Pylonium Xanadate

It’s inside-out: so what?

They started as a bold idea; then pencil lines on drawing-boards,
And careful differential charts to monitor
The bending loads, the stresses lurking
At the point where bolted structures meet.

Behold the grainy lattice
Filled with random triangles of blue
A stained-glass door that keeps the past at bay
But leaves today unsatisfied. 

Like symptoms of some alien disease
In one fell swoop these metal trees manage to pollute
Both land and sky; ambiguous their inorganic sweep,
They threaten to transmit our dreams

To blank-eyed strangers perched at rows of desks
Who carefully dismiss the value that we bring
By living through our catalogue of tasks at work. The
Metal wears a dainty blouse of zinc, but not enough 

To keep the elements at bay. So, once a year
A team of agile chimpanzees in orange suits and harnesses
Will scramble up towards the sky
And scrub with wire brushes, then refresh
The duplex coat of fractured haematite.

 One at each end, two mighty pylons
Top-and-tail the playing field where youngsters
Galvanised with boyish fury chased a ball. Above our heads
The snow gradually settled on the wires, until
A sudden breeze shook free
Six bold white lines that dropped out of the sky.

 And now we see them everywhere, or rather don’t;
One, two, twenty-six of these tomorrow skeletons
Parade through gentle pre-electric fields, unobserved,
A humming chain of seamless energy.

Text of ‘Pylons’ copied from an article by Dr Oliver Tearle in Despatches from The Secret Library. He mentions the Pylon Poets and how Snaith has been neglected by literary historians.

Pylons

Over the tree’d upland evenly striding,
One after one they lift their serious shapes
That ring with light. The statement of their steel
Contradicts Nature’s softer architecture.
Earth will not accept them as it accepts
A wall, a plough, a church so coloured of earth
It might be some experiment of the soil’s.
Yet are they outposts of the trekking future.
Into the thatch-hung consciousness of hamlets
They blaze new thoughts, new habits. Traditions
Are being trod down like flowers dropped by children.
Already that farm-boy striding and throwing seed
In the shoulder-hinged half-circle Millet knew,
Looks grey with antiquity as his dead forbears,
A half familiar figure out of the Georgics,
Unheeded by these new-world, rational towers.
Stanley Snaith (1903-76)

 The Pylons

The secret of these hills was stone, and cottages
Of that stone made,
And crumbling roads
That turned on sudden hidden villages

Now over these small hills, they have built the concrete
That trails black wire
Pylons, those pillars
Bare like nude giant girls that have no secret.

The valley with its gilt and evening look
And the green chestnut
Of customary root,
Are mocked dry like the parched bed of a brook.

But far above and far as sight endures
Like whips of anger
With lightning’s danger
There runs the quick perspective of the future.

This dwarfs our emerald country by its trek
So tall with prophecy
Dreaming of cities
Where often clouds shall lean their swan-white neck.
Stephen Spender (1909-95)

 

In 1982 I bought a copy of ‘Lions and Shadows’ and was immediately seduced by the hilarious narrative and delicious prose. Isherwood, Auden and Spender (‘Stephen Savage’) have intense discussions about literature and life.
Isherwood describes the boisterous intellectual atmosphere that he shares with ‘Allen Chalmers’ (Edward Upward) during their time at Cambridge together:

“We examined, with new interest, the three Dürer engravings in Chalmers’ room. Melencolia especially excited us.
We speculated endlessly as to the significance of the ladder, the bell, the tablet with its curious signs and figures, the sinister-looking instrument sticking out from beneath the angel’s skirts, in the right-hand bottom corner.
What was the meaning of the enormous star or sun, blazing with immense beams under the rainbow, in a black sky? How should one understand the inscription on the wings of the small flying dragon? Was it Melencolia, One, or Melencolia, I?
Needless to say, we disdained the standard works of art criticism which could, no doubt, have answered all these questions. How could such books tell you anything worth knowing? They had been written by dons.”

In 2020 I decided to visit the Whitworth Gallery in Manchester to see the exhibition about Standardisation, Repetition and Deviation. One of the items on display was a copy of ‘Melencolia’, safely trapped inside a glass-fronted case. We also had one of the Whitworth Company’s cutting machines, and the sculpture ‘Genesis’ by Epstein along with a collection of the outraged press cuttings from contemporary reviews of this piece.

Hey, Mister Manganese Man

The Whitworth is where Industry meets Art;
Paint, like paintings, is just manufactured to supply
The artist keen to capture a Venetian sky
Or dentists with a cavity to fill. 

Like overlapping fields of energy no hawks
Can jump between
These banks of cloud promise to reveal
The glory of a coming storm.

 Deep in the heart of the catalyst, the hollow pores
Are lined with gleaming spines of manganese
They spray the vacuum with electron density
And violate the laws of alchemy.

 Somewhere out East I hear a forest burn; too
Many times you promised to set sail, but
In the end the fuel ran out. I think this means
We’ve reached the point of no return.

 To make this drill-bit hard enough I need
Your help; I’m setting off with no plan to return. It’s
Like I’m just like drilling with myself, persuaded by
A metal film too fragile to discern.

 

Behold Planet Faust

 

Behold, the planet known as Faust

That’s the trouble with fractals; they’re
All the same. Look unoriginal, being numerous
With spiralling fronds whose edges buzz with
Luminous velocity. Endless parades of arches,
Nested iterations of the same old quadratic, spilling out
Onto the tiled courtyard. We take an automatic step
Into the shadow.

Echoes; when you’ve heard one
You’ve heard ’em all. It really doesn’t help to know
That when you call after me
The only reply will be your own diminished voice.

Somewhere in a folder, in a box that sits
Upon a dusty shelf in the warehouse of forgotten stars
Is a hand-typed catalogue, three staples
Keep the pages all in place. One page declares

“A Planet Called Faust”, the story of
A faint grey speck discerned on a sheet of stars. The
Telescope slide shows endless fields of distant worlds;
And then there’s Faust, three-hundred-fifty million light-years
Away. In the future this bleak outpost will
Turn into the place that we call home.

 Journal Entry, 01 Jan 2012:

Hurrah! It’s New Year’s Day! It’s 11.30 in the morning and I’m listening to Ravel piano trio. This morning I’ve had porridge with some of Hilary’s homemade jam and have posted two new items on WordPress. Last night I left my phone turned off ‘cos I don’t want dozens of drunken messages.

Let us take stock of my life.
I’m 48, with a lower-second degree in Chemistry and a PhD in Adhesive Science, and living in a rented 2-bed flat. I don’t own a house, or a car, or a TV set. And am working as a ‘Technologist’ earning £19228, when most science graduates expect a starting package of at least 25 grand.

Have started making notes for new Open Uni course – Mintzberg and Lampel published an article about the ‘Ten Schools of Strategy’ which sounds a bit like a low-budget Kung-Fu movie.
Eating After Eights and watching ‘Charlie and the Chocolate Factory’.

Journal Entry, 01 Jan 2003:

Phone call from Tev Fletcher at 9.30 a.m. asking if I can help out with the MAG stall at G-Mex. Said yes to Sunday.

Spinning trees through lenses: my specs are sitting on the window ledge, and behind them the stark bare tree branches. As I walk past, one lens shows the black tracery drifting upwards, the other lens makes it move down. As though mounted on a wheel.
Just heard some fab songs on radio: ‘Born Again’ by Badly Drawn Boy, and a ridiculously camp disco number called ‘Danger – High Voltage!’

Portrait of the Chemist as an Old Man.
Me: 39 years old, living in a rented one-bed flat, no car, no computer, no TV set, working in a paint factory for twenty grand (slightly below national average salary)…

Journal Entry, 01 Jan 2020:

I live in a rented two-bed flat with black mould growing in the corners of the rooms and round the window frames. Each morning I check the tea-towels to see how much condensation they have gathered in the night.

The waste-trap for the kitchen sink is broken, so the washing-up bowl has to be emptied down the toilet twice a day.

Carrying the bowl of water, I take care not to trip over the trailing electric flex: when they came to install a smart meter it buggered up the electric socket in the kitchen, so we have to use an extension lead to plug in the fridge.

I work in a call-centre, chatting to complete strangers and offering them ‘customer advice’ which they sometimes do not like hearing. And my salary is slightly below what it was fifteen years ago…