Polkadot Wounds E-Book

Anthony Vahni Capildeo

• Herausgeber: Carcanet Poetry
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 47

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

Winner of the Windham-Campbell Prize for Poetry 2025 Winner of the OCM Bocas Poetry Prize for Caribbean Literature 2025 A Telegraph Book of the Year 2024 Polkadot Wounds is a delight, wrestling with life in our restless times. Capildeo entices us to enter conversations with others (dead and living), amongst glimpsing reflections of encounters. Landscapes become 'landskips', playing on traditions of travel and nature writing, childlike spontaneity and movement across gaps. Dante's Divine Comedy frames untimely deaths and breakthroughs of joy, during the pandemic and in queer and far-flung communities. The title of the book is inspired by the stones of the ruined Norman castle in Launceston, Cornwall, and the local martyr, St Cuthbert Mayne, where Capildeo was writer-in-residence with the Charles Causley Trust.

Leseprobe

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CARCANET POETRY

Polkadot Wounds

Anthony Vahni Capildeo3

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for Katie Grant

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Contents

Title PageDedicationSummer, LauncestonLANDSKIPSVisitFull-Circle BellsWeather SystemsIsland Conversations, InishbofinFiddleheadsA Working BreakfastA Short Prayer to Coffee, which Crosses The SeaOutpouringAccuracyKissing DistanceDivining DorothyShe Wants a Fire, Even in the SummerEcologies of AttentionScales of Loss and LongingCOMMEDIAInferno: One Size Fits MostBlack IceDream of a, Dream ofDust and Proud of ItPurpleIt TranspiresCoercion BanquetPoint of ImpactPurgatorio: Thirsty WorkMeanwhile, Cicadas7Still, StillPerfume HowlRhythmThey Don’t Need to BreakFault LinesPut Out the LightBrass FaceParadiso: You’re Such A Child!Steal ThisWithout ArmourWhatever You’re DoingSpaceOf SilencesHe / TheyGENTLE HOUSEWORK OF THE SACRIFICEProfessionChosen FamilyMigraine Improv“Doon Yer Tea, Eat Yer Bread”YouthWhite EgretsI is a PronounHot Springs DissociationMike, SwimmingThe Summer is HotterImaginary GardensNever Have I EverAccusation Affirmation Woof Woof WoofSmol Thing Atte PlayTurn and LiveAcknowledgementsAbout the AuthorCopyright

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Polkadot Wounds

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Summer, Launceston

St Cuthbert Mayne

WHERE STONE RUNS ◊ LIKE

HONEY ◊ BECAUSE THE SEA ◊

IS A TYPE OF ◊ DESERT ◊

SPINE ◊ OF SELF-STRIPPING THORNS

◊ NOW BEING RUINED ◊

WARMING TO YOU ◊ I LET IN

THE ◊ LIGHT ◊ ◊ ◊ YOU ROSE

STEM ◊ LONG AGO, NEWLY ◊

DEAD AND ◊ RISEN ◊ ◊ ◊

TREASURE WHAT YOU ◊ SAY

◊ BECAUSE ◊ NOBODY’S REAL

FACE EXISTS ◊ YET ◊ POLKADOT

WOUNDS ◊ WHERE STONE ◊ RUNS

◊ LIKE HONEY ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊12

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LANDSKIPS

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Visit

for K.M. Grant

the house of the inventors

of rainfall’s calibration

hidden rooms steadying kindest rooms

livability above secrecy

celebration singing

that way stone halls

Jacobean flooring empty armour

love there are times

you’d lose your head

so many in conversation

woodgrain with buttered

dna with waveform

come away a little

visit the house

of musicians’ comforting

pleasecomeflying patterns

invitations to lyric

meanwhile moor

on the edge

welcome also ferrets

eager-eyed though of unpleasing reputation

wreathing wearable greetings

shy and sharp-toothed

wristwarmer endearments

the bees’ balsam

honey of the fields

too intense their wargames

too far up the hill

surpassing sweet 16

too thin

bring a black queen from Ireland

bring never send

no never send back

refund the beekeeper

for the bees’ behaviour

suggestion such gestion

come come down

from grey horseheight

come in from the white horse’s mane

stream into the garden

myrtle amethyst

yew rose and thyme

hidden rooms steadying kindest rooms

the house of the inventors

of rainfall’s calibration

expanding light hours

round a living dream

so many in conversation

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Full-Circle Bells

for Leila Capildeo

Mama, I’m swimming down three flights of stairs

in green light. You can’t hear me yet. The tree

I’m walking past has put on ocean airs.

Up two more flights, I can’t hear for the bells

cathedralling connexion: visible

to invisible world, embrace! The box

sits blackly on the landing wall. Ayyy, box,

you’re too high up! A gecko on the stairs,

my body stretches, flattens, visible

to students who ‘go home’, not ‘phone home’. Tree

doesn’t sound submarine to them; no bells,

no whistles, hum and buzz, press on their airs.

No bloody privacy. So, put on airs

they can’t translate. Hola, dígame, box,

can I get home on this line? Riding bells,

the idea of earthquakes shatters up the stairs.

Whales dive, chew through cable. Windstruck, a tree

snaps wires. Numbers make you visible,

I dial them, the dirt ain’t visible,

but grotty to my fingerpads. Coined airs

join bells, hojas rojas singe the frosty tree,

I flatten like a gecko to the box

for a collect call, Dios, cuántas stairs,

AMERICAS-1 SOUTH, submarine cable, bells. 18

Drink purpling Virginia creeper. Bells

are more than bread. Mira what’s visible

till it compounds and vanishes: your stairs

are an island, full of twangling airs.

Sway and speak your heart into a box,

your mother’s voice is leafing like a tree

while leaves are falling from the ocean tree

you must pass on the way to bells

that tick five hours apart. A telephone box

is a time zone box. You’re a visible

time traveller – but give yourself no airs,

chiquita, there’re drunk rowers on the stairs.

1990s, Victorian stairs,

your voice held in my hand, mine thinned by airs,

my dusk your noon, only the timebox visible.

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Weather Systems

for Caroline Bergvall

Where is the wind in the time before dawn?

Gathering fast on a straight course to storm.

Where is the wind in the reddening day?

Colder than mountains that would break its way.

Where is the wind when the morning bell rings?

Stilling the satellite’s eye with its rings.

Where is the wind in the white masque of noon?

Hiding a power it shadows forth soon.

Where is the wind when the children leave school?

Gathering force on a swift course to rule.

Where is the wind when the helpless one prays?

Filling with dust that Sahara winds raise.