SurVision Magazine / C. P. Nield

Rogue

A line forms a crease on the belly of the earth
and moves –
moves west above

an invisible trench,
where mountain peaks glitter with white
marlin.

Leviathan broods among valleys of wing-tips.
The lusca streams bubbles
the bandwidth of skulls.

A vast oblivion gives birth;
the verb 'infect' reels between 'I' and 'you';
the GPS satellite shrieks data.

A solitary wave quickens its own world,
from root-throb to green
avalanche.

This one wave is the only world,
the last mass gathering
of Atlantic salt.

So the lungs expand.
So syntax patterns the end.
So the line forms, curves, gains power, breaks –

in droplets,
protests, bronchi, stanzas,
frequencies, projections, morgues.

Cast

Two white towels
droop

from the plane
tree

in the tight
space

behind
the closed

hotel –
one curve

above
the jackdaw's

eye,
and one tilt

below,
left to melt

for days now,
this

tumble,
this strange

halt,
this shy

geometric
universe,

all
point, line, mass

and contour,
cast

from some top
window.

C. P. Nield is from England. His poetry has appeared in New Poetries IV (Carcanet), The Poet's Quest for God (Eyewear) and journals such as Ambit, The London Magazine, Magma, PN Review, and The Rialto.

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An international online magazine that publishes Surrealist poetry in English. Issue Nine C. P. NIELD Rogue A line forms a crease on the belly of the earth and moves – moves west above an invisible trench, where mountain peaks glitter with white marlin. Leviathan broods among valleys of wing-tips. The lusca streams bubbles the bandwidth of skulls. A vast oblivion gives birth; the verb 'infect' reels between 'I' and 'you'; the GPS satellite shrieks data. A solitary wave quickens its own world, from root-throb to green avalanche. This one wave is the only world, the last mass gathering of Atlantic salt. So the lungs expand. So syntax patterns the end. So the line forms, curves, gains power, breaks – in droplets, protests, bronchi, stanzas, frequencies, projections, morgues. Cast Two white towels droop from the plane tree in the tight space behind the closed hotel – one curve above the jackdaw's eye, and one tilt below, left to melt for days now, this tumble, this strange halt, this shy geometric universe, all point, line, mass and contour, cast from some top window. C. P. Nield is from England. His poetry has appeared in New Poetries IV (Carcanet), The Poet's Quest for God (Eyewear) and journals such as Ambit, The London Magazine, Magma, PN Review, and The Rialto.
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