『Archeologies by David Swarbrick』のカバーアート

Archeologies by David Swarbrick

Archeologies by David Swarbrick

著者： The Ceylon Press
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 The audio diaries of an occasional hermit. From disco to disappearance.Copyright The Ceylon Press 2025
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  • The Jungle

    The Jungle
    2025/07/04
    The Jungle, the Work of an Unknown Author, edited by David Swarbrick & Max de Silva. Whether or not the original text of The Jungle included a dedication can, sadly, only be a matter of random speculation given the passage of so many hundreds of years, but for my own part I would like to dedicate my contribution in its publication, the Preface and Notes to MM. I secrets Nothing yet does the jungle give, however long you wait or watch; it is eternal, it does not age. Its appearance is scarcely a hintof all that is hidden - tight-lipped, dark green; ceaselessly undisturbed, untouched, unconcerned even; indifferent to what begins where,or how, or why - as if it could knowthat it will allsimply return. Actually,it is a great wall, limitless, its ends unreported,holding closethe smuggled secrets of this day and tomorrow, of one millennia to the next, filtering the sun like a censor, carrying forward its confidential cargos in low capacious vaults. Listen now; stop, and listen. It speaks in ciphersthat have no key,yet picks out imperfectionsbetraying themlike a spy to an enemy, dipping, dipping into nameless valleys and up the steep sides of unforgetting hills. II island The songs that have enduredare merely words,the tunes themselves long lost; the texts are somewhat incomplete, but what survivesis that perfect island, presented in the way a child might dream of an island set in a great sea, rising up from forested beaches to a centre of mighty mountains that disappear into clouds. Immense riverstumble back down. In the villagesthe old dances are still young; new babies are fed on milk dipped in gold before their horoscopes are taken. Numbers rule the universe. Boys touch the feet of elders; householdsprepare their daughtersto come of agewashed in water with herbs, the girl concealed until she is presented with her own reflection swimming in a silver bowlbeneath her face. The gems later looted from their antique tombswere not even from the island - diamonds, emeralds,even amber, to mixwith their own stones, pink sapphires and rubies, garnets, topaz, aquamarines;rose quartz fine enough to see through. Carpenters inlaid furniture with ivory and rare woods; crafted secret chambers, hidden drawers. Fish sang off long sandy beaches. And along the rivers stretched parks,warehouses, jetties, mansions. III bounty Later,they measured that happiness,when happiness was a choice, recalling a time of bounty, an embarrassment of great cities,of shipping lanes that converged on southern ports. The safe shallow waters of the Lagoon welcomed visitors. Kings ruled, father to son,brother to brother,daring to do all they thought, There were brindleberries and fenugreek; lemongrass, mangos; the coconuts fruited; frangipani bloomed, ylang ylang, ,even kadupul flowers, queens of the night. High wooden watchtowers rose protectivelyover wide courtyards, and gardens grew cardamom, cinnamon, cloves, vanilla. Waters rippled in great tanks built by kings like inland seasto flow to fields and homes. Kitchens prepared milk riceand new disheswith ginger and kitel, turmeric, tamarind. In the shade of palace buildingsfrescos were painted, statues carved, the talk was of new trade routes,marriages, miracles. Tomorrow is tomorrow - Here I picked a flower, and this is for you. Mangosteen ripened in orchardstheir seeds, fragrant, fluid-white,strips of edible flesh. It was like eating sex. Within the stupaswere thrones and begging bowls, and relics won in foreign wars. From northern templesgreat chariots were hand pulled through the crowded streetsby thousands of worshippers. Fortifications, moats, rampartsguarded the borders; the realm was not made for defeat; and the fishermen flung their nets with ease. IV underfoot Somewhere, rotting in its red earth
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    49 分
  • Elegies for my Father

    Elegies for my Father
    2025/07/03
    1 PAPER BOAT slowly slowly like a paper boat turning in the wind on a glassy pond slowly slowly like a huge ship spinning in a boundless sea slowly slowly like a slurred boom on the edge of heaven slowly slowly you are going your way I cannot reach you. I modulate my voice speak twice as loud; I let you fall asleepand do not interveneI watch you slip,slipslip awayinto the infinite firmness of ageslowlyslowlyyou are goingand I cannot stop you;what will be leftwill be the echo of your voicesayingjust give me a hug sonslowlyslowlyyou are turningslowlyslowlyyou are going away ST MARYCHURCH, DEVON. JULY 2022 2HIM do you see him?I do.I see him so well,now,as if cataracts have been removed,or darkness lifted,or Bartimaeus met in town, betrayingthe sight of men like trees, walking.for there he is,down this thoughtand down that,down every thought;lurking inescapably,stale as water that will not drain away,blooming like an unkillable weedon my perfect spotless green-as-life wildflower lawn.yes,there, there he is,the bastard uninvited guest,the foul changelingmorphing, little by littlebit by bloody bitinto the host.at first, he was shockingly rare;a parent here,a distant friend,a wise and gentle witch;a clutch of gorgeous aunts.now he comes like a commuter bus,like a monstrous industrial vacuum cleaner,like a tsunami mutilatingwith its froth of white-brown brine,gathering the broken limbs of far flung homesa vortex,churning, sweeping far inland to claima close friend here,another there,mother-in-law,a mad and lovely herbalist,another aunt.plucked from their stops;and others,always others, waiting in further stops,huddledunder the flimsyrooves of bus sheltersas if they could ever evade this acid rain.how do I tell him to fuck offto fuck off to the furthestbitter boundaries of the universe,to the ends of time,to the black mysterious etherbubbling in unimagined territories,the godless limitless landsno maps depict;how do I tell him to go,to go, and not return;to fuck right offwhen I hear himnow,when I hear himnow,inside of me? ST MARYCHURCH, DEVON. MARCH 2023 3RAVEN those most I knowthose noises go;and mad mindsdraw the raven ST MARYCHURCH, DEVON. APRIL 2023 4OUR TIME no longer do youworry about what next to doyou are submerged by sleeplike the waves of Lyme Baywe almost heara mile away,Hope Cove, Thatcher’s Rock,rolling, one upon anotheryou have lived so long,so bloody longputting one foot before the next.I sit beside you.a terrible rainbeating on the windows,feeding you chocolateswhen you wake;playing you music –the old tunes of the war,of Calcutta,of Bill and Ben,Glenn Miller,the ragged random pathsthrough almost 100 years of life ST MARYCHURCH, DEVON. APRIL 2023 5PAPA you are so frail now.your body twitches with random movementsfingers, kneeswatching sometimesalive,stubbornly alivehanging on,in case somethingimportant has been forgotten,and needs to be donebefore you go. ST MARYCHURCH, DEVON. APRIL 2023 6GOOD it is not reciprocalthis good, you know -as if it might returnto coat you backlike a bee with pollen ST MARYCHURCH, DEVON. APRIL 2023 7ALREADY already,yes alreadyI am already saying goodbye.you sleep much more nowhears littleeat less.you cling to your bedlike an iron sparrowclinging to its treealmost,you are not here.almost.tomorrowor if not tomorrow,then someday soonishyou will have gone,died,buggered off;left this planet,left me.and that will be it.no amount of negotiated languagecan put us both backbreathing the same airin the same room.and that, of course,will also bewhen my own oxygenstarts slowlyto run out too. ST MARYCHURCH, DEVON. APRIL 2023 8BUT FOR but for your shoulder’sbriefestbriefest twitchyou could be dead.beyond the half-closed curtainsand the open window,parakeets call from mango trees;crows caw;an unendable burr of grasshopperssummons from smooth green lawns:and here, toothe ordinary thrill of country noiseshum,and echo,and chatter,and splash.at night,foxes bark,owls whoop;andbaa-baa bleat the sheepin their long sad day’s lament.oh yes, daddy,yes:of course you are here and now –here and now,here and now,still as a corpse,deaf as a shell,weak as an infant;in pain, in fear,tired, tearful, fretful, finished, forgetful,utterly forgetful –but here, now.come,let us thinkbeyond -beyond this quiet room,this modest, unaffronting roomwhere, just beyond your windowany country could wait.come, let us thinkbeyond -beyond this kind and cautious building;beyond the kind lanes of Devonand the buildingsrooted in red earth;beyond the ceaseless misty drizzle,the hedgerows high as chimneys<...
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    19 分
  • The House We Share

    The House We Share
    2025/07/03
    1 Birch The birch boughs do not stir or sigh though the world is spinning. Oxford, March 1998 2 Here Comes The Spring I’d Stop Here comes the spring I’d stop, the buds I’d freeze before they fleck the hedgerows to a haze of green; here comesthe shining grass,the bulbs,the early blossom,the tips of growthswelling unstoppablyon the ends of brancheseverywhere; this is the springI’d halt, returning time to a timebefore we knewyou were to die,so we could play those daysover again,painless and manageable,discreet carriers of a worldwe could understand,and of a god still one of love. England, March 1998 I’m Not The Exile You Know I am not the exileyou know,thrown upby a distant coup, thrown offby a war,thrown outby a sudden dictator, yet my countryhas vanished too, its room reclaimedfrom far away, its colours no clearerthan I can keep them, its daily patterns tracedbehind each day. Oxford, May 1998 With Micky Tonightthe air is dark and smooth;we sitrecovering,the room muffled,cooledby an air-conditioner; and how I need you,your still arms,your sound,your smell,and tonight,especially, your love, your fingersbrushing my foreheadlightly,brushing it, bringing backa lost fortressamidst the pain. Aswan, April 1998 Daylight Nowthe summerdoes not wait, will not wait, cannot; nothing stopsthe lightflooding ahead, flushing outthe end of day London, May 1998 How Do I Make You Laugh How do I make you laughwhen the bad newswill ever come, when you tell methat she fell on the half-step, or could not sleep, or slept too much; how do I make you laughwhen you tell meshe could not eat, that it is harder to find the airto make the wordsshe wants to say; that the machines have side effects,that now the drugs do nothing, that she is dying, fully awake,in greatest need, yet always – always – as she is: how do I make you laugh then,when our world is broken? Oxford, May 1998 Being There Sometimes this early summerhas tricked me out of grief,fetching me into a worldwhere the disease has retreated,taking with it each terrible promisein its long, random decline; you move in your wheelchair still,but the fear of losing youhas been pushed backat least a dozen years: you can still enjoy the garden, travel,watch your grandchildren grow a little older,enjoy the ordinary rituals of love - and be there –always – for me. Oxford, May 1998 Tiger Hourly your dyinglies between us, a crouching tigerpoised- even as we hold you – when you struggle to rise; when you fight to rest; Oxford, June 1998 Where I Am You are not dying here. From where I amI see you walkingon the terraceabove the Adyah, kicking water in anL-shaped pool, playing tennison the courtby the banyan tree. you are not dying here; London, July 1998 Station I expect you now,this evening,at this – and every - station, walking out to greet me, your simple movementclaiming each platform, each airport, home; each city, town and village; claiming each space -for us, forever; I expect you now;I expect you here. Plymouth, July 1998 What If What ifwhat youwantedyou had? What ifwhat should bewas; what if? What then? Oxford, August 1998 Remembering It’s not my painthat hurts, but time, moving again just next door; the voices of childrenrise and fall, call,as you struggle for breath. It is time that hurts. Time. Oxford, August 1998 Phone Call Although your fingersmove a little lessyour strong voicefills the phone,charges the line, charges me. You are not old enoughto be dying; stay: you cannot go. Oxford, August 1998 This Lovely Month This lovely monthis full of death; how do I hold the day,to halt the night I dread? Oxfo...
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    44 分

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