20 October 2010

Anne Sexton revival starts now...

Anne Sexton

A red-hot needle
hangs out of him, he steers by it
as if it were a rudder, he
would get in the house any way he could
and then he would bounce from window
to ceiling, buzzing and looking for you.
Do not sleep for he is there wrapped in the curtain.
Do not sleep for he is there under the shelf.
Do not sleep for he wants to sew up your skin,
he wants to leap into your body like a hammer
with a nail, do not sleep he wants to get into
your nose and make a transplant, he wants do not
sleep he wants to bury your fur and make
a nest of knives, he wants to slide under your
fingernail and push in a splinter, do not sleep
he wants to climb out of the toilet when you sit on it
and make a home in the embarrassed hair do not sleep
he wants you to walk into him as into a dark fire.

16 October 2010

A response to Variable 4, from May 2010

NB: Variable 4 was a piece devised by a friend of mine (and his friend) back in May. See the link for real info but briefly and bluntly it was a living musical composition which responded to the weather around it (Dungeness, Kent) forming an unpredictable and magical 24 hour sound piece. Below is a few personal thoughts I noted on the day.

A pair of lonely blue knickers pegged to the line outside a black wooden house. Pegged by three pegs against the sea wind, which even now in summer is remarkably strong. I pull the collar of my trench coat up, hold it against the back of my neck, a spot sure to attract flu mother always said. G sets up his video camera - shaky on shingle shore - to document the day. Twenty four movements responding to the weather – dependant on wind, rain, humidity, sun...the swoop of clarinet at the border between wild and tame, skirting the forest, dipping a toe in wondering whether to enter and let go of what it knows. But intelligent and keen it senses the border is its only home. Tense and tender. Crisp horizon formed by neat plucks of violin strings. T comes and jams two black sticks into the stones next to me. It is his way of reminding me of him while I am writing and he does not want to or fears interrupting me. Smooth but nervous loops of Ds and Gs on piano make me tense, on edge amongst the sunshine and swearwords drifting up to me from my friends' conversations below. It is a sound that makes me want to be underwater, holding my breath for a little too long then giving in to oxygen. You look like a detective in that coat, T says, breaking the silence between us, wanting a touch, a link. I need a newspaper with holes in front of my eyes, I say. He smiles broad and silly and I sidle towards him a spell. The day is bright and the sea crashes behind me and is translated.