The Border
Miles Cain
'One last thing. The heart’s just an engine,
a valve of sorts. That other stuff
(anger, jealousy, compassion etc) –
all of that is up to you. Ready now?
Deep breath. Sharp scratch. Here we go.'
A woman borrows her husband's tongue, a man spends years in a stalled car, a teenage boy sees a crack divide his town...
In this impressive debut, York-based poet Miles Cain guides readers through an increasingly familiar dystopia of mind and city; a world observed with accuracy, wit and heart. Insightful, surreal and surprising, The Border marks the arrival of a formidable new voice in British poetry.
'Presents the world through Cain-tinted glasses... a place lit by possibility, mapped by language.' - Ian McMillan
'Impressive... crammed with sharp images, terse rhythms and "sane, careful precision".' - Oz Hardwick
'A fantastic collection... bleak and big-hearted poems with a wit that matches his eye for detail.' - Luke Kennard
'Fast, to the point, full of power.'
- Paul Sutherland
'Exciting.... will win him many more admirers.' - Debjani Chatterjee
Click cover to enlarge. Cover image: 'Stolen Car' by John Illingworth
On the VP blog: a first look at The Border. Plus, check out a review of the book by David Cooke on the 'Ink, Sweat and Tears' ezine.
Release Date:
7th October 2011
ISBN:
978-0-9568904-4-3
Format:
Paperback
Pages:
56
£5 plus £1.50 P+P
(Worldwide flat rate)
(click titles for previews, where available)
Instructions For Downloading The Human Heart / With The Scent Of Rare Leathers / Coffee / One Night I Dreamt I Was God / Shouting Down The Moon / Car Crash Set To Music By Joni Mitchell / Car / Thirty Seconds / 1977 / Buddy / Parfitt’s / Albums / Diver / Monument Valley / Enemy Funeral / ‘Brennt Paris?’ / His Family Have Been Informed / Lessons / ‘Phone / Last Train To The Estates / Fifteen / Crack / Put Your Pens Down Please / Breeze / A Man Outside Your Door / The Man Who Lived In Shadow / The Others / All The Grey Men / The Bricklayer’s Lament / Tongue / The Bet / Anniversary / The Night I Won You Over / Twelve Weeks / The Gates / The Border / Bins / Runner / Sax
Buddy
for my Father
Whenever I see his unblemished face,
those large spectacles, the dark hair,
the truthful jawline, I think of you,
Dad, and how, some time in ‘85,
or thereabouts, we wound home
past rows of convenient semis
in your blue Vauxhall Cavalier,
a dusty, workmanlike car,
and his voice came on Radio 2.
That’ll Be The Day, was it?
or Peggy Sue, perhaps. I’m not sure,
but what stays is the way you spoke
of him, as if chatting
about a remote friendship,
a voice from your youth,
before wedding rings and nappies.
When I see pictures of him,
I think of your framed face, mid-twenties,
in the corner of the flowered bedroom
you shared with my mother,
a private space that smelt of you.
In your photo, the same broad smile,
chunky specs, and the music of youth
shining in every aspect of your face.
Instructions For Downloading The Human Heart
It’s easy. All you need
is super fast broadband
and the right chip
harboured in your chest,
nesting between lung and sternum.
Make yourself comfortable. Slide
a credit card from brown leather
and attach yourself to the port
(the flesh-coloured wire).
Wait for nine hours. Try to stay calm.
There’s a graphic you can watch.
As the heart blooms within you
it fleshes out on screen,
bulging with life.
Hear that thud, keeping time.
Afterwards, our guarantee:
your blood will speed
through arteries and veins,
white and red cells motor
through an internal roller coaster.
You’ll feel decades shrivel,
find evenings pulse
with possibility; desert your bed
when birds proclaim dawn.
Your skin may glow.
One last thing. The heart’s just an engine,
a valve of sorts. That other stuff
(anger, jealousy, compassion etc) –
all of that is up to you. Ready now?
Deep breath. Sharp scratch. Here we go.
Bins
Streets fall for darkness.
I twin bags into lumpy pairs,
push the gate open
as a dog proclaims winter.
Rubbish cools in November air,
waiting for cats to lash
each other for territory,
rats to bring teeth and claws.
In the stubborn dark of morning
an orange light will flash at windows
and stubble-headed men
regretting the weekend,
arrive with gloves and short voices.
But now, little people inside houses
watch humans on screens. I look up.
Other suns spray litter
from the big bang. My eyes blink
into invisible holes. The junk of our lives
will fall inside light years, racing
a crowd of unfinished zeros
to the gap beyond our breath.
