From the Archives : Homo Heidelbergensis (2008)

Heidelberger Schloss, Carl Rottmann (1815). This poem is an outtake from my book - it was once part of a trio of poems that explored growing up in and around Heidelberg that I've since broken up into individual pieces. This is the weakest and most embarrassing of those three (though I tend to find the majority of my poems embarrassing) - the focus on the 'I' of the speaker strikes my ear as a little too cloying, the phrasing too treacly. First written in April 2008, I rewrote the poem extensively in 2017. See multiple versions below.

Years I slept, wound and fused at the core of the nautilus. I dreamt

of the soil. My breath was methane, exhaled from cracks and cuffed

upon the Jura. Years split stone and shell. I woke up. I remember only

to forget. The ferns petrified in the cliff, the oak groves long axe-felled.

Columns of spotlight that spilled downward through the beechwood

ocean-heavy. Cloud knights and movies never made, spied in the sky.

Gaiberg : a village between forest and field, where the mountain slopes

down to the loamlands and ridge-hemmed fringes of what would prove 

Memory with its grey-blue of distance. Growing up, I could see no end

to that haze expanse, but barely make out the ruined citadel of Dilsberg

and glean a truth of distant places home becomes. To expect no return

for the endlessness of youth's quest. Home : besieged in your absence,

burned down, built over. Part of a new empire. And whatever remains

familiar is just cloyingly still there, trim like some pensioner’s garden plot

stuffed between the bypass soundbarriers and the fenced-off railyards

that, like the Neckar, would kidnap me in their current — take me away

across the plain. Years planted in the Rhinebed, running the rift country

yet another valley reeking of onion and gasworks, the other side fading

like a range of cloudbank. Mirage or mirror, never there to begin with.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Years you slept — wound fused at the core of the nautilus. Of the soil

you dreamt. Your breath was methane, exhaled from cracks and cuffed

on the Jura. Years split stone and shell awake to forget. Whisper ferns

in the cliff, groves long axe-felled. Clothes the child you’re told you are

wears in pictures, folded in landfills to dress you again. Spotlights drown

the canopy, spill columns ocean-heavy. Beams of movies never made

in the sky. Cloud knights, sagas of defeat. Gaiberg — its ridge sloping

down to the loamlands. A view proving memory in grey-blue of distance

the childe mistook for haze. There’s no end to where roads go defining

borderlands of shining meadows where squires kneel to pick dandelions.

Dilsberg — ruined citadel, distant as home becomes expecting no return

from quest of youth. Besieged in your errance, scorched earth overbuilt

as the provincial seat to another, a new empire. And whatever remains

familiar is just cloyingly still there. Trim like some pensioner’s garden plot

sanely tucked between the bypass soundbarriers and fenced-off railyards

that, like the Neckar, would kidnap with their current — take you away

across the plain. Years planted in the Rhinebed, running this rift country

yet another valley reeking of onion and gasworks, the other side fading

like a range of cloudbank. Mirage or mirror — never there to begin with.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Years you slept — wound fused at the core of the nautilus. Of the soil

you dreamt your breath was methane — exhaled from cracks and cuffed

on the Jura. Years split stone and shell awake to forget — whisperferns

in the cliff, groves long axe-felled. Clothes the child you’re told you are

wears in pictures, folded in landfills to dress you again. Spotlights drown

the canopy, spill columns ocean-heavy — beams of movies never made,

sagas of defeat starring knights of cloud. Gaiberg — its playground sloping

down to the loamlands. A view proving memory in grey-blue of distance

the childe mistook for haze. There’s no end to where roads go on defining

borderlands of shining meadows where squires kneel to pick dandelions.

Dilsberg — ruined citadel, distant as home becomes expecting no return

from quest of youth. Besieged in your errance, scorched earth overbuilt

as the provincial seat to another — a new empire. And whatever remains

familiar is just cloyingly still there. Trim like some pensioner’s garden plot

sanely tucked between the bypass soundbarriers and fenced-off railyards

that, like the Neckar, would kidnap with their current — take you away

across the plain. Years planted in the Rhinebed, running this rift country

yet another valley reeking of onion and gasworks, the other side fading

like a range of cloudbank. Mirage or mirror — never there to begin with.