the road north (selections)

the road north is to appear as a book, published by Shearsman, in October 2014. In the year or so after we completed the journey, Ken and I reviewed our days on the hosomichi and played over the themes that had emerged. A long poem emerged, different in character to the artist blog; mossier, more of a tour than a log, just as Basho's Oku is a carefully constructed work of retrospect, written in the guise of a diary.

We have also recorded an abridged version of the poem as a free download, with sound design by Geoff Sample, performed by myself, Ken and Lila Matsumoto – released this the Autumn. Elements of the road north archive have appeared in the Walk On touring exhibition, and the poem is being performed as part of Remote Performances, a series of radio broadcasts on Resonance FM, at Outlandia.

The cover image for the book is adapted from one of the pieces I made in collaboration with Tomohiko Ogawa; it seemed to capture the splicing of an imagined Japan and real Scotland that we journeyed towards.

The first of two selections posted here describe gardens: the first at Falkland Palace, where I spent an afternoon in the orchard, while Ken climbed East Lomond; the second, the singer Annie Briggs's garden at Kilmiddlefern. 

Falkland was our pair for Ueno, where Basho begins the journey described in Oku-no-hosomichi, saying farewell to his friends among cherry blossoms. 

Annie Briggs was our Tosai, a reclusive and valued friend of Basho's.

Falkland, Fife

Basho’s Ueno                                        

is Sonia’s orchard                                   

cupped in the hollow      

at the centre of it all

  

leaving behind olives

almonds and peaches

Sonia found herself

this cottage garden

and northern view

settling down snug

where the heir of air

is flecked by blossom

falling in pinches

she’ll soon sow

   yarrow

   button-headed scabious

   moon-rayed oxeye

   lady's smock

   lilac with a liking for

   the Maspie's damp

she never forgets

the winter prune

perched up the ladder

shaping a canopy

of cropped Ys

she’s added a millennial

scattering of natives

to the old commercials,

small stunted malus

with nary a petal to shed

   Forfar

   Early Julyan

   Lass o’ Gowrie

   The Bloody Ploughman

   White Paradise

                     

Sonia is the gardener at Falkland Palace; the Maspie Burn flows through the orchard; the apples are old Scottish varieties.

                          

Kilmiddlefern, Argyll                                         

            

Basho’s old recluse called Tosai at Fukui   (50)

is our Annie Briggs at Kilmiddlefern

his yugao, hechima, keito and hahakigi

her sunflowers, bugloss, weld and gourds

in Annie's garden

nectarines ripen

against the warmth

of the wall

grown from a stone

carried from the old

Tea-Garden at the end

of the track to Gylen

an array of scallions

drying in the porch

preserving flavor

between clammy skins

that last harsh frost

stayed the longest

stealing the blossom

from the plum

For many years Annie and her husband Pat used to run a bunk-house & Tea Garden on the island of Kerrera

In the early episodes of our journey we searched for 'Shirakawa', the barrier through which Basho enters the 'Highlands', the auld countrie. Ken and I wandered through way-glens and hosomichi – the wee B roads – of Perthshire, from Sma' Glen up to the Falls of Dochart. We felt closest to the portal of Shirakawa in the heartlands around Dunira and St Fillan's Hill.

if you're travelling

in the north country fair,

where the wind hangs heavy

on the border-line…

John Waite, ‘Girl from the North Country’

anticipation each day mounting… (13)

people ask us the way 

to the Shirakawa Barrier

and we reply, take it easy,

the Shirakawa Barrier

is everywhere

the map’s watershed 

is Shirakawa,

reading the names of

burns running south-east

allts flowing north-west

lovers' beeches’

gully-carved hearts and initials

are Shirakawa,

an intimacy

between settlement

and elsewhere

Comrie's confluence of

Lednock, Earn and Ruchill

is Shirakawa:

Edo to the east 

in the orderly market-town,

Oku to the west 

in twilit deer, pheasants 

lacking road-sense, 

tumbledown gardens

and close-ranked pines

any wee road

where your fingers

brush meadowsweet verges

is Shirakawa,

when you let the wheel turn

through the glen

with all your attention

on  the encounters and minor 

dramas of PAS-

SING PLACES

any one-street village with

shops stocking FANCY GOODS

and a butcher’s that sells

a new brand of oatcakes

is Shirakawa

any clicked latch

of a gate that

makes a space

for things to come

is Shirakawa

The beeches carved with lover names were seen by the River Lednock and River Bran.

Finally, a more retrospective episode, considering some of the walks I made that year, their pains and pleasures.

I take a long look

back at rocky wastes

and tussocky paths

from Pillow Hill                                             

so long a stranger

struggling with

the stinging lactic

that shadowed

so many walks

I’ve found other

ways to wander

in the wilds

other ways to be

where Suzanne said 

I could never belong                                       

sharing the warmth

of Ken’s quiet company

or sitting by the fire

counting 6,

7, 8, no, that’s 9 hours

he's been gone

plodding up Schiehallion

and down Slioch

carrying my eyes with him

while I’ve walked

along the old paths

at whatever pace

I’m able

running my fingernails

around the contour-lines 

gauging the incline

and fatigue

that will result

letting myself wonder

what would I have been

well, a climber, father to?

would we could

live our lives

as a novel

read backwards

secure in our ending

as a tied rope

or taut stay

each strand untwisting

a moment

tense with shock

giddy for joy

when love becomes

our delirious ending

we slowly un-wind

to the tight knot

of that familiar

difficult beginning

would we could glimmer

the perfect form          

of an idea

emerging complete

in its own right

from out some vague

insubstantial object

only every now

and then we may

be brave enough to dare

a handstand

emptying out our

pockets, seeing

inside a world

turned upsidedown                                                                  

Pillow Hill, from R. L. Stevenson, 'Land of Counterpane'; lactic acid, symptom of Myalgic Encephalomyelitis; Suzanne Piper, post-urban artist.