homepage

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Struggle

 

Spell heaven.
He heave end.
Heavy induction’s
time spent waiting.

When is when?

Inequality is salad
for the staff
of life, or
mental activists.

Then’s then.

We shares in the market
fall into habits
of deferred grace.
Almost a vegetable?

Pause after pause.

Do many names
make precision?
The word is para paradise,
brake cable.

When whenever.

Helping out hope
with small improvements
lightly sprayed oil
and mouth joy.

Whatever.

 

 

Northeast Spain

 

 

We have to climb up to the ruined monastery,

it’s on the same track as our rented house.

 

You can feel the allegory in the tractor road

turning to narrow path, gulley, slick rock,

 

the dumb place doesn’t care, out of sight

your heel might turn, mist fall, anything.

 

LCD landscape disappears in sunlight,

we grip straw, gravel, branches, then walls.

 

We believe with cameras. The eighth century

was no specific time to itself. Crypt, 

 

nave, apse, dortoir, all heavily restored.

First oaks died then the vines, the peons

 

left empty terraces to dust. Back at the house

orange stars mark switches in the dark.

 

 

 

 

[Peter Middleton is the author of Aftermath (Salt, 2003), is director of the Centre for Cultural Poetics and is helping to build the British Electronic Poetry Centre. He is Professor of English at the University of Southampton.]

Copyright © 2009 by Peter Middleton, all rights reserved. This text may be used and shared in accordance with the fair-use provisions of Copyright law. Archiving, redistribution, or republication of this text on other terms, in any medium, requires the notification of the journal and consent of the author.