Jake Morris Campbell ~ CADENA MAGICA

Narozen v Anglii, v South Shields, v roce 1988. Nedávno získal titul Ph.D. v oboru tvůrčího psaní na Newcastle University. Je autorem dvou sbírek poeie The Coast Will Wait Behind You /Pobřeží za tvými zády (Art Editions North, 2015) and Definitions of Distance/Definice vzdálenosti (Red Squirrel Press, 2012). Je držitelem ceny New Writing North’s Andrew Waterhouse award, jeho básně se hojně obejvují v tisku i online, najdeme je též v antologii Bloodaxe Land of Three Rivers/ Krajina tří řek. Pravidelně recenzenty Školy poezie, jeho kritiky se objevují také v časopisech in Ambit, Poetry London and Poetry Salzburg Review, píše eseje a rozhovory pro Prac Crit and Wild Court. Jake též pravidelně spolupracuje s vizuálními umělci: jeho dílo se představilo na výstavě Singing the World/Svět zpívá v Cheeseburn Grange Sculpture Park v Northumberlandu and fv rámci projektu Ghosts of the Restless Shore / Duchové na pobřeží nespočinutí V The Atkinson gallery v Southportu, Merseyside.

jakecampbell88@gmail.com

Riding the same loop
round the town you were born in
trying every stop til one welcomed
you as wanderer returned.

Round the town you were born in
as at Keppel Street bus station
you wait as wanderer returned,
clouds buffering on far horizons.

At Keppel Street bus station
waiting to be demolished
clouds buffer on far horizons
as some master plan to be revealed.

Waiting to be demolished
you once knew where each stand went
as some master plan to be revealed
and you held the blueprints.

You once knew where each stand went
but rode the same loop
like it held the blueprints
trying every stop til one welcomed.

For Peter Armstrong, William Martin and the Lads. FTM.

Gods of the Felling bypass
Gods of Whitemare Pool

Converse at the castra
reveal Wrekendyke

Let all the lights
at Heworth and Wardley
turn amber to green

For the sake
of the desolate North
for the sake
of distrustful experts

let Testo’s big-wheel sink.
Chase flea circus freaks
down Cut Throat Dene

No flint knap
no sword clash
no horse punch
no human cannonball

Whoever watches over
lads in their twenties
whoever’s faith goes beyond
döner meat and chips

cap the meter at twenty
and let us care nothing
for the battle of Boldon Hill

At the throat of the Don
where twin Tyne tunnels
undercut Crackwillow
we searched for you.

We searched for you
in Go-To-Bed-At-Noons,
by Pellitory-Of-The-Wall,
through Lady’s Bedstraw.

At Station Burn, Field Scabious
could have been your glow;
Black Medic your remedy.
We searched for you

the way Small Tortoiseshells
and Meadow Browns
search Timothy and Tansy;
how miners’ caged Linnets

trace Bernician sky.
We thought we traced
your coracle over Whitburn Steel;
clouds scattering

for your arrival, but as we looked
beyond Souter Point
we could only see waves—
like praying hands of saints.

Jake Morris Campbell

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