THE GATHERING OF THE TRIBES

 
 
‘The dead float in our memories and sometimes in
the streets; we see them when we need them.’
– Iain Sinclair, American Smoke.

 

 

Sunshine state gatherings
in muddy fields; bearded poets
and declamations. Interstate drives
and wires under tension:
sound systems heard for miles

before my time. Unnatural acts
and the moon casting its light
above a makeshift stage.
A man in the woods, living alone,
‘finding headspace’. Back to nature

without a common memory:
we are lost. Inventing one
we find ourselves restrained,
caught in the smoke of bonfires
alight before the festival stage.

Can’t hear myself think
above all this noise.
Light fades in the west
as we make our way back
to the beginning again.

Rupert M Loydell 2014

Collage: Claire Palmer

 


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One Response to THE GATHERING OF THE TRIBES

  1. Andrew Darlington says:

    Excellent. Brilliant to see Rupert’s poem. Is ‘IT (International Times)’ still accepting new stuff, as well as re-running beautiful archive material too…? As another former-contributer to the old dead-tree format tabloid version, I’ve kinda got vested interests…!

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