The softness in the light

[stuartryder]

Promise to pay some contributions back!! This is kind of a second first-draft... any views?

Thanks

Stuart







The softness in the light

*

Brodie, she called herself, and there was this
softness in her, a soft light -
even though her hat was cruelly curved,
her cheekbones cut right through me,
and when I shook that hand
that changed colour in the mirrorball
and had touched mine so many times
before, she took it back.

*

Forests! Forests! Forests and more forest...
The car got made a jalopy in the country
lanes that had no Council's attention,
and so we jolted forward, cow parsnip
licking expectantly at the side windows.

We narrowed through a small village, took
in the River Exe, smoked under a stone bridge.
Then disappointment! The local pub
with a blank space where live barrels
Had been. “Not worth our while any more.”

This cottage it stood overlooking a farmstead.
Two of the pheasants nipped away in the green
margins of a passing brook. Later I would sit
in my own park while its elms and planes
waved angrily at me, begging for a softer light.

*

If you believe in madness
Then it wasn't a good idea, me
Saying “Yeah great idea!”. That's
If you believe in madness.
I didn't say you had to. But if

You believe in madness then
It was when I awoke
In the softness of your light,
Where I turned to the iron bars
And yanked them hard apart,

And then,
I couldn't get through them, they...
Were unflexable, the hardest metal.
I turned to you, to anyone, anyone
Who'd believe in my madness.

You don't have to.

*

That moment when you know – you
know You. Have to get away from it.

Ditch your selfies. Puncture your own tyres.
Find again your own urban splash.

It could be a Cheese Night, or a mountain pass;
A dash of dark soy sauce on steamed bass;

A curled free-kick with your son in the local park;
Taking pictures of bluegrass in the dark.

This one time, and it was in the shadow
Of Exeter, I had the moment; had to get away.

*

While I take pictures – bluebells; a Roman site;
The hotels burn, each one in turn, no
Softness in their light.

In the morning I watch bees pointing left and right,
The lavender sways, I remember my old days
Without softness in their light.

Them walking, unescaped, from the Park 'n' Ride,
Them stumbling to work, while homeless lurk
In the softness of the light.

*

I collapse in quakes, another sleepless night
Consigned to awake. You stand by the lake,
Your softness is the light.

The cathedral looms, its scaffolding a blight:
Resplendent in dawn, decayed by the scorn,
Its softness carves the light,

As if by weakening it could bring the fight;
Being turned away, it faced the day
And the softness of the light.

*

Devon, and the Angel thrives tonight:
Packed lost souls, eyes of coal.
A softness in the light.

I meet Brodie again, her face painted white,
Her nails blue, the colour of you,
My Softness in the Light.

[NotQuiteSure]

Yikes,
given it's in such an early stage it's as chaotic as might be expected.
Just a guess, but there are at least two separate pieces here.
The first starts with 'Brodie' and ends around 'You don't have to'
These are my suggestions (in the form of an edit) for the first piece
(the second I find too baffling).


If you believe in madness
Then it wasn't a good idea,
me Saying “Yeah great idea!”.
[to what?]

That's If you believe in madness.
I didn't say you had to.

Brodie, she called herself,
and there was this softness in her,
even though her hat was cruelly curved,
her cheekbones cut right through me,
and when I shook [her] hand
that changed colour in the mirrorball
and had touched mine so many times
before, she took it back.

But if You believe in madness
then It was when I awoke
In the softness of your[?] light,
Where I turned to the iron bars
And yanked them hard apart,

And [when], I couldn't get through
them, I turned to you[?],
[if You believe in madness]

We narrowed through a small village, took
in the River Exe, smoked under a stone bridge.
Then disappointment! The local pub
with a blank space where live barrels
Had been. “Not worth our while any more.”

Forests! Forests! Forests and more forest...
The car got made a jalopy in the country
lanes that had no Council's attention,
and so we jolted forward, cow parsnip
licking expectantly at the side windows.

This cottage it stood overlooking a farmstead.
Two pheasants nipped away in the green
margins of a passing brook. Later I would sit
in my own park while its elms and planes
waved angrily at me, begging for a softer light.

to anyone, anyone
Who'd believe in my madness.
You don't have to.


I'd like to see the Brodie/you/we ambiguity resolved.
(Half the time 'you' seems to be directed to the reader.)
Regards, Not