House E-Book

Myra Connell

• Herausgeber: Nine Arches Press
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 23

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Beschreibung

Myra Connell's House is a startling debut collection of poems that are both enchanting and disquieting, that ask questions, look for clues, and mark out telling absences. The house itself might be deep in the woods, high on the moors, or alone at the end of an urban terrace; simultaneously a real place, and a body, a mind, a home for the soul. Is it a shelter or a fortress, solid or decaying, welcoming or defended? A cast of characters come and go from its spaces, the outside world presses in at the windows, wilderness awaits at the threshold.

Leseprobe

House

House

Myra Connell

ISBN: 978-0-9931201-4-5

Copyright © Myra Connell

Cover artwork © Eleanor Bennett

www.eleanorleonnebennett.com

All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, recorded or mechanical, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Myra Connell has asserted her right under Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

First published September 2015 by:

Nine Arches Press

Unit 14, Sir Frank Whittle Business Centre,

Great Central Way, Rugby.

CV21 3XH

United Kingdom

www.ninearchespress.com

Printed in Britain by:

The Russell Press Ltd.

Contents

ONE

One

I want to know more about these cows

To J

Whiteadder, Monday evening

On Arran

Sorry for your loss

Imagine

441 267

Vein

Beyond Llandudno

After Medard Boss’s description of schizophrenia

He is burning something in an oil-drum

TWO

Bring me

Emulsion

For – , beginning

Consulting room

Landslide

Two

I confirm there is nothing

China Seagull

She opened the glass door

Button Tie

They are inspecting the fruit trees in the corner field

THREE

Escape

All this rain

Lexical (I)

Lexical (II)

To X

What Angel Would Hear Me?

Just Peachy

She will be wearing gold and cashmere

Wolf Man

After Walter Benjamin

Three

Sitting on orange boxes, 4 a.m.

At this corner

Someone will read it all

Things are too sharp

He turned and looked at me today

For JS

ONE

One

So here’s the house.

It makes the corner,

stands where two streets meet,

and looks towards the sea.

One flat wave is foaming at the kerb,

the water green, and icy.

The tide is at the door,

and yet the woman says it isn’t high enough for bathing.

That’s a lie: she lied,

the woman with the black and shining hair,

to stop the other swimming.

Out the window to the sea-front

they could see the waves run in

slant and slant against the road.

She lied.

Or both the women lied,

needing one the other.

I want to know more about these cows

Mornings, they’re out: big bodies,

roan, cream, and grey with mottles. Heavy, nose to nose.

Steam rises from their nostrils, backs.

This triangle of grass and mud (a pretty triangle, she said)

is bordered by a stream, which they could cross,

the cows, by sliding down the pock-marked bank

and wading. Beyond, a meadow.

By noon, he’s locked them in again.

The black shed doors are closed, three hay-rolls

rustler-stacked against them. Inside

the cows are back in fetid darkness.

He himself has gone to early dinner,

sleeping in his chair.

To J

Last night we went to find wood, too mean to buy for the fire