Ralph Hawkins

TEMPTRESS: A TIMELESS THEME

I now no longer know who
writes these, neither who they are intended for,
if I have intention

arguments surround tastes,
especially in poetry, I
counsel patience, work at it,
for pleasures are perhaps to be gained,
hopefully

I don't know how the words were originally
grouped or
in what sequence, yet
they are only a part of the plethora of accessible images
some of wax
some of wood available to the plumber,
some of iron for the deep throated
and some of salt sapphire
however they may well all be hedonistic,

if you are to take up this art
my advice would be to
learn new words, not to write in obscurities,
give a line plinth hair or
a wood nymph
attach phrases in plenitude
there is scope for innumerable combinations
keep a check on
the mathematical architecture
the weight and balance of the lines

in this way a lobe can tickle a bum
on the buttock or better a wood nymph's breasts
hot-tempered she may be
but you can have
a hand raising a blessing,

and yet the prevailing mood of tranquil harmony is deceptive
rude words have been removed
(see The Stone Operation, the surgeon wearing
a funnel shaped hat),
It would make me sit bolt upright
revealing me to be full of plastic tubes, guttering and conceits

these gatherings of daily distractions
can of course be tidied away,
votive offerings whitewashed (police and government tactics)
polyptychs rejected to sacristies,

words can only thinly reproduce a sense of objects
yet trivia and profundity can constantly mingle

in the end (ah Saints) there are no depoliticised views
to oaks in general, to forests, the inclosure of them, waste lands, crown lands and
government

and when I arrive here
will she be here to greet me
running through the leaves and trees, bare vellum in her hands
 
 

TEMPTRESS TWO

The reader can rest assured that
the eggplants grow in a poisoned soil
and the flowers will wilt before evening.
I gaze across a landscape of letters and trees
or are the trees letters
or the letters trees — everything is in blossom
whilst the sun persists in illuminating crude titles.
Modernity is not being overlooked
neither is a bright bucolic handling of breasts.
There are scraps of Egyptian linen
on the fence within a criss-cross of lines and figures
written in grass and waves
or waves of grass.
Are the lumpish boys bathing
and in what kind of water
where more than 120,000 cubic litres of solids
have accumulated.
Maybe after all I do not have any clear ideas
about landscape or poetry
where lives look like lies
alas they're only words in letters
or letters in words
but I believe the main element of my speculation
to be the middle class and its pleasures and
the countryside organised to attend them
 
 

TEMPTRESS THEE

Look life isn't like that
examples are obvious
the man, for instance, is ostensibly floating
(opaque blob in the water)
seemingly to belong to a pool of people,
we fool ourselves.

The other is across the river in front of the house
given away by the unlikely angle
of a straw hat
its general lack of fit
tilted forward as if hiding behind
a real piece of machinery,
the bluntness of the blue against yellow
creates a dissonance of colour
but a harmony of intention.

This river has fashioned a debris
of bits and bobs
of carotage
of muddled limbs and heads.

And across towards Mersea
where we'll eat
the Romans ate well on oysters
Pliny the Younger wrote to Tacitus of Vesuvias
on a river of indigo
towards a trollop
he was just about to shag.
 
 

TEMPTRESS THREE

I remember snow
the town constantly changing shape
not just at the edge of the poem

wide tools were built to shift it
drains laid for the thaw

it was 1875 before the town was painted
and in spite of the snow
it gave way to a stream, a marsh and a few trees
leading to a railway station
 

                                                                          now snow is falling
                                             a dilute sun is struggling through oily clouds
                                             people are holding umbrellas

Camille is stiff jointed on a bench
a broken toy on the whitened grass
a washed-out silence
and the trees in winter look like letters bare of leaves
they speak in waves
a great din of emptiness

                                                                          doe tracks
                                                                          bird pecks
                                                                          laid for lunch

a melting, watery stillness
and the wife
the husband
looking the opposite way
sun wax upon cold blue and white
a finely woven written tablecloth
 
 
 

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