- Reward Yourself
- Russell "Rusty" Bruce
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- 38 Best Autumn | Copper + Rust images in | Autumn, Fall winter, October
- Rusty Autumn
That red bicycle left in an alley near the Ponte Vecchio, I claim; I claim its elongated shadow, ship crested on stacked crates; I claim the sour-mouth Arno and the stone arch bending sunlight on vanished medieval fairs; but mostly I claim this two-wheel chariot vetching on the wall, its sickle fenders reaping dust and pollen off the heat-congested city coiled to a halt in traffic.
As we walked to the clinic on a rabble of hogplums, her mouth trembled in her soot frock, my palm reddened in her grip, plum scent taking us to the lane. And now, as I raise my camera, bells charge the pigeon sky braced by the Duomo, a shell fallen from the sun. I kneel, snap the cycle, rise, hurry away.
Can you tell me a few things you would consider as sponsors of the mood and form of that poem? Your poem is not an imitation of Marquez, but I could pick up that vibe.
Anyone else? Anything else? IH: Or rather, vegetation.
Not necessarily defined in time, but if you think of the overarching colonial, political hell that many places like Jamaica fell into, in trying to get with the world of modernity and so on. How does one make a government after slavery? After you create these institutions that were never in place, that were never meant to be. TC: Right.
Russell "Rusty" Bruce
I love the inventory of plants and things in the environment. Now, I want to ask you about the eclogue mode. A sort of pastoral poem built on the classical model. But the parish next to where I was born was called Saint Thomas. And there you find the vestiges of the colonial plantation economy still present.
And as a child, those cane cutters. That was the job men do. And what happens is, because of how you burn the cane field, you create this bonfire, and it makes lots of black ash.
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The charred cane leaves, when you touch them, disappear into ash. Black ash. Almost changed. A bizarre ritual of some kind. IH: Right, the complete opposite. And frightening to meditate on. Because eventually, the people in the community end up being part of this industry. TC: Is it fair to say that you take a less serene view of that landscape than that great poet of the Caribbean, Derek Walcott? IH: Yes, of course. From a high point, looking down at the flags of cane fields, this green reflecting sunlight, moving almost like a cobra.
IH: And momentarily you can forget, in a sense, the horror that this field is a field drenched in blood. In fact, going around the Caribbean, any of the islands, you end up somewhere so beautiful that the marks of its history are not evident immediately. And obviously for Walcott to have done his work, he had to countenance all of that. Nevertheless, there are tendencies, right? And I think it would be fair to say that he, when possible, would side with beauty. TC: Yeah, but horror is fact.
IH: Yes. I was inspired by, maybe you could say, Dante, Virgil, Rome, Florence. TC: True, but for me it is also an eclogue because of that landscape on which the memory falls. The poet sees a bicycle on a wall. He calls it a two-wheeled chariot. The tires on the cobblestone. And then, as happens in poems, suddenly he is back at a certain age, when he was a little boy in the District. A reference of sorts to your early book Far District. Then, third leg of the relay, where you bring it around the final curve—not the home stretch, the third leg.
Asafa Powell. TC: Yes, Asafa Powell. Gets the baton. And the poet and the mother are approaching the hospital gate. And then, the home stretch, the race is already won. He returns to the camera and the bicycle in Florence. And makes a photograph of it. But everybody in the house knew every line. And they were just thrumming and bouncing with the beat. How does a poet negotiate that reality? Is it gratitude? Is it envy? How do you relate to the Bobby Shmurda video? The language of a lyric lift off.
38 Best Autumn | Copper + Rust images in | Autumn, Fall winter, October
We almost fall back to being a child with a very high fever. Extremely dramatic. IH: And you want to and want not to feel that way.
It comes back to that. But what makes it grace is submission. IH: Oh, yes. But what I think I mean is that we find this refuge in a poem. A space to be vulnerable. Even though we know that this poem will not protect us. It will not armor us. It will not stop what is happening in our world. But because it hopefully does something for what is beating here, still [ touches chest ]. We have to give it a chance.
Sugar Estate, so close we could smell the sugar being processed, whistled its shift change,. I was wondering about my immediate reaction to it, and I think that part of it has to do with the glory of the schoolroom, where everything is still possible. And how that shows up in photography and poetry. So this is a poem very different from that other style, but it makes me think of Elizabeth Bishop, all of whose books had some kind of geographical connection in the title.
Is Bishop important to you? In certain ways. She makes it look effortless. Jonathan Barnes. Tyger, Tyger. William Blake. The Blessed Damozel. Dante Gabriel Rossetti. Charles F. Dragon Love. Tony Farnden. William Butler Yeats. Songs of Innocence and of Experience. The Broken Word. Adam Foulds. Stevenson: Everyman's Poetry. Robert Louis Stevenson. Complete Poetry.
D H Lawrence. Summer Shorts 2. The Indie Collaboration. Contemplation Height. Adam Elias Zain. Edward Robertson. Nocturnal Sunrise. Alison Strange-Green. Ice Melts. Phyllis Anderson. The White Ship. Poolside Poetry. Chas Stramash. On the Worth of Metaphysical Systems. James Thomson. Kate Miller. The Complete Poems and Plays, — Departmental Ditties. Light Made Solid. Ben Mellor. Second Rain. Elise Hempel. The Glacial Stairway. Peter Riley. The Earthly Paradise - Part 3.
William Morris. Titania's Boon. Simon Jones. The Unicorn from the Stars and Other Plays. Defying Gravity. Roger McGough. Works of Ewart Alan Mackintosh. Ewart Alan Mackintosh. A Touch Of Simplicity. Genevieve Farrell. Images from the Mirror of Reality. Nigel Hyatt. Dafydd Gibbon.
Purest White Mantle. How to write a great review. The review must be at least 50 characters long. The title should be at least 4 characters long. Your display name should be at least 2 characters long.