignorant
Of whatever angel may choose to flare
Suddenly at my elbow, I only know that a rook
Ordering its black feathers can so shine
As to seize my senses, haul
My eyelids up, and grant
A brief respite from fear
Of total neutrality. With luck,
Trekking stubborn through this season
Of fatigue, I shall
Patch together a content
Of sorts. Miracles occur,
If you care to call those spasmodic
Tricks of radiance miracles. The wait’s begun again,
The long wait for the angel,
For that rare, random descent.
Jambo Bwana
The Mushrooms 1982 (c)
Jambo
Jambo bwana
Habari gani?
Mzuri sana
Wageni murakaribishwa
Kenya yetu
Hakuna matata.
Miles Whinfrey (c) September 2014
Concrete 1
Dig a pit to start the frame
Inside a grillage
Pour through special mix (whatever)
Re-entrant- it’s soon stuck fast
Columns sandwich the parts
Bound extra tight and going straight up
Guilloched rods
To give a good column
It can’t be a lash up job
Above is a kind of floor on stilts with boards
Don’t walk on it it’s not ready
Punctuated by rods again guilloched
With finely welded wire, criss-cross
Neither mash of sausage and mash
Nor pea soup
But will burn if touching
Beam’s a funny word
It means across and with power
It’s like a perfect colleague
Does the job of 2 or 3
An overworked floor
A missing column
Overbearing pile of storeys above
Wall with pilasters
Initially a canephor in a cella
Now it’s not a figure
Still prized for decorative face
Tracery of rods in new work
Bones with flesh when done
Stripped thoroughly and raw
keynote details in small work
once carved, now artstone
like a spirit of ecstasy on a Rolls Royce
Much bigger
Jettying out from a height
For a man or woman to make their mark
On the world
Aiken Drum By James Hogg 1821.
There was a man who lived on the moon, lived on the
moon, lived on the moon,
There was a man who lived on the moon,
And his name was Aiken Drum;
And he played upon a ladle, a ladle, a ladle,
And he played upon a ladle,
And his name was Aiken Drum.
And his hat was made of good cream cheese, good
cream cheese, good cream cheese,
And his hat was made of good cream cheese,
And his name was Aiken Drum.
And his coat was made of good roast beef, good
roast beef, good roast beef,
And his coat was made of good roast beef,
And his name was Aiken Drum.
And his buttons were made of penny loaves, penny
loaves, penny loaves,
And his buttons were made of penny loaves,
And his name was Aiken Drum.
HIs waistcoat was made of crusty pies, crusty pies,
crusty pies,
HIs waistcoat was made of crusty pies,
And his name was Aiken Drum.
His breaches were made of haggis bags, haggis bags,
haggis bags,
His breaches were made of haggis bags
And his name was Aiken Drum.
There was a man in another town, another town,
another town,
There was a man in another town,
And his name was Willy Wood;
And he played upon a razor, a razor, a razor,
And he played upon a razor,
And his name was Willy Wood.
And he ate up all the good cream cheese, good
cream cheese, good cream cheese,
And he ate up all the good cream cheese,
And his name was Willy Wood.
And he ate up all the good roast beef, good
roast beef, good roast beef,
And he ate up all the good roast beef,
And his name was Willy Wood.
And he ate up all the penny loaves, penny
loaves, penny loaves,
And he ate up all the penny loaves,
And his name was Willy Wood.
And he ate up all the good pie crust, good pie crust,
good pie crust,
And he ate up all the good pie crust,
And his name was Willy Wood.
But he choked upon the haggis bags, haggis bags,
haggis bags,
But he choked upon the haggis bags,
And that was the end of Willy Wood.
Aiken Drum (2014)
There was a man who lived on the moon, lived on the
moon, lived on the moon,
There was a man who lived on the moon,
And his name was Aiken Drum;
And he played upon a ladle, a ladle, a ladle,
And he played upon a ladle,
And his name was Aiken Drum.
And his hat was made of good cream cheese, good
cream cheese, good cream cheese,
And his hat was made of good cream cheese,
And his name was Aiken Drum.
And his coat was made of good roast beef, good
roast beef, good roast beef,
And his coat was made of good roast beef,
And his name was Aiken Drum.
And his buttons were made of penny loaves, penny
loaves, penny loaves,
And his buttons were made of penny loaves,
And his name was Aiken Drum.
HIs waistcoat was made of crusty pies, crusty pies,
crusty pies,
HIs waistcoat was made of crusty pies,
And his name was Aiken Drum.
His breaches were made of haggis bags, haggis bags,
haggis bags,
His breaches were made of haggis bags
And his name was Aiken Drum.
There was a man in another town, another town,
another town,
There was a man in another town,
And his name was Tafadswa C;
And he played upon a spreadsheet, a spreadsheet, a spreadsheet,
And he played upon a spreadsheet,
And his name was Tafadswa C.
And he ate up all the good cream cheese, good
cream cheese, good cream cheese,
And he ate up all the good cream cheese,
And his name was Tafadswa C.
And he ate up all the good roast beef, good
roast beef, good roast beef,
And he ate up all the good roast beef,
And his name was Tafadswa C .
And he ate up all the penny loaves, penny
loaves, penny loaves,
And he ate up all the penny loaves,
And his name was Tafadswa C.
And he ate up all the good pie crust, good pie crust,
good pie crust,
And he ate up all the good pie crust,
And his name was Tafadswa C .
And he came to live back in britain, in britain
in britain,
And he came to live back in britain,
And had a good and happy life .
Miles Whinfrey (c) August 2014.
Harriet Ruined
Ms. Bentley was cross and the child’s hand
aches,
Harriet aged 9,
Feeling put upon to do ‘lines,’
I must remember the media steals time from
my learning
I must remember the media steals time from
my learning
I must-
Back turned again she can see her phone on the
desk ,
Time locked and probably still with CITV called
up on display,
Harriet wishes she had it now,
The games are ace- with them she’s never bored,
But now boredom is a factor,
I must remember the media steals time from
my learning
I must remember the media steals time from
my learning
I must remember the media steals time from
my learning
She did it 30 minutes ago- in Maths.
Punishment for this morning,
Now it’s Art- everyone having fun, while they make
their rockets.
I must remember the media steals time from
my learning
I must remember the media steals time from
my learning
I must remember the media steals time from
my learning
Please no more!
Miles Whinfrey, (C) August 2014.
Carry-On: Kenneth & Hattie
He has got in some scrapes- mainly with her
Eyes fixed in terror, mouth agape
The door opens, he stands there full frontal
A rose in his mouth
‘Men have animal desires,’ she says plaintivly
‘Oh Matron!’
What a farrago?
‘In the cupboard before the nurses see!!’
Disaster averted
But later she says- ‘Oh, but you do have feelings- don’t you?’
with passion in her eyes and pout on her face
Connie Hershey
Ecstatic Permutations
Every night women in love gather outside the window
and it is nothing special; coming out is what stars do, clouds,
the sun when it builds up the nerve and then just has to blurt out–
the formless, incompleted loves
amounting to a song.
They had chosen all their colors for this day and they sang
without end and with little apparent meaning.
Yet they do, really, love
understatement 2b
lifted out of its
fall from that hole in the sky.
No one in all the group seems to be speaking–
their own salt hearts, brittling the trees–
and the solitude in that tall vegetation
quibbles with the spirit:
fill and empty, fill and empty.
Blue
is self-pity refined to Fire.
Nothingness, could weather any temperature or fire.
It’s not one of the realer nothings, only something missing.
This melancholy moment will remain.
Each one’s forgotten love was a mirror:
a green countlessness.
In The Garden of Love, Venus, Adonis
disagree over what lies ahead. It is morning.
Anxious, he drops a coffee cup, white fragments at his feet.
The radio goes off and on. The rain
of time goes by. Twilight is but
understanding what is meant
wrongly.
Where was the hush of a world brought to a halt
in the middle of the afternoon, a white room
somewhere in the dreamlike, liquid world.
Petite black and gold angels sat on her slumped
shoulders and sang lullabies to her.
It was a sort of metaphor
suspended in the air; a porcelain
blue rippled and soaked in the fire of blue.
The naked light, the crack in the wall,
the lines in the hand foretell the future.
Neither the actors nor the audience knew what was coming next.
What tumbles through is icy and swift
and holds the sea behind its barrier, the very moment turning numb,
shivering and hoping no one
who looks stunned and nailed to the floor
is cold, but she is patient, waiting for
whatever is in hand to be worked out.
The snow falls and no one comes back.
Say, Doppler Effect;
this always grabs their minds. Yes,
she bends a benevolent glance;
it corners like a dream.
Down the road and in the next state,
warily, formally, circle the old bone.
But who is that young one, pallid,
posed never long or nakedly enough?
No one can tell him who his mother was.
So that within each dream is another, remote.
It is intolerable having nobody present
to breathe the smells and the heat.
Why,
even small change is weighted with
scolding in their ragged voices
of marriage, memory and tombs.
Once otherwise–
it’s over, fallen leaves, forgotten weather.
Just to die!
To deaden the shock.
This is the smallest point in the sea.
Think of only this:
to be kind and to forget, passing through the next doors.
When on those white and sudden afternoons
bird may whisper, a frog rasp,
wino
hums the steady mysterious
into a trembling, luminous confusion of bright tears,
many a self holds its breath in this room.
The grasping hand
is wrong. Madness is what sparkles.
Last words
in broken black and white, a shattered parquet.
None of this is true.
Is there anything earthly that can’t be made to rise?
A baffled sun is struggling to come out
and will again, but not today, thank goodness, not today.
Originations for this CENTO. First lines from Ecstatic Occasions, Expedient Forms Edited by David Lehman.