Celebrate the Mountains

You will be familiar with the creative endeavours of Thom Kofoed, local resident, part of the team at St Mary’s in the Castle and committed and determined artist, poet and writer. He and his partner, John Murray, have now created a weekly newsletter of their work – including poetry, prose and illustrations. They’ve both invested a huge amount of time and energy in developing their creativity – and now they’re sharing their work with you. HOT’s Zelly Restorick writes.

Below you can read an example of both Thom’s and John’s work – and you can sign up for their newsletter here: Celebrate the Mountains.

Poem by Thom Kofoed

She survived a famine
and then a love as fast as a flood (though
all water must go somewhere
eventually,
or else it sits still as a lizard until it stinks heavy of ending.)

He was the cascading gush,
the big bang,
a flower bursting crimson at her bedside,
corporeal lashes like lightening strikes,
a hole cut from within.

Each day began with the opening of windows,
an assault of fresh air beneath sheets weary with sweat.
Her heart was a home and he
was a pillow on which to rest her bones.

I suppose green is the colour of loss.
It is a bud after all. A sudden
space to fill with other.
Shoots out of soil like birth.
She is a universe being born,
a girl kissing with her mouth open.
A bird.
She is a flicked switch and
a dancing flame at once,
electric and fire in the dark.

Prose by John Murray

It is critical, she said and then said again, critical. She broke off to consider further.
The guests pointed their shoes and touched the back of their necks – it was too hot in the room and the windows could not be opened in case the sound of the A road running close to the hotel broke through noisily during the wrong moment.

It is critical, she said and with the kind of finality that made the guests look up suddenly as she might be pointing at the thing itself, the critical thing.

But she was not pointing or indeed looking at anything in particular as the veil she was wearing had suddenly detached near the back and she was reaching around to fix it. The guests looked away again at something and anything that was less sad than to see her in such a state.

The veil gave away at the back. She pulled it very suddenly and made an arc with it in the air. The guests ceased to be one thing, and became many. Some began to whisper and some touched the sweat at their temples and some half rose and then a little more so as to be almost standing and not. The half risen position of a dozen or so of the guests seemed to catch her attention again and she gripped the veil tightly.

Where are you going, she said. Nobody heard the question in it. Sit down.
Those half risen, sat again and once more the guests became one thing and all together looked back down at their shoes.

Alison, who was a bridesmaid and therefore more uncomfortable in the heat than anyone else in the room, the only bridesmaid in fact, walked to the window.

Keep it shut, the bride said.

Alison did not and opened the window as far as she could. Being on the ground floor, she was able to lean almost double over the window sill. She took a deep breath and righted herself again.

The bride, insensible to the heat strode over to the window with every intention, by the strong fall of her foot and clear eye, of shutting it. But as she neared, the wind picked up and blew strongly into the faces of the guests who collectively sighed and then just as quickly, the wind drew back out of the window and took her veil with it. It took her veil and strung it high over the powerlines on the nearby A road.

The bride closed the window very slowly. Alison moved closer to watch as the veil flew higher. You never liked it anyway, she said quietly. The bride made a motion with her hand that could almost have been a genuflection had she or anybody present believed it necessary. She stared at Alison as though she had never seen her before or had only seen her once and now, on seeing her again, could not believe a person so changed.

* * *

Previous HOT articles on Thom Kofoed: his art exhibition, Untitled (Miss.Ms.Other) and his writing, Lauren and Wide, Fantastic Circles.

Also in: Literature

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