Ten Shots of Mister Simpson

Ah Mister Simpson shy spectator

This morning in our November,

Don’t run away with the idea

You are you spectating me.

On the contrary from this hide

Under my black cloth I see

You through the lens close enough

For comfort. Yes slightly turn

Your head more to the right and don’t

Don’t blink your eyes against the rain.

I have I almost have you now.

I want the line of the sea in.

Now I have you too close up.

As a face your face has disappeared.

All I see from my black tent

Is on the shelf of your lower lid

A tear like a travelling rat.

The camera nudges him to scream

Silently into its face.

Silently his thought recalls

Across the side of Zennor Hill.

He is here only recalling

Himself being pointed at

By somebody ago and even not

Understanding the language.

I am to do him no harm.

Mister Simpson, stand still.

Look at him standing sillily

For our sake and for the sake

Of preservation. He imagines

Still he is going to be shot.

He is as real as you looking

Over my November shoulder.

The sky chimes and the slewing light

Comes over Zennor Hill striking

The white of his escaped head.

His face comes dazzling through the glass

Into my eye imprisoned by Art.

His wife is gone. He has a daughter

Somewhere. Shall I snap him now?

No, you take him and get the number

Now that he’s rolled up his sleeves.

Mister Simpson Blakean bright

Exile in our Sunday morning,

Stand still get ready jump in your place

Lie down get up don’t speak. Number?

Fear not. It is only the high Zennor

Kestrel and I have clicked the shutter.

This time I want your face trying

To not remember dear other

Numbers you left, who did not follow

Follow follow you into this kind

Of last home held below the Zennor

Bracken fires and hovering eye.

Move and turn your unpronounceable

Name’s head to look at where the horse

Black in its meadow noses the stone.

And here I am today below

The hill invisible in mist

In impossible light knocking.

My subject does not expect me.

Mister Simpson, can I with my drenched

Eyes but not with weeping come in?

Five diminishing tureens hang

Answering the fire from the kitchen wall.

There is a dog lying with cataracting

Eyes under a table. The mantel’s brasses

Make a bright gloom and in the corner

A narrow Kiev light makes an ikon.

And who would have it in verse but only

Yourself too near having come in only

To look over my shoulder to see

How it is done. You are wrong. You are wrong

Being here, but necessary. Somebody

Else must try to see what I see.

Mister Simpson, turn your face

To get the gold of the fire on it.

Keep still. I have you nearly now.

So I made that. I got in also

A His Master’s Voice gramophone,

A jug of Sheepsbit Scabious and

A white-rigged ship bottled sailing

And the mantel-piece in focus with even

A photograph of five young gassed

Nephews and nieces fading brown.

Not a cloud, the early wide morning

Has us both in, me looking

And you looking. Come and stand.

Aloft the carn behind you moves

So slowly down to anciently

Remember men looking at men

As uneasily as us. Mister Simpson,

Forgive me. The whole high moor is moving

Down to keep us safe in its gaze

As looking-at-each-other beasts

Who suddenly fly running into

The lens from fearful, opposite sides.

Not a cloud, the early wide morning

Has us both in looking out.

Mister Simpson, kneedeep in the drowned

Thistles of not your own country,

What is your category? What number

Did you curl into alone to sleep

The cold away in Hut K

Fifty-five nearest God the Chimney?

Now I have you sighted far

Out of the blackthorn and the wired

Perimeter into this particular

No less imprisoned place. You shall

Emerge here within different

Encirclements in a different time

Where I can ask you to lean easily

Against the young ash at your door

And with your hand touch your face

And look through into my face and into

The gentle reader’s deadly face.

Today below this buzzard hill

Of real weather manufactured

By me the wisps slide slowly

Over the cottage you stand courageously

Outside of with a spade in your hand.

Pretend the mist has come across

Straight from your own childhood gathering

Berries on a picnic. The mist

Is only yours, I see by your face.

I am charging you nothing, Mister

Simpson. Stand and look easily

Beyond me as you always do.

I have you now and you didn’t even

Feel anything but I have killed you.

Ah Mister Simpson shy spectator

This morning in our November,

I focus us across the curving

World’s edge to put us down

For each other into the ordinary

Weather to be seen together still.

Language, put us down for the last

Time under real Zennor Hill

Before it moves into cloud.

Ah Mister Simpson, Ah Reader, Ah

Myself, our pictures are being taken.

We stand still. Zennor Hill,

Language and light begin to go

To leave us looking at each other.