D

 

[D]

 

d. 1631 John Donne, Dean of St. Paul’s London

subtle conceits and rugged rhythms recklessness

of style and harshness of metre he caused an urn

to be carved its quaint affectation, its appalling

 

earnestness recalls the very mind of the man himself

once seen, is not easily forgotten the long, gaunt

upright figure of a man, wrapped close in a shroud a face

wan, worn, almost ghastly, with the eyes closed as in death

 

d. 1889 J. B. Lightfoot, Bishop of Durham, writes further

though his ashes are mingled with western dust

looks towards Him whose name is the Orient

 

it speaks of a death, a resurrection, a saving as by fire

what penitence, what tears, what merits of his own could

wash out the stains which such a life as his was imbrued?

 

Found poem: ‘Donne, the poet-preacher’ by J. B. Lightfoot, in ‘Historical Essays’, Macmillan, 1895, pp. 221-245.

D (May)

 This May I read the author whose name ends in D. He writes enigmatically in this fashion of his boyhood marbles collection, the capital city where he lived most of his life, and other egocentric matters. He says he writes personal mythology. This May I read about the collapse of insect species. I think of butterflies, with their delta-shaped wings, being no more. It puts me in mind of how literature is a game for ladies and gentlemen, wrapped up in pastimes like playing with marbles or letters, discussing what it was like living in the world’s most liveable city.

D (February)

D is for Delta. Cramped and guided for too long in narrows force must, big with addition, shoot wide over availability, direct and detour, spread out so rich in the blues, the mineral basin, joy. Swamped and gouged over long flats in flood D colours manifold capillaries, irresistibly embellishes and emeshes, crawls to the sea, beautiful, fertile, engulfed by its element: reminiscent of John Olsen (Closing February) crazily applying textures amid his garden party of paint pots. E is for Epsilon, the inexplicable and multitudinous birds arising, commonest signs, where waters converge like language, their wings the microscopic evolutionary link.

D (September)

D is the capital in spraycan scarlet and nightblue background on footpath hydrant box by stop-start traffic of a condensed arterial as we wait for green. A death’s head signature badges the corner and splatters of pink were added sometime where a poster peeled off for a show last September and who was he, she who did the D? Dave, Danielle? Did they take their time at 3am with exquisite precision? Were they speeding on something? Postponing despair? Escaping damnation? Upping declarations? Capitalising on doom? The green man walks, engine hums and we’re off again, into the density of day.