Chance of a Storm

By Rod Mengham

For Rod Mengham sculpture and painting exist in the world the way poems do. He invokes the Polish sculptor Katarzyna Kobro, who believes that sculpture must be understood as part of the world around it. In Chance of a Storm, poetry is language that comes trailing bits of other forms of speech and writing. 'Poems should be finished, but be still hot to the touch, giving a vivid sense of the thinking and feeling that went into their creation,' he says. Drew Milne speaks of the poems' 'beautiful, belligerent laconicism'. While the lyric is central to Mengham's work, it cannot shrug off the ambition of epic, scaled down but still latent. This telescoping informs the structure of these prose poems, a species of modernist fable.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Independent Publishers Group
• Release date: Jan 1, 2017
• ISBN: 9781784100841

Rod Mengham

Rod Mengham is author of several poetry publications, including Unsung (Salt, 2006), Chance of a Storm (Carcanet, 2015), Grimspound & Inhabiting Art (Carcanet, 2018), 2019 the vase in pieces (Oystercatcher, 2019) and of translations, including Speedometry [poems by Andrzej Sosnowski] (Contraband, 2014) and Flatsharing [poems by Anne Portugal] (Equipage, 2021). He was also co-editor and co-translator of the anthology Altered State: The New Polish Poetry (Arc, 2003) and co-editor with John Kinsella of the anthology Vanishing Points: New Modernist Poems (Salt, 2005). Between 1992 and 2002, he was co-organiser of the annual Cambridge Conference of Contemporary Poetry and since 1992 has been the publisher of Equipage, which has published over 120 pamphlets of contemporary poetry. Rod is Reader in Modern English Literature at Cambridge University, and a Fellow of Jesus College. He has published monographs on Dickens, Emily Bronte and Henry Green; and The Descent of Language (1993); has co-written with Sophie Gilmartin Thomas Hardy's Shorter Fiction (EUP, 2007); has edited essay collections on contemporary fiction, violence and avant-garde art, fiction of the 1940s, and Australian poetry. He has also curated many exhibitions of contemporary art since 2003, and has made several films with the artist Marc Atkins (soundingpolefilms) as well as the text + image publication Still Moving (London: Veer Publications, 2014). He was a recipient of the Cholmondely Award for poetry in 2020.

Book preview

Acknowledgements

After Archilochus

nothing is out of this world

or beyond the pale since Zeus

found night in the blue of days

left the sun at a nonplus

made men forever twitchy

now anything and everything

springs from the box

so what if the beasts of the field

leap in the sea like dolphins

the spouting waves are a charm to the ears

but not where the dolphins are

at rest in their mountain hideaway

Batavia

This portico was meant for the Sea Gate at Djakarta, but the eleven blocks of its arch and two Doric pillars never arrived, never came ashore. For most of the last 350 years they were loosely adjacent among the swells of the Indian Ocean. Now the shapes of individual column sections are all different. Flaws in the stone, areas of more or less hardness and resistance, open up and give way to pockets of memory, crypts for the imaginations of architect and mason. When their tools were laid out in the morning, they would pause before setting to work, close their eyes and conjure up a city, a forum teeming with men and music, the cries of shopkeepers, the chanting of processions, the baying of spectators in the amphitheatre. They would close their ears, but the gates were all shut, it was dark, the streets were hushed when the rain began, pattering in the dust, drops of blood from an unnamed cloud, in the lights and shadows of a different sky, where the circling stars follow old paths now forgotten.

It was a time to sow and a time for the radio signals to break up. The migrants would never return. The planes were all taxiing up and down the runway in a perfect boustrophedon. There were foraging parties disappearing into the hills, and in the middle distance a great plain where every citizen worked with a mattock, watched by the leader from a white pavilion. They would scratch a living in the time it takes for the songs of loss to change tune. All roads in the city led to that gate, but only one path led away from it, where streamwater ran through the grass and out among corals.

The gate did not know this, it would dream of another place, where the sound of bees comes down the chimney and the fields are prepared for dancing, where the crashing of waves is a distant lulling, and the patterns travelling over drifting sand are marbled, like the shadows cast from a great plane tree in the breeze of early spring.

With his last hand, the builder poured in the sea, and the ship sailed on to the studio wall. Beyond it was slaughter, the rescuers killing the rescued. Like the Shield of Achilles, the gate was forged for enmity and rage, locked into place with the New Century, in the rhythm of a march, of a pace-maker with armour plate. The admirable shield is hung up or laid down, the immoveable chockstone in an underwater gulley, perishing slowly like old soap, cleansing nothing but itself in the empire of tides.

The Westralipede

Past the drowned roots of flooded gums, past the dead palm branches laid out like narwhal spikes, walking towards the coldest star in the southern sky when all virtue is exhaled, they are tearing up Newcastle Street in the next chapter of The Revolutionary History of Perth. Beneath the pavements other pavements. Or in Little Asia, Chinese clothes are on western mannequins and the Resistance Centre is closed, the Salvation Army is closed, the Rechabite Hall is closed, even the Daughters of Charity Bargain Box Closing Down Sale is closed. Three pleasure boats keep abreast on the lake, one of them rowed by two men with shaved heads and gold ear-rings. The man in the bows, image-spitting at the lake’s surface, stares intently down into its depths, looking for evidence of the one-armed man last seen leaving the apartment. Three other men with brickbats wait under the flying buttresses of a Moreton Bay Fig tree, twisting the handles of their clubs. It is 6.00 pm, time for the first meeting of the Committee for Summer, convened by a bunch of peevish crows, wheezing like Mr Punch in a final attempt at a wolf-whistle. On this side of the tracks there are pre-paid funerals only, but I sit and listen to the eulogies on Dorothy Hewett 12 days after her death, watching a cortège of minuscule ants bear away the corpse of a black many-legged insect I do not know the name of. If I write less, I claim less against tax, while you pay more, although less for heat, light, etc. while reading this. Like the Amphisbaena, all texts here are double-headers: one to bite them that read, the other to sting him that writes.

Delivering the Device

For a second time in the fosse, beat back familiars, fare further. A necklace of villages, sequence of alternating loyalties, the double road-kill of rat and cat. On terraces of Grianan Ailigh, where winds blunder among granite briquettes and intercalated ferns.

Like a storm beach above waves in circling seas,