fingerprints and other traces - flax 005

8/14/2019 Fingerprints and Other Traces - Flax 005

1/37

Fingerprints

Deborah Swift

Martyn Halsall

Mark Carson

Maya ChowdhryEmma McGordon

Poetry from Lancashire and Cumbria

andOther Traces

005 Click here to open the book


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ContentsForeword 3

Deborah SwiftBoots on the Moon 5

The Stone Rubbing 6Cairn 7Self-portrait with Binoculars 8Obituary 9

Martyn HalsallScalpay 11Legend 12Blackthorn 13

Rembrandts Sandwich 14Mark Carson

Catarsis 16Per Ardua ad Nauseam 17Offshore System Designer makes Dodgy Decision 19

Maya ChowdhryBarter 21Kali Mirchi 22

been sprouts 23Genderality 24

Emma McGordonDeath at 22 from a Curable Disease 28Gutter-Witch 30Blue Black Zac 32Go Forward

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This edition published in Great Britain by Flaxbooks,

26 Sun Street, Lancaster, LA1 1EW. Tel 01524 62166.

www.litest.org

All works their respective authorsFingerprints and Other Traces (fax005) Flaxbooks

All rights reserved; no part o this publication may be reproduced, stored

in a retrieval system, or transmitted, by any means, electronic, mechanical,

photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission o the publisher

and individual creators.

Flaxbooks is the publishing imprint o Litest.

Lancaster and District Festival Ltd trading as Litest.Registered in England

Company Number: 1494221

Charity Number: 510670

Editor: Sarah Hymas

Design and layout: Martin Chester at Litest

Photography: Jonathan Bean

2

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ForewordI knew Flax books would have no shortage o poets or its second digital anthology, but

not how astonishingly various their writing would be.

Although the ive poets whose work is sampled here could hardly write more dierently

rom each other, they do have something in common. All engage with surprising and

oten challenging subject matter and invent ways o writing to handle it. Coulombsand van de Gra not the stu o poems? They are with Mark Carsons light touch.

So are towishes and urethane in tougher poems about the relentlessness o working

at sea. His lights and darks are elegantly used in Oshore System Designer makes

Dodgy Decision.

Maya Chowdhry loves words too, her title Genderality telling you shes making a risky

poem about gender identity. Skilully, she allows language to drive the poem: were

crossing over, under / cover. Oh yes, she does write one poem about a more usual

subject matter, the end o a relationship but youll never have come across anything

quite so inventive as her been-sprouts.

Theres a change o pace with Martyn Halsalls writing: he draws you into a growing

stillness and silence until you can hear music keyed to the breeze. A poem in which he

recalls being told about making a blackthorn sta builds and intensiies, then quietly

unravels in its inal couplet.

Emma McGordon uses rhythm and repetition as an engine or ast-moving poems that

conront urban lie and alienation. Her shits o perspective cleverly keep you inside the

poem, and may leave you, like her, Drawn / To the man who street cleans / Last nights

screams.The moon, the uture, the past these are some o the places Deborah Swit takes us, not

as abstract ideas, but with vivid and shapely writing to make them tangible, her ingers

absorbed in the marks. Theres a particularly ine ending to her Boots on the Moon.

And thats another thing these ive poets have in common an ability to deliver last lines

that leave you savouring the poem. And wanting more.

Jane Routh3

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Deborah Swift

4

Boots on the Moon 5The Stone Rubbing 6Cairn 7

Self-portrait with Binoculars 8Obituary 9

Hear Deborah readBoots on the Moon

Read Deborahs Profle

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5

Theyre still up there, size nine-and-a-hal,

medium where micro-meteoroids

swirl like milk in a washbowl o ink.

The boots stand nights colder than the black

silk skin in an Eskimos borehole.Silicon is unstable in the gases exhalation,

so the soles crumble in their own ootprints.

Their buckles have allen away, and glint,

loat silvery against the pock-marked crust.

Grey sandstorms wear the man-made ibres thin;

threads o polyester detach themselves,

glow sotly as they sashay into space.

In their linings, yellow plastic bladders

designed to protect and cushion the oot,encapsulate the 1960s breath.

The rock samples are calibrated, boots

let where they stand, their precise weight

in rocks, carried home bareoot.

The air bends, quivers in the boom

o the shuttles returning velocity;

the men begin to plummet, stretching

toes through zero gravity to terra irma.

A shoemaker in Delaware inhales, sees

the shuttle break the waves, looks up at night

to where his outbreath hangs, let behind

in the yellow stomachs o their ootalls.

Boots on the Moon

DeborahS

wift

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6

I hold the ilm o paper over the stone

as she rubs in the paste o pearly graphite.

A shoal o ish bloom rom the white space, then dart away

under silvery dust. The paper pecks in the wind; rom above

the marbling o shadows, a lock o birdscalling.

The blue sleeve o her raincoat is bruised black

rom rubbing, kneading other ages into here and now.

The sandstone blushes under her lead caress.

Her gold hair blows; a Midas in reverse, as she tells me

how Winired Nicholson teased out the mysterious braille,

her hands blackened rain-clouds

driting.

The cup and rings wont come,

reluctant to be lured into a lutter o paper.

Fixed in hard crag, the pebble-in-a-pond circles

have sat in the same question or centuries. She kneels,

ingers absorbed in the marks axe tracks, old grooves

and aint trails shoals and locks

ollowing.

The Stone Rubbing

DeborahS

wift

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DeborahS

wift

7

From the top, the town is a crust o grey

almost pocketed by the valley.

A place can diminish, a man grow

god-like in this ice-loe o the sky.

Someone placed a single stone,

to own the hill beore the others came.

The cairn is ull o holes and ragged,

choosing or itsel a shape to trap the rain.

We place our stone, as though to mend it,

but the pile is turning native; it rolls away.

Cairn

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8

My neck kowtows rom side to side, lidless eyes

slew upwards into empty air: twin black holes stretched

over glassy depths, cupping miniature drits o cloud.

The hawk swings, hangs rom a thread o intent,its shadow a dark moment poured on stubbled ground.

It scans the ochre cross-hatch, bleached by summers heat.

A mouse, terriied to stillness, dare not blink, suspends

the twitch o its heart in case the grass should quiver,

the claw hammer smash down into the red-yolked skull.

A kite can see a rabbit break or home rom hal a mile,

track the panicked ultraviolet stains o voles. The mouse runs.My eyes swoop, lenses pull the topsy-turvy bird into the mind.

Self-portrait with Binoculars

DeborahS

wift

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9

Fire is gone rom the city, the notion o keeping a lame.

Combustion is hidden in chambers where ission and the leap

o spark are groomed by computers while we sleep. Pyrotechnics,

once a universal skill, are controlled by lever, pump and switch.

Wood and sot combustibles industrialized, to ossil uel.

The cut trees, splitting as the lumber ripens in the sun,

and stacks o irewood gone. No one will raise the whetted axe

to hack along the grain, or grunt beore they drag it back, to burn

in orge and hearth, or smell the sulphur when the match is lit,

eed it, coax it, watch the kindling spit, see pictures coat its yellow tongue.

The city is ireproo stainless steel and glass. A campires savage,

and ire in the mind thermodynamics. Firepower streaks like earinto the plugs, a lightning that astonishes, makes headlines when it strikes.

Ignition is turning a key in the car. No wool or tinder there to set alight,

and no one herds the lame to trap the deer, or damps it down to roast the meat.

Obituary

DeborahS

wift

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Martyn Halsall

10

Scalpay 11Legend 12Blackthorn 13

Rembrandts Sandwich 14

Hear Martynread Blackthorn

Read Martyns Profle

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11

You could sit out here all day; nothing would happen.

A tide might stain the slipway in the lochan,

gulls would glide over, trailing cries and shadows,

hard plait o gneiss and tur olds darken, lighten,

small waters smooth, then pattern to a salmon skin.

Sky would be kneaded, rise to spread a squall

creating a widening stipple on open water

and blot the painters sheet or punctuate

a line beore its written, glaze a new stone

as its lited or setting, matt the colour scheme

o lichen along brown runnels o a worn tin roo.

You could look at the rock and count our billion years,

read o a range o mountains higher than

Andes or Himalaya, see these hills

worn low by this same rain, sense how it was

changed gradually each day; how it goes on.

Scalpay

MartynHa

lsall

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12

The rest had gone back up the track to the rented arm.

She stayed with her two daughters by the shore,

acing the island wide as a mothers welcome.

Light gentled, oil lamp turned down in slow motion.

She heard the amilies voices ade, the odd

laugh let hanging, protest, squeal o a tease.

They watched ar coastlines haze, tide gather evening,

skys glowed hearth settle to the ash o their dritwood ire.

Daughters drew stillness round them like their blankets,

shared the watch with her; poised gulls, rill o tide,

last burn o sunlight coppering sharpened crags.

One note. A ripple, scale, then tentative chords;

soon a tune ingered, loated, keyed to breeze.

A solo clarinettist ar down the shore

riing dusk; drit in woodsmoke; pipes knie-sharped

as oystercatchers always dressed or evening.

Each note stroked through hushed brush o olded water.

Do you know the story o Orpheus? They shook their heads.

He played a lute, a small harp you can hold.

Its music made the world: trees, plants and lowers,those summits across the bay where clouds are rising.

The children waited, quiet or once and listening

to the man who could summon nightall out o music.

In a moment their mother would say: well have to go now.

But not yet. Not till the world that he played was inished.

Legend

MartynHa

lsall

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13

Deep roots must come out whole to orm the crown,

as he explained it. Wrenching the blackthorn ree

meant digging round and deep, orming a pool

the sky relected in as bog-lood illed it.

Each stem would make a sta, hacked straight, and seasoned

simply by waiting, letting sap breathe to air;

wood set in its own clearing, keen as steel.

Varnish would sheen it dark as a night o rain.

Using one could transorm him: prophet, saint,

in the old sense, walking, breaking resh words like bread

to share their meaning, leaving on the bounce o peat

no wound, as ground, healed o itsel, bounced back.

But then hed let them somewhere, bench or shed,

over the water; bags packed, driving away

Blackthorn

MartynHa

lsall

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14

An artist sits in a ca, watching a man.

Her eyes are drawn to the warming red o his coat,

the grateul way he cups his steaming drink,

worries at a sandwich; rabbi, chewing prayer.

The man is acing the past, in its winter light.

He could be someone known, or wearing a mask.

He is also watching: menu readers, shoppers,

prodigal children, loose, daughters and sons.

The artist begins to catch him in her pocket book;

the angle o his mind, worn by remembering,

halter o his shoulders, phrasing o bearded jaw

as i rehearsing a speech hed hal orgotten,

small hopes in hal-closed eyes, small hopes returning.

The artist jots notes: scarlets, pleats on rags.

She pauses, leaves a gap in ront o the man,

a space or a tumbled body and bronzed, shaved head

recasting Rembrandt, who painted a ather who watched

roads and crowds or so long, till holes in his hands

were reilled by his sons return. Servants in shadow

wondering i it was better to smile, or marvel.

Perhaps Rembrandt, reaching or bread, caught searching eyes,

recalled that story, set his crust aside. Drew.

Rembrandts Sandwich

MartynHa

lsall

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Mark Carson

15

Catarsis 16Per Ardua ad Nauseam 17Offshore System Designer makes Dodgy Decision 20

Hear Mark

read Catarsis

Read Marks Profle

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16

Cat fur was used for early electrostatics experiments,

before the Wimshurst Machine and the van de Graaff Generator.

With van de Graa caress

I sweep cat-ionsto the tip o each tapered hair

stripping them ree

charging her up

to a perilous puss-potential.

Lithe with gigavolts

on dielectric paws

she airly

crackles with coulombs.

Now, a det approach

to the tuted tip

o her conductive ear.

Phuitt! Six thousand microns

o desiccated air

crack

and a whi o ozone drits away.

Catarsis

MarkCa

rson

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17

The oceanographers motto: through difficulty until seasick

The door crashed back. Diesel roaring

a man alls stumbling,

shaking and grabbing my shoulder he shoutsyells by my ear,

slams out. The bulb burns orange.

The ship is uneasy: rolls hangs alls.

The brush in the toothglass topples, drops

a relentless irregular beat.

Dulled, behind my eyes the dazzle pulse

slows to a sickly heartbeat.

Up in the lab, squalor: ashtrays and cups, cans,

crusts and the hot smell o solder,

logbooks, litter, tooth-marked biros.

Tubes lare out the eatures o unshaven aces,

grey-blue rom the shades.

Fathoms below, the towish streams

sensors through layered Atlantic.

Five little pens scritch a trace on the scroll;

one pen is still.

We go through the motions o hope,

speed up, slow down,

high gain, low gain,

no gain.

Per Ardua ad Nauseam

MarkCa

rson

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18

MarkCa

rson

We are kidding ourselves

that we can go on, go to bed,

get up like humans in daylight.

Decks down, in the alley sleep swills knee-deep in the doorways.Drapes swing and the bosun snorts and rolls in his body,

wakes graceless, grunts his eet into slippers.

On deck, a grey lumping line is the dawn.

Pallid and chill my oilskin sweats cold.

The crane coughs, bangs, kicks into lie.

As the winch grinds in,

stub-ended nerveless my hands

wrench the airing,

catch the hook as it swings past my skull.

The towish lies dripping on deck,

beached dolphin, its urethane bladder

extruded or surgery.

Breakast is waiting below,

stewed tea and dried milk, greased bacon, scorched bread.

Later well start, well take it apart

strip it down, clean it out,set it up or the next launch, the next tow,

next night watch, next shake in the dark.Go Back

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19

This engineer cant get design approval.

Hes got to square the circle: compromise is oval hell smooth the seastate, shave the ship excursions,

massage the data to suppress the motions.

Believes his own distortions, thinks that hes

determining the spectrum o the gales and seas.

Bends the criteria, and overrules

the codes o practice, guidance notes or ools.

Canute could tell these sel-deluding clowns

a thing or two about the tides, their ups and downs,

and winds, and waves, and where the surges reach

and when to move your soa up the beach.

Offshore System Designermakes Dodgy Decision

MarkCa

rson

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Maya Chowdhry

20

Go Back

Barter 22Kali Mirchi 23been sprouts 24

Genderality 25

Hear Maya readGenderality

Read Mayas Profle

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21

MayaChow

dhry

i swapped a purple sports bra or my irst dress ready-made

didnt recognise mysel as the skirt skirted its mosaic mirrors

suburban Noida ringing in the mid-distance

in the second dress i was shrouded in a bluebells bellthe seams were seamless traced my spine despite the lack

o measurements she said shed dreamed o me naked

i imagine her in the sports bra its lycra pinning her breasts

to her rib cage she told me shed worn it in Deence Colony Bazaar

acquiring haberdashery in small newspaper packets tied with string

later i ound a pink ribbon in an inside seam

an embroidered moti that grazed my navel

and wondered what it spelled

Barter

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22

MayaChow

dhry

kali mirchi predicts the all o nations

pursuing a palatable uture

in the Malabar mangroves

her emerging lower-spikeripening red climbing the coee crop

blackened skin abraded to white

to pepper a jar o Pataks

kali mirchi (Punjabi for black pepper)

Kali Mirchi

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23

MayaChow

dhry

break-up rom your girlriend, discard longing into compost

you need to have prepared yoursel the day beore

pick over and remove any broken eelings:

ear, anger, hatred.

rinse in several changes o lukewarm water to removedust and anything let rom the milling process

cover all with warm water and soak or twelve hours

put in a plastic bag that has been punched all over with holes

(you can do this with a ork).

place the bag in a sieve leaving the mouth o the bag open

cover this opening with a tripled well-dampened tea towel.

balance over a large bowl in a dark, draught-ree place,

some people use the unlit oven,

or the area under their sinks.

drain

try balancing your needs with hers

drain

you will ind other eelings have sprouted overnight

let warm water gush over again and again and clean

rub careully, that which doesnt loat away

should be picked o.

repeat this process every our hours, never disturb

continue to do this or three to our days or until

the beans have elongatedthis is the ideal process producing perect sprouts

anything else will produce stunted results.

at this point do not cover up,

place in the ridge

and all will stay healthy or three days.

been-sprouts

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24

MayaChow

dhry

1978 aged thirteen / i wear a denim waistcoat /

khaki small-collared shirt

knotted with a black silk tie /

my mum reuses to leave the house / with me until i take the tie o /

i stu it in my pocket and wear / an imaginary knot; centre-stage

scene one:

throw me a lie

buoy sailor, we living

in sink or swim times;

all mouth and no trousers

getting thrown out the ladies

or looking so sexy butch

shes a girl!

shes a boi with a toy

denied admission to vanilla

shes a girl

looking straight / through me

shes all ired up on T

did i say she?

i mean he, it,

shit, were crossing over, under / cover

agents or the gender dividebecoming them and inding:

recipes or bombs

measurements or inside leg

how to grow the hair / elsewhere

hes a aery boi / should be a girl,

grew his hair and tucked his cock down

Genderality

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25

MayaChow

dhry

her inside leg

what a drag, not popular like the queens / not cultured

like the queers, something in-between the word-play

translator or impersonator

transgressor or impressertest the line

scene two:

skirts dont suit me, something about the cut,

the print, the way it hangs like abandoned washing

grazing my knees, bellowing in the breeze

an embarrassment / like the time I walked down

market street with the back o it all tucked up in my knickers

and I never knew / that I could wear genes

charity-shop retro, inherited rom the underground

worn lives / gender uniorms on rails /

try them on or size / unwanted garments / on special oer /

shop-soiled

y change what you wear / to it in with your xs crowd

you still wont gain entry / theyll be wearing top man /

when youre all tammy girl

scene three:

on the street I wear one o my o-stage identitiesand an old lady says: can you help me cross the road young man

i readjust my sock / take my hands outta my pockets,

grasp her arm, dodge the 6pm traicGo Back

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26

MayaChow

dhry

scene our:

i can rip-saw / use a lathe, make mortise, tenon and dovetail joints

tie your hair back the journey-man says / health and saety

i plane oak, waer-thin curls peeling back to smooth contours, trace the years with

my index inger /28 and still no sign o an identity: carpenter, ilm-maker, web-designer

activist, mentor, chairperson

gendered jobs / apply within

scene ive:

write an application / person speciication:

silver wisdom in her hair

roses / spirals / celtic knots

big / bouncy / braless / breasts /

stunt cunt lying open

our armed lesbian kali gender killer

this lavour is not available in other stores

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Emma McGordon

27Go Back

Death at 22 from a Curable Disease 29Gutter-Witch 31Blue Black Zac 33

Hear Emma read

Gutter-Witch

Read Emmas Profile

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28

EmmaMcGor

don

Outside they will be getting married,

buying houses

deciding on tea-dipping biscuits.

Outside they will hold each other

until they squeeze the very lierom that which they cherish.

Outside all o this will be repeated in

18 or 15 or 20 years time.

Outside they will die young

and know little,

and I will hear about this

as I pass through isles o supermarkets.

Outside they will smoke each others

cigarettes and believe themselves to have lived

to live and to have lie orever.

Outside they will not know o WH Auden,

Anne Sexton or Barry Patrick MacSweeney,

nor will they care to know.

Inside there will be two lights,

a radio, several books scattered,

a hal drunk lager, an empty coee cup,a pen with chewed lid.

Death at 22 from a Curable Disease

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29

EmmaMcGor

don

Inside there will be no knowledge

o the latest eviction

or the care or the status o celebrity.

Inside our plates will be washed,

one to be used again tomorrow.Inside there may be the anger o a young man,

although outside they will not eel

his wrath or dependability or envy

in the slightest.

Outside they will

go blind in one eye

and again I will hear about this

through temporary connections

buzzing with sounds o news-speak,gossip and have-you-heard-abouts.

Inside and outside we will know

that these connections are utile,

ull o non-passionate ailings,

too late or preventing avoidable accidents

and opportunities missed or diagnosis.

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30

EmmaMcGor

don

From up here,

where the steam

o the street heat

rises,

I hear the savage cackleo some gutter-witch,

who argues the price

o a pizza slice

or a look misguided

in her direction.

And she who has dressed

or this occasion

to sounds that one day

she will come to know as youth,pulls at the black strap that has

rom her shoulder slipped unnoticed

to reveal an identical one o white

on her sunscorched skin.

From above to below

she knows nothing o me

watching this,

or knows that onedid witness the kiss

that was wet with deception,

still she clung to the arguments hiss

as her strapless body mingled with his.

Gutter-Witch

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31

EmmaMcGor

don

The street steam cools

and alls,

ools ind themselves

in some others home

where beds will be slept inat right angles to sense,

and the idea o sedition is given no chance.

Sunday mornings mix

in their cocktail smell

o duvets used and cigarettes spent.

Now in the not quite still

turn o the dawn

I ind mysel

more closely drawnto the man who street cleans

last nights screams,

and the rain

which gutter runs

to some place

ree o noise.

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32

EmmaMcGor

don

Blue Black Zac

on his knees

eyes to heaven.

In the May sunshine

you can see the souls

o his shoes as he rests on his heels.

This is the May Day bank holiday

o a returned to school childs drawing:

spider sun in the top let corner,

an ice cream, a ootball, a grazed knee.

This is a childrens playground,

three red swings,

banana slide,a park bench

and railings.

Blue Black Zac

on his knees

eyes to heaven.

May sunshine

warm on his ace.

He dreams o a manriding a red horse among

myrtle trees in a ravine with red

brown, white horses behind him.

Blue Black Zac

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33

EmmaMcGor

don

This is the May Day bank holiday o two riends,

Ikea excited, driven car park crazy by two more riends

and two more riends, all with the idea o a space-saving-shel

that they have the perect photograph o themselves and a loved one

in a ake leopard-skin-style rame that will look just wonderul

in a kitsch kind o way.

There is another car park,

near a playground.

They will park there.

Getting out, gabbering and gibbering

hal tripping on tape measures

hal noticing a man in the park

resting on his knees.

Blue Black Zac in his tracksuit,

trainers, beloved ootball shirt,

on his knees looking to the Lord

who said:

These are the horns that scattered Judah

so that no one could raise his head.

let the dying die and the perishing perish,

their buyers slaughter them

and go unpunished.Or at least this is what Zac thought he heard.

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34

EmmaMcGor

don

This is the May Day bank holiday

twelve months since we

shared a pub, a pool table, a jukebox.

Your broad chest, you talked

o your little prince and princess

in a land ar ar away with a woman you wanted to call wie.

Zac, twelve months ago we sat in a blue black car,

watched the sunset, and borrowed binoculars

rom the couple in the car next to us.

Youd never seen so ar in one gaze stretched,

so ar you said it was almost the uture.

Zac, i you could have seen the moon

turn twelve times rom then you would see

no son rising rom his knees.You joked, you said i theres a red sky at night

it meant the chip shop was alight.

Blue Black Zac on his knees on a day

when many shepherds had already risen

over the land.

Shepherds who do not care for the lost,

seek the young, do not heal the injured or feed the healthy

but eat the meat off the choice sheep, tearing off their hooves.

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35

EmmaMcGor

don

Zac, I was the child on the swing.

Zac, I was the Ikea excited.

Zac, I was even the blood hungry hack

who got the line, the act that you

were ound dead on your knees and looking to heaven or answers.

Blue lights lashing on your ace and arms blackened by your own blood

and didnt that grim discovery as we called it sell a ew more copies

o the evening edition that would otherwise have been packed out

with May Day rivolities and it gave us something to talk about over a pint

what a cracking story.

Zac, I am more o a hypocrite than those hacks, or in lie

I would never have written about you.

Thought o you almost as a igure o insigniicance.

Still sons die or the recognition that they did live.And now, Zac, though you can no longer hear me,

I will speak o you

to those who would otherwise

never have known your name.

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