a whitehaired busker playing erhu
on my laptop screen obliquely
illustrates Bach’s Cello Suites
on my iPod speakers. Kulchur
Ezra Pound spelt it. No matter
how you spell it, it’s the frisson
between strings that has me
writing here, missing her asleep
with twin hot-waterbottles at her feet
and me pondering imponderables
I've been trying out ten-liners in a form originating from Fannie Howe, and tonight the old Chinese busker whose photo sits on my screen was both in line with and at odds with the Cello Suites coming out of my iPod. It has kept me up with loose thoughts of the similarities and gulfs between cultures and the 'release and tension' of that circumstance echoing the creation of all great art. Draft one was twelve lines so I have had to sacrifice some little thoughts. With Pound also in my thoughts, I hope it coheres.
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