Showing posts with label Silent Feet. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Silent Feet. Show all posts

Thursday, 17 May 2018

SILENT FEET (a poem after Eberhard Weber)

When I found the manuscript pages of Silent Feet I was pleased at how well I remembered it, and how well it held up. I wrote it 40 years ago, just after the poem Coachwheel Yellow, a villanelle which I posted here back in 2016, and to which you can link here. Or look on the side of the blog page, where you can link to all the poems posted here.

The connection is the studio/greenhouse, and the same very specific place and situation in both poems. 'Silent Feet' is another ECM poem, inspired by a song, in this case the title track of Eberhard Weber & Colours' 1977 album. It remains one of Weber's best songs, and the way his bass swirls and builds around the other players (Rainer Bruninghaus on piano, Charlie Mariano on reeds and John Marshall on drums) is superb. This would be around I time I saw them at The Round House in Camden.

Today I was looking at the album's cover art, by Maja Weber, and wondering why when I wrote this I did not make more of the Watership Down connection (to the cat were given silent feet and eyes that can see in the dark; I have another poem with the latter title which remains unfinished) at the time. Maybe I wasn't looking at the LP sleeve. I wrote it originally in August 1978 and changed it only slightly in the next year. It was accepted for publication by two magazines which folded, before being published in 1987 in a very small magazine called Magazing, in Glasgow, but the 'finished' version appeared in Brief (Canyon, California) issue 5, 1989. I made a few more changes recently in the version you are reading here.



SILENT FEET
                                                 (after Eberhard Weber)

The colours jump off his brush, names on a list
Eager to complete itself.
The canvas stretched like a target; his eyes
Controlling a weapon he cannot dismantle.
The angle of the easel is determined by
The relationship developed between hand and eye.
It can be considered
From the outside, by a woman watching
In the doorway, on bare feet, silently
As his arm reaches
To connect the line of the body
With the canvas, reclining
In its plane. He senses
Her presence, still outside but changing
The contours of the studio. The patterns
roll against his eyes like waves. She hears
Him turn before he does, before she sees
It happen. Her eyes are nervous, bird's song;
They meet his askew; they move away,
Return; she hears him move again; he sees
Her, a flutter of wings outside;
She is gone.

Saturday, 11 April 2015

QUIET DEPARTURES: A POEM FROM EBERHARD WEBER'S JAZZ

Today the three-disc box set of Eberhard Weber's Colours albums Yellow Fields, Silent Feet, Little Movements) arrived; my sister's birthday gift to me reached me on siblings day, a contrivance which appears to have arisen in the interweb of its own time-wasting accord. By a not very eerie coincidence (as I ordered the disc myself) I'd been reworking another of the poems I'd done inspired by tunes from jazz records, Weber's Quiet Departures, which comes off his 1979 album Fluid Rustle, the same time frame as when I saw Colours at the Round House in Camden.

I can't figure out when I first jotted down a few lines based on it, but I think I drew a little on New Haven's Union Station. I know I did a big revision after reading Steve Hamilton's novel Let It Burn -- but this version has been rewritten almost completely, and it heads in a different direction than where I thought it was going in either of those first two incarnations.....and I took a final walk around it this afternoon while Charlie Mariano worked out on Yellow Fields in the background.


QUIET DEPARTURES
                               (for Eberhard Weber & Steve Hamilton)

This building used to be
A station. Now shattered
Mosaic of faded brick

Broken glass, disjointed
Frames. It is still. Life
Clings to ruin, frozen

Boards with stops unmade,
Dead shadow whistles,
Lost scents of steam, echoes

Of hydraulic brakes over
Farewell tears. We hear
Noises of departure fill

The concourse with silence.
It is the sound of a dry sea
Trapped inside an empty shell.