stdClass Object ( [ID] => 16782 [post_author] => 18 [post_date] => 2016-03-31 19:17:05 [post_date_gmt] => 2016-03-31 19:17:05 [post_content] => England blisters from me. I’ll grow a new skin in Antwerp where the declivities of the word recusant press no un-natured furrows on my back nor delve a harrow through my conscience. What shall I say, Brueghel? My vellum flays cream open to the touch of your eyeballs and lead jacketed in its precipitate white smear. Your Sense of Hearing, seven desks, an old thing my First Book of Madrigals pricked on lead lozenges, so legible in north morning light flat off the channel. I’ve put out so much since, all Europe listens; now you, and they to you through what sloped ear you’ve fixed me in. I’ve this dream that these squirrel notes will be my all, captive to varnish yellowing time to bitumen’s oblivion. I was never tortured till now – by a friend blond in his good wishes like an angel of those instrumented orders they once applied on walls, tempera opalescent with light singing their clear grey levels of ascension. But I’m here whited by you, as if my skin’s exposed to my own black arrows of invention choral to just one minute of me, again again, voicing each part as if a door opened, shut. Is this my touch of gratitude to your wrist, my sweet-toned inquisition? Forgive my skin talking. I’m stretched and sized and think on the death that tautens me. I paper Europe with my cry as if then the chanson uncurled to God absolves these vanities with crisp silence and my stands chorus the pitch of love forever. [post_title] => Peter Philips' Part Book Talks to Brueghel [post_excerpt] => [post_status] => publish [comment_status] => closed [ping_status] => closed [post_password] => [post_name] => peter-philips-part-book-talks-to-brueghel [to_ping] => [pinged] => [post_modified] => 2016-07-07 12:18:52 [post_modified_gmt] => 2016-07-07 12:18:52 [post_content_filtered] => [post_parent] => 0 [guid] => http://poems.poetrysociety.org.uk/?post_type=poems&p=16782 [menu_order] => 0 [post_type] => poems [post_mime_type] => [comment_count] => 0 [filter] => raw [meta_data] => stdClass Object ( [wpcf-published-in] => [wpcf-date-published] => 2015 [wpcf-summary-description] => 'Peter Philips' Part Book Talks to Brueghel' was commended in the 2015 National Poetry Competition.

From the judges: “Some poems shine out, but others are ‘opalescent’, to use a word from Simon Jenner’s ‘Peter Philips’ Part Book Talks to Brueghel’, a wonderful window into Counter-Reformation counterfactual history, making music by ‘chorusing the pitch of love’ across five centuries.” – David Wheatley [wpcf-rights-information] => [wpcf-poem-award] => Commended, National Poetry Competition 2015 [wpcf_pr_belongs] => ) [poet_data] => stdClass Object ( [ID] => 16748 [forename] => [surname] => [title] => Simon Jenner [slug] => simon-jenner [content] => Simon Jenner was born in Cuckfield in 1959. Failing everything except art, he learnt to fly instead; discovering poetry forestalled a career in airframes. He has been the director of Survivors' Poetry since 2003, and has published several collections. He has books forthcoming from Perdika/Poet in the City and Agenda Editions. ) )

England blisters from me. I’ll grow a new skin
in Antwerp where the declivities of the word
recusant press no un-natured furrows on my back
nor delve a harrow through my conscience.

What shall I say, Brueghel? My vellum flays cream
open to the touch of your eyeballs and lead
jacketed in its precipitate white smear.
Your Sense of Hearing, seven desks, an old thing

my First Book of Madrigals pricked on lead
lozenges, so legible in north morning light
flat off the channel. I’ve put out so much since,
all Europe listens; now you, and they to you

through what sloped ear you’ve fixed me in.
I’ve this dream that these squirrel notes
will be my all, captive to varnish
yellowing time to bitumen’s oblivion.

I was never tortured till now – by a friend
blond in his good wishes like an angel
of those instrumented orders they once
applied on walls, tempera opalescent with light

singing their clear grey levels of ascension.
But I’m here whited by you, as if my skin’s
exposed to my own black arrows of invention
choral to just one minute of me, again

again, voicing each part as if a door
opened, shut. Is this my touch of gratitude
to your wrist, my sweet-toned inquisition?
Forgive my skin talking. I’m stretched and sized

and think on the death that tautens me. I paper
Europe with my cry as if then the chanson uncurled
to God absolves these vanities with crisp silence
and my stands chorus the pitch of love forever.