Island of Lightning
For Decima
and for Ffion
Robert Minhinnick
Island of Lightning
Seren is the book imprint of
Poetry Wales Press Ltd
Nolton Street, Bridgend, Wales
www.serenbooks.com
facebook.com/SerenBooks
Twitter: @SerenBooks
© Robert Minhinnick, 2013
The right of Robert Minhinnick to be identified as the Author of this Work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
ISBN 978-1-78172-129-2
Mobi 978-1-78172-172-8 (mobi)
Epub 978-1-85411-173-5 (epub)
A CIP record for this title is available from the British Library
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted at any time or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior permission of the copyright holders.
The publisher works with the financial assistance of the Welsh Books Council
Printed by the CPI Group (UK) Ltd., Croydon
Contents
1. Yellow Mountain Fever
2. The Outlook from Felin Gwcw
3. Are You Lonesome Tonight?
4. Infinity Speaker
5. Old Man of the Willow
6. The Key to Annie’s Room
7. A Dream of the Tortoise
8. In a Rainforest
9. nok, nok, nokia on Heaven’s Door
10. Babble
11. Antares
12. I Know Another Way
13. The Sunflower
14. A Description….Island of Lightning
15. Cynffig
16. I’m Telling you Now
17. The Reef
18. The Way They See It At Buba’s
19. Killing the Cool
20. The Dictatorship
21. Salvaging the City
22. What They Take
23. Scavenger
Yellow Mountain Fever
1. Nine Dragons Peak
I have a world apart, wrote Du Fu, that is not amongst men.
The lines reoccur as I wait my turn. My turn to move. To return to low ground. Because my heart is not in the highlands. I’m a sea-level sort. But there are thousands of us here. Up here. In the Huangshan mountains. Thousands eating cucumber-flavoured crisps. Thousands of us on the last weekend of the season and on these helter skelter paths there’s a crush tighter than the Shanghai metro. Up here on the ledge. But worse. Worse because we’re high. Much too high.
To my right is the cliff. A panic attack’s geology. Despite its banded porphories, it’s a mind-whitening abyss. How easy to vanish. Like a meteor scratch. I imagine my own trajectory, the gorge rising to meet me.
But there’s no chance of slipping. Asphyxiation’s more likely. Surrounded by tourists I peep around at this world heritage site. And feel a paean in the neck coming on.
2. Echo Wall
Mao Zedong wrote poems, killed poets. He feared the revolutions in their heads. Mao also hated tigers. They did not fit in. Now the first tiger seen in China for thirty years stalks the internet. There it is in silhouette – China’s grave soul revealed. Out of its own history the tiger steps, feet like chrysanthemums. Out of the earth its aphrodisiac bones.
3. Immortal Drying the Boot
I gave the talk in a pagoda in the village. Afterwards in the WC, a pig pushed its snout through the wall.
Never turn your back on a sow, I remembered a voice from childhood. But this pig was a goddess, bristles like fishbones, hogskin pale as curd.
Later at the banquet, pigs’ ears were served, cut into strips. They looked and tasted like elastic bands. Never trust a poet, young porkers might be told. Especially vegetarian ones.
4. Cloud Dispelling Mansion
Still here. On the mountain’s hard shoulder. We’re still here. Under my foot a butterfly decayed like a text message, the people around me sharing sunflower seeds.
They seem cheerful enough. Obviously they’re used to congestion. To cope, I adopt a dream strategy. A week earlier I had stood in my sunflower grove. It was dusk and the church of St John the Baptist squat as a fort. The base camp of a military god. Soon it would be time to cut the sunflowers. To burn that green meat. I could picture their pendulums and bamboo trunks.
No, I decided. If I wait to fell them and instead study their metamorphosis, the sunflowers will become rusted bicycles. And afterwards wreathwire, roadsigns, scrap iron scions. Give them another week in the Baptist’s plot. Because they still loomed tall as traffic lights. Each sunflower face a flitch aflame.
5. Golden Turtle View of the Ocean
Spies, my companion had said. And the children of spies. And the blameless children of the children of spies. They will all be shamed. Even after they shred the documents, the spies will be revealed.
If democracy (has such a term meaning now?) comes to China, it will instigate a reckoning like no other in history. This morning I watched archetypal peasants tend iconic water buffalo. In the medieval labyrinth of streets the chestnut peelers and copper-cutters behaved immemorially. A zither played, a little girl peed on a melon vine. In the east Shanghai’s dioramas rose against an inkstone sky.
6. Mobile Phone Rock
At the temple I had asked my translator what religion she was.
I am a member of the Chinese Communist Party, she said.
So this isn’t really your bread and Buddha then?
She looked away. But brightened.
Have you tasted our rice wine? she inquired.
I’ve heard it’s dangerous, I say.
So is religion.
7. Jade Screen Peak
I wondered, what is the secret? Of sunflowers? Before I incinerate my sunflowers will I sense their souls? In the now or never as the pyre is lit, will sunflowers reveal themselves? When, at the bonfire’s heart, the sunflowers are a pulse of pale opals, will their mystery be explained? But I knew the answer. The sunflowers will suffer immolation. Yet evade death. They will never be what I want them to be. After their season they bow and bleed. But even as they lie in state they are planning the next coup.
Because there is always a flaw in sunflowers. A dark leaf in the corner of a corona. Their perfection is not perfect. Betrothal and betrayal have a common root.
Under the sunflowers I listened to the crickets. All year I had waited and now they were singing. Homer, Du Fu, knew the music of those satirists in the grass. Plangent their pleading, its neurasthenic B minor. Pointless as old men’s wisdoms.
8. Stage of the Fairy-Mother Goddess
Before us, the mochyn-machine had been disassembled. The cuisines of Anhui province are particularly piggy. But as various cogs and pulleys of the pig resemble tofu, I stuck it out. Like planets the dishes revolved. A bowl of flames resembled veronica petals. Dark pucks of pork spun past. Again that voice from childhood reoccurred. Brawn, it said. Brisket. The chalice of the chitterlings. Okay, I sighed. One last time for tripe’s tropes.
9. Heavenly City Peak
It’s still like the Hunan highway up here. I once read that to dream of a castle means the gratification of desire. A dull dream indeed. I dream of the big house in Cwrt Colman, the hotplate of its lawns. In the fog its bone-coloured roses seem to shrink and swell. But nothing is moving, there’s no pursuit. No anxiety. Then I turn the corner of my dream. There’s a gravel path and a peacock with its tail spread in the dust.
To dream of swimming, they say, means bad luck. To dream of a seabird means danger. I dream of a cormorant, its beak a piton. I have come with the cormorant to graze the scurvygrass on
Sker while from the sea at midnight I gaze at the screed of stars and the aeroplanes coming in and yes it’s that EasyJet from Alicante with Mr Cory Evans of Fairyland, Neath, in his golden sombrero, and Mrs Kayleigh Evans with a donkey stuffed with chocolate Euros. Then I wake. I’m still on the mountain. Shuddering amidst its granite spires. The family around me are drinking sugarcane juice, passing round a persimmon.
10. Purple Cloud Peak
They say Du Fu became a poet because he failed his civil service examinations. Perhaps we should teach our children that it is dangerous to pass exams. Because failing an exam should make us think. Failing an exam means we remain in the world’s wild places where complacency’s poisons cannot reach. Now here, on Huangshan, a dragonfly. In the crimson of its guild.
And here, as a flat Mongolian face lights up, the Mission Impossible ringtone. But suddenly we are moving and after an hour we reach the cable car and then the bamboo forests are rushing towards us and the tea bushes planted amongst the bamboo pass like rain clouds. That’s what I need. Seaweedy tea in a lidded cup. Everlastingly refilled.
Why don’t you do something about Burma? I ask the translator on the way down.
Yes. We should nuke the generals. That might teach them.
China could help, I say.
Those monks! she hisses. The people have to feed them. The people who can’t feed themselves. They’re crafty as cats, those monks. Greedy as dragons. Europe woke up to lazy monks centuries ago.
The saffron revolution, I say. Maybe it’s coming your way.
I look around. Somehow it’s evening. Chinese characters wink like hoarfrost on the highway.
Never, she says. But smiles. And suggests we might stop at the restaurant of the laughing pig.
Hmm, I say. Pigs don’t have much to laugh about round here.
Perhaps you need that drink. We call it bei ju.
Why not? I answer. Especially when the rest of the world is drinking cappuccino. By the way. Hasn’t Starbucks opened in the Forbidden City?
Well, yes, she says. But I think you’ll find that they are about to disappear. Very soon. Very soon indeed.
The Outlook from Felin Gwcw
I’m on the train.
By their nokias ye shall know them.
I put down my newspaper and look out the window. And there it is, glimpsed in a second. Or at least the place where it might be. Or where it used to be.
But there are so many trees that suddenly erupt, their lava refashioning the landscape, a landscape I should know but fail to interpret, having been otherwise occupied for a moment, a moment in which a new geology has been created and a molten world cooled.
And now it is gone or I am elsewhere, on the journey’s endless elsewhere. But in that moment I determine to go back. Or really, to visit for the first time. To visit Felin Gwcw.
How does a place stop being a place? When Crewe Alexandra drew with Halifax Town a thread was cut. Immediately the joists began to warp, mortar to drift from its joints in Felin Gwcw’s cool vale. A new narrative commenced.
The last people to live at Felin Gwcw did the football pools. When the eighth draw came up they knew they could escape to a world of electricity and mains water, away from the sulphurous steam with which the trains running ten feet away on the south Wales-London line drenched their home.
But Felin Gwcw was there before the railway, before professional football. It was a house and a workplace, a mill built on a field of ragged robin beside the Nant Ffornwg.
Today that fierce current is feeble after two dry months. I’m wading downstream as if I was driving the water, a water-drover urging it on towards the confluence where the Ffornwg forgoes its name and finally forgets itself.
I’m walking in the streambed because this summer afternoon it is the only way to reach Felin Gwcw. As a child here, the ferns met over my head. I walked in their world of green anthracite. Today white umbels crowd the sky. I am baptised in sap.
So I step into the river and wade with the gwrachens under the alder and the eels in the stoups and stillwaters beneath the elder and watch a heron like some Egyptian god inscribed on a Ffornwg-coloured tablet.
The stream runs beneath the mill wall, so low today that the craftsmanship of millers and masons is revealed. Few people for generations can have seen this stonework, its exactitudes under my hands felted with loaves of moss.
In my memory Felin Gwcw has always been a ruin. And known no cuckoos, only owls, owls to taunt any trespasser, but especially at twilight when the sky is the colour of an owl’s egg and the owls, those amber-eyed alchemists, are transmuting moods, so that the child that was hurried in shadow with owls’ feathers in his belly and owls’ talons in his hair, hurried up the path that no longer exists and under the railway tunnel that does, the wagons passing overhead in a monsoon of acid smoke, blotting the light out with owls’ wings, their roaring of how-good-are-you-good-are-you filling his head with an owlish cacophony.
These days a hazel wood surrounds Felin Gwcw. Briars like bowsaws and the white bones of ivy cover its walls. I stop short. There are people, I’m sure, conspiring; strangers, invaders, conniving.
But it is the Ffornwg’s phonics I overhear, a soliloquy I should have recognised, those syllables being part of my own speech. And everywhere is hart’s tongue and a starlight of stitchwort. Yet how easily my vocabulary sloughs its skins. Suddenly I am naked. Suddenly my flesh of words has disappeared. This is the dawn of time. This is a world before language. Here are stone and air and flowering things. Here is nettle dust. Here is water. Here are light’s encryptions on the retina. Here is my pulse. Here is everything I knew unmade, and the silence’s indictment of my fatuity.
Felin Gwcw too is unmade and yet proves irreducible. And then the train crashes past and I am looking at a man with a newspaper who for an instant is staring out at a place that does not exist and of which I have always been an inhabitant, a man who looks through me unseeing and is then amazed at how close I am, my bramble body that clings to Felin Gwcw, my dog rose eyes so near to him that he recoils as if he has glimpsed a ghost, and yes, I think, yes, he is right about that.
Are You Lonesome Tonight?
1.
Don’t you know there’s a hurricane coming? a man asked, pushing on into the sand.
There’s always a hurricane, I said. Around here. We should be used to it.
2.
Chunky tyres, that’s what this bicycle has. It’s a mountain bike, a red and blue Emmelle, bought second hand, allowing me to go straight over kerbs and the speed humps on the sand-strewn, sometimes buried road across the badlands into the caravan site.
I was coming back through the fairground but cycling was hard work. Eventually I had to stop and push. Out of the west I had flown but heading home was arduous. Nothing else for it, I had to interrupt the journey and take shelter under an awning in the fairground. The wind was whipping the tide white. I could feel its sting.
The journey to the allotment goes past Dolly’s Cabin and Robert’s Ice Cream, straight through the fair, on through the flattened dunes and dismantled chalets, then into Trecco Bay. It takes me round one of the biggest caravan sites in Europe, down its High Street that at this time is full of holidaymakers. Only in December will the gates be padlocked and my way obstructed. Then, to save time, I have to drive or cycle a longer route.
When I finish fossiling and walk off the ridge, down from the moon-coloured corals of Cog y Brain, this is the way I come. In the limestone light the sea is blue as buckthorn. There runs its horizon, glimpsed behind the aisles of caravans and the neon signs for Coast restaurant and Costcutter. A squadron of turnstones passes over the barbecues in the sand, whilst the last ingots are cooling. Last rubies…
And every day that sand is different. In this wind it’s a smoky glacier and the wind has blown every day this summer, a neurasthenic nag over the waves, sculpting the drifts and dune crests, revealing what has been lost, concealing what I might have considered permanent.
Might have. But I have lived here too long to believe anything can remain unchanged. Over a formica tabletop at the Blue Dolphin café, in my scalp after an expedition to Rhych, the sand will announce itself. Sand finer than scurf. Sand sharper than swarf.
But bravado cuts no ice in the fairground. With relief I dismount and start pushing. And that’s where I see her. She is waving goodbye to a group of five other women, several in what I supposed are fifties’ flared skirts and bobby sox. But looking uncertain. They pause outside the Hi Tide, the likeliest choice, but then are blown off course and decide to try The Buccaneer next door. The group turns around, the woman I’d noticed again in two minds. They are splitting up, but her bus won’t be here for an hour.
The last time I visited The Buccaneer was with the poet, Iwan Llwyd. I had promised to demonstrate some ‘real fairground Porthcawl’, that would match The Buck’s reputation.
I know who these women are. They are the advance party for the Elvis Festival, now annual in Porthcawl. Today they’re having to deal with Hurricane Katia, or at least its remnants.
I too take refuge in The Buck. The woman’s already sitting at the bar, looking thoughtful. But how often have I seen her? Too many times. Yet it’s never easy to remember who she is.
Yes, let her be Katia. A change from the predictable Keeley or Kayleigh. But she predates women with names like that, women marked with a K. Don’t parents know that names starting with K are brandings, their owners scarred for life? Soon those names will be incomprehensible. From another language. Another era.
Still, I recognise her. Predictable on her barstool, one slip-on shoe hanging off, the mesh of her tights worn thin over a cracked heel. How do I know it’s cracked? Because we are the same age and her heel is cracked where my heel is cracked and in need of a hard scrub. Digging where I dig, counting those ivory-coloured corals, round as moons, and walking where I walk, a pedicure seems urgent now. And when she stands it is as I do, one foot almost balancing on the other. A peculiar posture.
Yes, call her Katia. The hurricane woman. But that hurricane is almost blown out. Whenever I meet her, it is in places such as this. Always these places.
Island of Lightning Page 1
