The Argotist Online
Finch works in both traditional and experimental forms and is a
regular performer on the reading circuit. In the sixties and seventies he edited
the ground-breaking literary magazine, Second Aeon, exhibited visual
poetry internationally and toured with sound poet Bob Cobbing. From the early
seventies until the late nineties he was treasurer of ALP (the Association of
Little Presses). Between 1975 and 1998 he ran the Arts Council of Wales's
specialist Oriel Bookshop in Cardiff. In 1998 he took up his current post with
the Welsh Academy. He
runs The Academi, The Welsh National Literature Promotion Agency and Society of
the work of R S Thomas
winner from list:
Conrad; Jacques Derrida; H.J.Blackham;
Ludwig Wittgenstein; Baruch Spinoza; C Norris
philosophy particle probable
large you wonder
Abereiddy, ah !
beginning of autumn
and sea and sea
a cottage collapsed
do you know they are not?
stars speak so loud
the Preseli blackness
days go cold
I am still in my khaki
Wales leaks there isn't one
Splottlands, ah !
looks like wind
is moon spirit
car what we do
the great gable porch of
John the Baptist Sikh glory
butterfly bush still blooms
this vast Wales you must not help yourself to any
flower or rockoutcrop that belongs to another.
springs, the peat wildernesses all have an owner;
careful about this.
out and you meet yourself
you're still there
that the cloud moving?
is such a virtue
S was once asked by an acolyte
is the meaning of the thin tongue inheriting the universe?"
mangels in the fields below the hills"
you know, you don't speak
you babble, you have no idea
are a nation of noisy bastards
can see the small boats dumping oil drums
the light of the stars
wrote, he could have done:
and science are opposed,
former purposing immediate pleasure, unlike the
which is a hunt for truth.
the endless field
back to the tractor
to Paradise is good, and to fall into Hell also is a
Old Buddha by the Golden
in the rocks of Foel Trigairn.
ships pass but make no move to leave their reflection,
sea makes no effort to hold how they look.
is spring, it is autumn..
are young people.
Though they are not
they still wreck the station and
sick before the passengers.
what am I to do?" said Alice.
"Anything you like."
the footman, and began whistling.
hear the tune, you and I,
but inside our ears it is always a different one.
borrows her blue scarf she doesnít know about this.
runs out into the night of ginkgo and frost.
is four times around the park
his breath is smoking
his bones like glass rods.
is frozen to the cracked path and dead.
the deep woods lost.
into his hands.
is small so small but not
is smashing the street ice by stamping
People would look but thereís no one there.
head is lit red and his breath is burning.
is flailing his arms nothing works.
has checked everything and still does not understand.
How could she?
wind comes in from the east full of knives.
He winds the scarf
her sweet smell for a moment
and then itís gone.
I have been speaking at my door with the distraught woman who has let her daughter go lost. I am playing Mendelssohn's Violin Concerto in here and feel like I am gliding up a highway in the sun. The woman says her child - you know her, the one with the pink bike and its little outriders - was in the park, went to the park, peddled passed here, came up this road, along this path, this way, you saw her smiling, you did. I have been deep in the music and my head full of wide spaces I tell her I have not I am sorry I shake my head. The woman has on a white blouse with a button missing and straggle hair that's been clipped ragged where it brushes her chest. Her shoes are flat and their leather is scratched. She twists her hands into each other. She looks back. Along the road there is no girl, no bike. I can't tell her anything. She has brown arms and a bangle. She'll turn up. I was with Mendelssohn. The street is hot. The music soared. She is burning, this woman. Her face is melting. All of it, it's coming off. For comfort I remind myself that in other places across the world there are worse fears in the faces of the destitute and the dying. Worse than this. I look at the woman again. No, there are not.
copyright © Peter Finch