Tag: vagrants

89. A Recipe for Summer Pudding

for both Neirin Alexander Winstanley Smith-Spark and Ianthe Judith Smith‑Spark, who are so much in my care these days

This I hope as something to return to
every year when summer is at its fullest
as joyful ritual as any of Christmas
welcome this & help in preparing
then eat it up to live then
as good memory of a family rite

A process run on here of sharedness
communal rituals based on our flesh
in winter elaborate & rich, in summer
light, more casual, barely cooked
                    dipped into cold
no need for fake magics but
only the most necessary processes I guess
everyone helping in making & eating

We aren’t homeless yet or now
where you can plant some fruit bushes
these are what you need most of all
their brightest jewels against the green
a kilo of fresh-grown summer fruit
we can all pick together again
– these are the ones I think you’ll use: blackcurrants
                                         redcurrants
(which around here grow extremely well
– undoubtedly one of those plants
inhabiting the land before us all
– we are the migrants
                                         strawberries – (tho’ not too many!)
both the plump beauties we cultivate
& the little bright aromatic wild ones
flourishing free & untended
& these too I often use:                 blackberries
                                         raspberries
                                                     & their hybrid offspring1
                                         a few early mulberries
                                         & a few late gooseberries
                                                      wine dark sacs
                                                      that escaped then
                                                      turning into fool
with a couple of sprigs of green sweet cicely leaves
& 250 g of caster sugar (fair trade
                         never beet!)
& bread
        a large sandwich loaf of white bread
        bought fresh the day before
        Dorringtons is best2

Outside the fruits’ bodily membranes
lie insects & birdpoo, mollusctrails, dust
& industrial poisons from any bought fruits
so immerse (in a colander) in cold water
& leave to drain then top & tail
                      select & hull
till the fruit you want is ready
add the sweet cicely leaves
                            if you can get them
                            but there should be some growing
                            in your parents’ garden
then leave over night in the cool of the fridge
mingling within a capacious bowl
sprinkled over it all the sugar
next day tip into a saucepan
stir in any sugar not yet sogged
gently warming over low heat
until it just about simmers
leave at that for a couple of minutes only
next gently prepare the pudding basin
(the one used for Christmas pudding fine
with kitchen paper sprinkled w/ almond oil
finally cut the bread into thick slices
trim off all the crusts & assemble it all:
a circle at the bottom of the basin
like the moon at the bottom of a pond
cut slices into triangles & build up the walls
little bits can fill any breaks & cracks

& rise up to the very top of this basin
fill it carefully with your fruity mess
only half way there then place across
a shelf of bread like a cross-strut
then all the rest
                  & seal with slices
right across the top and cover
– an inverted saucer or plate
its surface also glossed w/ oil
and place in your fridge
                         – the opposite of cooking this!
to penetrate utterly the bread
                               add a weight
to the top, maybe a tin
                        or press up against the shelf above
and it’s ready tomorrow already

Always the same beautiful element to serve it with
– rich clotted cream from out the farthest West
– fit for all heroes, princesses & bards
once you’ve turned it out:
                           a palette knife
                           around the edges to loosen
                           then invert into a shallow bowl
                           a marbled monument to summer
it’ll all keep in the fridge for several days
– unless you mother discovers it
                                 & scoffs the lot!

[Dear, bright little children, again, that’s it! The simplest & surest of transformations compared with all the complicated alchemy of Christmas, and beautifully composed of just bread, fruit, sugar & cream – food for honey‑tongued & noble bards, food for sea-nymphs & heroines of utopian vision. The whole idea is very uncomplicated; but I’ve taken some detail as often from my mother-source, Jane Grigson, and I’ll hold onto her recipe quite happily: it’s attractively marbled rather than oozy & monochrome, & the shelf across makes it less architecturally disordered. And I’ll hold hard too to a varied mixture, based on what your garden has produced – impurity in all things! There’s never the right recipe, just the one that’s best to use now.]

 

 

1 Thank you, Judge Logan

 

 

2 But your mother will advise: don’t eat the sandwiches!

 

88. Enochian Translation #41

188 estrangelo treated copyNothing solid left to return to – that could be a relief. Everything that has happened is irreversible: it’s to do with entropy, rather than iussive poesis. Maybe the triumph of the bourgeoisie, turning out to be the zombie slaves of our new aristocracy (recte: kleptocracy). It is a return, but to nowhere. Think of it as being in hell forever.

Another thingy ran no process on. And what thingy was that? An improvisation of sorts. It can’t work any simple change: it wants the wonder of utter novelty, where something enters from the outside that isn’t there (they tell us). It is gross, disturbing, static in terms of here – in terms of there, a light, casual, generative verb: oh, to tapir, to gryphon, to bleeding head of a dog on a stick, to bird fly out & off at dawn, this dawn, the one that is now. An utter affront to the cryptic smear of events.

A homeless migrant out of nothing is all we are. There are no rights – only the duty of collaborative action to build ourselves a new home, preferably eternal. We’ve landed here, pushed off the boat, & struggled up through the mud & debris of this beach. The first thing we must do is hold a carnival on the quayside to celebrate we are here. Ignore the rain – rather, enjoy how our lights sparkle & waver. Such now is living.

What natural membranes outside to something? Think of sticky interfaces rubbing against your cheeks. It’s at the breaks & cracks, the splits & mirrorings, that something happens. Involutions of boundary layers establish new dimensions, new modes of being. These events form & multiply – OK? We are penetrated utterly through nothingness. What’s here, not here – what isn’t here haunting us & surrounds us. Time to dance thru the wet streets, each single one.

Always the same abased elements here – we don’t care. All our ideals are based on elaborate fakery – hunh? You want divine revelation? Only human, only ever human. Making it up as we go along – tauromachy upon the strand, incantations in the chambers, prayers & ale within the chapel. Bread of heaven, and the people’s beer. These the only materials we’ve got, here in Albion Street: up through the strait gate, turn left.

Again these brief warped children now. Who will they grow up into? Us, us and you. If you’re resigned to this – OK. Let it all breathe as the wind changes & we accept. A friendly cloud blots out the cruel sun. The children still play their violent games. Whoever survives shall be king; but the slaughterer will be the one remembered. It’s hard work, building a civilisation upon this brutish shore. The record is mainly one of massacres & betrayal: all the old giants, ones who’d helped us, put to death. Very well. Here we are. It’s never the right time or place or language. It’s what it is: one actual moment.

 

 

1 Out of the most vulgar of Old Sogdian, I’m afraid, and a very free rendering indeed. Translations do vary widely, especially as the MS is extremely worn & well-rubbed. There is a major alternative reading following.

87. They Catch the Shine, That’s All

nothing solid left to return to
another solid left to return to
another thingy left to return to
another thingy ran to return to
another thingy ran no return to
another thingy ran no process to
another thingy ran no process on

another thingy ran no process on
a thingy ran no process on
a thingy dreams no process on
a thingy dreams to process on
a thingy dreams to process nothing
a thingy dreams to outside nothing
a thingy dreams out outside nothing
a thingy dreams out of nothing
a thingy migrant out of nothing
a homeless migrant out of nothing

a homeless migrant out of nothing
what homeless migrant out of nothing
what natural migrant out of nothing
what natural membrane out of nothing
what natural membrane outside of nothing
what natural membrane outside to nothing
what natural membrane outside to something

what natural membrane outside to something
always natural membrane outside to something
always the membrane outside to something
always the membrane abased to something
always the membrane abased to here
always the same abased to here
always the same abased elements here

always the same abased elements here
again the same abased elements here
again these same abased elements here
again these brief abased elements here
again these brief warped elements here
again these brief warped children here
again these brief warped children now

again these brief warped children now
again these left warped children now
again these left lowly children now
again these left lowly return now
again these left to return now
just these left to return now
just these left to return to
just spontaneous left to return to
just ridiculous left to return to
just solid left to return to
nothing solid left to return to

86. Something Now We Can All Agree Upon

oh – all these memories then
pretty sloppy if you want what happened
they catch the shine, that’s all
nothing solid left to return to

no – not one thing (that
ended – just another – call it process
yesterday’s landing craft today’s tourism
but they still keep on diving of course

all this huge & thingy world then
a homeless migrant out of nothing
something like spontaneous fireworks
ending up with just what you are

natural language brilliant for fantasies
makes mud smell of nutmeg if we ask
though it may tell us nothing of here
existing too much likewise in its own right

lost on now some ridiculous plane
totally unsure of what is outside (more rain
always the same abased elements here
until the sky & land no longer know what colour

elastic in what? – I’d say warped & rotten
woven up wretchedly on the cheapest of looms
let’s start up again w/ Harlow & fun
gangs of noisy actual children – agreed upon this

84. Screen Memories Maybe of Bideford Fair

Not ordinary on the quayside
mongrels move across (we are they
of gryphons & tapirs & people &
all free creatures – not marred
we choose carnival & laughter
night-time suddenly sparks and shines
the dust smells of meadowsweet
we are fierce, miswritten humans
now opening history to the full at midnight

not triumphal – heavy struggle
we are devoured within
a buffet of profound perversity
irrationality of the non-human
always back in the old mud again
something brutish & smearing
home is the horizon – it glitters
somehow we are still wading up the beach
trust, intensified, one of our great truths