Page 1

Even in the Still Patrick Sykes

Even in the Still Patrick Sykes

Even in the Still Even in the still it rings, busy world and its walkers priding round unmindful that the break will never be made clean, always a trace of the stuff of absence. Whilst looking I learned my speed must always be from some thing, toward some other; that a leaving at once couples the fissures it forms. Your nerves too shall hum in REM a requiem of each kinetic day, intaking as much as they can carry before the flat morning, the closest thing to quiet, when the tensions that beat your lids, though lash-locked, rest; when no more depth is to the reds that soak in as stormwash. And not an end goes by without an utterance to stone it into space. Even this, though determined from the first, has turned on its own impossible shape; the sense apportioned over the space it insists.

Anamorphosis When we tried to catch up we couldn’t quite, weren’t even close. After speaking I’d inspect my hands for impressions but nothing: leaving the pictures, on the bus back or as we passed the neighbours nothing (where we’d have been without windows), but dull by recall. If we’d share it was a selfish thing and shamed me to tell others’ anecdotes for our own; no dates or proper names, no right angle in the approach. When you said you needed a girl it got to me because I couldn’t think what you’d do with her but practise your quiet faith, your rage, like a mirror with a wig on. In your kitchen someone asked so how close we were and I turned to open the window.

Aerial From above I don’t believe the birds motion’s proof the labour of grace embarrassed between pages of a joint verso dips into a wind that peels featherheads of their grit and the sky pulled from under. Their flyways unroute the roads below breach desire of its paved and doubleyellow lines that remind me the compass made its points from the ways they wrote the sun long before Niépce was trying. Between risers people look up at the birds I view follow them the tugging lock of our eyelines that with each gull break over the roofs

Manhole They teach you a new way of life; one in the possessive, that could itself be taken away, a means of shading the who from the man and leaving the form alone, that he might seem an uncommunicator amongst many, a threat that through his foreign body resists comprehension, and gestures in obscene greetings. Then six months rehearsing the dead, and the patterning of life by force. The real fight recapping the types that ordered you a mediate world but fail now to render in familiar forms your return, where the danger is native and the chaos undocumented.

A House Full of Them Not bearing to be in the same room they live in a house full of them. The two whet their low rage for mealtimes, where they sit at right angles and square the plane. No favour made without agenda, a peace keeps with weak tea and curfews, until the younger is of age and can refuse the help she needs. Any thing for undependence. The elder has a habit of blunt printing black days to the fridge so they can see how they’re doing from the table where they sit like angels, the birdmad girls.

Quatrains in Fugue There. I have it. We’re there now. Or you are, and I here. Just so will we stay listening each to other and adjust appropriately My precision that is not only spatial outed for this sound shapes breath for narrowcasting and does exactly as I say I sign my name with this and let it mean about your ears definite on its own terms and ever all there.

There. Now I have it. There we are or are we, and I hear just so we will stay listening to each unjust other’s privacy Is not my own precisely that: all this space for sounding out with breath shapes in the broad doze and acting away I name this sign my near lettered miniature its definition terminal and ever almost there.

Their havings of it are idle aura and who here will say this is not for the grabs for all its outreaching Know to knot your own in other whose pace is as loud and rests when you do still don’t ever part. This will not last nor do justice to the full entry which takes and comes to nothing.

Optics of Grief Cold age they had learnt together, two of millions come home and coupled. With him gone the space sprawls, tunnelling out on her in pinchstretched aspect until she hasn’t the heat to warm the room. For weeks afterward she yet insists on washing his all orphan clothes. Into each she reads workworn negatives; fabrics abide impression and down by the bog peat stacks stand. Uneasy inscapes: photographs hold her still jealous around frames they ripple the room. Image drop, out and over lapped interference. Earth gives at the weight of rain. Between the door’s slow and snap I hear her starting to pray for me.

Your Home a Holiday Between them the doormen at your block were gathering material for a novel to write through retirement. They would note the exact time and temperature of our movements in an unlabelled table under the cleaning rota, not once looking down. Youth grown on their watch spooled from four corners an apex in frames. They had only ever seen you in transit and me a weight. For those few days we called your home a holiday and you showed me where you’d been doing all your life. We spread butter with spoons to put off the washing up, the time it took to tidy up a measure of success. The winter helped of course (no one could be that close in June), but it was only blinding through Hyde Park at night that I knew the reach of my trust.

Snow There’s a comfort that though little else this beauty can be counted. Slow sky rugs the ground all things looking up. Keep down the day and settle, that the booted names we tread bother no one with liveness. Into arms of coats of strangers the quick young their bloody cheeks slip and are caught, but never blamed.

Coasting Lean into the wind when your hand closes on the small of her back only to cup the air away instead as coves form at your feet and in each a line marks the soak from the sea as the balls of your feet drive back wet sand’s heavier colour through the way your weight collects against the wind but would shed units from the first inch of sea it met since this water cools a ring round each curious ankle that comes to see the cold for itself only to be driven back to the dunes where sand stashes in each plastic bag or box and won’t go away for weeks so that even when you drive back and the ribbed beach and the sea back behind a way off you can still wind a route with you each on that same way

Axis Points But one calm to endure of the quick figures of bone structure entropy of rest would ground the looping fold mind your way along it and urge you down its length ~ taut, bound, and blessed duration (after Rilke)

Wide Range Chapbooks Supported and funded by the Judith E. Wilson Fund Faculty of English, University of Cambridge Series Editor: John Kinsella Š 2012, Patrick Sykes

Even in the Still  

Patrick Sykes's first chapbook of poems, published by Wide Range Chapbooks, Cambridge.

Read more
Read more
Similar to
Popular now
Just for you