R.F. Langley Complete Poems

R.F. Langley, Jeremy Noel-Tod

• Publisher: Carcanet Poetry
• Year: 2015
• Print ISBN: 9781784100643
• eBook ISBN: 9781784100650
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Poetry
• Index: Literature

R.F. Langley is known for his meticulous observation of the natural world and his highly original poetic voice. This volume brings together his two previous Carcanet collections, Collected Poems (2000) and The Face of It (2007), along with his celebrated but uncollected late poems, including 'To a Nightingale', which won the 2011 Forward Prize for Best Single Poem. The book includes a biographical introduction and notes by the editor, and a rare note by the poet on his own compositional practice. Langley kept a careful record of the reading and writing that inspired his poems; this edition is fully annotated with these sources, making it an invaluable guide for readers wishing to explore the visionary imagination of this master craftsman.

The Face of It
(2007)

Cakes and Ale

This bit again. You know it.

It’s the sequence in the bar

on an outer planet. You

see piecemeal through the ruddy
strobes and smoke. You must be by
the door, and going through the
motions, brushing off the rain.
Their backs are to you. Hunchbacks.
Some of them wear metal. Fanged
pauldrons, bizarre combs frizz up

against the strip light further

in. Barbarians. Or a

culture in elaborate

decline. Flagrant. Capricious.

You ought to recognise which
tribe. Those red plush tippets. An
occasional glimmer of

a souveraigne collar, if

you’re right. Some Gothic warriors.
Braggarde and dangerous. They

have not yet looked round. One turns
to speak. And now you see his

beak and thin, uncurling tongue.

The customers are monsters.

The customers are monsters.

From deeper down somewhere, some
instruments like soft trombones

start blowing a blue hockett.

The customers are monsters.

They have not seen you yet, but,

when they do, they’ll love you limb
from limb. Meanwhile they face the
wonderful barmaid, who is

all their mothers still. She gains

her glory nobly tugging

every polished handle in

the middle of her rosy,

pumping heart. They need their nips
of sack and sugar poured by

this real lady, level to

the lips of their own greedy
brimmers. Now she’ll look up and
see that you have come, in your
perversity, her erstwhile

son, through the tempest, on the
last night when it could be done,
to the back door, for, once more,
a sop, a sip. Only your

haggard stare can win her. No
secret wink gets you this drink.

Nor the guts to shove you to
the front, as you hold out your
father’s empty bag. This bit.
Again. The hockett stops. The
strobes lock rigid at the top

of nightmare. Then a dragon
starts to swivel in his chair.
The barmaid’s million hands
close on this one pump handle
and become a simple pair.

Cook Ting

Circumstances analogous

to life and death, house cleaning or
clutter. Dante or an old shirt.

It’s there to cut, but not to chop.
Between the knuckle-bones it’s soft

as butter. Or you picked a leaf

off the road. What is it when it

reaches the sea? The gulls are a

white flap over sprats in the foam.

Call it an episode when they

tumble together to make it

one. The cliff is history. You

throw yourself in where the fish are
thickest. Take hold of a word and

turn it on. Tourbillion. A

blade is so sharp it can dance round

the joint. Silvery energies

argue the point. The carcase of

an ox flops open. Shall we leave

it at that? Some of the cliff calves

flat. The rest ducks, and runs like a

rat. Look about and wipe the knife.

But there’s more, there’s more. Rubbing it
out will prove there’s no nub of the
matter. There are too many eyes

for your own eyes to catch in the

scatter. Twelve blank sheets of paper
hung up on a string. The joy of
perpetual bicker. Your seat

at the open door. The shutters

banged back. A dark acrobat who
somersaults through to rob a few

of the glittering company.

Is there a wife for a Viking?

A pair of socks in a poem?

Beetles and sticks in a box? Bright

bait. Bright bait. You notice what has

gone into the picture. Bite it.
It can’t be expected to wait.

Experiment with a Hand Lens

The clown under
cover. Among

a lot less. Aghast

at much more. A

set of tucked legs,

curled up from

before. His mother’s

bug. Her summer’s

boy. A bead

she polished first

to put deliberately

last. Her lonely

coal. Kick start.

Heart prick. Fire

crumb. Come close

in focus. Here you

are. The cavern fits

the wren. Lenticular.

This is her son. Her

pearl in the pout. The

merry meal in her

floury mouth. And

so and so. Amen.

But ahoy you young

lout! Not so far!

Not so fast! You

can never tell when,

with that hole in you.

Nothing is less than

particular.

Sixpence a Day

The sea bulges or licks.

Cool as a le...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title Page
• Acknowledgements
• Contents
• Introduction
• Note on the Text
• Note (1994)
• Twelve Poems (1994)
• from Collected Poems (2000)
• The Face of It (2007)
• Uncollected Poems (2008–2011)
• Notes
• Appendix: Contents of Individual Volumes
• Index of Titles
• Index of First Lines
• About the Author
• By the Same Author
• Copyright