Mailbag

[Andrew B Marvick <abm4@cunixa.cc.columbia.edu>]

IED is so slow these days that most of the postings to which he had
meant to reply have already been expertly replied to by Ed, woj, et
al. He can, however, tell Guy Larri and any other interested newcomers
that (theoretically, at least) Kate Bush may be reached at the address
of the Kate Bush Club, P.O. Box 120, Welling, Kent. The Club is run 
by Lisa Bradley, who also looks after subscriptions to the Kate Bush
Club Newsletter, the only authorized, official organ of the Bush
family. Homeground, an independent, international fanzine, is reached
at: P.O. Box 176, Orpington, Kent BR5 3NA. Homeground is edited by 
Peter FitzGerald-Morris, Krystyna FitzGerald and Dave Cross. 
   Kate Bush _will_ tour. IED can feel it in his ersatz, phosphorous
bones.
   There will be a new Kate Bush LP within the next eighteen months,
which may sound like a long time to new KT fans, but like an almost
absurdly short period to veterans. Again, this is a prediKTion based
on IED's gut instinKT.
   To David, of Champaign, Illinois: You "saw" a _Homeground_?? "Saw"
a copy, but didn't _BUY_ it???!!! Very uncool.
   Jorn: IED liked your proposed "monthly" article for Love-Hounds--
he assumes it is meant to be posted regularly, with updates, for the
benefit of new subscribers? If so, IED would only suggest that another
line or two be added on the subject of "gaffa": i.e., a brief
explanation of the word's appropriateness as a name for a KT
discussion group. Isn't it worth explaining that, although technically
"gaffa" is British industry-jargon for "gaffer's tape", the word's
significance both in the song and in our group is larger than its
literal meaning. That is, gaffa also refers to a kind of purgatory
space or time, a placeless area where time is suspended and real
achievement is thwarted. In "Suspended in Gaffa" the term is clearly
used _metaphorically_ as well as literally, and in such a way as to
imply its parallel existence as a form of purgatory _space_. There is
additional evidence to support this interpretation, much of which has
been presented in Love-Hounds in the (now happily distant) past.
   finally, IED would like to apologize for his failed attempt to
post more of John Carder Bush's poetry the other day. Here, then,
for the interest of anyone and everyone, is another poem by JCB,
this one quite different in subject and style from _Control_ or
_The_Creation_Eddas_:

                 "Terminal Ward"

The appearance of a lump on Sunday
calcified an area of thought, 
set up bulwarks and made
procrastination a thief.
And now, 
well now, now it's
a half circle of flowers, soft fruit,
roses that celebrate the crab's progress.

Recently the pain left words
inadequate for such extremes,
necessitated the euphoric mixture
well tested for travel sickness:
heroin to float the dazed brain,
cocaine to keep it there,
gin, the acceptable dog's hair,
orange juice to con the palate,
so that being eaten alive 
was often an amusing affair.

It's the detail that lingers,
the practised dealing with details
that the initiates do so well:
the cult words, the curtained corners,
the rotten joke of a severed breast.
The accumulation of mysteries
that can horrify
more than that,
more than that food bag for death
slipping in and out of hell 
on an iron bed.

He whimpered into his wife's bed,
to demonstrate the game he wished to play 
he growled at her through yellow teeth.
But she rejected him, his odours of rotting flesh,
kicked him to the floor with a slippered foot
so that he crumpled on the bedroom rug:
enteritic, he vomited under the moose horns,
howling, he dabbled his fingers in the day's fare.

-- John Carder Bush


   Here, from a large collection of poems dealing with
aspects of war, violence and death, is a poem which will certainly
interest any Kate Bush fan who remembers the subject of 
Kate's "Pull Out the Pin". (Sorry, this poem does have a title,
but it is illegible in IED's copy):

Over the top of shell smashed bamboo come
wet smells of equipment, the unseen battle aura.
Heavy weapon, cleansed in animal oil, strains against
steel hat bouncing the haircut flat.
For henbane and oak apple leaf take cannabis:
eat it an hour before, let the ginger dust
stick among the molars ready for a long suck
after direction is established.

The vest itches: the brass tipped jewel belt
pulls him into a safe crouch, like among the bayou
with his father's looted Spandau after rats;
behind the straps of his helmet a banjo is rolling
backwater breakdowns. His oak handled forty-five
glue warm from the last grip over a latrine 
slaps at his legs.

Doctor John, the gristle breaker, is yoked on his shoulders:
the bone butcher bends him, pushes him forward.
The smoke of God is tickling his forehead;
it's getting good now, nothing uptight in the ditch,
the frogs make fair requiems. Open the Doctor's legs,
warm the stock with hairy cheeks and thumb in
the thunder, the back cracking art thunder
that indents them, kicks them back to the jungle.

One is double marching, so close, on the gunners' trench:
the cord of tracer lead is moving him from side to side,
he is dancing, he is partnered by the bullets.
Chain belt empty, the chopped V.C.s drift into the swamp
all their holes bubbling saspirilla froth.

He is blocked solid by his machine gun, knees under chin,
arms between thighs, awake, aware of his boot laces.
It's cool to be a hero: Arvin and Olaf shoulder him
to the helicopter gunships. Arvin is spread to his left,
Olaf is starred to his right, but he floats on:
his numbers hit him like balls on the outfield
and he turns over and over with his boots reversed
to break against the bird's wheel.

The last grains dislodge; the banjo strings curl in
before the airblades take him up among starbursts.

                            
-- John Carder Bush
   
   John's poetry has appeared in The Poetry Review, Tracks, Samphire,
The Sceptre Press, Catholic Education Today, Poets' Workshop Pamphlet,
BBC Radio 3 and BBC Radio London.
   Thanks to |>oug, John Reimers and a little sparrow for their help. 
   IED can post more if anyone requests it.
   
-- Andrew Marvick