Episodes

  • The Jungle

    The Jungle
    Jul 4 2025
    The Jungle, the Work of an Unknown Author, edited by David Swarbrick & Max de Silva. Whether or not the original text of The Jungle included a dedication can, sadly, only be a matter of random speculation given the passage of so many hundreds of years, but for my own part I would like to dedicate my contribution in its publication, the Preface and Notes to MM. I secrets Nothing yet does the jungle give, however long you wait or watch; it is eternal, it does not age. Its appearance is scarcely a hintof all that is hidden - tight-lipped, dark green; ceaselessly undisturbed, untouched, unconcerned even; indifferent to what begins where,or how, or why - as if it could knowthat it will allsimply return. Actually,it is a great wall, limitless, its ends unreported,holding closethe smuggled secrets of this day and tomorrow, of one millennia to the next, filtering the sun like a censor, carrying forward its confidential cargos in low capacious vaults. Listen now; stop, and listen. It speaks in ciphersthat have no key,yet picks out imperfectionsbetraying themlike a spy to an enemy, dipping, dipping into nameless valleys and up the steep sides of unforgetting hills. II island The songs that have enduredare merely words,the tunes themselves long lost; the texts are somewhat incomplete, but what survivesis that perfect island, presented in the way a child might dream of an island set in a great sea, rising up from forested beaches to a centre of mighty mountains that disappear into clouds. Immense riverstumble back down. In the villagesthe old dances are still young; new babies are fed on milk dipped in gold before their horoscopes are taken. Numbers rule the universe. Boys touch the feet of elders; householdsprepare their daughtersto come of agewashed in water with herbs, the girl concealed until she is presented with her own reflection swimming in a silver bowlbeneath her face. The gems later looted from their antique tombswere not even from the island - diamonds, emeralds,even amber, to mixwith their own stones, pink sapphires and rubies, garnets, topaz, aquamarines;rose quartz fine enough to see through. Carpenters inlaid furniture with ivory and rare woods; crafted secret chambers, hidden drawers. Fish sang off long sandy beaches. And along the rivers stretched parks,warehouses, jetties, mansions. III bounty Later,they measured that happiness,when happiness was a choice, recalling a time of bounty, an embarrassment of great cities,of shipping lanes that converged on southern ports. The safe shallow waters of the Lagoon welcomed visitors. Kings ruled, father to son,brother to brother,daring to do all they thought, There were brindleberries and fenugreek; lemongrass, mangos; the coconuts fruited; frangipani bloomed, ylang ylang, ,even kadupul flowers, queens of the night. High wooden watchtowers rose protectivelyover wide courtyards, and gardens grew cardamom, cinnamon, cloves, vanilla. Waters rippled in great tanks built by kings like inland seasto flow to fields and homes. Kitchens prepared milk riceand new disheswith ginger and kitel, turmeric, tamarind. In the shade of palace buildingsfrescos were painted, statues carved, the talk was of new trade routes,marriages, miracles. Tomorrow is tomorrow - Here I picked a flower, and this is for you. Mangosteen ripened in orchardstheir seeds, fragrant, fluid-white,strips of edible flesh. It was like eating sex. Within the stupaswere thrones and begging bowls, and relics won in foreign wars. From northern templesgreat chariots were hand pulled through the crowded streetsby thousands of worshippers. Fortifications, moats, rampartsguarded the borders; the realm was not made for defeat; and the fishermen flung their nets with ease. IV underfoot Somewhere, rotting in its red earth
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    49 mins
  • Elegies for my Father

    Elegies for my Father
    Jul 3 2025
    1 PAPER BOAT slowly slowly like a paper boat turning in the wind on a glassy pond slowly slowly like a huge ship spinning in a boundless sea slowly slowly like a slurred boom on the edge of heaven slowly slowly you are going your way I cannot reach you. I modulate my voice speak twice as loud; I let you fall asleepand do not interveneI watch you slip,slipslip awayinto the infinite firmness of ageslowlyslowlyyou are goingand I cannot stop you;what will be leftwill be the echo of your voicesayingjust give me a hug sonslowlyslowlyyou are turningslowlyslowlyyou are going away ST MARYCHURCH, DEVON. JULY 2022 2HIM do you see him?I do.I see him so well,now,as if cataracts have been removed,or darkness lifted,or Bartimaeus met in town, betrayingthe sight of men like trees, walking.for there he is,down this thoughtand down that,down every thought;lurking inescapably,stale as water that will not drain away,blooming like an unkillable weedon my perfect spotless green-as-life wildflower lawn.yes,there, there he is,the bastard uninvited guest,the foul changelingmorphing, little by littlebit by bloody bitinto the host.at first, he was shockingly rare;a parent here,a distant friend,a wise and gentle witch;a clutch of gorgeous aunts.now he comes like a commuter bus,like a monstrous industrial vacuum cleaner,like a tsunami mutilatingwith its froth of white-brown brine,gathering the broken limbs of far flung homesa vortex,churning, sweeping far inland to claima close friend here,another there,mother-in-law,a mad and lovely herbalist,another aunt.plucked from their stops;and others,always others, waiting in further stops,huddledunder the flimsyrooves of bus sheltersas if they could ever evade this acid rain.how do I tell him to fuck offto fuck off to the furthestbitter boundaries of the universe,to the ends of time,to the black mysterious etherbubbling in unimagined territories,the godless limitless landsno maps depict;how do I tell him to go,to go, and not return;to fuck right offwhen I hear himnow,when I hear himnow,inside of me? ST MARYCHURCH, DEVON. MARCH 2023 3RAVEN those most I knowthose noises go;and mad mindsdraw the raven ST MARYCHURCH, DEVON. APRIL 2023 4OUR TIME no longer do youworry about what next to doyou are submerged by sleeplike the waves of Lyme Baywe almost heara mile away,Hope Cove, Thatcher’s Rock,rolling, one upon anotheryou have lived so long,so bloody longputting one foot before the next.I sit beside you.a terrible rainbeating on the windows,feeding you chocolateswhen you wake;playing you music –the old tunes of the war,of Calcutta,of Bill and Ben,Glenn Miller,the ragged random pathsthrough almost 100 years of life ST MARYCHURCH, DEVON. APRIL 2023 5PAPA you are so frail now.your body twitches with random movementsfingers, kneeswatching sometimesalive,stubbornly alivehanging on,in case somethingimportant has been forgotten,and needs to be donebefore you go. ST MARYCHURCH, DEVON. APRIL 2023 6GOOD it is not reciprocalthis good, you know -as if it might returnto coat you backlike a bee with pollen ST MARYCHURCH, DEVON. APRIL 2023 7ALREADY already,yes alreadyI am already saying goodbye.you sleep much more nowhears littleeat less.you cling to your bedlike an iron sparrowclinging to its treealmost,you are not here.almost.tomorrowor if not tomorrow,then someday soonishyou will have gone,died,buggered off;left this planet,left me.and that will be it.no amount of negotiated languagecan put us both backbreathing the same airin the same room.and that, of course,will also bewhen my own oxygenstarts slowlyto run out too. ST MARYCHURCH, DEVON. APRIL 2023 8BUT FOR but for your shoulder’sbriefestbriefest twitchyou could be dead.beyond the half-closed curtainsand the open window,parakeets call from mango trees;crows caw;an unendable burr of grasshopperssummons from smooth green lawns:and here, toothe ordinary thrill of country noiseshum,and echo,and chatter,and splash.at night,foxes bark,owls whoop;andbaa-baa bleat the sheepin their long sad day’s lament.oh yes, daddy,yes:of course you are here and now –here and now,here and now,still as a corpse,deaf as a shell,weak as an infant;in pain, in fear,tired, tearful, fretful, finished, forgetful,utterly forgetful –but here, now.come,let us thinkbeyond -beyond this quiet room,this modest, unaffronting roomwhere, just beyond your windowany country could wait.come, let us thinkbeyond -beyond this kind and cautious building;beyond the kind lanes of Devonand the buildingsrooted in red earth;beyond the ceaseless misty drizzle,the hedgerows high as chimneys<...
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    19 mins
  • The House We Share

    The House We Share
    Jul 3 2025
    1 Birch The birch boughs do not stir or sigh though the world is spinning. Oxford, March 1998 2 Here Comes The Spring I’d Stop Here comes the spring I’d stop, the buds I’d freeze before they fleck the hedgerows to a haze of green; here comesthe shining grass,the bulbs,the early blossom,the tips of growthswelling unstoppablyon the ends of brancheseverywhere; this is the springI’d halt, returning time to a timebefore we knewyou were to die,so we could play those daysover again,painless and manageable,discreet carriers of a worldwe could understand,and of a god still one of love. England, March 1998 I’m Not The Exile You Know I am not the exileyou know,thrown upby a distant coup, thrown offby a war,thrown outby a sudden dictator, yet my countryhas vanished too, its room reclaimedfrom far away, its colours no clearerthan I can keep them, its daily patterns tracedbehind each day. Oxford, May 1998 With Micky Tonightthe air is dark and smooth;we sitrecovering,the room muffled,cooledby an air-conditioner; and how I need you,your still arms,your sound,your smell,and tonight,especially, your love, your fingersbrushing my foreheadlightly,brushing it, bringing backa lost fortressamidst the pain. Aswan, April 1998 Daylight Nowthe summerdoes not wait, will not wait, cannot; nothing stopsthe lightflooding ahead, flushing outthe end of day London, May 1998 How Do I Make You Laugh How do I make you laughwhen the bad newswill ever come, when you tell methat she fell on the half-step, or could not sleep, or slept too much; how do I make you laughwhen you tell meshe could not eat, that it is harder to find the airto make the wordsshe wants to say; that the machines have side effects,that now the drugs do nothing, that she is dying, fully awake,in greatest need, yet always – always – as she is: how do I make you laugh then,when our world is broken? Oxford, May 1998 Being There Sometimes this early summerhas tricked me out of grief,fetching me into a worldwhere the disease has retreated,taking with it each terrible promisein its long, random decline; you move in your wheelchair still,but the fear of losing youhas been pushed backat least a dozen years: you can still enjoy the garden, travel,watch your grandchildren grow a little older,enjoy the ordinary rituals of love - and be there –always – for me. Oxford, May 1998 Tiger Hourly your dyinglies between us, a crouching tigerpoised- even as we hold you – when you struggle to rise; when you fight to rest; Oxford, June 1998 Where I Am You are not dying here. From where I amI see you walkingon the terraceabove the Adyah, kicking water in anL-shaped pool, playing tennison the courtby the banyan tree. you are not dying here; London, July 1998 Station I expect you now,this evening,at this – and every - station, walking out to greet me, your simple movementclaiming each platform, each airport, home; each city, town and village; claiming each space -for us, forever; I expect you now;I expect you here. Plymouth, July 1998 What If What ifwhat youwantedyou had? What ifwhat should bewas; what if? What then? Oxford, August 1998 Remembering It’s not my painthat hurts, but time, moving again just next door; the voices of childrenrise and fall, call,as you struggle for breath. It is time that hurts. Time. Oxford, August 1998 Phone Call Although your fingersmove a little lessyour strong voicefills the phone,charges the line, charges me. You are not old enoughto be dying; stay: you cannot go. Oxford, August 1998 This Lovely Month This lovely monthis full of death; how do I hold the day,to halt the night I dread? Oxfo...
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    44 mins
  • The Cartographer's Art

    The Cartographer's Art
    Jul 3 2025
    Ley lines What remains are the maps, laying, like ley lines, the journeys of men who have died, or simply disappeared; the journals others have remembered, building the picture from a few surviving fragments quoted in the books of those who followed. Charts swallow charts,pass on the same fantastic contours -corkscrewing coastlines,pulling out modest deltasinto uncharted seas,and, faithfully,taking eacha little furtheras if a returning sailorwhispered on the home dockthat the journey was furtherthan the old maps had implied. Sometimes,a new hand intervenes,adding an island,peppering, with cities, the board alluvial plainsof a dreaming land;gouging out a fierce, flamboyant river; but even the navigatorsdo not knowwhich of the strange sea beastspreying on the edges of each terrainare the ones to fear; or which rivers will take us inland,before vanishinglike streams on chalkbeneath the walls of the real city,the one that is mentionedin the first accounts? City Without Seasons Because the city has no seasons;because the house beneath the downs was soldit is that summer that holds,its days turning at the end of unfamiliar roads,dry and culpable:forever out of reach. I remember the order of things -sloes, leading a rush of starry blossoms:apple, pear, cherry, plum;fountains of white hawthorn flowing before the chestnut;the chestnut opening before the beech; I knew what would flower when,hawkweed along hedges;poppies banking on high verges;rowans reddening overhead:just now; and now,the yearshave rolled to this point,to this impounded summerrooted in another landscape, ghosted by the co-ordinatesof an older map: the hill is swept by trees;the gate is closed.someone else is in the yellow house. Wherever you lie,come out;the city walls are not so wide:you walk my streets,shop in my shops wherever you are,come out. Daylight shrinks;leaves gather;along the old drivecrocuses bloomwith tiny purple wingslike birds escaping south. The city calls down long dark evenings,faces flash-frozenin the street. Wherever you are,come out It is time,It is time. Forgotten Bounty It stays -that memory of flying once – vassal states break free,daring all. The new frontiersare all the News reports.Journalists speak of citieslost decades ago;forgotten routes reopen,fresh boundaries framethe unsurvayed new nationsrising from the blank expanseof disregarded maps. Although the same autumn bonfiresmoulders at the edge of the Hyde Parkit is all changed: the unending summerhas taken us from early lighted roomsdrawn us outinto a world we thought we knew,and have to learn again. I saw youbecause it was too early to go homebecause the party before was dullbecause I chose that place, randomly, and it is always the ease I remember;the easeand your voice moving us on. All around the city dims,shrinking space before usto a single routeremembering the older roadsthat lie beneath the asphalt. All Night Now all night longbeside you burnand fold the frozen stars away;the silver night,secured and safe,floods out across my dreams; within my armsagain you turn -the sweet grassand the silent sky -and all forgotten bounty breakswithin the space we lie. Now It Is Cold Why go, now it is cold?Already the street lights burnand the park gates are fastened;stay. The air is still;the distant traffic rounds invisiblyin cold blue lanes below; here,our fingers movefrom arm to face,from lip to ear,reading like blind men,reading. Behind these blindsthe distant worldis flat and closed; stay. Learning By Letter Learning by letterI link the points of your life,the picture growing weekly,cards, tapes, scraps of paperdispatched, received weekly,postmarking the route we take,laying down a sensethat we had metbefore we learntthe adult arts of camouflage. I lean against youcaught by the reboundingdifferences of image,a long lost freedomreturningon forgotten tidesflooding the recent landreassigning old boundaries,throwing out links like landing ropesuntil the dreaming jetties fill. The River Alone in the houseI see the river as a late traveller might,a winding path cutting through low hills. Colours change with an unreal haste;you do not see them movebut where before it was blue,now it is crimson;where it was whitenow it is gold. Shadows surface from shapes,trees fall out of focus. It is colder. Night binds the leafy lawns;birds seek out a placeon bare boughs. Behind the sirens of occasional bargesit is quiet; smoke rises in thin blue columns. The sun has sunk behind the hillsleaving a smudge of pinksilhouetting the old forestwhere kings have hunted,waged wars, built places, gone,leaving this a...
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    10 mins
  • After the Ball

    After the Ball
    Jul 3 2025
    I GIRLS, AND BOY Early sun dissolves the mist; bottles and chairs disrupt paths, paving, lawns; deer keep a cautious distance in parkland trees. On high-backed wicker chairs five girls talk, smoke; contractors dismantle tents, lights; fruit strung on green wire along boughs. At a table nearbya boy sits alone,playing cards. IIGIRL, AND BOYS Her hair is blonde,expensive,cut no ordinary way. Her feet rest on a footstoolon the grass. The dress she wearshas small seed pearlssewn on silk. the arm that almost touches him - does not move. She watches,Looking above his eyes. She watches. He runs his fingersthrough his hair,plays with the knotof his white bow tie; notes the girls who talk,notes the girl in silk; notes the boyplaying cards ,nearby.​​​​ IIIBOYS I watch you,as I watch myself,and know the breechthat undercuts your poise; the face, disfiguredby its rebounding image, clouded by what standard partsit can't extract. The picture blurs,but does not hidethe other guests departingin their pairs. IVME, YOU, HER The band is striking jazz tunes; last tunes; light breaksthrough the marquee, draws to shape gothic buildings, trees beyond the parklit by the lightsof early motorists. The moon shrivelsin the opening sky, the blind spot grows: and sorrow, snared; the heart, too, a castle without walls an accomplice,in search of an assailant You meet my glance, and stretch your arm to her, fall in behind the pairthat goes aheadand the one that follows on. ​​​​ VBOY, BOY Behind the doorthe recent worldis lost, and left behind. This is your territory, I know: these trees, this house, this lane,cleared by the departing taxi; but you have not arrived herelike this before; you have watched me,but my voice is alien – you have not seen eyes like mine;not fingers, jaw, nape. I am not an old friend, I am the visitoryou have always known; the stranger within,betraying with a kiss,the kiss that waits. VIMOONWALKER There is water on the moon; and though I know - sitting, almost close, watching the sun slidebetween solider trees – though I know - almost touching; the cigarette's blue smokerising untasted – though I knowwhat we are here forby all we do not say; though I knowthere is water on the moon; though I knowthe names of Roman senators, the parts of trees, the rules of games, I do not know what we make room forhere and nowbelow the tall trees of the wood. VIICHILD​These gestures know the forcebehind lost words; articulate what has closedwith a homing cry, as if the way my fingershold your headalone could touchthe anguish and the joy, the child behindthe adult's facewhose eyes close in relief. You sleep beside menervous to each move. Does the arm that holds meknows who it holds? Am I your mother,brother, lover? Who holds youwhen you sleep alone,who holds you? VIIISOLOIST If I were not so tiredI would spend the nightwatching you sleep; watching your fingerstighten and relax; your eyelids tremble; open,to what the morning will eclipse. If I could trust myselfto care a little less,I would wake you,play this aching gameby patient rules; but though the nightis pitched so quietyou singand sing in me.​​​​​ IXMIGRANT Because I have waited; because I have waited so long; because I have waitedbeside old friends and even strangers, and those grown tired of waiting; because of all of this, all this and more; because I have waited,keeping you for a long journey, I have not learnthow to read the stars I have not learnt the migrant paths I have not learnt which trackslead across the frontier....
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    12 mins
  • The Summer Fortress

    The Summer Fortress
    Jul 3 2025
    TO RA AND REMEMBERING VERITY FORSYTH I hear you still clear, sure - talking to me now as you would talk to me then; a corner of the garden room; a long table laid for tea, books piled up, shadows of poets and painters stirring; listening, as you hear me say what I do not say; as you tell me what I need to hear but would not: I hear you still I hear you now, I hear you. Skona, July 1997 DATEThis cycle of poems was written in the Weald of Kent between March and September 1979; the last one 18 years later in July 1997, in Skona. 1for thisthere is alwaystime -your fragmentary willconcocts hourswhere the dayhas none,etchesa far horizonforeverin the sun. 2take only touchand that electric guess,hand to hand,till heartsrest within flesh;till your touchupon my facemoves inside. 3you would stretch out,draw me apart,for thoughyou do not know ityour timeis mine.would you want more?would you changethe tidethat carries us,sand within a stream,toward the sea?evenly, 4loving you:the picturesafein the cabinet -mine,the dare to remove;the white palmsstick with sweatnow summer comes. 5knives cut -and death's unknowing,cells grow and bones will break,and still,the starting point -your face,ghosts all the change;leaves -silence,a space for shadows;a space to turn within;and lie at bay. 6your cryhollows the hour,touches starsthat won't explode:and break their hold.butcan hurl javelinsup at space 7you may not believe it but,after the battle,rain washed the bloodonto the village streets,into the Weald.night fallson the Bloody Mountain;a bird pullsagainst empty light;bats fold into theoutline of trees,black on black.above usa harvest moonburns a circle in the sky. 8let us stay,smoke awhilewalk between the silver treesof the Cinders track.night holds us;we liebeside a water tank,listening;waterdrippingdrop by dropwaitingwhere nothing movesthe moment on,where nothing moves.where the airis cool and grassy 9your heart is high,sweeping high:tempers,slackens, on again,states of difference -not by joiningI, in love,would move. 10inyour awkward beautythe landscape breatheswith you;I restI play;in skiesthe peacocks fly. 11do not hold back;you should not fearyou shinefor youhave the brightest light;and shineas life. 12come,we will evade this,armour ourselvesas night checks day;and a smooth sly lightslides through the orchards.thelast bird songsdrain the dayinto a shoal of trees.we can evade all this. 13we will become fond of these days;go over them tirelesslyas armchair generalsover maps.we lay downthe living deathlike bottlesin a cellar;effortlessly. 14the abacus movesbut I will not;its beads have a sort of rhythm,a pretended order.do not listen.silence has a safer sound;even calls the directionsof a hidden road,easily missed. 15i 'd rather notthink;or imagine,know,or evensuspect,grieve,celebrate,wonder.I want tolive easy.whyshould I be troubled? 16yoursis the gift that brings together,that calls me inthat keeps me here;your armsopen;your imprinthauntsyour body,is a barrier of words. 17the train passes placeswhere nothing has changed,where life has gone onjust the sameall the timeI have beenso caught up.it will go on the samewhen this ends; 18dailythe state deepensand I concedeto this roundand to thatthe bets I placethe game I play,the cards that fallfar shortof what I make. 19you smile:the knife you wieldopens the knotthe quickest way,I saw youwalking in fields,a dancer,naked,slender as a scorpion.dares alldo you knowwhat we do? 20lost timeis life's regret:death guilds its share,the daysrob and bleed,and timesmashes easily as glass.the calendarbreaks a little more each day. 21love in distance,and,all the timeI knowthat behind mehe kisses you;youdo not knowhis blooded lipssmear and conquer.each returnyou seegets closer. 22you turnyour eyes,catch up my glance;hold itlike a mirror,distortingby allit cannot see. 23he had madea plaything of fear;caught it in the mirrorwith the sun.autumn will rushbefore the Kentish hopsto dredge his glass -and the image,unreflected,noiselessly dies out. 24death kisses you;the offering of sunsgluts in your heart;an unaccounting changeremoves your hand.you wake;but the rage for lifesleeps on. ...
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    11 mins