erbacce-press
Weeds grow where they want to; not where they're told to...
Steve Rushton: two chap-books and one perfect bound
1.12
August passes summer on
But September, September,
Death is in the air.
Summer’s life ceases.
Cold winds bring dread
October old and dry but burning red,
Scattering death,
Bringing new life
Of fire.
1.13
O alchemy, you are the test and
Measure for me. You tried but did not
Turn, base metal into gold, but I
Have turned a paper plate of virgin
White, into a rite of fire, far
Richer than your dreams of avarice
Could ever desire.
1.14
O paper plate you are transformed, transform
Me too, from base material with fire
To something burning with desire, to be
Beautiful like you.
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1.1
(revelation)
I used to paint with paint,
Now I paint with food,
See infinity
In powdered turmeric
Or a soy sauce stain,
A splash of red wine
Or Linghams 100% chilli sauce,
“A mild piquant relish
And appetizer of delightful flavour”
Though problematic drying time.
I use the mess of life
And make it messier,
Burn to bring out
Individual qualities
Of various dried fluids
But working with these remnants
Am I negotiating
Yet another novel strategy
Or is there a chance
To see beyond artifice,
Before habit
Closes the door
Again?
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on the idea that the spirit of ovid was there before reading ovid,
a mix of irreverence and lightness of touch
ridiculous. they’ll think you’re a charlatan, and let’s face it,
you’ve almost admitted it. and the older poems, full of
blood and gore and passion, rather than post-contemplation
of ovid attempts at sophistication (more old testament fashion),
pre-enlightenment thinking, pre-ovid’s lines in translation,
a stumbling in the dark pre-visitation, i don’t believe them,
don’t believe they have anything to do with ovid—
i know his metamorphoses do something similar and
your love poems to the moon and old mobile echo, however weakly,
his amores, but please, credit the readers with some intelligence.
as critique
though some might say less a critique
than uninformed and contentious attack,
without due regard to sensitivities
of readers’ memories of great poets,
not to mention the feelings of any
surviving relatives, and the ire of
fawning critics and teachers in relevant
subjects who revere said poets and chastise
poor students for not paying due deference,
and less well known poets who hang on
to coat-tails of so called greats,
proclaiming they are the non plus ultra,
the last word in great poetry,
and anyone who doesn’t understand this
et cetera. (hang on a minute, aren’t you
doing the same with ovid?).
Couple of extracts from 'lines written while considering ovid in translation...'