Simon Cutts
fascicles
Letter 30: E.D.
the quiet weave
of fine linen
stationary
cream paper laid
on a small
writing table
& bundles tied
by cotton
for hinges,
the thread
to band them with,
fine needlework :-
the poet known
to burn a lamp
most of the night
My time of
so little ‘count
my writing
so very needless
and me so
very handy
John Clare’s Orchid
a vulgar glossary
these is my cuckoos
with bluebells
the pouch lipd bud
purple & freckled
spotted with jet
like the arum
in Nannycatch Beck
skein over slate
& tarmac pebbled
by marble
a warble so
fine, it barely
weaves
the cress
& chickweed
of the stream
for Tommie
sight
is the first
that comes
hearing
the last
to go
arriving
as the speed
of light
leaving, only
a distant
echo
the coble
built inside
out
or outside
in its larch
hull
planks
steamed
and bent
over oak
planed and
feathered
then at
last nailed
together
Simon Cutts has been making poems and objects for over forty years, and began Coracle in the nineteen seventies as printer-publisher, editor of spaces. Since then he has employed many of the devices and formats of hypothetical publishing inherent in the small press. From 1997, he has lived in the plain between the mountains of South Tipperary, continuing Coracle in its remotest form with Erica Van Horn.