Linda Hadley and Edwin Hak, 6 London Fountains (Canterbury: Panda Press, 2008), 8pp.
One ragged sheet they complicate down, a small hand-inked dribbler, of slit and fold and press within the pages. 13 spumante pencils, the central higher than the rest.
The “rational fountain”, bisected by the shadows of financial courts, turns water to a fabric draped unwrinkled over marble slabs. But a wobble turns a ravel, and it seams.
The dampened husk and scaffold of a civic flow: the blocked stone fountain gathers surplus, of material, of rainspots, in the park.
===
This review is forthcoming in City State: New London Poetry, which is published today by penned in the margins. Interior Traces will be serialised in three parts on Resonance FM, beginning Friday May 29th, 15:30 to 17:00.
Showing posts with label Interior Traces. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Interior Traces. Show all posts
Wednesday, 20 May 2009
Wednesday, 13 May 2009
James Wilkes: Reviews (3)
Griet Hannay, 8 Little Curtain Rings, (Strasbourg: Ed. de Carnard, 1989), 16pp.
A psychotropic longhouse becomes the locus for this eminent rehash. Its structure is cantilevered thus, so the balcony’s long shadow bunches at my throat. The entrance is a revolving door, a kind of promiscuous lock. Inside many young Belgians bodypop their continental ennui.
This becomes a poetry of lampposts, dogwalkers, poplars, theodolytes, bus stops, municipal statues and radio masts. All the lonely civil spikes. Here is everything to do with comfort, acoustics, light and shade. I was magnificently bored.
===
This review was previously published in Openned. You can read other reviews by James Wilkes there, and at Intercapillary Space and Readings (here and here). James Wilkes is currently involved in Interior Traces, which will be on Resonance FM soon.
A psychotropic longhouse becomes the locus for this eminent rehash. Its structure is cantilevered thus, so the balcony’s long shadow bunches at my throat. The entrance is a revolving door, a kind of promiscuous lock. Inside many young Belgians bodypop their continental ennui.
This becomes a poetry of lampposts, dogwalkers, poplars, theodolytes, bus stops, municipal statues and radio masts. All the lonely civil spikes. Here is everything to do with comfort, acoustics, light and shade. I was magnificently bored.
===
This review was previously published in Openned. You can read other reviews by James Wilkes there, and at Intercapillary Space and Readings (here and here). James Wilkes is currently involved in Interior Traces, which will be on Resonance FM soon.
Wednesday, 6 May 2009
James Wilkes: Reviews (2)
The Art of the Kilim, by Mary Dundhed (Paris: Overboard Editions, 1994), 128pp.
The Friend laughed and pointed at the kilim, the technologised surface, he exclaimed. Later I used a wi-fi heart and unknotted this as best I could.
The blueprint for a kilim is improvised live, in the maker’s cob and breezeblock heart, he said. He smiled for effect and popped a roasted chickpea with his teeth.
The Friend prefers a glass of water, he thinks this is the happiest of drinks. I cleverly switched his for gin, and when he was tipsy I slipped my fingers up his sleeve and stole his expensive heart.
I was lying in a burned-out basement as the Friend interrogated me harshly. Streaming tears, I asked why I could never see his face. He extinguished the heart and approached.
We wandered moodily along the beach. Between the greedy cows and beach huts of the Soviet, between hypodermics, twisted fishing nets, the bloated carcasses of dogs. This too is a prayer rug, the Friend announced. Playfully I slapped his heart.
===
James Wilkes is currently involved in Interior Traces. He runs Renscombe Press and was one of the Generation Txt poets for penned in the margins.
The Friend laughed and pointed at the kilim, the technologised surface, he exclaimed. Later I used a wi-fi heart and unknotted this as best I could.
The blueprint for a kilim is improvised live, in the maker’s cob and breezeblock heart, he said. He smiled for effect and popped a roasted chickpea with his teeth.
The Friend prefers a glass of water, he thinks this is the happiest of drinks. I cleverly switched his for gin, and when he was tipsy I slipped my fingers up his sleeve and stole his expensive heart.
I was lying in a burned-out basement as the Friend interrogated me harshly. Streaming tears, I asked why I could never see his face. He extinguished the heart and approached.
We wandered moodily along the beach. Between the greedy cows and beach huts of the Soviet, between hypodermics, twisted fishing nets, the bloated carcasses of dogs. This too is a prayer rug, the Friend announced. Playfully I slapped his heart.
===
James Wilkes is currently involved in Interior Traces. He runs Renscombe Press and was one of the Generation Txt poets for penned in the margins.
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