Colin Pink
Acrobats of Sound
November 2016. 92 pp. ISBN-13 978-3-901993-56-5
£10.50 (+ 2.00 p&p), €13.00 (+ 2.50 p&p), US$ 16.00 (+ 3.00 p&p)
 
“Colin Pink’s lyric poems are quietly spoken and beautifully made. This is an unassuming, life-affirming poetry. The poems go on long after they’re done, a product of the poet’s mastery of old and invented forms, of rhythm and rhyme and line, and his refusal of artifice in thought and language, his commitment to the democratic spirituality of everyday speech. These are quiet, hard-won poems, mature and youthful at once, in which one life, its secrets kept, its inner life said, becomes all our lives. You'll find here reflections on how childhood walks along inside one’s adult days, honest and urgent meditations on solitude and myth and city places, on art and on life as a recursive, Sisyphean work of art.”
Mark Tredinnick

“Colin Pink’s love of language and sound clearly shine through in this collection. There is a certain delicacy in his writing. His poetry is best read slowly and meditatively. Pink goes beyond the obvious and shows us what most people don’t see in day-to-day life.”
Katherine Lockton

“These are poems that tightrope walk between the New York School and a more traditional English mode. Here, nature is barbwire, and paintings, monuments, and myths, are renewed. The language is exact, clever, and always on the Panther Prowl. A fine collection from a poet worth tumbling for.”
Todd Swift


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Table of Contents


Excerpts from Acrobats of Sound

Another Day, Another Pawn Ticket

How the words bubble up, a logorrhoea,
like the frantic song of the skylarks,
out of control, spilling from the mouth,
tumbling together, heedless of art.

Such ecstatic music the Maenad’s chanted
words to tear us limb from limb. We yield
but always stumble from the wreckage
then hitch a lift to another battlefield.

Miles Davis blows a smoky melody,
his trumpet becomes as soft and pliant
as a lover’s lips wed to his for this brief
abandonment of original silence.

Some words are strong, some are weak,
yet bruises blossom beneath their touch.
Mapless, without direction, I ask myself
how we could have forgotten so much.

Pick-up moments, scattered pennies,
I want to place in the jar of memory
saved for some future time, a down-
payment on a long sought harmony.

Tear off a page from the calendar;
each leaf becomes, it would seem,
a pawn ticket to another moment
I’ll never have the wealth to redeem.
 

Composed on a Traffic Island

Standing on a traffic island, becalmed in mid-stream,
I’m surrounded by the pulsing waves of the Strand.
The siren’s cacophony did not lure me onto this seam
but all the same, here I am, drowning on dry land.

Taxis swoop on pedestrians, like birds of prey;
their black plumage signals the price in this town
is higher than you think. At side-streets each day
traffic snarls at my heels, eager to run me down.

The CCTV’s grainy evidence records the pace
I run my errands and hurry from place to place;
what’s done and left undone both without grace.

Now I stand, shipwrecked on this reef, can I seek
the calm that lies beneath, hear the soul speak,
and find myself buried within the working week?


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