Ken Bolton / September Poems / 2.

2.  Geography


         choppy weather this morning
the water on permanent cycle
of squash, rinse, splash
(& a noise that sounds like “squulp”)—
a fresh wind.  Whether to
do another drawing—or wait
for these 
Roy Fisher poems
to kick in.
         Tho is the Aegean
really Roy’s territory?
—(A correction.  
The Adriatic, actually.)—
        Or not?  Every sentence has to end.
(“The bill.”
The reckoning.)  
                            (The tough tone
of Roy Fisher.)  
                          Across the lake
a line of houses,
all dun cream with
salmon-pink roofing —
olive green behind them
in balding striations

that ascend—a grey, sharp
ridge (against 
the impassive blue
of the sky), severe, forbidding;
the stark elemental
separation of colours—
whose tones say “Croatia”—

as opposed to “Italy”,
“Australia”, “England” or “Greece”.
Roy?  Jim?  (James Schuyler:
for whom
the Aegean, maybe—the Mediterranean rather,
Ischia, Majorca.)

                  The drawing
catches just that bit 
where Cath & Gabe & Yuri swam
& Anna, too, Leigh & Stacey—

yesterday,

where the metal rails that
step down to the water
stand & gleam.  Where Cath
stands now, her white jacket
against the narrowing strip of blue.  
Her hands in her pockets, thoughtful.

continued

 
 
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