'A Field Mouse', Archibald Thorburn, 1905. [o]
THE TOWERS OF LONDON
Run
Hermit
Field mouse
Caught
In bed
Of nails—
Stakes—
Towers
And estates
That grow
Like tumors
Out of the back of my hand
When there are no more fields
To run
'Young Gannett Diving'. Photo by Richard Winn. [o]
SEABIRD
a life
alone
asleep and
a wake
on a bed of memory-less
foam
and waves
to no-one
where nothing
is ever the same
and everything
always looks the same
not a soul
but a sole
in sight
no solid
soil
to lay my feet
‘til we land on land
to mate
and meet
and share
for a moment and
forever
our lonely fate
"Stacked Chairs, Mexico City.' Photo by Whitney Smith. [o]
OUR PASSING HEELS
a great falling wave
your armchair at dusk,
landless bird
long shot
one in five-hundred—
red wolf!
head spinning
she spells infinity ∞
eskista dancer
Las hormigas no
Pueden comer hormigón.
Restaurantes “Closed”.
the morning dew
soon gone, is felt beneath
our passing heels
writing haiku
about my green tea—
tea’s gone cold
'Shower Water Falling'. Photo by Anderson Miranda. [o]
DIFFERENCES
Dearest Art,
You scream in tune.
You cry in key.
You hide
beside yourself
just outside the frame
between the frames
quicksilverfish that you are
on the cutting-room floor.
What’s more?
You took the best of us—
dragged, like my hair
from the shower we shared—
You and that liar in your hands.
You wet her with lies.
You have a good (blind) eye.
You kissed the arse and made them cry.
Who the hell am I?
Just jealous that’s all.
Yours for now,
— Life
'Ice Pier, Black Sea. Ukraine.' Photo by.
THE CONSTANT TRAVELLER
I travel overland
I travel overseas
I howl and I roar and
I whistle as I walk
Down hallways
Up highways
Long and free
Jaywalk ‘cross highways
Brush through trees
Through valleys,
Tunnels, underpasses
And alleys
Echo
As I tread
I kick up dust,
Sand
And dung
And virgin snow
And I think
I know
My own footprints
From long ago.
I blow through town
At eighty miles an hour
Shake and stir stuff up—
Or breeze idly by—
But I never really stop.
I travel day and night
Over rock I roll
An empty beach in pre-dawn glow
Tarmac, grass
Grape and grain
And rubbish dumps
I leave a trail
I make a mess
Smash a window
Or go on by
Without a trace.
I piss where I will
As I move
And my tears fall at my feet.
I can be warm and gentle
After long summer’s eves
Of orchards, vineyards, poppy fields
Of twenty-six degrees
I can be harsh and cold and bitter
As Black Sea winter chills
Far-flung glaciares
Helsinki city streets
But what I pick up
I soon drop.
I travel light.
Sometimes I meet others like me
We travel together a while
Become inseparable
Come to blows
Go our separate ways.
I’ve been travelling so long
I don’t know when I started
Or how I’ll come to rest
How I’ve changed
What I’ve lost
Or what I’ve gained.
A memory?
An idea?
An experience or two?
Have I left it all behind?
Acquired something new?
Made of entirely different stuff?
Hollow?
See-through?
Is there anything still in me
From those days when I set out
On this endless journey?
I know I’m not the same throughout.
A grain?
A single cell?
A chain or single thought?
I gave up trying long ago
To choose or steer my course.
I’ve seen and touched and tasted
Passed through everything
But still and stagnant secrets.
Those I’ve no part in.
Today an eagle rested on my shoulder
I helped push a boat out
And a man
From a cliff.
I’ve helped and I’ve hindered.
If you know I’m on my way
Better to work with me
Than to try to go against.
Sometimes in my anger
I throw things from my path
Or I step around politely
There’s things even I can’t…
But let me roam
‘Cause you may keep me (out) a while
But you’ll never stop me
I’ll prevail.
I was born to move!
I am wild
I am free
Or as close as I can hope to be
Roy Duffield fills out
The Wild Culture Scribbler’s Questionnaire
What is your first memory and what does it tell you about your life at that time and your life at this time?
Climbing up the back of a brown, threadbare sofa to see what was so bright outside. Now that I think about it, the symbolism is just too easy.
Can you name a handful of artists in your field, or other fields, who have influenced you — who come to mind immediately?
Kerouac, Neruda, Kaneko Misuzu, Jean Rhys, Jack London, Laurie Lee, Hunter S. Thompson, Goethe, Bashō…
Where did you grow up, and did that place and your experience of it help form your sense about place and the environment in general?
A big town. Neither the city, with its abundance of culture; nor the wild. Which is probably why I’ve always lusted after both extremes, and why now I can’t live contentedly in any of the three.
If you were going away on a very long journey and you could only take four books — one poetry, one fiction, one non-fiction, one literary criticism — what would they be?
I am always about to go away on a very long journey, and these are what I most want to read right now: The Vigilantes: A Fragment by Alan Ansen, House of Hunger by Marechera Dambudzo, Book of Dreams by Jack Kerouac, and Kerouac: A Biography by Ann Charters. Does that count?
What was your most keen interest between the ages of 10 and 12?
Playing in “the woods”.
At one point did you discover your ability with poetry?
Actually, I'd always been a fiction guy. I've spent my whole life working on this gritty, 'real' novel. Then, a couple of years ago, I was in Mozambique and suddenly just started writing poetry. I haven't stopped since. I have the feeling my mind is 'deteriorating' into abstraction, but it's not a painful deterioration. I'm happy to stay on the raft and see where it goes.
Do you have an ‘engine’ that drives your artistic practice, and if so, can you comment on it?
I write when I’m angry, when something in the world needs to change. It’s an engine I don’t expect to run out of fuel for anytime soon.
If you were to meet a person who seriously wants to do work in your field — someone who admires and resonates with the type of work you do, and they clearly have real talent — and they asked you for some general advice, what would that be?
Never stop reading, well and often.
Do you have a current question or preoccupation that you could share with us?
How can things ever improve (politically, environmentally . . . everything) when our culture is not currently one based on helping each other to learn and understand?
What does the term ‘wild culture’ mean to you?
Wild culture is the best culture, because it’s the least cultured.
If you would like to ask yourself a final question, what would it be?
No, no. Thank you. I’m done.
ROY DUFFIELD was honoured to be chosen to headline last year's annual Beat Poetry Festival in Barcelona alongside some of the contemporary Spanish performance poets he most admires. This year his work has appeared in over 25 journals and anthologies, including The Dawntreader, The Trouvaille Review, Marble Poetry, Lucent Dreaming, The Prachya Review, The Medley, Strukturriss and Jalada Africa. Roy has travelled over 100 countries and writes as The Drinking Traveller. He lives in Barcelona.
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