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Cabbage Whites
They must have trekked through the shadeless trenches
Of what had been the rapeseed field, until they came
To the warm-white, smooth, and alien face of the turbine’s stem,
Scaled it some way, and fallen into metamorphic sleep.
You might think, almost, they wanted to be rocked
By the pulse of great white wings, beating above them.
by Lucy Kempton
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A Great Sufficiency
Photo by Lucy Kempton
the livid plum
has inspired
ascension to heaven
in love songs to Shiva
apologia that isn’t
for pleasures indulged
sexual metaphor
the world over
in poems and
brush paintings
made quick
and fierce
against tree trunks
the way it can be
sometimes
sweet
the way
bark prints
are left between
shoulder-blades
and legs sore
the next day
isn’t it
and the drip
the stickiness
of all of it
the decadence
of wet flesh
it’s true,
halve one
and you will know
all there is
to know
about women
place one whole
in your mouth
something learned
about men too
but turn wholly
with attention
to plum shape
flesh, texture
taste, swallow
with attention
and you will know
all there is
to know about
miracles of light
wrought in
stripped earth
and also about
the heart organ
how easily
bruised
how persuasively
flooded
how articulate
and subtle
fragile
regenerative
so soft
a ripeness
on attentive
tongue
by Jessamyn Smyth
Direct link to the mp3.
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Ekphrasis 8: Lucy Kempton + Joe Hyam
Handbook for Explorers, 10
Getting lost’s the better part of getting there;
The other half’s not knowing where you were
At first; or what it is you may discover –
God’s word, or a herb that’ll provide a cure
For broken bones or dislocated minds –
As darkness wraps up the mountain face
Where you flounder, and contrary winds
Give loose advice . . .
. . . and confused, you tread space
And falling, wonder how long until
You land; find not oblivion but snow
To cushion you, and guess you’re still
Alive in a dead world of ice and rock,
At whose heart lurk new secrets to unlock.
photos by Lucy Kempton
poem by Joe Hyam
qarrtsiluni 