The Penguin Book of the Prose Poem by Jeremy Noel-Tod

Author:Jeremy Noel-Tod [Noel-Tod, Jeremy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780241285800
Publisher: Penguin Books Ltd
Published: 2018-10-15T00:00:00+00:00

abglanz / reflected gleam

from the field borders flows a dried-out baking quiet of thistledown and crumbs of soil. a grey velvet, which scratches on the throat and makes a fur on the tongue. the overheated, glassy air curdles under streaming strokes of shimmering. untameable thirst. earth-chilled springwater slurped in long, greedy gulps from the scoop. the burnt-down field devil inflates his nostrils and licks at the reviving moisture, which rebounds from the sky and perks up the wearily drooping turnip fields. the bare, bone hard surface deeply cracked. from long ago the noontide demon walks through the man-high corn to frighten children, knowing the locality and full of cunning. spectral cutting of rye. thrifty herb women, who draw from the holiday riot of the field weeds a yield in bridal white, hump skips loaded high from the verges. earthy stubble dance. stooked scales of sounds. long-stalked, the sheaves bounce onto the swaying wagon. wobbling dewlaps of oxen, shapeless, almost dragging the ground. the rhythmic sway of the animals’ bodies. the hanging threads of slobber. in dust and rumble of the threshing machine swirling up clouds of husks and awns. with the rake, the chaff swept into baskets. the grain tipped out and piling up. thumbnail test. our daily bread. this year’s harvest weighed up in the hollow of the hand. ‘false weights are an abomination to the Lord, full measure pleases Him.’ piled up rows of sacks leaning against the barn walls. stacked on top of each other with the handy carrying-pole by two people. on the circle behind the mountain of cheese a robbers’ castle reared up out of bundles of straw. by Korah’s band secretly scaled and conquered without a fight. autumnal sign of a childhood.

the day falls into step and props itself up on columns of flies. tripping, ebbing tail-lashes and arm movements. the draught animals unyoked and unharnessed. free time: to drink one’s fill at the pipe. grass talk aslant, wind-winged, intoxicating evening cool from the feed wagon. landsberger mixture, three in one between the rungs, laid on with the fork. from the open half-door the clattering of milk-cans, jingling cow-chains. the centrifuge hums. milk picking-up time, the people with their jugs make a queue before the women ladling out. your grandfather drowned in buttermilk, I hear the farm women mock. o blue lyre milk! the tuning of the flowing-away sunset in the highest tones, far as a cricket.

the lights going up for the end of day. a single shrill burst from the meadows and field verges. the world spirit rears up and beats his breast, the lavender coloured current draws stealthily back, soft as cat’s paws. the calligraphic house wall, from which the weathered warmth reverberates, broad-sided, breathes like an exhausted animal resting in the shade, gathering new strength. the crumbs of clay trickle down from the daub filling between beams. earth to earth. visible face and pushing into position go in the reflected light towards the night. holy sack of straw, the earth floor in the lower room.

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