#graham burchell

[jshoulson]

Today’s Poem

Advice for Koi --Graham Burchell

A perfect prison – no escape! I mean…

So, do your best around the curved walls; Dark boulders with malevolent spaces, And slick skin of brown fur silt.

Tolerate the melancholic drone Of the unseen pump driving your fluids, And the eternal cascade Punching froth between the summer ferns.

Accept that those glories beyond Are unattainable in this life, The Greek urns, gods that look down, With their pale saw, bromeliad hair. The blood-veined fan of paradise bird. The umbrella shade of fat green Philodendron, oak and feathered pine.

Swim dreamily with nonchalant grace, Unblinking, appear interested, Not pushy as you explore secret shade Where mint-scented leaves Jab your glass ceiling.

Do nothing to attract attention.

Use this one big bathroom with discretion.

Await each day’s one electric moment When innocent, flat-eyed, you shudder As pellets smelling of heaven Rain on you like blessed hail.

[jshoulson]

Today’s Poem

A Closeness --Graham Burchell

Because I’ve been dreaming of the carp I caught (asleep at this late hour with its eyes open, dreaming also perhaps in its muddied way of an episode – a forgotten feeding trauma), I feel ashamed.

That fish’s misted gaze was at the core of it. I woke when I started to fill with water tasting of moorhen, dragonfly larvae and sweet corn bait.

Moonlight pales the railway-wall beyond my window. Our heads are still less than a hundred steps apart.

Mine dents a pillow in a back bedroom across a road from a track among trees that curves to a consommé of broken leaf and twig, to a blind chill of pond, to an unlit moon down there, to a pulse of gill, and pout.

[jshoulson]

Today’s Poem

Motif --Graham Burchell

Three notes I allowed aloud to sum the August beachiness of

herring gull railway pigeon otherwise birdless

fishless conjoin - rust cliff and water world beneath reflected sky;

that order/disorder/chaos of iron colony salinity in all its erosive pungency.

Which instrument to choose bowed blown plucked or shell-smash hammered?

One two or three? which pitch above or below the shoreline of middle C¿

What time-line to let it linger/ sound? How hushed or loud?

(One) Deep deep dotted quaver Bflat bassooned like a train a cliff reverb

a call beneath the bay in mezzo forte average I believe for the time of year.

(Two) Higher - filled with summer hope a dotted crotchet F to fur the shallows

prick the beach dog ears ring calcite crusted pipe and sandstone blunts submerged.

(Three) Then higher still to haunt: An A flat dotted minim lashed to dotted crotchet reaching

reaching under cloud-stretch to fill kid’s shadowed sand holes and sad hearts wanting.

[stuartelden]

Springer acquire Palgrave, and future Foucault translations

Springer acquire Palgrave, and future Foucault translations

Springer have acquired Palgrave as part of a merger with Macmillan – details here. Palgrave publish the translations of Foucault’s Collège de France lectures. Graham Burchell tells me that Subjectivity and Truth has only just gone into production, as result of changes at the press, despite the translation having been done for a while, so it may not be out for some time. This will be the last…

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