Monday, 15 August 2005
The Scale of Intensity
1) Not felt. Smoke still rises vertically. In sensitive individuals, deja vu, mild amnesia. Sea like a mirror.
2) Detected by persons at rest of favourably placed, i.e. in upper floors, hammocks, cathedrals etc. Leaves rustle.
3) Light sleepers wake. Glasses chink. Hairpins, paperclips display slight magnetic properties. Irritability. Vibration like passing of light trucks.
4) Small bells ring. Small increase in surface tension and viscosity of certain liquids. Domestic violence. Furniture overturned.
5) Heavy sleepers wake. Public demonstrations. Large flags fly. Vibration like passing of heavy trucks.
6) Large bells ring. Bookburning. Aurora visible in daylight hours. Unprovoked assaults on strangers. Glassware broken. Loose tiles fly from roof.
7) Weak chimneys broken off at roofline. Waves on small ponds, water turbid with mud. Unprovoked attacks on neighbours. Large static charges built up on windows, mirrors, television screens.
8) Perceptible increase in weight of stationary objects: books, cups, pens heavy to lift. Fall of stucco and some masonry. Systematic rape of women and young girls. Sand craters. Cracks in wet ground.
9) Small trees uprooted. Bathwater drains in reverse vortex. Wholesale slaughter of religious and ethnic minorities. Conspicuous cracks in ground. Damage to reservoirs and underground pipelines.
10) Large trees uprooted. Measurable tide in puddles, teacups, etc. Torture and rape of small children. Irreparable damage to foundations. Rails bend. Sand shifts horizontally on beaches.
11) Standing impossible. Widespread self-mutilation. Corposant visible on pylons, lampposts, metal railings. Most bridges destroyed.
12) Damage total. Movement of hour hand perceptible. Large rock masses displaced. Sea white.
Don Paterson
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To read Don Paterson's beautiful essay about writing poetry, go to http://www.donpaterson.com/journalism.html and click on "The Dilemma of the Peot" (... when I was six or so [I wrote in my jotter]: 'when I grow up i am giong to be a peot, and rite peoms'.)
The last paragraph:
Poems are translations from the silence, as Charles Simic has remarked. For me, poems try to put into words that which can't be put into words ... they're crap, unreliable versions of the songs the good angels and the bad angels sing, which we're not permitted to hear ... but sometimes we're standing where we shouldn't be, or they're standing where they shouldn't be, and we catch a bit of a refrain, or a single note (which happened to me once; I really heard
it, and can still hear it: Radka Toneff, circa '85, and the girl was dead soon after for her hubris - okay, so don't believe me) and if we do we can't help but try to imitate them, the way some birds can't help but imitate us. So we make these little broken songs, and they're nearly always sad, because they're broken.
Posted by: waylaid | Monday, 15 August 2005
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