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from Sing Campion Song
Today the trees are massive and the air in limbo,
I think of all those working hard to keep me in sunglasses,
to keep me in song, - it’s worth it to send me gliding along the streets,
through the brushed and coloured map of unending desire.
Thomas Campion is my neighbour, he lives on the top floor,
he breathes the pure counter tenor ozone of the tower of song;
though the civic society wanted him out, he’s not coming down,
he tells them to drop it and sings louder every night.
But imagine a common purpose in breathing the next breath
and the blossom bursts so candid, like love unfolding,
like a river of untethered clouds naming a new country,
to make us unsay each hectic word in the artless plan.
Sing Campion song eyes closed
this ayre is not recorded on a mail base
leaning onto the edge of darkness
step out where comfort is she will.
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Campion's perfect iambics oh
what can we do what can
equal the lute river melody
of English poetry beginning.
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Their boat sailed up the Thames
wood oud Italian loot to her
making fowre parts in counter-point
that they might move stone by sound.
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My Campion is singing
in the mountain grove
3 for 2 and petrol rush
the wanton country made.
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If we talk like this I don’t know that I get it,
impasto Sam in the Darent valley, the boys at leapfrog,
error message 208 sings in the forest of night
and the precipitation trailing westward peters out.
At some point for the locals it must tilt,
and where shall we find our colours then?
The forgotten use of realgar, the decline of arsenic,
will you make me a white to match this radiance?
After the abandonment found on lyric stairways
the theory of craft labour took hold in Cambridge,
the Sunni triangle of old learning and money;
London das kapital of foreign occupation.
If songs make us free, we already have them all,
called conflict of interest in the history of the English jig.
Copyright @ Kelvin Corcoran, 2009
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