Poems: Marsh Gas, The Bed of Flowers

MARSH GAS

The past dwells in the mind
like layers of sifted sediment
gravel
and silt and shale and oyster
beds down to the bottoming rock

Only
there lies rotting deep under
a corruption whose decay surfaces in
blisters
to poison all the air above

Lay down O lay down a
bed
of clay impermeable
that neither can past wrongs
well up
to contaminate our conscious
thoughts nor can the memory delve
unbidden
into the substrate past the
source of present ills and current
pains

for Tim Wright
26.08.03


THE BED OF FLOWERS

I know a place where all year long
deep purple allium and foxgloves grow.
The winds that sway the chestnut trees
do not reach it; nor does the hoar-frost
rime the edges of the little stream.

Here I lie, here where love dwells,
and I am heady with happiness
and the scent of new-mown hay -
for it is your bed, my darling one, and your
sweet head rests golden on my heart.

For Penelope
05.08.04

Naturism and ugliness

What is it about naturism that seems to attract people who frankly would do better to cover up?

I was at the Eden Project on Midsummer's Eve for a naturist event ('the Garden of Eden') - a perfect setting, marred by a chilly and damp evening. Over 500 people came from far and wide, as opportunities like that don't grow on trees. Yes, we were presented with an apple on arrival, although the significance of this was not explained and has only just occurred to me. No serpents, though, oddly.

Not having been to such a thing before I was not sure what to expect, but biological impulses being what they are, I assumed that people would make the most of themselves, perhaps with the odd flower in the hair, earrings, fig leaves of course, and bodies reasonably honed. Yet it was striking how ugly people managed to make themselves. Most wore rather chunky leather sandals - not the most becoming footwear - while some had rubber beach shoes. I mean, I ask you, rubber beach shoes? What look were they going for? Any heels, strappy sandals, sexy boots? Nope. Hardly any flipflops even. No flowers or bracelets, just bumbags, the odd rucksack, and towels.

There were several people (mostly women) who evidently found that baring all was a step too far. This must have occurred to them at the last minute, because cover-ups consisted of towels, t-shirts and in the case of one lady a pair of cheap knickers.

But the bodies! Put together a representative selection of British people and you get a fair spread of shapes and sizes, but put together a representative selection of naturists and you seem to get a rather depressing sample of the flabby and scrawny. This is ironic given that naturism grew out of the pre-war health and fitness movement. None of those attending the Eden event looked as if they knew anything of health and fitness (apart from a handful of younger people wearing towels). Buttocks split into two categories: wasted, or so vast that it quite put you off your vegetarian curry. As for the stomachs, one could not help but be struck by the extravagant variety of ways in which nature displays excess.

This deliberate ugliness was, for me, puzzling. I can understand that people want to take their clothes off without worrying what they look like, and not being Adonis I sympathise to an extent. But why be so determinedly sexless? Why go out of your way to avoid making the most of yourself? Do other people matter so little that what they see of you counts for nothing?

Paradoxically, it seems that far from appreciating the glories of human beauty, naturists are people for whom the naked body is as mundane as a shell suit. One is driven to conclude that naturism is for ugly people.