Poems about the air

This past week, on two occasions. I’ve been struck by the air.  Summer has been quite a letdown in Cornwall – it’s been a letdown across the whole UK.  I’ve always associated July with being summer fully ripened – heat, humidity, vegetation everywhere, air conditioning everywhere.  A bit of heavy rain and thunder, sure.  Barbecues and outdoor furniture on discount at the supermarkets, long evenings.

A receptionist said to me on Thursday, “Apparently, it’s going to be September.  That’s when the summer’s coming.”

Some can’t wait that long, down here.  People are beginning to get a little depressed.  I’m just happy to be by the sea, It’s still a novelty for me, so the gloom hasn’t filtered through just yet.  I’ve got no holiday planned, and no leave from a job to spend wisely anymore.  I’ve been living here in Falmouth for ten months.  I’ve been a student with a fairly unstructured daily routine for ten months.

Perhaps that’s why these poems came out this week.

 

 

Whilst waiting for the branch line at St Ives

In the shallow, honeyed song of hidden high birds

In the outbreaths of Porthminster’s shore

And in how my fringe slurs its forehead lick

In lethargy, I feel

The air of a town

Remote to so many

Yet baring itself, unobject, unsubject, to me.

 

Whilst running through Falmouth In July

As I ran, I played scientist.

Each breath in became a sample,

Each sample a question:

Could it be this scent, or this taste,

that makes me think of Wales?

 

On I pressed,

Cornish pavement to Pembrokeshire track,

English Channel salt crashing with the Atlantic

On black Aberfalin stone.

It hung on me like old love,

Tender to taste, fresh to breathe,

And as I looped Falmouth streets,

I knew:

 

Two barometer needles, was all,

Tapped by a finger on glass, huddled close to.

It was an overlap.  Memories on two sheets of acetate,

on an overhead projector, that I watched

Cross-legged

On a chair

In an air-conditioned room

In an office on an industrial estate –

 

So now there’s Rotherham, too,

And I ran around there, once, kicked through

July growth on a rare footpath,

a stump of two miles between

wheat fields and corrugate,

The sea an imagining I threaded

And left there, like a dropped spanner,

Between the two.

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Number 1

I figured that a good place to start might be with something prewritten.

I wrote the below for a writing workshop, about 3 months ago.

When I want to be alone, I go running before anyone else wakes up.  I put on shorts and a T shirt, tie up my trainers.  I strap on my watch, flicking my wrist first out, then in, letting the catch find its familiar hole in the watchstrap.  Then I think twice and take it off, leaving it on my desk.  I peel the house key off my main set of keys, pad downstairs on the parts of stairs that don’t creak, and open the front door, taking care not to slam it shut behind me. Wherever I’ve lived over the past few years – be it in Hertford, where I used to run through the fields of a private estate, or in Dalston, where the care taken over door-slamming was unnecessary, seeing as the constant Zone 2 roar made the walls of our flat vibrate – the ritual was, and continues to be, the same.

For the solitude to work, you have to get out as early as you can.  In winter, I run down streets in complete darkness, running from memory of my surroundings in the light, waiting for the sunrise to catch up.  In summer, I run with the tail end of the dawn chorus, the chill on my arms torched off by the strength of morning sun.  I jog slowly and stiffly at first, breaking in my ankles, which respond like the spine of a book being flexed open for the first time.  Then I run as fast as I want, letting the mechanical movements take over.

It’s the mechanics that detune the wavelengths of my brain, like a fingertip rolling itself across a radio dial.  My head slowly fills with a white noise, over which only my heart, my breath, and my nervous system can make themselves heard.  I focus on emptying and filling my lungs.  I feel the shock of the ground through my ankles and knees and resist interpreting it, or deriving from it a train of thought.  It can work for about forty minutes.  After this time, the reason for my search for solitude finds a way to tune in, and people start to appear, going about their morning routines.

Last year, during the worst period of my job, I had to sack scores of people. I would run away from my laptop, my mobile phone, and my responsibility to everyone, as often as I could.  Sometimes I couldn’t wait for the following morning.  ‘I’m going out,’ I’d tell people I worked with over the phone, on days that the rest of the world recognized as weekends. ‘I don’t know when I’ll be back.’ I used to run like I was being chased, avoiding the main thoroughfares. When I lived in Stevenage, I had a loop of seldom-used subways that I ran through, smacking my palm against the wall of each as I passed.  It was not how I normally conducted myself, but the aggressive connection with something solid helped me to re-calibrate something inside.

Once, while working overnight in London, I got up at 5am and ran out of my hotel towards Blackfriars Bridge, overtaking late night partygoers sobering up in the dawn.  I finally ended up down Oxford Street, a road never normally accessible for a brisk walk, let alone a run.  The street cleaners were out, their machines sucking up junk from the gutters, but I was still alone: they didn’t take any notice of me as I darted around their one-man vehicles, with wide circular brushes that fed the machine’s jaws with rubbish, a fish feeding on plankton.

This year, now I live in Cornwall, I try to get myself lost if I need the solitude.  Yesterday I followed a footpath I’d never noticed before.  It slowly petered out into thick grass and uneven ground in the middle of a field. I ran bewildered, the dew juicing in my trainers, unsure where to run without a path to follow.  My watch had been left on my desk: I had no idea how long I’d been running for.  I didn’t know whether I was trespassing, and I wished I’d taken my phone with me.

I stood in the centre of that field for several minutes, panting, eyes searching for an exit.  It took an age to pick out the fence in the distance, over which I would then climb, snagging my shorts on its rusted barbwire.