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01/02/2013

FORECASTS

Angus Sinclair

Forecasts was written as a collaborative piece. Laura Elliott, who also completed the Poetry MA, has written a corresponding poem. View her work.

FORECASTS


We live submerged at the bottom of an ocean of air

– Evangelista Torricelli

 

I.

 

I’m trying to write

a film about different

kinds of wind because

really we’re all dying

 

to be air  Today

I took field recordings

of agonal breathing  listen

my voice is hidden

 

in the track underneath

Wind itself is deaf

and dumb  only interrupting

matter such as microphones

 

can vocalise an airstream

   I am difficult to

   talk   it makes me

   whispers   we drift like

 

Subtitles are being considered

The script is forming

itself silently  I’m shooting

the sky to establish

 

a setting  it opens

on a big blue

yawn  a voice-over

carries over the mistrals

 

III.

 

all day long I score soughs

and rustles  creating dialects of air

You’d smile to hear blusters fold

over into form  thick autumn thermals

 

plumped into howling vowels  We two

both learn to purr  notating twists

as whistles skim the chimney  This house

 

rattles its emptiness on the windows

I often read your poem aloud

lift and circulate the words  listen

for inner similarities to their meaning

 

so much warm air   so close

the soft drone of your vocables

 

V.

 

filter coffee service stations  where nobody

speaks and the rain blisters windows

I’ve been sleeping in the car

and it’s been aspirin for days

 

There are messages on your side

residual questions traced in glass  wiper-

blades drag off-beat against silent

wind-farms lunatic arms   My mornings

 

turn upon the centre of your

air-conditioned letters  tell me  where

did you sleep last night  We expand

against the air  an unending series

 

of replacements  we call this language

 shiver when the cold wind blows

 

VII.

 

I hold my breath

after lightning and wait

for it  to return

thunder  Please know this

is exactly as I

found it   white balloon

 

in a field  with

nothing else  little lung

in a furrow bobs

so soft in leeward

breeze  Do you remember

the car game  puffing

 

our chests and pinching

our noses  we drove

at night through tunnels

blood swimming in our

ears  those rumbling tyres

the blinking lights  our

 

beating hearts    I’m trying

to picture the world

before we were taught

about looking  but everything

framed returns   A balloon

in a field  tumbles

 

towards a knotted patch

of brambles  Thunder claps

 

IX.

 

You always took good care

of pot-plants and plot curves

Things have been calm and grey

Remember the house where

wisteria whispered

in through open windows

 

the pink violet vines’

breath on your back   smoke-

like  after night-swimming

There was something I meant

 

to say to you  something

about currents or waves

but I often lose track

of the simpler facts  Wind

waving the wind along

the tonnes of air under

 

which we are all submerged

and our small conversions

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