The Poet's Project (Outcome)

All is revealed. The Poet's project worked, it turned out, but not until he'd examined over a thousand novels to find what he was looking for, while I padded (part of the time) behind him yelling 'What the fuck are you doing?'.  It also turned out that it was a poem for my birthday.  Ooops.  It was related to the present he gave me (as if a poem wasn't enough): an etching of a rectangle divided into four on white paper in a white frame, by Linda Karshan.  So beautiful and exactly what I want to look at.  Also somewhat like a window on a window.  The poem is below.  His byzantine method of making the poem is explained in a note at the end.

Also, the cake was alarmingly delicious.

 
 

60 WINDOWS FOR JENNY   BY IAN PATTERSON

 

Tiny room whose window was never opened

Curtain for the window

On the cane chair under the window

   *

  Pale green even in the window

  Emptying the basin out of the window

  Halts by the window and gazes

   *

  Lay on the ground under the window

  Kneeling up to the window

  An octagonal vaulted chamber with a balconied window

   *

   Her bed had its back to the window

  Through the curtainless window day stole in

  She went to the other window

  *

  Sitting at the table near the window, working

  Opened windows into the wrong world

  A gale, exploding against the window

  *

  Awnings lowered outside the windows

  A reproduction of a stained-glass-window angel

  Whistling up at vague windows

  *

  Got up and went to the window. It was raining again.

  Early light, coming through the uncurtained window

  With its tiny windows looking on to the street

  *

Pat wandered from the window and took up the George Moore novel

  He came out through the French windows

  She got up and stood at the window

  *

  There was moonlight in the window

  There's a sharp rapping at the window

  I am in the window, smoking

  *

  They had seen it happen from a window

  Then went to the window that looked on the street below

  Watching you from the apartment window

  *

  In my memory, at the window

  The rain was still thudding against the window-pane

  I think that I might open the window

  *

  A camera is being held to the window

  Silver things in the window

  From the street the windows were in darkness

  *

  His reflection could be seen in the front window

  High up, from one of the small barred windows

  His right arm through the open window

   *

  I put all the lamps on and opened all the windows

  A huge wall broken by gaping windows loomed above

  Sordid glare of shop windows, made beautiful by distance

   *

  A board nailed across a broken window

  They opened all the windows

  Sat and sewed by the window in the clear autumn afternoon

   *

  The room was almost in darkness, the windows quite covered

  The night I stared at from my window

  A castle whose windows were glittering orange squares

   *

  The windows, between lengths of white embossed satin

  Our windows, on the second floor, overlooked the street

  The butcher pulled down black window shades

   *

  She had been sitting in her own window

  The inner courtyard on to which my window looked out

  The middle one of the three windows was half way open

   *

  The sun filtered through the windows with remarkable subtlety

  Rushed to the window, not to sail out of it

  No lights behind its white painted windows

   *

  Has to look out of the window at the elements, at nature

  Draw down the upper frame of the window

  The windows were shuttered. But there was a crack.

 

 

 
A note

60 WINDOWS FOR JENNY is composed entirely of phrases taken from page sixty of sixty novels, for Jenny on her sixtieth birthday, 8 July 2007

 

 

 

 

 

Comments

[Rhiannon Adam]

What a wonderful present!

Poets- so clever, damn them. Luckily Ian can write poetry and succeeded in his venture- there is nothing more terrible than brooding mysteriousness that turns out rubbish! I think that would be the hardest part of being a poet- the expectation is so high.

Although on second thoughts, the virtue of being a poet would be that you could always write something daft and hen claim to be misunderstood...

Oh, and by the way- Just read Skating to Antarctica because of something you said about penguins once. Thumbs up!

Rhiannon

[Zo]

Oh, Jenny, you lucky girl. Lovely - and Happy Birthday!

[bohémienne]

I am entirely impressed by the poet (and his muse, obviously). Well done.

[J B]

I'm just revisiting Ian's poem - backwards - it is so acutely intensely intimate and slow. God you must have had a fantastic time in france, it's all there, a really beautiful love letter. I love love, thankyou. I think you should draw the curtains now though.

[ra]

It is a lovely idea, and of course serendipity was not enough to ensure a beautifully-flowing poem - applause for the Poet, and happy birthday to you - thanks for sharing your present!

[Lesley]

Ooops. That was from me.

You will recall the cosmological conundrum
It was so difficult trying to follow the man's words
and they pulled the curtains
Why do you talk so much of vibrations?

Hmmm. Seems it takes a little more skill than just pulling books down and choosing words. Bravo le poète.