The buildings of Kensington Modernism are covered in a thin 2cm layer
of glass and sunlight
Sunday the 28th of February 2016
The sun is held up in an optimistic high for February
2 til 5pm mimicking May
All the buildings whitewashed in neck sun

In Pound’s cul-de-sac we notice
The blue plaque itself includes glass
Alexis gestures up, across and to diagonals
Points to
Cartesian pockets
Remembering the 45 degree options of
The Blue Ensign

[the flag the British forced colonised ships to carry]
Like a sulk in the corner of their flags
And I wonder why Niall has brought us here
To this such England
Then he gives us Pound as The Hyacinth Girl
[“You gave me hyacinths first a year ago;”]

Here, bell-annoyed Pound found
A bunch of put away or dropped violets
And he took them with his wrist like
Alex Hurricane Higgins and
Lifted them to the church fence
Highed them up slightly

I’ve watched for sun in windows behind them
[that might reflect angels]
When Niall and Alex have stopped at houses
And usually found them
Nothing though on Pound’s window
It’s cul-de-sac lowness

The wind unbreathed now tho and
A lower middle-class loveliness
To the dimensions
The room he received DH Lawrence
Touchable from where he might have
Parked the Rover 200

No Angels however
At Pound’s last London house
No sun-comprehending glass
McDevitt notes that
This is a 21st Century blue plaque
Just put, faraway enough from Pound’s 20th Century scandals

And THEN I notice the plaque is not ceramic
Like the others
Pound’s plaque is cast glass or cast with some glass in it
The comprehending window is inside of it
Not above it
Alexis, explains Pounds anti-semitism as madness
And corrects my Rapunzel to Rumpelstiltskin
[kindly, and correctly]

And I realise I don’t really care if Pound and Eliot had bad politics
They protected English against the ordinarisation of English
And protected magic in English
They are nothing
To apologise for
The Englishness of the brackets of the rhetoric
Are all that

England has to apologise for
Joyce, Pound, Eliot and Virginia Woolf protected the English language from
The English for a century
And 2 of them were American.
Niall has to filter this through a psychogeography the English would understand
Which means respecting the architecture

I don’t give a fuck
Joyce, Pound, Eliot and Virginia Woolf
Saved and preserved a sense of Magic in English
Strong enough to survive Modernism,
When Modernism came back on them like a bad joke
In the popular culture, 1980 approximately
[When we accepted Thatcher as Modernism,
instead of Michael Heseltine (who would have been much less disastrous I now think- thought I hated him at the time and wanted Kinnock like everybody)

At least Heseltine was a pro-European and a moderate Tory
In retrospect he would have been a blessing
Keith Joseph was an anti-intellectual
[the Nigel Farage of his day]
Looking for a Patsy
Thatcher was a grocer’s daughter from Norfolk
Any old-Harrovian who talked to her she would
Cream in her pants

This is the history of how Britain
Adopted the Reaganomics that would
Fail and collapse our
Consumer banks
The “de-regulation”
That collapsed Lloyds and RBS in 2008
28 years after it destroyed
All the industry of the North

Wastelanded the North
I gulp at all this and ask David what
We can do to encourage the burst of
The property bubble that makes doctors now
Unable to afford to buy houses in London
As well as and after teachers, nurses, pyschotherapists, policeman, rubbish collectors
Postman and priests

Sullen quiet and cherry lip shoulder boned
Fruit cup rise of things
Velvet denim ghost rush
I realise this is
A Yeats Hulk Resurrection

pushing cold drank wind
always someway else abandoned
the embrace of the fading
never more than a silvered taxi passing

this is why we lose the horses of our dreams
they crawl up into themselves
and never the howl haunts
the howl haunts of west london

the foxes that were once wolves
and the bone-remember of the wolf in the skull of the fox
a warehouse domain
crumbing out of control
all shinbone and reddened

let me go and white up the moon
white up the nascent night
if this were only something we could say
and not be more than the word fading

If this was only something we could just say
and not have to be
Forza to earthly Paradise
Forza to Italianate pretention
and all the blood of the priest
and all the blood of the family
Insolent, abject and unapologetic
Lightning cuffs
And all whirled Europe
Keys to fairies and
before-renaissance Italies
framing the pavements of thieves
not anything like they imagined
just sleeping and fading
downing the roads like waterfalls

I give you tears
And an idiotic 20th Century
\and this is only the 21st
and there is lots of reused rehearsed
ratting and ashed-up rain
which never ends like the maps of flowers
that are just like clunching families, always
Slunting like tired Christs
Towards anything

Trying verse,
noting the smiles
regaining peace
lying to each dream
gracing all the light which fades
gracing all the slag lands
sunbathed insolents

These days are grassed up
there have been so many
all slooped things
There have been so many assaults against us
Our children remain unkillable
We are the poor intellectuals who want the King
of England guillotined constanly
And until then our children will not rest

stars like dishes
serving out more lighter
and do not let the dust pour further inwards
giving only Stonehenge visits
forever the done given day

This is a poem
In support of Ezra Pound by
Robert Montgomery and Greta Bellamacina

Forza the crosses in things or their violet ghosts
Forza the trees
Forza weed lined ambition
Forza sons of women


Poetry: Robert Montgomery and Greta Bellamacina

Photo at St Marys Church, Kensington: Julie Goldsmith

About Niall McDevitt

Niall McDevitt > poet > author of b/w (Waterloo Press, 2010) and Porterloo (International Times, 2012) > urban explorer > radical pedestrian who leads Shakespeare/Blake/Rimbaud /Yeats walks, among others.
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