The first to be heard
is scattering coins
before the pipes and plaster
give way.
Our braves are caught in the foundry gaze,
an irradiated fat quench of things -
as foot-notes go it's all
prepped papers,
and faultline economics
and an absence of trust.
Beleaguering, the yelp does not get tied
down in specifics – the day doubles,
then stretches beyond remand.
In the past a mistake was made,
there are over a hundred
ways to clarify butter.
Running down on under-privilege
an ill judge of statues, he stands to one side and tries to measure
the space by sight alone. Where would alabaster best serve his
composing eye? In the alcove there is a leaden shade, brush it
out - a fill of scraps, an acquirement of novel depths, the sum of
his diagram. Meanwhile, a chorus is shrinking from the foreground,
a few muffled expressions, musical tongues forward to find a
mooring in amongst the clutter.
Taking in edges
The shape is an uproar of angles – there
is a spit-shine rise in its proportions
alleviating one acoustic shape after
another. Ducking monuments and
a matter – those shades in granite
are strict or serious relief.
--
Andrew Spragg is a poet, performer and critic. He has a blog at http://www.brokenloop.blogspot.com/ He is a founding member of the Norwich Poetry Choir and writes regularly for Rhythm Circus and Bonafide Magazine. In recent months he has completed the script for SHOEBOX, a performance piece staged by The Effort in 2010. He was Literature Coordinator for this year’s Norwich Fringe Festival.
He is currently working with flautist Julie Groves as performance group 'Between Soundings'.
He studied at UEA and obtained a BA in American Literature and Creative Writing. He remembers Norwich fondly.
No comments:
Post a Comment