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JER IEYTER

-“"’iIl~‘r I. 

  

Editors:  Keith Armstrong,  Edmund Tustian.  Proof Peader:  David Gill

 

: -:o1:3Y_

Cou...
h. 

Vietuamese Arithmetic‘
first published in the booklet edited
by Ken G.  POETRY FOR PEACE Vo1.II. 

One bomb equals 87...
by Ftoebe Timpson

 

. ... _._. -..  .. .._. ._. . ___.  .

Tomaso lay on his stomach and toned the foreign woman.  FY03 ...
‘But her eyes Mama.  they are as blue as the morning-glory on the roof
of Senhor Ribiera‘s patio and her hair like a river...
,Tomaso started to talk to the child,  to woo him with the sign language
which all children are quick to understand,  then...
fl. 

described Tomaso.  'I shall be grateful if you will gins him something fT°m
me,  we are not going to the beach today ...
At the Pargue Florida

Drum-rolled through expensive aark

To star-floored flais,  gilt microphone, 
The old diseuse ignite...
it ; s5eZ§; §§na

.  end" noises of citie
_ thé: sea beyond
‘; the'sea beyond
Vis'alwaya beautiful

‘it seems 3
»vso one d...
..  395."
1 the otherside of another
_ aw gene till
— . .. Q goeé shopétill . 
'g1§fig fhe ancient street and
-. vifiS; bQsi...
E m b r “'0

In the firivate darkness

'The. priestess flutters in her temple

As her devotee draws close

Bearing the futu...
Of Course

of course . 
.by now someone would have laughed-
and i willd
r

eam that i am
a box inside
a bigger box
inside ...
Strictll Platonic

Too often you have admired just my
Conversation, 

Too often you have claimed just to love

My wit.  ’
...
.a. ._‘.3:i. &°_11_I".3.-.4.2s. '~: 

Silent intexsityg cold,  open, 

unmcvahle.  unmade insanity; 

Broken minds of surr...
Letter from Russia by Irina Ivanova

Spring has come to Moscow.  The snow is melting.  The sun is shining
bfifihtlfiq it is ...
BCOK REVIEWS

Books received:  reviewed by Keith Arpstrong

Ca 0 67 : BroIAC :  Mar :  Cavan Mccarthx.  9d post free from:...
Book Review

Poetry for Peace (2),  Ed.  Ken Geering.  Ereakthru Publications,  price 6/-. 

This is Ken Geering's second ...
MAGAZINES RECEIVED: 

 

Breakthru:  ED.  Ken Gearing. 
38, Penn Crescent,  Haywards Heath, 
Sussex.  3/6d post free. 

ge...
David G111:

 

V Peter Baker: 
5 Guy Gladstone: 

M. S. Duke: 

Margaret Perkins: 

Phoebe Timpson: 
Nicola wood: 

Dav1d...
£s>new‘in gcgtzy is peas in‘txéW1fi¥93flSRq: g4vo2yqarv

    

3 Hard Time ye had of It

. ..--. .u. ... -

 

Huddled in a ...
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The informer 4

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Issue no. 4 of the Informer Poetry Magazine.

Content Details
Cover Illustration by Linda Simonds of Nottingham Art School.
P3- A Hard Time We Had Of It by Mike Sebastian Duke, On An Acquaintance by Terence Heywood.
P4- Vietnamese Arithmetic by Margaret Perkins, Poem by Anna Scher, Emporium 1967 by Graham Massey.
P5/6/7/8 A Bird in Transit by Phoebe Timpson.
P8- The First Affair by Martin Pavel, At Swanage by John Pollard, Return by K.E Walker, The Mad Loser by Guy Gladstone.
P9- At the Parque Florida by Roy Bennett, Coming Across Zebras by David Gill.
P10- The Sea Beyond by David Stringer.
P11- Sea Fret by M. Perkins, Down The Clearway by Roger Taylor, Beautiful Wales by Melvyn J. Bevan.
P12- Embryo by D.M Kendall.
P13- Of Course by Martin Pavel, The Man With the Third Moon Inside His Head (Shamus, the Hermit Who Loved People) by Peter Finch.
P14- Strictly Platonic by Michael Newman, Two Short Poems by Gabriel Levine, Across the Years by A.P Mc Quitty, Poem by Jean Willcox.
P15- Night As a Camouflage by Nicola Wood, The Misty-Eyed Patriot by William Michael Fagan, Live a Life by Stephen Morris, Tonight by Wes Magee.
P16-Letter From Russia by Irina Ivanova, Incident by Peter Baker.
P17- Book and poetry reviews by Keith Armstrong.
P18- Book Review (Poetry For Peace) by David Gill.

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The informer 4

  1. 1. .. .i. .Ail. ).. wl| .l. l.i.
  2. 2. JER IEYTER -“"’iIl~‘r I. Editors: Keith Armstrong, Edmund Tustian. Proof Peader: David Gill : -:o1:3Y_ Could you please help us only go to number 6, if all are not pair‘; 13;-, -' then. How 'ou can helm u§/ _e_JL. _.______. __ 1) Buy a year's subscription u only 10/-. ' 2) Give one toafriend for C!1r. i.s1:- mas presents. 3) Sell the Infornter. #) Get Advertisomcsts for us, serts cost 10 — ' I v ‘ iota, $5 per page (lithe? printed, or Small ads 6d. per word, box no. : I/ -. S) fiond a 3A, ( jggggiigggfigscd r ggyplcge) ___Qg$_gg§resncqg; ence. "' 6) Mas. 2‘, ‘ ', "Z3. clearly. 9 regret P illegible .5. cannot he. .:cept- ed. Top copies preferred to carbon copies. The Editors ynucffj: rm: -gret the col y in sen-ing out this issue. It due to circumstances beyond our control. Circle Book Service/ v-. r.—_m This is run by the , “;xK Books/ booklets in stock. §2g3 Flame “oetry (edited_by Alistair . . . post free, (see reviews). Poetry 53 reace Vol.2. (cd‘+eé by Ken Geerlng) 5}- post free, (see reviews). Blow Hot, chae1.T« 2;ud. , post free, (see issue 3 r views}. Flame Magazine: editedby Aliatair wiskcr, 3/56., post free, 3 & Q. Coming short . Epem. 16/-, post free, Fog Ev Nig t by haPfi&TEt Perkins, (no riced). Qfnor things: The Beatles No.1 condition. ing there»- (Parlophone) . ». . _. 1.. .; stand- . ... ._ _. .__. ._. ... _._. ... .,. ... _ I A L post free. (Only one copy). * in the World . world in pieces. 2/- post free. Back copies/ _*_____. _ Issues 1 - 3. one of each: 6/66. post free. ' . . Informer 1 - 1/-; former 2 - 1/5d. ; Informer 3 g d. ; informer k - 2/6d. All prices post free. xx: -:x: «¢. .v<I. '»xt$1$+. ¢4xv-r1r>: v:2:az~az. wz<a= xta-3 Issue FIEE . .. . Poetry edit by fingela Armstrong awsiwa-. .~»q: r.-, .aA-~4:~sx-x-» *x$1I= >€*. t£0’V. *'; I-unfit Ego CcmEetition/ lst - “A Smile“ by Phoebe Timpsoh Bed _ er Passed” by Hugh Era - Touch" by Martina nda‘. - ‘Dutch Courage" by Victor Morris as to the winners and or competitors ona. high staniard of their work. Conrratul. Univereities: who sells the _" '~" Informer. ‘r hfiskcr. -ish (St. E&mund's Essex: A is? Oxford; Roger Hall}. Bulncrshe College of Education: Inc: Randall. Basingstoke: Bctcr Baker, 83, Cavalier Rd. . Basing, Fr. Basingszcke. Cover by linda Siucnde of Nottingham Art School.
  3. 3. h. Vietuamese Arithmetic‘ first published in the booklet edited by Ken G. POETRY FOR PEACE Vo1.II. One bomb equals 87 dead, 213 injured or 29 families obliterated, 18 halved and 39 quartered. Recurring decimal; decimated villagei Simple fraction; proportion of population unhurt. Average child's weight; appalling. Suffering capacity; unbelievable. Length; measure of lost limbs. Time; ever present. STOCKS & SHARES. American, unquoted. Vietcong. unquoted. Vietnamese, falling rapidly. Margaret Perkins. ltéitxltllikletivlsl-rat? lkntttfitwzxltlintltiliitt>t= )'>L>k>; <'t! :<£x. ‘:! <t: xtv: ttIvnll3tit oem He wrote (rd quote) "I the Lord thy God am a jealous God". (Unquote). But jealousy is not a virtue, And God cannot be thought of with vice. Paradox amongst parables; Unless, Moses did invent one to prevent some from ungodliness? Anna Scher. Q#¢#C$#; #tOtttiflai¢#%l*t: t3t**fltI*¥$#t* Emgorium 1267 — Graham Massey Can we sell you a missile, a bomb, or a nuclear submarine? Sorry son, no penny tin whistle; but we do have this machine. I cannot whistle a tune, it. cannot whistle at all. But it can take pictures of the moon. Sorry little girl, no plastic ball; but we do have this machine. I cannot bounce a ball, it cannot bounce at all. I But it can tape a telephone call. Sorry children, no toys sold here. what do you mean. you think that I am queer. Go away little rurfians, run along home; and wait for the coming of the nuclear bomb. b$O*l¢Okl*#tfl#! U4i*%$*! $i#$$m#t##*#8**#$$**$*xknt coming shortly D99 DID :3: Poems in Honour (Dock Leaves Publ) . 157- a copy. ... post free. From: Circle Books: 16 Davenant Rd. . Oxford.
  4. 4. by Ftoebe Timpson . ... _._. -.. .. .._. ._. . ___. . Tomaso lay on his stomach and toned the foreign woman. FY03 his vantage point behind the rock he co ld observe without heing observed, drinking in her incredi. le beauty without embarassmert to either of them. Her eyes were never turned in his direction, for, as usual, she was entire- ly absorbed in her son, a little blonde fellow wic reminded Tomaso of the cherubs floating on the sacristy ceiling. fie was not really interested in the boy, for it was the mother who occupied his every thought, she l0oked'like a young girl, scarcely out of . her teens, but tse presence of the child and the wedding—ring, Tomaso reflected sadly, proclaimed her to be quite a few years older than himself. Her days in the sun had given a faint golden glow to her limbs, her hair, which was loose, fell from a central parting to her shoulders in soft ripples, like a golden waterfall, Tomaso than at pcetically. Ten days ago, when he had watched her arrive she had been pale, fragile, tired no doubt from her journey and the next zornins Whe" he had found her on the beach her s“n had looked transparent in the hr t sea- glare. Now he perceived a fine powdering of freckles blending wi J the warm flush on her cheeks. He had never seen anyone remotely like her before, because, until this summer few foreigners had come to the coast, there had been nowhere for th 3 to stay, but w‘th the orening of the hotel all had changed. A road, like an ugly scar was being cut across the headland by men who toil- ed all day in the heat. where before tfiere had been a mere sprinkling of villas, hotels and houses would shortly spring up like mushrooms: land- values were beginning to soar. Peoy‘e said the changes would bring prosper- ity to the village and undreamed of _nen_ties. .. p3_ed water andelectricity Tomaso knew all the young girls in the village, had been to school and grown up with them, but ur*€1 now he had never been interested in any yarticular girl, nor felt his heart race at the closeness and warmth of any female. For one thing he had been too busy, helping to paint boats, to hawl in the catch, or mend the nets, busy in a man's world. He had never loitered on a beach, spending hours just idling in the sun as the visitors did, a quick dip and a short swir with his friends was all the leisure he had allowed himself, yet now he spent every snare minute doing just this. His friend Harco and Jose, who worked with him at the estaurant, noticed his greoccupetion and fierce teased hi: about it, HA1 that time for a skirt and one, moreover, that you cannot even sneak to. ’ Tomaso did not smile, he kicked moodily at a stone, love is like a disease, when youcatch it you are entirely changed. The first t he he had seen her he had rushed home full of excitement, he shared all his exyeriences with his mother, they had been very close since his father died. ‘Kama, I have seen a wonderful girl, like an'angel. .. or perhaps more like a 3ernaifl, ,sHe is staying at the new hotel. ‘ His mother was standing over her charcoal stove stirring the vegetable soup, flavoured with rancid oil and garlic. ‘Where else would she stay if she is a foreigner? ’ ‘You know Rama I had not thought about it before, but we are an ugly race, dark like olives, short and thick. ‘ She left the stove and loant her work-worn hands on the table. ‘what of it, we are a hediterranean people, so we are dark and not tall like the northerners, but we are strong and brave, what ahout our heros who went out and conquered new worlds, what about Cabral and %agellan and Vasco da Gama'. ..' ‘That was a long time ago, what are we now, a people who still plough with oxen and grind corn ti windmills. ..’ Tomaso shrugged and lit a cigarette. fnnyway, that is not the point. ..’ ‘If you would only use your eyes, son, there are plenty of pretty girls right here on your doorstep. What is the good of dreaming of one who is rich enough to stay at the new hotel? Be careful for you will only bruise your heart! ‘ ‘ "
  5. 5. ‘But her eyes Mama. they are as blue as the morning-glory on the roof of Senhor Ribiera‘s patio and her hair like a river of gold. ‘ soup to the table and a rich His mother only laughed and brought t smell assailed his nostrils. Tomaso worked as a waiter at the restaurant that stood on the cliffs above the village. It was a simple, rustic place but it had style. Portfi ugese, rural cooking, by any standard is poor, but here the food was good, for the patronne was French and her hushand cooked under her supervision and every item was meticulously and lovingly prepared. There was no written menu aid the dishes varied from day to day accord- ing to what was best in the market. Each client was consultad and his food cooked to order. Duri the lengthy wait he was served an excellent soup and chilled bottles of Vinho Verde. or Branco Seco. liaguada, the local sole was always excellent, so was the red mullet served with shrimps, or there was tender pork, or fried octopus, all oubtlely flavoured with butter and herbs and pimentos. . o sides of the restaurant were open so that the diners could gaze out from their pools of candle—light into 5tar~5prinkled darkness. A recorder played soothing, romantic music. not loud enough to obtrude upon the conversation, or even to drown the cicadas, but serving to emphasise the exotic quality of the southern night, The patronne floated discreetly between the tables making suru that all were satisfied. One night as Tomaso polished glasses and wafted for the diners, his golden girl appeared, stood a . meat under the tern ser aiinirg hair neatly coiled about her head a‘d wearing a soft e dress, the colour of her oyoa. Tomaso gasped with wand’ , she was transformed from a lovely girl. to a sophisticated woman. She was with a party of. friends from the _hotel and he hurried forward to show them to t'c best table. while the patronne consulted their wishes, he was sent r .5 for two bottles of Mateus Rose! then he brought their soup. ‘Jose, she is here, she has come, the girl I told you about, you speak her language, nlease wait on her table and tell me all she says. ‘ ? he good~naturod fellow agreed and Tomaso hurried off to serve other guests whilst glancing continuously to where his love sat chatting and ' laughing and remained unaware of his existence. ' It was late when they left and it was clear from their oxolamations of 'bom"and 'muito bom‘, that they were content. As they washed up Tomaso asked, ‘Noll, what did you learn? ‘ ‘Not a great deal, ’ Jose smiled regretfully, 'but it seems she is a widow, once she said ‘when my husband was alive. .." ‘A widow and so young: It seemed incredible, his mother was a widow but then she was old already, beg nning to turn grey and with one or two teeth missing. His curiosity flared and he felt a new protective tender- ness. alone in the world with her'little boy. ‘ Now, lying behind the rock-he felt towards the child a sense of irritation. So much attention and love was being la"ished upon him, She called him Tony and her voice was warm and tender wh never she spoke to him. ‘If he were not here, she would be sure to notice me‘, he tbought darkly. ‘A 15 is a worse rival than another man: ' He left the beach and went to serve lunch at the restaurant. There were only two tables occupied and he moved about his work listlessly, even the good tips he received failed to revive his spirits. By day the restaurant lost much of its charm, the sun showed up its shortcomings and the hard metallic hoot made the headland and even the sea dance and shimmer. The dry thyme and the motionless fig—trccs were bowed down in a pail of ' dust. A few weary donkeys passed, carrying tleir masters home to the siesta. » Tomaso could not rest and by four he was back on the beach. -A wind had risen and was bringing the § lantic rollers crashing in on the honey- coloured rocks. Tony was making a castle near the edge of the sea w ile. his mother lay flat on her back under the over—hanging cliff out of the ' wind. A large straw hat portly concealed her face and she seemed to be asleey.
  6. 6. ,Tomaso started to talk to the child, to woo him with the sign language which all children are quick to understand, then to buffoon. walking on his hands, giving an imitation, first of an old man and then of a dog. Tony laughed and clapped his hands, when Tomaso wandered of to the little cove where. the big rocks were, he followed and when Tomaso climbed onto the big rock which was half surrounded by swirling water and then jumped off into a breaking wave Tony did the same. He laughed as the spray splashed him in the face. Tomaso climbed higher the next time and Tony hesitated a moment, but as though he recognised an unspoken challenge he followed and jumped. again. The third time Tomaso jumped in a different direction-from the seaward side of the rock, at this point the sand shelved deeply and fall away to a depth of six foot and when Tony catapulted himself out from the rock he disappeared from view. For one awful moment Tomaso saw the small white body shimmer under the surface than a large wave swept over them both and carried the child against the rock. Tomaso surfaced and struck out, in seconds he had clasped Tony safely in his arms, with difficulty he circumvented the rock against the powerful suction of the receding water and scrambled up on to the sand. Tony, choked, coughed, hiccuped and then began to howl, there was a lump coming up on his forehead, his mother came running down the beach and snatched him from Tomaso. All contrition, he followed then, watched her cradle her child, murmur endearments to him and then taking ointment from her bag, gently anoint the bruise; ‘ ’Ob1igado, ' she now said to'Tomaso and smiled right at him, then she took a packet of cigarettes from her bag and offered one to him. She cupped her hands round her small gold lighter and their faces were close together as they both drew at the flame. Tony had stopped crying butstill shuddered convulsively every few seconds, Tomaso pointed at him and shook his head, making a sad grimace, but she signed that all was well and cover- ed the little body with a towel and then she smiled again, such a lovely smile, she was so close to him he could really see her in every exquisite detail. He devoured her with his eyes, trying to put all he could not say into this consuming look, to convey his tenderness and his desire. She blushed then and 1ooked. away, groped for her handbag and plunged her hands inside it. _ with sudden relief and murmuring some hasty and unintelligible words she handed him a hundred e5cudos. _ With rage and humiliation he lunged back and got to his feet, the note fluttered to the sand between him, without glancing back he ran along the beach and up the winding path, stumbling, half blinded with tears. when he reached his bicycle he was bathed in sweat, pulled his trousers over his wet trunks and pedalled like fury sending up a cloud of dust in his wake. 'Mama, she offered me money, my eyes shake of love and yet she offered only money, can you believe it£' He sat at the kitchen table, his head in his hands having regaled his mother with the story without confessing the role he had played in inducing the accident. She poured him a glass of wine from the stone-jar and set it before him. ‘ 'Drink only a little because you are so hot, ’ but he disregarded the wine. ‘It is possible that I shall never see her again. ‘ 'That might be for the best, ’ his mother sighed, 'in time you will forget her, she will go home to her cold country in the north, _she is like one of the birds who come to rest awhile on their way to and. from Africa, she does not belong in our world, time heals all. _ You will come-to see that in a wife you need more than a pretty face. ’ She only half believed what she said for in her heart she knew that there is nothing like first love, that fresh and chaste awareness that asks so little and gives so much. He would never find again the magic and the unfulfilled-promise. It is the first meeting with love that is ‘ ‘ remombered. long after love itself has grown stale. She wiped away a tear with the back of her hand, for one adored her son and was powerless to comfort him. The next morning the foreign girl came to the restaurant and sought the patronne. ‘I believe you have a young man who works here, ‘ and she
  7. 7. fl. described Tomaso. 'I shall be grateful if you will gins him something fT°m me, we are not going to the beach today for we are nakin: an expedition into the hills and tomorrow we are going home. ‘ She handed the Patronne 3 photograph, ‘you see E offered him money for something he did for me and he would not accept it. I am sorry I hurt his pride. .. I think he would nppreciato. something more personal. It belongs to my little boy, but he would be happy for fooaso to have it. ’ _when. she had gone the Patronne looked at the photograph in its fine Moroccan frame, its subjects were a tall, laughing man, the girl herself and the boy between them, holding a hand of each. She showed it to Jose. ‘He will not give it to Tomaso, I think, it would only serve to ingrave her memory in his minfi. ' ‘Perhaps you are right, ‘ Jose answered regretfully, ‘she is certainly a lovely woman. ‘ ‘ 'We will destroy it and then there will be nothing to recall her, he might see too much in such a gift, 3 reason for hope when there is no reason. ’ ‘You must be right, ’ sighed Jose, 'poor Tomaso! ‘ ‘The Patronne took the photograph out of its frnve and dropped it into the stove. Jose turned away and shuddcrod, feeling as though it were Tomaso himself who was suffering the ordeal by fire. X-X-X-X-JC The first afiggég Time softens and kills the pain But nothing can remove the memories Not even he presence of another. And when she comes again Long after sleepless nights have left You greet her with smiles and pounding heart And get hurt again. ' ' Martin Petavel (first published in Breakthru) g; Swanage Slapping, soothing, breaking. bouncing, bracing, lapping. plopping, slapping, churning, yearning for another shore: The tide is turning. ' John Pollard Return The Dorset Downs were covered with heather just for me, The g§g; loser As I went treading over them. Ch. so happily. People lose things ‘ Things lose people The leaden streets were covered Lose people things with people like a sea, People things lose As I returned back home again, Lose things people oh, regretfully. . Things people lose K. E. Walker. 1955. Guy Gladstone.
  8. 8. At the Pargue Florida Drum-rolled through expensive aark To star-floored flais, gilt microphone, The old diseuse ignites In holocaust of lime afid stone - paste Scintilla of ear-ring. sparking Of sequins‘ purple lights. Bobbing barrel, squat to square-rigged Table and lean glasses‘ stems, An over—fil1ed balloon, with too—white gleam from rose-pink gums, Cavorting upon thinning air, lg she so immune From damnation by unresponsive Hanfls? Hers clap back on a spring. Eeathed pause, nod, peck Of plectrum on taut wires: she wrings Her stock gigoefige resietaqgg, "The Sparrow", by the neck. Foremost among the second rank of , Va1enoia‘s night—spot prima donnao, In Madrid's al fresco . v Park she's provincial as séwdust, swank And swagger hitched to a grosser cultural Idiom and tempo. A scruffy feather ball unfolds Hyperbole of larynx-bursting Ardours which dilate Sea—green eyelashes and thrust: Loose strings from throat to shoulder. She'll never see forty-eight Again. Through these appearances, (All billed as ”Final”). a chary urban Sparrow chirruys on. ,b; What ieally goes here? Fabling blurb on billboards? Chill of audience? Conchita? Q9 rich? I‘ 4.. . Is perhaps my line of vision Skew? Or will its image blur More lying still with age Than ballad, stage or star? The bird, Crushed in her cleavage, lives on at Least in his legend‘: cage. Roy'Bennett Alt-a>= "‘»¢= w£*ks*>9«#2x¢: Amt: x.x«>ls~v¢4<>t4*Iv= e:n<¢-$2‘: txutt*sak*£an Coming Across Zebggg On Serengeti plains the golden stubble hums . And insects fuss among the droppings of the beasts That fled to corrugate the skyline with their fear And watch the mystic motor pass in veils of dust. But we are real; the blood»sayBfyee, the sweat accuses. The springs transmit the track's reality to real backsidea, But now rock softly as the silver thorns close in ' And catch our view in mesh of frost and morning stars. I touch you — but your hand is in the vision'$ glove. All round as sparkle spikes and thorny asterisks, And lovely living beyond the common scope of horses . _ The chevroned zebras twitch their silken rumps and gaze. yvid Gill.
  9. 9. it ; s5eZ§; §§na . end" noises of citie _ thé: sea beyond ‘; the'sea beyond Vis'alwaya beautiful ‘it seems 3 »vso one dreams. stringer ‘ br§sks_like endless symphonies on”shingIy: strand; , reo§lls the tenderness of hands that lax. your corpse in a shroud — a tree against sunset. s more rag in the wind . old man also stands against sunset his thoughts still as a young boy's wand there to adventure. V from the sea beyond after the last fisherman has gone home the gale brings its wings of darkness to nestle with the primeval caress of stars, the mad lonely birds of my brooding, let loose . v among volcanic weirdness of tide-worn racks; across the haven where the last fisherman has gone home, the village of lights that rides the hill (for a thousand years now) a far-away dream of immortality ‘ that no longer convinces me of Gods of childhood reverie. to the see beyond has been given so much of wondering time life from ocean slime crawled out eager to search its meaninglessness with a sleepless human eye that somehow, sometimes slept . and kept » ~and. ‘somehow_ " ; did not care about tomorrow * for a too-swiftly {as army V-nadnesses oi“ its pact of silence as to how it accepted death — — ‘ ' ' L the. wild birds flew away by stealth ' V “E , (I‘m_not the one you want bebe, ‘ “ I'M not the one you need) passing moment. Eye _ v ’ Mes eigized the wind. as hen melted in the wind! V -. !'Mine'. . rge, s'»“in oity-noises, in Amber is 1: meriuin’. ” orioa, memef_*4 ‘ usqu'a'1ajnortn—»' . ‘ "‘ V * love of the sea in the land by'the sea oven till death (french and Breton—c. f. sea poem epilogue to Big Sur)
  10. 10. .. 395." 1 the otherside of another _ aw gene till — . .. Q goeé shopétill . 'g1§fig fhe ancient street and -. vifiS; bQsineas as usual, still ". the aafle for some ~ ‘j the sea must came ififand out, juét the same. ahafk5'prbwl for food, $490335‘l= ‘##1K##¥*%lI¢kR$$¥= I!= t;¥? t##1I! l'U<>! €‘31I1‘= ‘IIlIlt*Ik#¢ , _.~. ..__ brine embraces me. rocks reassure my héibpnr lights on the fisherman bent over their lines have the warmth of their intent blood - while madness in my mine, has spawned its brood. #5339 Sea fret by M. Perkins Through tingling haze Salty tentacles grasp my hair; faltering foot. Seagulls softly wheel. “ A curious crab scuttles across seaweed rock, scavenges in a stagnant poo1,- ' ' merges with sand and disappears. Coral brown starfish. tom the sky, creep and cling. fallen Black grey mussels crouch; escaplhg collection. Inquieitive'winkles peep - - - gfl : ‘ from their shelly coils. Close inshore, hidden in haze lobster pate, black with lobsters, gently sway . A lone gull wheels wistfully v mwwmgwunnhmdhmumwtwh. Puffs of salty, silver white swirl. ypwn the Glearwag by Roger Taylor The Clearway is for dreamers To journey to the town, For shelter from the rain The only other travellers Are dreamers who turned around, To get away from the town again, Travelling life's eternal Polygon, Are dreamers on the clearway. tttwttt: $**w*: x:t*fimx¢t$a##¢zwt#t#¥$*¢t a¢ t$Iz= :nurt>1Hl= ¥:>1t*4'>cataxlfita $mj4K$#¢fl$fii#*t$$¥i*¥$t Beautiful'Wales Gliteeringxailver‘acneame Spattering gaily over} Moss cUvered‘: ook5 Cascading swiftly gown ' Lush green mautainsides which tqwer majestically" Over tree fillefi valleys. Melvyn J. Bevan"
  11. 11. E m b r “'0 In the firivate darkness 'The. priestess flutters in her temple As her devotee draws close Bearing the future in his grasp. His secret promise handens. At the gentle pressure The shrine opens. lets enter Her weighty messenger, Hand bearer of primeval tidings Closeted in unspoken dialogue He delivers all his hot dispatch Bows out unburdened from his mission. Nor the outward calm ' Bolies the soft and inward surge Of new expected meetings. In the secret night fusion of the waters A speck alone In its cavernous home Divides and redivides Slow buds stretch out And curl in boat-shaped innocence losson gently . . « In the welcoming dark. It shapes itself in perfect-detail As though long practised Or as though some unfelt teacher whispered in its half formed ear. Already in the swelling germ, Is beauty, genius or mediocrity The death of a million men in an egg. But from the genie at_its shoulder It learns that it must grow, Pampered in its hothouse It has yet to learn of. hunger. Cradled in its safe caressing sea, In timeless darkness » It has no premonition As the months. grow heavier And the tiny bones begin to harden . Begin toAstir. in readiness For its close violent exile. Then comes the storm Its anchor wrenched aorift The soft body pressed Through the narrow channel From its harbour. He cannot resist This unkind uncalled force. The waters break ‘ He has not learnt To swim against the tide Propelled against his wish Inch by violent inch. ~ Out of his secret unfiergronnd passage ‘Into the light Tumbled hand t1:s£f7 . Into this strenge new needless world . Binging the last-wave in his wake. The last bond is, dut; The first knot tied. H He‘takes his first hard look ‘At his new bone This painter, general, phy5icist~to-be. And gives the welcomers or his sore arrival One long loud comment: The shape of things to come. D. M. KENDALL
  12. 12. Of Course of course . .by now someone would have laughed- and i willd r eam that i am a box inside a bigger box inside a big ger box insi de an even b igger box so quiet and peaceful. when solitude crowds the senses of the mind and purple smoke dreams turn to fear the corner stone of sanity is cracked and a cold grey mist covers softly the’fobthi1ls of my mine. Martin Petavel. N. B. part of this poem was first published in Breakthru this year. The man with the third moon inside his head (Shamus, the hermit who loved people) Shamus. your iron walking skull rises in its segment, Shamus wanderer of the third moon ' I have put you on the well. And it's my wall, in my room, surrounded by my ideas, Yours should be the glory People should know you as the creator of pictures see you as the man with the curling pen. . but you vanished You took your soul and wandered, With your waving weary locks and‘chinese moustache You looked up at the hill and were genes. ..’ You left a memory Visions of you cross legged, kaddish poem in hand Visions of you crouched over tiny pad, scrawling madly Visions of you hunched over guitar 4 ' ’ Your wierd voice straining at the night. . Strange friends hold your memory, the girl who stole you your corduroy shirt the old painter of miniatures, whose mind you struck in the museum. The devil worshipper, who would have gone even to Tangiers with you, ’ - the Junky man who died, you once got high with him, V But it's all transient Only the concrete ideas of your drawings prove your existence. They hang on my wall, I tell people your name _p . but Shamus you are in the mist of the forgotten. ‘Pete: -Findn;
  13. 13. Strictll Platonic Too often you have admired just my Conversation, Too often you have claimed just to love My wit. ’ There is a good debate at the college to-day, Let us forget our country walk. Michael Newman. Two Short Poems 1 Old vines, faded greenhouse: Let us wait here awhile, Eating unripe tomatoes and watching the cloud-burst. 1965. The dawn of mist at the bottom of our orehara — Surely there are red admirals to guzzle up these rotten pears, ’ As another year goes by. 1967. Gabriel Levine. —e—. ~_e-. "Across the xears by A. P. Mcquitty In tranquil thoughts, I often dream of days long past In retrospect, a gilt framed canvas made to last. I hold within my mind. this masterpiece, that age cannot destroy, the joys and tears, the needless fears, the abandon of a boy. when-grey clouds Grape their dismal shrouds, like curtains on a devil's stage and thunder plays the overture-to some gigantic o5re‘s page, I pay no heed, I dream again and fear no ills, but in my thoughts, thro' country stroll and contemplate the hills, that winter oft ordains to wear their_crowns of snow and proudly stand, like guardians of the glens below. ‘ I look back across the years and see the holocaust of war, but swiftly put it from my mind, as something gone for evermore. yet in my heart I know, in cycle shall it come again, attended by the bloodshed, horror, grief and pain. But still I dream. . caress my canvas of the past and wonder shall this earth, _pne day have peace at last. Until then, I still shall dream, my dreams of youth-and golden days, of rolling downs, of green—clad Vales, of rocky coast and windswept hays, of sunrise with morning sky aflame, all this in depth, within my gilded frame. . - * poem Earthwbound, earth near feel grass, tree fern and water from an imfiulae clear. then all, touch crush and burn. squeak-pip, tune and twitch dark grey and mottled brown, tread heavy feet touch light toes meet. Nibble-munch, turn around stretch your claws and frown, upon the sound and the song of the drums beneath the whispering ground. Jean Willcox.
  14. 14. .a. ._‘.3:i. &°_11_I".3.-.4.2s. '~: Silent intexsityg cold, open, unmcvahle. unmade insanity; Broken minds of surrendering aniwals. Suddenly a wild cacophony of souné, A sufierfluity of noise, Deafening hate. Silence again. Bars, chains, shackles; Iron on flesh, f1eSL on stone. wet eyes, wondering, uncomprehending eyes. Iniquitous cruelty of a vociferous guard Under the cover of night. - Nicola Wood. _'l‘_h_e_i’: _j___s£ v-axed Petr: at Benea. h the Stars and Stripes He cbunts his profits, ‘This one hundred nercent American, This patriotic-businessman. He cringes when he 1 nks Of lefties and pinkoes who would sell this country Down the river at the peace table. _But his heart is proud At the thought of fe1low—Anerica2s _1ose sons are dying bravely Upon the field of ‘battle. .'He would like to take a‘handkerchief And spe d a moment weeping. But he as no t‘; e For he must count his profits. William Michael Pagan. T o n i g h t The bedroom: ‘ s blackness receives me like a grave, I grape for the switch which is now a tin nipple now a bone nose and my Friday cigar burns an orange hole in the air. Yellow arrows} are instantly searching angles. corners, driving shadows beneath the floor boards while the window lids a tired black-eye and the'pillow hugs my head like a hear. was Magee. live a Life It's quite true what m" Granfer said As he lay dying On his bed In ans minute You can live A life-time And in a life-time You may perhaps Live only a minute He told me Of many minutes -Before he died And I believed Them all ‘ although I knowv He lied Stephen Morris
  15. 15. Letter from Russia by Irina Ivanova Spring has come to Moscow. The snow is melting. The sun is shining bfifihtlfiq it is becoming warmer. The schoolchildren of Moscow are having their holidays. It happens so every year, but this year our holidays differ much from all the yrevious ones: this time we were to meet Students and pupils from different universities and schools of England, America and Canada. Every school, a member of the USSR—Great Britain Society, was to accompany ghem on their excursions about Moscow. Early in the morning we came to the railway station. The train from Brest arrived and many young people got out of it. Immediately we made acquaintance with them. "What is your name? — Helen. And what is yours? - Caroline". Very soon we made friends with our guests. As we spent a lot of time together, we got to know much about our countries and one another. We showed to our guests Moscow, the University, went to a cinema, to one of Moscow's schools, had a nice yarty at a restaurant. It was splendid! We greatly enjoyed the time and we hope that so did our guests. That is why we were all very sorry to part, Our friends had to continue their journey through the Soviet Union. They went to Leningrad. The day of their departure was a very sad day. It is always very unpleasant to part with good friends. But we hope that we did not part with them for ever: we shall have correspondence with them and perhaps we shall meet them again. In the end of my letter I want to say "Hulls" to my friends in Great Britain: "Hullo, Caroline, hullo Lesley, hullo Dan. " I shall never forget you and gladly have correspondence with you. i_____. ._. _._~f_. _.? _ All minds will conform. Section 9 subsection 3. The establishment reserve the right to allow freethought to rebels The miniaturised sun burns through my head vapourising my thoughts-o£_freedom. You have freedom they say why be slaves_1iKe them Anyway if everyohe said that where would we be 3 I feel the kick of electric persuasion § stimulated into an erection, I spit at the “ Kindly man on the couch beside me. k I have expressed my words. E My words of freedom % My mouth has told, 5 what they will not admit to see. 9 Read the Bible they say only for‘god', g read Us. . V Only fools like you think you know ' But you don't . fl We'll make sure you don't. “} I scream an obscenity at the will *fi You're not doing well are you! U Mood Changes. ’j what did I say I knew ' They only know, if they didn't, they Would'nt be there, would they? I see we must-have censorship My world is good They cannot read what they want N They told me it was I will write for conformity They've built me. a house. Anyway what does truth matter Given me :4. job Freedom is. .. An artificial world broedom was. ... My brain's artificial too. Freedom is dead. V They told me so.
  16. 16. BCOK REVIEWS Books received: reviewed by Keith Arpstrong Ca 0 67 : BroIAC : Mar : Cavan Mccarthx. 9d post free from: Location Press, 5, Hornbx Str. , Blackburn, Lang§, , England. _ This booklet of concrete poetry is interesting. Mr. McCarthy loves playing about with words & letters. ' v ' - ». An example of his poetry: brunt sicnal brk an all hroke- all ’rent burnt this poetry is new; but when reading it i feel like the little boy who'saw: the naked king in the children's tale. ' The Moscow-Peking dis ute & the 4th'International; 2/- post free from: Pioneer Book Services, 3. Tognbee Street, London E. l. This Trotskyist publication is in three sections - 1) The Chinese & Trotsky- ists form a bloc (by Izvestia), 2) Reply to Izvestia_(by E. .Frank) & 3) For- ward to Lenin not back to Stalin (by E. Germain). .“‘» Hitting the RCP & pro the COP. ‘ I liked it. Nature Poetrz: edited by Ken Gearing. .2/lld from: Breakthru Publications, P fi , enn Crescent, Havwards Heath, Sussex, England- Another Ereakthru collection, a better collection than most. with the usual poets. -I would like_to quote one: Michael Armstrong (no relation to me): . .. Your gift of green flesh lies brown on the hill, your roots are gteel ribs that are welded_to rock. winter Prayer. ... This is a descriptive piece of poetry which is representative of the whole- collection. If you want to read more. buy it. some Flame Poetry: Alistair wisker. 3/- post free; cen_be bought from: circle Books, 1 , Davenent Road, Oxford. or se£_Flamc in mags received. Very good. Best poems by Pete Brown, flnse Hallo & John Barell. ‘Some of the poetry from the University of Essex Arts Festival held ear1ier'this year. Alistair is an Informer poet. Alien Poets: Gabriel Levine & Stephen Morris, Clauoia Publications, 210 Hale Road Hale Chas. Both poets appear for the first time in this issue of the-Inforner. The best poem I think is the Soul of Capitalism by G. Levine. I also like 'Leave me alone‘ by Stephen Morris. It is_printed very well. 2 - nest frge. A Prism Anthologxz eoited by Wes Magee. 1/5d post free. from 294,vNorthu fields Ave. , Ealin , LondonL; E,5.- _ . .' . . . The Best‘-of Prism. ... (London). '., ‘.s R‘ E A v Poet: -y’_ by Anthony‘ Naumann, Eian Patten, John James, David Jackson, Vera Rich, Mike Horovitz, Jim Burns, to name a few; ... all for l/ Ed. Very g 0'0 d. Thanks for collection Wes. K. A. Books/ booklets to he reviewed in issue 5.. .{ Poems to Aberfan: edited by Stephen Morris, (Flat 3, Clumber House, Park Drive, the Park Nottingham. 2/6d. ) poems by the West Nottingham Technical College. ‘High & Low’ John Bctjeman (John Murray, lfis. ) Geography: Ed. Dorn (Fulcrum Frees, 255.) & many more . ... ... ... including Penzuin Modern Poets 10 poetry by Henri, McGough & Patten.
  17. 17. Book Review Poetry for Peace (2), Ed. Ken Geering. Ereakthru Publications, price 6/-. This is Ken Geering's second anthology of Poetrz for Peace. It contains forty- threé poems and is decently printed. The poetry, as you would expect from the. title. is the poetry of the committed, the one common factor being a sense of shock at human cruelty. Hiroshima, Vietnam, the battlefields of the First world War are the most conspicuous landmarks in the horrorscape. Most of the poets in this anthology have tried to come to terms with their own revulsion, but a sense of horror, like nuclear energy, has to be sternly con- trolled before it can reproduce a powerful effect. Sometimes the reactors are successful. There is S. R.'Bennet's neat contract between the five—star gener- al cutting himself while shaving, and remote blood being spilt at his command: Nicking his razored jowl. he swears. The blood runs down an& chills him. He guffaws, Fogging the glass. A village flares: Charred mouths evacuate their frizzled yaws. Ken Geering's Gas, in Vietnam shows even greater compression, a gritting of teeth: Our crew-cut rotors Immolate class-rooms, Yet alien roadsidee, Alive with grim gunmen, Don't fall to "Flit". Margaret Perkins goes one step further along the narrowing path with her balance sheet Vietnam Arithmetic. There is a sort of poetry in her recital of equations which ends: Stocks and shares. American, unquoted. Vietcong, unquoted. Vietnamese, rapidly falling. Others attempt satire. Bruton Connor's. Eriefing for Tragic war is a dead-pan lecture very well sustained. Here is the unpunctuating sergeant's voice: Now let us continue with the antimite undershorts Cellular". .. There are, unfortunately. poems where the mctrc simply dcrides the subject matter. Take M. Leather's jingle: v God help us never to forget that awful blinding flash. When children in Hiroshima were turned to heaps of ash. There is too much hymnizing - a depressing habit which affects Christians-and Communists alike - with its scatter of capitalized abstracts; and there is some downright bad writing like: ' Peace requires a good ear — no passive appreciation For prosperous environs. (Pressing Oratoria - Bella Cameron) Poetry needs a good ear too. I liked Barry Groom's Day of Ifiroshima which conveys the warm idle stillness‘ of the moments before the bomb. I liked Tom Ear1ey's sensitive Pictures in the Pagers. He also points to a lack in this anthology, and in atomic-age poetry generally, when he concludes: ‘ The poetry, he said, is in the pity. we need another Wilfred Owen now. Only a contapporary Owen would have to fight in Vietnam, or survive a nuclear attack. " DAVID GILL.
  18. 18. MAGAZINES RECEIVED: Breakthru: ED. Ken Gearing. 38, Penn Crescent, Haywards Heath, Sussex. 3/6d post free. gegpnd Aeon: (formerly Second Aeon Poetryi: ED. Peter Finch. 3, Queensbury Rd. , Cyncoed, Cardiff, Wales. 6d + 3d postage. No.2 a great improvement. View Eointsgcontroversx: EDS. Lynn Carlton & Fred Cosgrove, 20 Droyleien Rd. , Newton Heath, Manchester 10. 2/lld post free. As good as ever. Resgonaut: ED. Anne Armstrong, 39 Essex St. , Newbury, Berks. Unpriced. .. no poetry or very little poetry. Flame: Alistair Wisker, University of Essex, wivenhoe Park, Colchester, Essex. 2/Gd post free. Copies may be bought from the INFORMER. This mag needs money to keep going. 62 pages an issue. Has had poetry by: Dannie Abse, Gavan McCarthy, John James. Pete Brown, Edward Dorn & many others. .. now at No. #. View: ED. J. Mac Cormack, Union Press, Reading University, Reading, Berks. No.1 l/6d. It is sad news to say that Prism ~is no longer with us. Small Press Review: (from British Dist: Cavan Mc Carthy) Location Press, # Hornby St. , Blackburn, Lanes. 7/6d Issue Ro. l. Riding West: Steve Sneyd, 4 Nowell Place. Almondbury, Huddersfield. Yorkshire. L/9d post free. . Firebird: David Stringer, Inter- national Centre, 6# George St. , Manchesierxz. 2/- Foetmeat: Tina Morris & Dave Cuncliffe, ll Clematis St. Black- burn, Lance. 3/- post free. 13 and last issue as. mag. Poetrx Market: Aubrey Bush, 10 Raleigh St. , Alfreston Rd. , Nottinghflm. .1/6d post free at Issue 3. gggression: Brian Pearce, (magazine of the New Richmond Poetry Group) 23? Staines Rd. , Twickenham. Middlesex. 2/66 post free. Platform: Joan Lee, ll? Green Lane, west Vale. Halifax, Yorkshire. (Magazine of the Pennine Poets) 2/~. Envoi: John Scott, 7 Levels, Marla Hill Parade, Gheltenham, Glos. 3/6d. Vietnam Courier: Unknown, 55 Tran Hung, Dao St. , Hanoi DRV. 66 + 6d postage 1 IRC 22 (International Times): ED. a new editor Tom has left, now Jack fienry Morre. Lovebooks Ltd. , ‘ 102 Southampton Row, London w. C.1. l/ — (the INFORMER wishes IT best of luck with trial). Scri t: (23) David Halliday E7 Hady Crescent Chesterfield, Derbyshire. 2/-. WHERE THE'IHFORMER'CAN”BE BGHGHT: London Housemans Bookshop. 5 Calednnian. Road, N.1. Indica, see IT address. Reading Farley Hill Stores and P. o, Farley Hill, N11. ReaIi‘LJ3.g_, . Berks, Oxford John's Bookshop. %/8 St. Michael's‘ Street, 16, Davenant Road. Nottingham The Trent Bookshop Ltd. 1.PaNilion R&. . Trent Bidge. The University of Essex See Alistair Wisker, Ea. of FLAME. Euddersfield See Steve Sneyd*s address Riding west. Elna, Cheshire M. Newman, 2# Oughtrington Iane, _ Lymm.
  19. 19. David G111: V Peter Baker: 5 Guy Gladstone: M. S. Duke: Margaret Perkins: Phoebe Timpson: Nicola wood: Dav1d= Stringer: M. J. Bevan: Irina Ivanova: W. M. Pagan: A. P. Mcqnitty: John Pollard: Jean Willeox: Anna. Scher: K. E. Walker: Terence Heywood: ‘ Roger Taylor; _ : {i Peter Fifioh: ' Michaé1:NéQién: ’ . ‘Martin Putavel: An. M; Kenéall: ’ Roy- Bennétt: Agdafirisl Levine: Editor until-it folded of PRISM. Poems recentlx acceptéd/ printed in: Poetry Review, Tribune, Peace News, Tuentieéh century, Ezyréssion, Move; scrip. _‘ Clare, Manifold, Poetry Market, Second Aébn, Flame; Prism, International (Canada) Arts in Society. etc. .. play - won‘ the London University Arts Festival (One Act play camp) with "a Tough pill to swallow", articles - ‘The TEACHER’, Sennet, & othéra. .. Poems pub1iéhed‘in: Tribune, Twentieth Century, Break£hru. . etc. author of ‘MEN WITHOUT EVENINGS' published lasfi year. First ppegs published in this igsue of the INFORMER. Left University after a year. Wgs on the Portbfi March. Since= University has had many jobs in¢lu&ing, _TunnéI Labourer, Pirate Radio D. J. & many others. Politics: Provo/ anarchist. Religion: Macrobiotics/ Yoga/ Psychedelic: o. . hippie. ' Poehs pubiished in: Breakthru, Viewpoints etc. wrote the Breakthru hoqklet: ‘Fog by Night‘. Has appeared in: Poetry for Peace Vdl.2, Breakthru, Expression, View- points & others. .. ~ . Has appeared in the Reading Mercury. At this time of writing she is writing a novel. First poems ever yub1ished, 'in this issue of I. " . V Edits FIREBIRD (not much news ifi heard of this mag). Poems published in: Firebird, Viewpoints; Platform & others. Not much is known. .. Is 15 and lives in Moscow; USSR. Lives in the USA. Poems seen in Second Aeon. viewpoints etc. .; Believed to have had a-book published. nut knpwn though, > _ 2 - Not much is khown. At the University of Bristol. Poems pub1ishea in View points. .. -Poems published. in Second Aeon, Prism etc. .. In the Rea§ing~Mercury. bPpems published in: Expression, Mbther India, Canadian . Poetry Calendax. .. etc. .. No poems published before. .. Editor of Secohd Aeon. Poems/ Work published in: Sécofid- Aeon, Viewpoints. & others. .. - nkfithcr of 'B1ofi Hot, Blow Cold’ (whiéh can be bought from the INFORMER) has had poems pubflished in: Second Aeoh, Viewpoints, Exgression, Beakthru, Riding West & many others. .. -Poems published in: Beakthru, Prism, Poetry Market, Expression, Seconfi Aeon, & many others. .. __ H Poetry puplished in: Breakthru, Poetry Market & others» Has had poetry published in: Breakthru, Poetry for Peace Vol.2, Expression. Viewpoints, & many others. .. - . . Published witfi Stephen Morris in. tns’bqok1ez ‘ALIEN PORTS’ also poems yublished ia Firebird and Second Aeon, v& pthqra. . ‘P, g.. i't*, *,*‘**, ““"***£*"****$3.y¢*, ,mg; .A-1)pqsIgtg:4<tt; tx*a#rIr>v1IXf#Rl1fli! ltfi$I¢3$*1$$#*
  20. 20. £s>new‘in gcgtzy is peas in‘txéW1fi¥93flSRq: g4vo2yqarv 3 Hard Time ye had of It . ..--. .u. ... - Huddled in a coat of symbolism life had seemed much vasier; such things were tenable were tangible, ‘ contributing to clarity. There was a light in Jhristian conolnsion; with set ideas of Birth & Death: the running river and the dry places. That was a nicene time, . sitting on the consciousness of other people, revelling in the run of ideas — For we saw that others had wearied with worfls, that others had been restless, . until each one had found his niche, his life-blood, his dialéctic. his synthesis, his god, his reality, his idea. i Perhaps we posed as bright eclectics. perhaps we hid ourselves as scholars, but sooner or later, like tomorrow, we felt the need to extend the line, to find the inter—section, . to stretch the question and the antennae, then to question this. " ‘We wanted to communicate, to understand why we wanted to communicate, to understand how we ever could communicate, to prove the power of greater ideas. we went crying over words, ‘ ' wrestling, _ ‘ never knowing whether they were pupils or teachers: something sucked , . words repelled, spun scolded into space; for they had lost their dimension: an undimensional line was lingering between knowledge and reality. We walked and watched for experience, --1*“ r“* suspecting that thinking was the most. diffioo1t experienoe; _ we felt some reconcilement with thihgs, around: . ' ' the sea, the snow-fed hills, ' the autumn nuances, the contented life; _ _ we trembled lightly with the association of ideas, frightened that all creation‘ ' was misremembered memory; And so we lived our lives, on edge, in tension, in restless, in roaming; hoping that the universities and schools might justify our living and our talking, hoping that tomorrow would éooe closer to an idiom, ‘ ’ V ' to a medium, _ V ‘: _ s _ . to a purpose. _ "' ‘ Mike Sebastian Duke. 'g$fi: *fi: k3C. I;1((*fl:4s, :*1~fik1kfiy‘$#t$($)fi: i;: )fi¢‘. ;I<>k3$#s;31ifiI1'Ii$$*l‘3<*3'#$IPi}-"'3$W*’3$*)U“**'4“* On an acgua1ntance. * V - she is what art catn}OgU@fi cal? a "lady o£. ample’profiortions" An eighteenth-century sculptor would have no need to draye her: Sufficient are the folds of her flash. I believe she will float ihto futurity on the waves 9: hor_f1obbiness. ‘first puolished in 'Cafiadian Fcetry Calendaf'. .. . Terence HeYW°°d-

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