The Summer Fortress

TO RA AND REMEMBERING VERITY FORSYTH   

   

I hear you still  

clear, sure -  

talking to me  

now  

as you would talk to me  

then;  

a corner of the garden room;  

a long table laid for tea,  

books piled up,  

shadows of poets and painters  

stirring;  

listening,  

as you hear me say  

what I do not say;  

as you tell me  

what I need to hear  

but would not:  

I hear you still  

I hear you now,  

I hear you.  
  

Skona, July 1997  

 

DATE

This cycle of poems was written in the Weald of Kent between March and September 1979; the last one 18 years later in July 1997, in Skona.

 

1

for this

there is always

time -

your fragmentary will

concocts hours

where the day

has none,

etches

a far horizon

forever

in the sun.

 

2

take only touch

and that electric guess,

hand to hand,

till hearts

rest within flesh;

till your touch

upon my face

moves inside.

 

3

you would stretch out,

draw me apart,

for though

you do not know it

your time

is mine.

would you want more?

would you change

the tide

that carries us,

sand within a stream,

toward the sea?

evenly,

 

4

loving you:

the picture

safe

in the cabinet -

mine,

the dare to remove;

the white palms

stick with sweat

now summer comes.

 

5

knives cut -

and death's unknowing,

cells grow and bones will break,

and still,

the starting point -

your face,

ghosts all the change;

leaves -

silence,

a space for shadows;

a space to turn within;

and lie at bay.

 

6

your cry

hollows the hour,

touches stars

that won't explode:

and break their hold.

but

can hurl javelins

up at space

 

7

you may not believe it but,

after the battle,

rain washed the blood

onto the village streets,

into the Weald.

night falls

on the Bloody Mountain;

a bird pulls

against empty light;

bats fold into the

outline of trees,

black on black.

above us

a harvest moon

burns a circle in the sky.

 

8

let us stay,

smoke awhile

walk between the silver trees

of the Cinders track.

night holds us;

we lie

beside a water tank,

listening;

water

dripping

drop by drop

waiting

where nothing moves

the moment on,

where nothing moves.

where the air

is cool and grassy

 

9

your heart is high,

sweeping high:

tempers,

slackens, on again,

states of difference -

not by joining

I, in love,

would move.

 

10

in

your awkward beauty

the landscape breathes

with you;

I rest

I play;

in skies

the peacocks fly.

 

11

do not hold back;

you should not fear

you shine

for you

have the brightest light;

and shine

as life.

 

12

come,

we will evade this,

armour ourselves

as night checks day;

and a smooth sly light

slides through the orchards.

the

last bird songs

drain the day

into a shoal of trees.

we can evade all this.

 

13

we will become fond of these days;

go over them tirelessly

as armchair generals

over maps.

we lay down

the living death

like bottles

in a cellar;

effortlessly.

 

14

the abacus moves

but I will not;

its beads have a sort of rhythm,

a pretended order.

do not listen.

silence has a safer sound;

even calls the directions

of a hidden road,

easily missed.

 

15

i 'd rather not

think;

or imagine,

know,

or even

suspect,

grieve,

celebrate,

wonder.

I want to

live easy.

why

should I be troubled?

 

16

yours

is the gift that brings together,

that calls me in

that keeps me here;

your arms

open;

your imprint

haunts

your body,

is a barrier of words.

 

17

the train passes places

where nothing has changed,

where life has gone on

just the same

all the time

I have been

so caught up.

it will go on the same

when this ends;

 

18

daily

the state deepens

and I concede

to this round

and to that

the bets I place

the game I play,

the cards that fall

far short

of what I make.

 

19

you smile:

the knife you wield

opens the knot

the quickest way,

I saw you

walking in fields,

a dancer,

naked,

slender as a scorpion.

dares all

do you know

what we do?

 

20

lost time

is life's regret:

death guilds its share,

the days

rob and bleed,

and time

smashes easily as glass.

the calendar

breaks a little more each day.

 

21

love in distance,

and,

all the time

I know

that behind me

he kisses you;

you

do not know

his blooded lips

smear and conquer.

each return

you see

gets closer.

 

22

you turn

your eyes,

catch up my glance;

hold it

like a mirror,

distorting

by all

it cannot see.

 

23

he had made

a plaything of fear;

caught it in the mirror

with the sun.

autumn will rush

before the Kentish hops

to dredge his glass -

and the image,

unreflected,

noiselessly dies out.

 

24

death kisses you;

the offering of suns

gluts in your heart;

an unaccounting change

removes your hand.

you wake;

but the rage for life

sleeps on.

 

25

we shall devour

each other

or forget;

the simplest of glances,

the easiest look

or touch,

each ordinary phrase

and twist it;

till we can never tell

what it was

of all we said.

torture

take

 

26

scorpion,

let me lie

in your claws.

let us see

whose poison

poisons first.

 

27

the wake of summer

empties you;

shadows the seas

with a corrected light.

the storm of Galilee

saw its path on water

but the touch of faith

has strangled you:

now the leaves knit together

with a bellyfull of love.

 

28

summer

stumbles to a car;

say goodbye -

give it your hand,

before it drives away,

before you say

good-bye

- not at the station alone;

I want to stand alone

with my bags

and people

I do not know.

 

29

cycling in the Weald,

freewheeling down the hill;

buying cherries at orchards

brimming still:

even as the term ends

I know it;

even as we pack,

this last weekend

burns me

like a firebrand

all life long.

 

30

sun leaves over sky;

the blue,

denied,

commands outside

this amber home.

sitting here,

I have this image of summer,

the fortress filled

with all that nearly was,

with all that once had been,

that has no end,

that has not ended.

 

31

uninterrupted,

a single thread

links that summer

to this;

connects the blue Weald

to this house

high in the birch forests

above the bay of swans

where you swim in the sun.

nothing comes between,

nothing claims

the space

that separates

a parting from a meeting,

an ending

from a beginning.

 

What is Archeologies: The Diaries of an Occasional Hermit?

From disco to disappearance.

THE SUMMER FORTRESS

DAVID SWARBRICK

DATE
This cycle of poems was written in the Weald of Kent between March and September 1979; the first one 18 years later in July 1997, in Skona.

Published By The Ceylon Press 2025

TO RA AND REMEMBERING VERITY FORSYTH

I hear you still
clear, sure -
talking to me
now
as you would talk to me
then;
a corner of the garden room;
a long table laid for tea,
books piled up,
shadows of poets and painters
stirring;
listening,
as you hear me say
what I do not say;
as you tell me
what I need to hear
but would not:
I hear you still
I hear you now,
I hear you.

for this
there is always
time -
your fragmentary will
concocts hours
where the day
has none,
etches
a far horizon
forever
in the sun.

take only touch
and that electric guess,
hand to hand,
till hearts
rest within flesh;
till your touch
upon my face
moves inside.

you would stretch out,
draw me apart,
for though
you do not know it
your time
is mine.
would you want more?
would you change
the tide
that carries us,
sand within a stream,
toward the sea?
evenly,

loving you:
the picture
safe
in the cabinet -
mine,
the dare to remove;
the white palms
stick with sweat
now summer comes.

knives cut -
and death's unknowing,
cells grow and bones will break,
and still,
the starting point -
your face,
ghosts all the change;
leaves -
silence,
a space for shadows;
a space to turn within;
and lie at bay.

your cry
hollows the hour,
touches stars
that won't explode:
and break their hold.
but
can hurl javelins
up at space

you may not believe it but,
after the battle,
rain washed the blood
onto the village streets,
into the Weald.
night falls
on the Bloody Mountain;
a bird pulls
against empty light;
bats fold into the
outline of trees,
black on black.
above us
a harvest moon
burns a circle in the sky.

let us stay,
smoke awhile
walk between the silver trees
of the Cinders track.
night holds us;
we lie
beside a water tank,
listening;
water
dripping
drop by drop
waiting
where nothing moves
the moment on,
where nothing moves.
where the air
is cool and grassy

your heart is high,
sweeping high:
tempers,
slackens, on again,
states of difference -
not by joining
I, in love,
would move.

in
your awkward beauty
the landscape breathes
with you;
I rest
I play;
in skies
the peacocks fly.

do not hold back;
you should not fear
you shine
for you
have the brightest light;
and shine
as life.

come,
we will evade this,
armour ourselves
as night checks day;
and a smooth sly light
slides through the orchards.
the
last bird songs
drain the day
into a shoal of trees.
we can evade all this.

we will become fond of these days;
go over them tirelessly
as armchair generals
over maps.
we lay down
the living death
like bottles
in a cellar;
effortlessly.

the abacus moves
but I will not;
its beads have a sort of rhythm,
a pretended order.
do not listen.
silence has a safer sound;
even calls the directions
of a hidden road,
easily missed.

i 'd rather not
think;
or imagine,
know,
or even
suspect,
grieve,
celebrate,
wonder.
I want to
live easy.
why
should I be troubled?

yours
is the gift that brings together,
that calls me in
that keeps me here;
your arms
open;
your imprint
haunts
your body,
is a barrier of words.

the train passes places
where nothing has changed,
where life has gone on
just the same
all the time
I have been
so caught up.
it will go on the same
when this ends;

daily
the state deepens
and I concede
to this round
and to that
the bets I place
the game I play,
the cards that fall
far short
of what I make.

you smile:
the knife you wield
opens the knot
the quickest way,
I saw you
walking in fields,
a dancer,
naked,
slender as a scorpion.
dares all
do you know
what we do?

lost time
is life's regret:
death guilds its share,
the days
rob and bleed,
and time
smashes easily as glass.
the calendar
breaks a little more each day.

love in distance,
and,
all the time
I know
that behind me
he kisses you;
you
do not know
his blooded lips
smear and conquer.
each return
you see
gets closer.

you turn
your eyes,
catch up my glance;
hold it
like a mirror,
distorting
by all
it cannot see.

he had made
a plaything of fear;
caught it in the mirror
with the sun.
autumn will rush
before the Kentish hops
to dredge his glass -
and the image,
unreflected,
noiselessly dies out.

death kisses you;
the offering of suns
gluts in your heart;
an unaccounting change
removes your hand.
you wake;
but the rage for life
sleeps on.

we shall devour
each other
or forget;
the simplest of glances,
the easiest look
or touch,
each ordinary phrase
and twist it;
till we can never tell
what it was
of all we said.
torture
take

scorpion,
let me lie
in your claws.
let us see
whose poison
poisons first.

the wake of summer
empties you;
shadows the seas
with a corrected light.
the storm of Galilee
saw its path on water
but the touch of faith
has strangled you:
now the leaves knit together
with a bellyfull of love.

summer
stumbles to a car;
say goodbye -
give it your hand,
before it drives away,
before you say
good-bye
- not at the station alone;
I want to stand alone
with my bags
and people
I do not know.

cycling in the Weald,
freewheeling down the hill;
buying cherries at orchards
brimming still:
even as the term ends
I know it;
even as we pack,
this last weekend
burns me
like a firebrand
all life long.

sun leaves over sky;
the blue,
denied,
commands outside
this amber home.
sitting here,
I have this image of summer,
the fortress filled
with all that nearly was,
with all that once had been,
that has no end,
that has not ended.

uninterrupted,
a single thread
links that summer
to this;
connects the blue Weald
to this house
high in the birch forests
above the bay of swans
where you swim in the sun.
nothing comes between,
nothing claims
the space
that separates
a parting from a meeting,
an ending
from a beginning.