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Philip Gross: a poem


from Entries: Exits (2019)  

              

2.

A tingling drone, a melancholy

              tinnitus, behind the troubadour voice

(Bernart de Ventadorn, Pois preyatz me,

              Senhor) in its rise, curl and fall – a

ground, but high in the air: an altitude

              like Gothic arches: after-quiver like

an afterlife: where voice persists,

              beyond us, as it dies down here.

                              It dies. Dies down. Down here.


11.

We are the broken music. If we were

              not, there would be no word for 

"music", and no need to have one

              since there'd be no breath of us not

in tune with world around us, or each other.

              There might be a sign, though, song sans

words or tune, an edgy timbre, for the thing

              we are, all astrew on the beach,

                              in the street, in these thoughts, all astray.


18.

Not to be hopeless, nor yet to be home

              and dried-out from the storm of history:

the point of balance – dare I say, of grace?

              The dip, swerve, trip-step of a klezmer

clarinet treads the line between whooping

              and weeping: wedding music for the match

made between past and present – mute

              dark versts around them. Now, the small

                              glass crunched beneath their feet. Now, dance!


 

21.

The bitters: that fond wincing on the tongue

              we hate and crave. Its lingering through time.

The palate cleansed, the rich tastes cut:

              in any lunch box snack, the heimisch gherkin.

Bitter herbs on the Passover plate. Nobody

              owns this. The sound of ululation rising over,

threading borders, does not need translation.

              Preserve our precious bitters, yes, but keep them

                              for the music, for the table all the world can share.


26.

Don’t show me the words: the sea surge

              of that Hebridean psalm, the hawser

of the line cast out, taking the strain

              of two, three, all the heavy congregation;

dust raised from the Sahara prickling the eyes

              in Sardinian plaints; the joik that is a bare

voice-silhouette against the Arctic night...

              Word-clad, they huddle at the wire of borders

                              with their bundles of grief. Let them fly.



Philip Gross has published twenty poetry collections, including four for children, and won many of the major awards in British poetry, from the National Poetry Competition to the T.S. Eliot Prize. His latest book, The Thirteenth Angel, was published by Bloodaxe in 2022.

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