<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Wayless<\/strong><\/p>\n This poem may be longer slowly, carefully folding Obviously, you\u2019ll be able to pick up phrases A long and winding swaddling band whose contours spiral and meander It\u2019s a little like an echo among the glancing blows of sound. The meaning\u2019s in the folding It\u2019s not what it was. You know that. Sure, sit on the ground. It won\u2019t go back in your pocket. decays. You can get up I\u2019m not abandoning you. I can\u2019t Yes, it\u2019s getting dark. Yes, the blood. You say I told you how of touch. Go on, stay still, turn back. <\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u00a0Chris Fewings<\/strong> is currently writer in residence at Balsall Heath Library in Birmingham (UK). He blogs at www.chris.fewin.gs<\/a>\u00a0 . His alphabetical novella, A Glossary of my Grandmother,<\/em><\/a> is available as an e-book.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Wayless This poem may be longer than the one you were expecting. As it ends in the ground why not lie there now, try a grave posture? Or undress slowly, carefully folding each garment, laying them neatly to one side. You complain of the cold. Stepping naked into a poem of this length […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":4,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_et_pb_use_builder":"","_et_pb_old_content":"","_et_gb_content_width":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[7],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-6240","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-prose-poetry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/6240","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/4"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=6240"}],"version-history":[{"count":4,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/6240\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":6243,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/6240\/revisions\/6243"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=6240"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=6240"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=6240"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\nthan the one you were expecting.
\nAs it ends in the ground
\nwhy not lie there now,
\ntry a grave posture? Or undress<\/p>\n
\neach garment, laying them neatly
\nto one side. You complain of the cold.
\nStepping naked into a poem
\nof this length isn\u2019t ill-advised.<\/p>\n
\nto wrap around your nakedness.
\nHowever many words slip past you,
\nhowever many images you reject
\nsomething will come to hand.<\/p>\n
\nof words would be restricting wrapped
\naround you, so I\u2019ve laid it here
\na little like a path
\na little like a map<\/p>\n
\ntopographically untrue.
\nThis landscape needs no theodolite.
\nIt needs you. Don\u2019t follow
\nthe thread of the labyrinth.<\/p>\n
\nwhich never stops rebounding
\nfrom the surfaces which never stop
\nappearing as you glance around.
\nYou need to wander in<\/p>\n
\nA path would be a meaning,
\na beginning and an end.
\nI\u2019m offering you a poem
\nto enter in and wander round.<\/p>\n
\nof the ground around your feet.
\nSo. You have a map which
\nthey sewed together for you
\ntaping the fraying edges.<\/p>\n
\nIt belonged in your pocket
\nfolded, fingered, a little
\nsweat seeping through it.
\nIt\u2019s not the same now.<\/p>\n
\nIt\u2019s solid enough. It doesn\u2019t vanish
\nwhen you stop walking. Sit, unfold
\nthe sweat-stained paper. What matters
\nis its feel, taste, smell.<\/p>\n
\nYou can refold it, but its shape
\nand weight have changed. You might as well
\npocket the fold in the ground. No.
\nThe paper stays where you laid it<\/p>\n
\nor lie down. You can ford a stream
\nbecause now this is getting real.
\nIt doesn\u2019t matter who invited you
\nto come in and wander round.<\/p>\n
\ndefine your world, describe
\nyour linearity or coax
\nyour heart out of hiding.
\nNone of this is for me to say.<\/p>\n
\nthere\u2019s mud. You were misled?
\nWho was leading who? That gash.
\nProbably barbed wire. It tears
\nthe land into strips. Almost comforting,<\/p>\n
\nit ended? Why did you believe me?
\nIt ends all over the place. Why
\nbelieve me now? Where your nerve
\nends, you begin, at the interface<\/p>\n
\nYou\u2019re not alone. Some of the others
\ncarry a handful of mud. I\u2019m folding
\nthe stanzas like a concertina.
\nand handing them to you.<\/p>\n