That summer saw the battle of the writers and the talkers.
The writers said no. The talkers said a lot more.
Inspiration took flight, like reverse influenza.
No, said the writers, to committees of soul destruction,
to weapons of mass promotion; the price is too high.
We won’t collude in the pinning down,
the sorting out, the lickspittle literalisms.
We have our own funds.
The soul is florid, wayward, rude;
dragged in chains and ritually dismembered.
Our job is to remember:
the look on a lover’s face that last time;
the way the bus engines ground
over a childhood hill; the smell of wet dogs
and old sofas; the death-in-aspic
that sets hard, when words meet and images don’t;
the timeless quiet of a ticking clock;
and that hare in the clearing,
the morning after the stubble was ploughed,
black-tipped, upright; its own word for itself,
more surprising than an airport.
Luisetta Mudie is grateful to have a degree in Chinese, which has been paying her bills for many years now. In her early career, she worked as a foreign correspondent and broadcaster in the Far East, before returning with her family to her home on the Chiltern chalk, where she writes, translates, and makes short films about the intersection between land and imagination. You can read a collection of her work on Lulu here: http://www.lulu.com/shop/luisetta-mudie/songs-of-the-wood/paperback/product-16161901.html