The Extasie
By John Gallas
()
About this ebook
John Gallas
John Gallas was born in New Zealand in 1950. He came to England in the 1970s to study Old Icelandic at Oxford and has since lived and worked in York, Liverpool, Upholland, Little Ness, Rothwell, Bursa, Leicester, Diyarbakir, Coalville and Markfield, as a bottlewasher, archaeologist, and teacher. His books are published by Cold Hub Press (nz) and Agraphia (Sweden), and The Little Sublime Comedy is his tenth Carcanet collection. He is the editor of two books of translations – 52 Euros and The Song Atlas – also published by Carcanet. He is a Fellow of the English Association and was 2016 Orkney St Magnus Festival poet.
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Book preview
The Extasie - John Gallas
The
EXTASIE
JOHN GALLAS
CONTENTS
Title Page
One
The births of love
Freedestination
Paperboy
Sleep’s geography
Fit for glasses
Unconscious of it
Christmas in hospital
The air between
Old Hunstanton Beach
Once we stammered
When with fleshly bridges…
Operation all saints, East Norton
Gedney Drove End
Brancaster Beach
Did I never have a soul…
Taking your part
On Stanton Fields
Work
Poem on a bike
Sleep & be Donne
A walk away
A fear of something after death
When I stride along
B.L. Egerton 2711: Sir Thomas Wyatt’s poem-book
The monument
The ravens
The sufi sheep
Niue
Langary Gate, October evening
Bombing practice
The little leaf that would not fall
Horse-eye, fox, and crow
Learning clouds
A whale in borrowed smalls
5.26 from Lincoln
And if you watch…
Today I choked…
Higher Darwinism
Lover in a storm
Portrait of Giovanni Gerolamo Grumelli – ‘The man in pink’
Love & sons
Two
The heartsease
The goose
Towards the black hole
Unlearning a view
Psalm 102
The dew-drop
A valediction of my face, in a window
Travelling light
Newton-in-the-Isle
The bearded angels of North Creake Church
I have chosen my heaven…
The lay of the land
82 degrees
Your fever
Bagworth Heath Wood
The sandals of T.E. Lawrence
Who hic shoot star?
Calf & hare
The stir
Plan for our death
Telegram tanka
About the Author
Copyright
THE EXTASIE
Mikey
ONE
THE BIRTHS OF LOVE
Begin
issue of a stout-slung sperm,
I went like clockwork till you came: unfruitful,
soft-mechanic and Blind Man’s Buff.
When I arrived (at nothing yet, because
it was not you), a small gold sovereign of small account,
ignorant of its kingdom and its currency,
I took you for a subject with my little fist,
banking on some notion, some credit on the unspent air,
drawn in an IOU, and showed you, unborn, mine.
In the end you came while I was busy,
long bones slipping out up to your eyes,
whose bulging shiners each bore my stamp,
minted in my mewling, hand-fast game.
All set then: though we knew, we had not met.
While twenty years of sturdy detour
took the necessary way to love, I did
some