timeless roots
poems by john mingay
__________
INTRODUCTION
With the passing of my parents in 2014, I came into possession of my maternal grandfather's collected Dickens (aka Boz) and a smaller collection of other classics and, so, decided to use them for the purposes of poetry. Having always been denied the opportunity to even touch, far less open and read these books beforehand, being in possession of, and doing something purposeful with, them inevitably held special significance for me, particularly as they evidenced a working class tradition of self-improvement through reading.
Working on the project daily over a period of over a year, I structured it into four distinct, but connected, parts: the twenty-odd fictitious diary extracts being the first; all from Dickens' books; all dated with reference to particular events in the author's life.
The second part is a series of individual poems from seven classics by other authors. The third is a two part long sequence, returning to the two remaining Dickens' books. Finally, the epilogue consists of twelve tanka drawn from a Dickens novella.
In all cases, I used the texts to create lexicons by applying strictly observed parameters, in this case the last four words of each line of the first two chapters (or the whole books for the final sequence parts). The lexicons were then used as the basis for building the new texts using European Constructionist techniques, relying heavily on the sub-conscious for selection and meaning.
A complete list of the classic texts used is provided as an appendix.
__________
Several pieces have been published in literary journals in the UK and USA, for which I thank their various editors. These include:
from part one - a bozian journal (extracts)
http://www.leafepress.com/litter8/mingay03/mingay03.html
from part two - seven variants on a truth
http://www.olentangyreview.com/index.html
http://www.carcinogenicpoetry.com/2016/06/john-mingay-one-poem.html
http://stridemagazine.blogspot.co.uk/2016/07/bound-for-there.html
from part four - no way through
http://stridemagazine.blogspot.co.uk/2016/09/the-cry-of-answer-heard.html
http://thesamsmith.webs.com – The Journal (once ‘of Contemporary Anglo-Scandinavian Poetry’)
__________
i.m. Sandy Ness b.1909. d.1962.
__________
TABLE OF CONTENTS
part one - a bozian journal (extracts)
part two - seven variants on a truth
part three - times are hard
part four – no way through
appendix
__________
“Everybody goes through the same thing, but the misery you feel now will eventually be broken up by stretches of time where you’ll feel that you’re happy – of course, you’re not happy – you’re just too numb from your hellish life to feel the pain.” (‘Red’ in That ‘70s Show, S7 Ep5, Fox Broadcasting Company, 1998-2006.)
__________
part one
a bozian journal
extracts
6 january
these pages
these hours
put to practice
sometimes beaten
as a question
of prediction
of legend kept
wild in death
in birth
evidences of what follows
seldom as proof
but prophetic still
as such bitter voices
saying the name
of desire turned about
to confound the silent eyes
of first light
second glance
without being early
without to stop
to move
to dwell upon
what was gone
and never repeated
as if resolved
dead to the world
14 january
in the light of day
words would have done
in poisoning
this pretence of affection
in pitching
the same old
half mad dreams
into a curious deceit
as though
an answer
read in the air
musty with time
an answer as if a sigh
a vestige of being
of what was found
in the kiss of morning come
7 february
if in all this time
had the pillow
of imagination
tired of tattooing
the folds
of bread brought
and flung ashore
then the dead
in the ground
would have been buried
for the shadows to see
as if having been
the perpetuation
of carefully scraped
scraps of letters found
but then
even more than when
that bread is brought
the dead are loved easier
than driving
the little things
that interest you now
than heaving
consoling lies
around in heaven
than getting
the remains
of night’s dark shore
out without anything
more than words
9 february
dreamily spitting
into air that was faint
the blistering line
as it lay alike
over rough held stone
from a dusty hollow
towards the sun
showed the spot where
day and night
in a whisper
grew to become one
23 february
rather than be
on the surface
every slant
of light kept
to that same
ever-swelling line
deadly
like a bird of prey
with a squinting leer
robbing a dead-man
a sightless face
your face
with its steady gaze
everything new
each parallel
still held
all told
and yet
as you were
clearly glad
to attract the light
between this world
and the next
between nothing
and another
answered
in your shining eyes
yet past
21 march
out
underneath the waves
without much
the water
staining the
savage purpose
with years beneath
but
you never did
chase prayers
to make peace
convinced
as you were
you could not help
certain
you had had
enough of life
and
you never did
think much
of the poisoned blades
of curses
so seldom said
though
so often alluded to
in a tone
beneath the noise
then breast-high in years
but still
as ever
without much
as ever
as if
afterwards
was never quite tempted
to come
2 april
being the number up
for once
for no less mentioned
or what not another
with its eyes picked out
down two steps
the emphasis
on the present
the open doors
the threadbare moment
a voice short of words
and weary memories
as if long-forgotten wounds
28 april
always in
the moment gone
and posted
in sight of all
that such
impenetrable hopes
would be
could be
should be sorrow
ever-considered perfect
is as to know
a world of idle talk
of simpering opinions
distinguished
by being neither
cruel
nor kind
a world of naked noise
though
for you
so self-possessed
those remaining hopes
are built
upon the sands of time
as excuses
in the confusion
pleasure
in the desire
another voice
in the dark heart
of night
kissed
28 may
were it long
or so
a soft black death
scarcely better
to be seen
to loom
jostling in waters
lighted and ancient
to know
were it this
a threshold
into a place
where words
suffer from life
fallen and ruined
were it this
a strange world
of much
and nothing now
of wisdom
and confusion still
of long
or so
of seen to loom
of life
or
death
to know
30 may
as when
an undeniable prophesy
has grown yellow
with all
the drowsy slowness
of an hour enough
you and I
together
dreaming
as in wonder
fashion a carelessly
slouched sun
nodding in its sleep
with fish-like eyes
dead and rusty now
under the scattering
deep red glow
marking the night to come
9 june
still no possibility
of rattling lies
and never as always
of infinite muses
of a broken niche
and defaced sound
like a silent loftiness
as if whenever
there has seldom
been rain
yet
no difference
the lies
there or not
no connection
to any artful word
in muttered thunder
while the wind
perpetually
cymbals through
writhing as it goes
and
no echoing memory
of the muses
their sullied world
interrupted
by its air of pique
unfinished
on its present course
its end
as yet
to be seen
14 june
from no less
than the same
in perfect time
and the present
concealed without a trace
disappeared
against its will
gone
from there
in that moment
ponds the poem
fired by an idea
along with
nods of assent
its words spoken
like a pantomime
of astonishment and fear
and from that
only you
ever found motive
in being a stranger
to be laughed at
a friend to near to none
from no less
than perfect time
5 july
when I looked
at you
through eyes
of paper
I could see
you were of
that mutinous night
as if a quiet pause
the half of a voice
that thieves nothing
from the muffled peace
and all
while we
as one
were set
apart
you
certain of terrible things
as intent
as to come to pass
me
sure then of nobody else
and now never
of any besides
everything before us
so slowly
silently
torn from the burning waves
6 july
pinned
to this or that moment
like an interminable allusion
to a shadow of the truth
words fall short
into the blunt silence
echoing
but just
only just
very nearly not at all
as though they
would whisper
more about us
than we had ever
come to know of ourselves
20 august
to the point
from which
no wind
came down
no man
would boast
could boast
his ruddy smears face
flaring
warning of
another morning
no man
this man
me
at that point
as before
in a sea
of thoughts
remembered
described
until confused
as in a dream
of mortal cares
a dream
of being among
the bristling bones
of the dead
26 september
too little
and big
to number down
for
whatever it is
it must be
needful
as it goes
as it flings itself
muttering
then soars up
again and again
though to us
sitting there
in the growing dark
it was
only the wind
roughly
making an angle
of the rain
and another
angle after angle
while we
already
were floundering
in the worst of words
ever the sooner
near or far
there or gone
2 october
that the more
of those
with confusion
as their history
might have
been called
mother
without reason
is still like such
since when
and again
distinctly so
inasmuch as
the habit
of repeating
was to become
our own
16 october
a day
of sorrow
to bear
more than mortality
more than mentioning
the matter of being
so much
would most take
to be time
carelessly lived
extant in name only
as though
we may know
the loneliness
of this world
for the first time born
imprinted
that we should
always be quick
to wake
to laugh
to live
to cry
hungry
for an end
to a grief
too often contrived
18 november
as an
inscription
cut in stones
alone
in a word
a raw conclusion
derived
from the crying wind
this state
of existence
somehow
seems so bleak
so black
as dark as
such eyes as
go looking for long ago
as if to make
something of nothing
without ever
having
to have just
half a reason why
the crying wind
still fat with days
yet to be found
6 december
and to think
you came
upon all this
only to leave
without
any of it
as though
a weary vision
an old flame
put out
nevertheless
another beginning
enough behind beyond
the words and signs
as to shun
its source
in an end
so often
been before
seen before
an end
to making
each day
come good
those days
now
wholly paid for
with a wealth
of withered time
__________
part two
seven variants on a truth
counting
to guess
those eyes
could be
the slightest
diamonds
of time
is for
curiosity
to be visited
by this last
and only
clear idea
of what
can shine
no longer since
and your name
is the same
contrary claim
to a reputation
constantly
demanded
by chance
as if
you were anxious
to be still
so lost
in all the doubts
repeated
by the dead
far into the night
my own name
though
is not so much
a dissimilarity
as only
another
forced birth
to which
I am father
as those eyes
those diamonds
are father
to history
and long before
even then
but then
together
we have been
what we are
now already
so long
without
so much as light
to see by
to come by
every thing
but this night
into which
we plunge towards
yet another day
cutting the wind
now
resumed
reduced
rendered
the shadow of time
has become still
as usual
as necessity
would have it
or as
is said
to be so
while
without a sound
yet melodiously
it cuts the wind
half-crazed
haunted
by its own
sullen resistance
its own
well-fed rage
as if a storm
a tempest
of temper
and vows
a scowl
like thunder
in its look
though
still this shadow
is found still
as usual
as if bound
by its legs
as a sacrifice
to the dawn
and to time
and time
again
in white
just as clearly
as word for word
a story
still to be told
to be spoken
now set aside
left out
in the autumn breeze
just as clearly
I have heard
every moment
pulse with life
then be allowed
to become
a trembling hum
coiled up
perfectly
on the surface
of a distant shore
at most until
at last the first
water awaited
has come
as inevitable
as that
is invariably so
no man is an island
nothing more
than going
leaving
lamenting
what should have been
after I found you
among books
but then
lost you
too soon
too soon to say
there is never enough
and always too much
too soon
to have filled
the seas
with impossible water
nor to have designed
every shore
every coast
these seas
would yield to
consequently
on the tide
too soon
to have undone
the child
the boy
within you
as the days
wore on
and your eyes
could see
nothing more
at all
of the world
we had made
for ourselves
now empty
with you gone
nothing more
nothing less
just
softly
gone
i.m. Ed Baker, 1941-2016.
downwind
I never could
splinter
the waxing waters
of a certain
single flood
coming in
pounding
each minute
beyond being gone
I never was
strong enough
from any
to others
to have beaten
the morning cold
my breath a fog
thick
like the smiling wind
with evil in its eyes
but you
prone to paying
for whatever is gifted
may never
have plucked
even one short word
from many
a prayer
though
like you
whatever I felt
was felt
as if in my blood
our blood
above ambition
the years
having passed us by
the gull travels
a promise
of knowing
of parts
of other places
as if bound
for there
for having spent
those years
confused
found only
in words
hoping still
to be understood
those years
when I could see
nothing of the sun
but for
the smallest
squalled spark
of trust enough
but only
enough
to believe
enough to have taken
what was said
as sufficiently strict
as must be heard
repeated
done
if only
of any one
of so few
then
so many
so soon
no more
no where
no promise
of knowing
of places
of parts
every memory
meantime
left for dead
counting time
laden and anxious
amongst the crowd
it was never really
to be watched
to be seen
that you had so eagerly
come to us that day
but instead to
follow your heart
mortal as it is
mistaken in making
the least word smile
whilst the whole
was only sadness
an air of never soon
as though perhaps
the future had died
your every moment
as ever a question of time
__________
part three
times are hard
a sequence in two parts
part one
another breathless
solemn silence
divides the present
from the future
with every
kind of confusion
thrown in
without communion
and you alone are left
with nothing to say
that forms words
as familiar
as even to matter
words that would
float now
half the night
each like a note
not all would hear
and you are left alone
exposed to the burden
of thought
of rumours
of there being
intelligence here
where they have been
determined but narrow
in their views
satisfied with their claims
of never just half
though never
the slightest chance
as if they might
be called upon
to begin to take
the present
as all there is
of the years long gone
*
alone
you belonged
to no other
indifferent
to all
until
now
and
alone
you whispered
once too often
to be heard
not words
as such
but stains
on yet another
solemn silence
from which
you took nothing
and to which
you gave nothing
waiting instead
for time
to be gathered up
against the night
in chinking through
with not even
an inkling of change
of anything new
still to come
*
until
now
now
indifferent
to nothing
dignity whole
but the possibility
of doubt
multiplied
by heaven knows
perhaps only by hope
as
the more the hope
the more the doubt
the more the knowing
so little is left of your past
so little is left
of the laughter we knew
you
and I
as ever
unable to break
the conceit caught
in the morning light
*
we are one
still
no matter what
together
as though
alive for each other
no other
no where
to be found
no when
to be discovered
just the who
of one another
the who we are
entangled here
amidst these crowds
of stolen voices
here
to where
neither of us
can say we belong
left now
able only
to form
an imperfect recollection
of the reluctance of time
corrupted as it is
by its confusion of rumours
of there being ideas here
determined
but narrow
never just half
*
never just
the perceptible moment
when the question
has left a taste
in the mouth
as though
its own bilious answer
a taste
so decidedly vague
as to be anything
to any mind
still inclined
to find
that wrong and right
are one
and the same
any thing
to any one
who ought to be
about to become
some kind
of uprooted friend
long since lost
in having had words
a taste
so decidedly vague
as to be everything
all at once
all the time
*
nor never just
the superfluous moment
when a reflection
of the very same question
has left
a lingering
malevolent
leviathan laugh
to be laboured
and reduced to despair
as though
what is known
invariably dies away
dies alone
the clatter of charity
the slightest chance
the last drop
gone
*
never just half
*
but then
oddly enough
for you and I
our words
were always
more than just that
more than
all this tangle
of said and heard
and been and gone before
more than stains
on another silence
more than
any allusion to
the disjointed prayer
necessity has hastily cut
to the quick
because
of course
for you and I
our words
are discovered
musing in the moment
or in a crowd
or in each other’s
admission of contempt
for the noise
of fools’ vinegar voices
of their barking
and crowing faces
of those
who have never
even tried
happy not to know
happy to be
huddled together
against the foulest wind
of gasping speculation
horror-stricken
at the thought
of thinking
of feeling
of laughing
and
with their own tedious
and so so precious
impossible poetry
and
of each one
who has continued
their drowning
in that empty inability
to find pleasure
in anything they know
as if
having died
already deaf
bewildered
confiding solely
in one another
to the very end
*
part two
you can only voice
what makes you free
nothing else
nothing but
as if possessed
by the yet due moon
the sun
and its circus of doubt
blushing in going down
*
and what you voice
what makes you free
comes
before long
to be held
in hidden tears
as it all ends
in a climax
of crumpled minds
each replete
full to the brim
with crumpled thoughts
caught beneath
bare skin
like melancholy
dragging each
to the ground
you
and I
with it
the two of us
no farther forward
swallowed up
by the same
incisive sorrows
the same
sudden silence
the same
crumpled thoughts
*
yet
when it all ends
when that
compounded climax comes
there is then too
a parting kiss
to unfold
in the haggard darkness
of somebody else’s thorns
a kiss
to bring
what should
have been
but is now
never done
our unaccommodating
building with words
of silk
to be
indifferently
invariably
left for another time
*
and that kiss
is your
anxious pleasure
when there is work
still to do
scarcely
with any meaning
any worth
yet
still
to be
done
though you are
weary of everything
exhausted
with every one
every stranger
every friend
every name
with a face
every face
with a voice
you are weary
like the unrelenting years
obliged to have passed
and known of the truth
seen in a dream
of death unheard beyond
*
you are weary
of more
than can be told
as if
to confess everything
would only make
those words of silk
sound like vulgar threat
or as though
on a hiding
to elsewhere
only then to be
so easily taken in
and swept along
by the kindness
of the absurd
faltering eternally
over such pale nonsense
that is never enough
yet
looking on intently
pretending it all
still to be
faintly amusing
and musing
on it long
long after
until
at least
at last
you become me
and I become you
used
bruised
but so much the more
*
so much
the more
for which
being then
far more
than
the word
as explanation
again
and the sounds
of evening
shrill
again
being then
far more
the more
for which
so much
we are
alone with
darkness
and dust
cutting our throats
quietly
without remark
silently
not a noise
no noise
you and I
together
the more
the whispered
reflections
of silence
again
and more
and again
the silence
be damned
if even
we could
if made
to keep
the more
the much
and then
found
again
and then
gone
again
and then
again
darkness
and dust
*
no dream
no meaning
only with indifference
as our barrier
to be overcome
have you and I wept
fitfully
painfully
our own
thoughts
concealed
hidden in our fear
of reproach
for being true
to the few
and the many
our tears
in our eyes
on our faces
like torches
along our retreat
to the hills
for we are done here
done for now
done for ever
*
we are done
with narrow views
indifferent words
the circus of doubts
done
with stolen voices
with vinegar voices
with each bilious answer
and done
with the stains
on every silence
every gasping speculation
and with
the poetry
so precious
so impossible
and we are done
with incisive sorrows
done
with the haggard darkness
of somebody else’s thorns
with what there is left
of their never just half
their never enough
we are done
we are one
we are gone
we are none
*
__________
part four
no way through
twelve tanka
*
in the resonance
of the silence grown beneath
a cold moonlit sky
the cry of an answer heard
tells well of a future warmth
*
*
among the questions
I have said nothing of now
without looking back
without troubling the past
for something of a meaning
*
*
a moving shadow
thrown through the unlocked shutters
by time drawing in
is clearly the never been
as if a forgotten scar
*
*
the hours unfinished
and with nothing new to do
we wander longer
scarcely concealing our age
yet still with an air of youth
*
*
like the reflection
from a lost memory found
it all points to you
already with a faint smile
singing in your summer eyes
*
*
with still a little
unfinished time to guide us
further from the known
their never just half again
would make its cold presence felt
*
*
after dark we leave
the pretence of bandaged truth
laid dying or dead
as though some shadow thrown by
the empty night’s squalid gloom
*
*
to remember much
of what has since been bestowed
by murmuring minds
is to be glad to see more
of faces distance has kissed
*
*
by no means given
to touching the naked stream
of impressions told
in speechless blood turned aside
by the parting breath of gods
*
*
what is there to say
of friends who would be caught cold
suddenly so sure
of growing old without me
now death hangs heavily here
*
*
before the music
turns hope to frenzy and fire
studded with heart beats
the fallacy of reason
must already have been true
*
*
a simple habit
as a beautiful defeat
has too few chances
to put these hours to practice
to send these voices to sleep
*
__________
APPENDIX
The classic texts used, in order of appearance, were:
part one - a bozian journal (extracts)
The Personal History of David Copperfield – Charles Dickens
The Old Curiosity Shop – Charles Dickens
The Uncommercial Traveller – Charles Dickens
Little Dorrit – Charles Dickens
Our Mutual Friend – Charles Dickens
A Child’s History of England/Dealings with the Firm of Dombey & Son – Charles Dickens
Christmas Stories – Charles Dickens
Dealings with the Firm of Dombey & Son/A Child’s History of England – Charles Dickens
Bleak House – Charles Dickens
Barnaby Rudge – Charles Dickens
Edwin Drood – Charles Dickens
The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club – Charles Dickens
A Tale of Two Cities – Charles Dickens
American Notes – Charles Dickens
A Christmas Carol and Other Stories – Charles Dickens
Reprinted Pieces and Master Humphrey’s Clock – Charles Dickens
The Life and Adventures of Martin Chuzzlewit – Charles Dickens
Oliver Twist (or The Parish Boy’s Progress) – Charles Dickens
Great Expectations – Charles Dickens
The Life and Adventures of Nicholas Nickleby – Charles Dickens
part two - seven variants on a truth
The Count of Monte Christo (vol 2) – Alexandre Dumas
Ivanhoe – Sir Walter Scott
The Woman in White – Wilkie Collins
Robinson Crusoe – Daniel Defoe
Lorna Doone – RD Blackmore
Gulliver’s Travels – Jonathan Swift
The Count of Monte Cristo (vol 1) – Alexandre Dumas
part three - times are hard
Sketches by Boz – Charles Dickens
Hard Times for These Times – Charles Dickens
part four - no way through
No Thoroughfare – Charles Dickens
__________
© john mingay 2018
a facqueuesol paperless book