James Seaton

Five Poems

California

thousands of years ago

or tens of

before the pyramids the henges

all that

and once again

you were in California

had flown there LAX

I presume and ridden north

a palomino caravan

the infant sky

the redwoods little saplings

that chattered around your feet

or perhaps yet to be born

who knows

ii.

who knows

the dire wolf the long-toothed cat

or the mattole you encountered at bear river

the lassik at eel river by birchbark or

the esselen on the slow-heaving otter-full ocean

neon flickering down in the valley

as though it might yet begin

again

iii.

again

and still

we return there don’t we

you sitting above the lake

just where it opens over the rocks

you remember

you couldn’t stop weeping

not so sad but saltwater

streaming from your eyes

into the copper blue pool

it was something about lambency

you said

and I understood

the cold little flames moving

beneath the wood

Lapis Lazuli, Lost in London

blue

if you lay in this city half buried at the crest of a canal-side bank

if you lay half buried in the black-green survey of cypress trees

secluded from all the pavements of the city by tilted iron railings

secluded from the sight of the city half buried in the sheddings of cypress trees

where songbirds in their siftings be-dust you their toe-ings quick as touch

what gravity then your blueness long reduction of sky to rock

blue second only to the perfection of ancient ice in caves within glaciers

your gentian scumbled with the grime of the city

are you putting out azurite roots fine as filigree

is your cobalt pulsing through helpful mycelia beneath the stolid walls of the city

blue will you take over

poor noble refugee from badakhshan will the city know you

will you put out in spring meconopsis chicory scabious love-in-a-mist

will you spread a tide of sapphire through all the streets of the city

blue I have your back

Foxgloves

Profusion invaded the garden, haunted blue vervain,

then garlanded every hedgebank, riverside to hilltop,

in thick straggles, magenta clotted.

One alone up high, silver-pink, seraphic––

fifteen miles of clear air between

this pale flower and the mountain.

Towards evening, returning from the river––

a gothic burgh’s-worth of spires at the wood’s edge,

motionless, incandescing.

ii.

A flowering spike, opening

in sequence with the summer:

buds, little boxing gloves,

mauve-fisted,cucumber-pale wrists––

then opening like this:

sepal-held fanfare, five petalled corolla––

a landing lip, where freckled honey guides

guide bees beneath the male parts,

dusting pollen on their backs;

then deeper, the female––

the slender style, stigma-tipped;

in the cup’s deep reaches, the ovary.

Just there, below, the nectary;

the stomata, mouthy, too small to see––

their honeyed liquid.

iii.

foxes’ glofa, lady’s thimble, finger flower, flap dock––

purple slippers that gift foxes stealth.

fairy cap, fairy bells, lion mouth, throat root, witches’ gloves––

yielding dark ink that keeps the threshold safe.

our lady’s herb, pop dock, bloody finger, lustmore––

and so, bent backed Lusmore, redeemed by his song––

Dia Luain,dia Mairt,agus dia Ceadaoine.

iv.

poisonous in all its parts––

fast heart––or slow heart,

or heart with the beat of

a junked-up drummer,

arhythmic, staggering, off.

seeing, then seeing what’s-not-there,

or seeing nothing––in spots;

sweat on the brow, pain in the head,

pain in the belly––sick.

seeing yellow, green and yellow. blue halation.

tremors, seizures,convulsions––

death?

corolla––

five fused petals for a fingertip,

a landing lip for red-tailed bumblebees,

a dapple of honey guides for white-tailed bumblebees,

throat hairs to deter the unsuitable––

no nectar for you!

common carder is welcome

as are her cousins, tawny miner, red mason––

all long of tongue, fur-coated,

they waggle their way to the nectary,

busy lovers, or lovely physicians,

or just buzz-borne deliverers

paid for in sweetness and pollen.

vi.

Hunchback Lusmore

asleep in the moat

dreams the Moon hymn

the Mars hymn

heart breath throat tongue teeth lip

hymns his own to Mercury

and wakes

unravels stands tall

he and purple finger foxglove

straight and true toVenus.

vii.

My father’s favourite wildflower,

‘try it on you finger, look, like this,’

––where it fits as sweetly as trust––

‘but first take care no bee’s in there.’

By Plaquemine Lock

o winter this winter your consolations are elusive

street lamps spill on mist-damp pavements

figures or ghosts move here move there

clouds on their collars they find no place to put up

all the footings are skittish time like fog

seeps through the minutes by Plaquemine Lock

a man with smoke and a dog each one on a leash

and then at last i who has to fall to his knees

who has to walk on

Brynley’s Boy is Reseeding a Field

the third from here––

not the low, wet one where the heifers are grazing,

clots of rushes in the hollows where the snipe lie low,

nor the steepest, the one where we would sledge,

those winters when we still had snow.

No, the next, rising steeply right to left.

Two weeks ago he sprayed it;

over a day it turned pinkish-brown,

prettily setting off the fields, the hedges, the trees around––

much prettier than poisoned might suggest.

Yesterday early he ploughed,

proud, tractor and shares ruling perfect wide parallels,

rolling open seams of clay-loam down the slope,

then lifts the plough and reverses up the hill––pauses,

lowers the shares, rounds in his seat

to watch the furrows as they turn––

slowly draws the next line down.

Herring gulls arrive––one, then five, then twenty-five,

wheeling and squabbling––and a buzzard or two,

a kite keeping high, jackdaws taking chances.

But mostly gulls––the others wise to those quick yellow beaks,

twice dotted red, fierce.

In the evening he was back to harrow,

the tractor growling up and down, up then down

into the night––two headlights pencilling the dark––

and didn’t park until midnight.

Was out again this morning with the light.

The field is smooth now, tended fine and even,

soft buff brown, vivid against the hedge-line shadow,

the blue tractor,child’s-toy-bright.

Then two tractors. One is stationary––broken down?

The other spreads lime––long plumes

of burnt stone dust drifting white behind the blue machine,

and then, as it turns, enveloping it.

Why the hurry, Ogwyn, Brynley’s boy? You are such a hard worker.

Last time we saw you, stopping on the lane to chew the rag,

you were nodding over the wheel: the fifth week of lambing,

and red-eyed with exhaustion: laughing about it.

I’ve seen your dad since,‘Six hundred ewes all to the rams at once!

He won’t do that again in a hurry.’

Why the haste, Oggy? Because tomorrow there’ll be rain.

Now it’s quiet, the tractors gone, but soon you’ll be back and setting seed.

Already the clouds are building in the west––

little restless breaths set leaves rattling on the trees;

there’s a heavier, sweeter air. Moisture’s in the breeze.

Notes

Lusmore

Lusmore, in the Irish fairy tale ‘Lusmore of Knockgrafton’ or ‘Lusmore and the Fairies’, was a well liked hunchback named for the the fairy bells - foxgloves - he wore in his straw hat. Returning home late one night he rested in the moat at Knockgrafton. In some versions of the story he falls asleep and dreams of fairies, in others remains awake and meets the fairies, but at any rate he hears their song -‘Dia Luian, dia Mairt’ - Monday,Tuesday - to which he adds his own line,‘agus dia Ceadoine’ - andWednesday. Monday,Tuesday andWednesday are, of course, named for the Moon, forThor (or Mars/ Ares) andWoden (or Mercury/Hermes).The fairies are so delighted with Lusmore’s new line that they sweep him off to a night of wonder in fairyland and, as further reward, remove his hump. He leaves for home, happy, in the morning.

In an unfortunate corollary, a second hunchback hears of Lusmore’s cure and hurries to the Knockgrafton moat himself, where he tactlessly imposes himself into the fairies’ song, irritating them - at which they cruelly add Lusmore’s abandoned hump to the poor man’s own. He staggers homewards but never arrives, dying on the way.

The foxglove is associated in some folk traditions with Venus, and thus with sexual love. After the arrival of Christianity the associations were transferred from the pagan goddess to the Virgin Mary - hence names such as ‘Our Lady’s herb’.