The Fissured Tongue Series
Two Poems
Giles Goodland
Textile Sample Book, silk, 12 1/8 x 9 3/4 in., 1895. Open source from The Met.
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No Ideas
For Mahmoud. ‘No ideas but in things’: William Carlos Williams
No day but in the eyes of a boy
balancing on the line of
paving that tightropes
him to school. No moment
but inside the cat whose
eyes sunder the territory. Ideas
crack from surfaces, the light
hinges from a cloud. A rain
bow in the drain,
a bird speaks its bright notion,
in its beak it cannot be
song, it bears too much
that has just this side of
occurred: the derivative rain,
opposing clouds crusted
over the trees:
nothing without its idea is
whole. We meet for coffee and
talk overflows the table and
notions flood the street. You are
old, I saw the wind push past you
as it rushed for the next uprising
in the trees, and you nearly
fell. Child is running to
the next day, making up
time, eyes ahead, like whatever
floats on wind there is no idea but in
hinge, no laughter but in
night no nights but in bars
there are no bars but in songs
we are not the children we
were but when we were children
neither were we then those
children. I see you walking
on the street, man with child
inside. He is light. You are light.
Quoth the Sea
Beware my kiss among the seaweed stalks
the bone-lace wave
rubbishing among the pools
the whale who booms in to
bone-bound muscle.
We imagine and then enter it
and fashion the verb into
rim of the glistering forgotten.
Silence is immeasured until
pointed by braillings of tide-mud.
I watch the rocks weathering your shoes.
This we are sinking in is not sand, not
sad as silk tears on the swell,
worldclogged water of the eye flows.
The sun under the sea is the sun
the sea accepts, from
the seal-swarming
wave-tilt at breakwater
beliefs set ashore as person’s
realm of ice-cream will melt
in the hands of error’s comedian,
addressing stuff of waves, casting aside
handshakes. Licit strong bonds govern us
but pulled also by underchains, ids,
the sea has a degree in silence
turns obsequiously
in pragmatic movements, loosening
where language rips other language
apart is where language starts.
For Mahmoud. ‘No ideas but in things’: William Carlos Williams
No day but in the eyes of a boy
balancing on the line of
paving that tightropes
him to school. No moment
but inside the cat whose
eyes sunder the territory. Ideas
crack from surfaces, the light
hinges from a cloud. A rain
bow in the drain,
a bird speaks its bright notion,
in its beak it cannot be
song, it bears too much
that has just this side of
occurred: the derivative rain,
opposing clouds crusted
over the trees:
nothing without its idea is
whole. We meet for coffee and
talk overflows the table and
notions flood the street. You are
old, I saw the wind push past you
as it rushed for the next uprising
in the trees, and you nearly
fell. Child is running to
the next day, making up
time, eyes ahead, like whatever
floats on wind there is no idea but in
hinge, no laughter but in
night no nights but in bars
there are no bars but in songs
we are not the children we
were but when we were children
neither were we then those
children. I see you walking
on the street, man with child
inside. He is light. You are light.
Quoth the Sea
Beware my kiss among the seaweed stalks
the bone-lace wave
rubbishing among the pools
the whale who booms in to
bone-bound muscle.
We imagine and then enter it
and fashion the verb into
rim of the glistering forgotten.
Silence is immeasured until
pointed by braillings of tide-mud.
I watch the rocks weathering your shoes.
This we are sinking in is not sand, not
sad as silk tears on the swell,
worldclogged water of the eye flows.
The sun under the sea is the sun
the sea accepts, from
the seal-swarming
wave-tilt at breakwater
beliefs set ashore as person’s
realm of ice-cream will melt
in the hands of error’s comedian,
addressing stuff of waves, casting aside
handshakes. Licit strong bonds govern us
but pulled also by underchains, ids,
the sea has a degree in silence
turns obsequiously
in pragmatic movements, loosening
where language rips other language
apart is where language starts.
About the Author
Giles Goodland was born in Taunton, was educated at the universities of Wales and California, took a D. Phil at Oxford, has published a several books of poetry including A Spy in the House of Years (Leviathan, 2001) Capital (Salt, 2006) and Dumb Messengers (Salt, 2012) and The Masses (Shearsman, 2018). He's currently working freelance as a linguistic researcher. His last book was "The Masses" (Shearsman, 2018). Forthcoming in 2021 is "Civil Twilight" (Parlor Press).
About the Work
"My poem 'No Ideas' is dedicated to the memory of my friend Mahmud Kianush, who died in January 2021 after contracting Coronavirus while in hospital being treated for leukaemia. Over his last few months we had worked together on his final book, The Journey."
Giles Goodland was born in Taunton, was educated at the universities of Wales and California, took a D. Phil at Oxford, has published a several books of poetry including A Spy in the House of Years (Leviathan, 2001) Capital (Salt, 2006) and Dumb Messengers (Salt, 2012) and The Masses (Shearsman, 2018). He's currently working freelance as a linguistic researcher. His last book was "The Masses" (Shearsman, 2018). Forthcoming in 2021 is "Civil Twilight" (Parlor Press).
About the Work
"My poem 'No Ideas' is dedicated to the memory of my friend Mahmud Kianush, who died in January 2021 after contracting Coronavirus while in hospital being treated for leukaemia. Over his last few months we had worked together on his final book, The Journey."
