after the installation by Di\u00e9b\u00e9do Francis K\u00e9r\u00e9<\/em><\/span><\/p>\nSo here's where all those plastic straws
\ndiscarded from my boyhood sugar drinks
\nfinally found a place they could retire.<\/p>\nBent and pinched, looped and bundled up,
\nthey decorate the honeycomb cave with
\ncrowd-sourced, multi-coloured porcupinery.<\/p>\n
Someone made a spider\u2019s web in the corner.
\nAnother built a pitch fork all in tubes.
\nThe birth canal is spiked in rainbow hues.<\/p>\n
An infant gums the straws on the other side,
\nher green eyes signal \u201cgo\u201d to new experience
\nwhile tweenies wrap wrists in pink and blue.<\/p>\n
At night, the straws convene secret communities,
\nswap places in small but hard-to-prove ways,
\ntell stories of the old days, sing folk tunes.<\/p>\n
Sometimes they catch the breeze of an open vent,
\nand whistle like reed beds, these lithe discarded
\nchoristers, bright wailing rubbish, banshee tubes.<\/pre>\n<![CDATA[<a href=\"https:\/\/soundcloud.com\/peakepoetics\/banshee-tubes?in=peakepoetics\/sets\/sensing-spaces-wandering-words\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Listen to \"Banshee Tubes\" read aloud.<\/a><\/noframes><\/p>\n<p><strong>The Doorway from Portugal<\/strong><br \/>\n<span style=\"margin-left: 2em;\"> <em>after the installation by Eduardo Souto de Moura<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n<pre>The Brandenburg Gate in no-man's land,<br \/>\na claim jumper's mark in the Wild West,<br \/>\nentry to an invisible garden, ruined city,<br \/>\nportal into the future or the past.<\/p>\n<p>Space can be described by what it is not,<br \/>\nthe no-thing taking place behind your eyes.<br \/>\nWho will you be when you pass through?<br \/>\nAsk your lover who they want on the other side.<\/p>\n<p>A suspension bridge from floor to floor,<br \/>\ntwo buttresses flying into each other at speed--<br \/>\nmake of this arch a body, the body an arch,<br \/>\nbring the tips of the fingers together to pray.<\/p>\n<p>This is the neck of the womb, gap in the armour,<br \/>\ncrack in the mirror that reveals the trick,<br \/>\nmark of welcome, and way through the rock,<br \/>\nstart and end of the tunnel, all at once.<\/p>\n<p>When you are ready, an arch will emerge,<br \/>\none day, somewhere you least expect it.<br \/>\nClose your eyes and walk into the centre,<br \/>\nstand there, chanting quietly: I am the door.<\/pre>\n<noframes><a href=\"https:\/\/soundcloud.com\/peakepoetics\/the-doorway-from-portugal?in=peakepoetics\/sets\/sensing-spaces-wandering-words\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Listen to \"The Doorway from Portugal\" read aloud.<\/a><\/noframes><\/p>\n<p><strong>Exhibit: Childhood<\/strong><br \/>\n<span style=\"margin-left: 2em;\"> <em>after the installation by Pezo von Ellrichshausen<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n<pre>Come build a better tree house<br \/>\nfor the children past their prime,<\/p>\n<p>indoors, on stilts, inside the gilt-<br \/>\ntrimmed tearooms of old Empire.<\/p>\n<p>Lift us up from the marble floor,<br \/>\ninto a pine-scented elsewhere,<\/p>\n<p>eye-to-eye with entertained angels,<br \/>\ntweeze us from mid-life into mid-air.<\/p>\n<p>Here we can see ourselves from afar,<br \/>\nlook down on our own balding heads.<\/p>\n<p>Come play with me, and be my friend,<br \/>\nstranded on a ship within a room.<\/p>\n<p>No girls allowed. No boys allowed.<br \/>\nSaying the password is the only way in.<\/p>\n<p>We sand the rails with our fingerprints.<br \/>\nWe leave our younger self when we descend.<\/pre>\n<noframes><a href=\"https:\/\/soundcloud.com\/peakepoetics\/exhibit-childhood?in=peakepoetics\/sets\/sensing-spaces-wandering-words\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Listen to \"Exhibit: Childhood\" read aloud.<\/a><\/noframes><br \/>\n<strong>The Dance<\/strong><br \/>\n<span style=\"margin-left: 2em;\"> <em>after the installation by Kengo Kuma<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n<blockquote><p>\"...it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves\"<br \/>\n<span style=\"margin-left: 2em;\"> -Walt Whitman<\/span><\/p><\/blockquote>\n<pre>What do you get when you remove flame-light<br \/>\nfrom its outline? What is the shape of fire<br \/>\nwithout fire? Bend your wire spectacles<br \/>\ninto ellipses, mandorlas. Make a chain-<br \/>\nlink fence from scented bamboo. These<br \/>\nare the questions, lit from beneath.<br \/>\nHere is a patchwork quilt made only<br \/>\nfrom stitching, the edges remember<br \/>\ntheir serpentine, almondine shape.<br \/>\nIf wood could belly-dance, see<br \/>\nhere the strings of the lute,<br \/>\nsheen of net on water,<br \/>\nsteam from a grate,<br \/>\nghosts from below<br \/>\ntangled in<br \/>\nsizzling<br \/>\nlight.<\/pre>\n<noframes><a href=\"https:\/\/soundcloud.com\/peakepoetics\/the-dance?in=peakepoetics\/sets\/sensing-spaces-wandering-words\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Listen to \"The Dance\" read aloud.<\/a><\/noframes><\/p>\n<p><strong>Underworld<\/strong><br \/>\n<span style=\"margin-left: 2em;\"> <em>after the installation by Grafton Architects<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n<pre>Under the white blade of the guillotine,<br \/>\nunder the meat hammer's flat insistence,<br \/>\nwe amble, making mincemeat of the light.<\/p>\n<p>Under the watchtower's square black eye,<br \/>\npacing out laps in the rectangular yard,<br \/>\nwe tread each other's shadows in a line.<\/p>\n<p>Pour me a basilica, mould me a bunker,<br \/>\nchip right angles into rock-face defiance,<br \/>\nthrow a square pot for shade to germinate.<\/p>\n<p>Under the cathedral's brutal restructure,<br \/>\nwe stand and spread our arms in crucifix,<br \/>\ndivide four panes etched into the floor.<\/p>\n<p>We are the lunar eclipse at well-bottom,<br \/>\npebble dropped into the sewer's grate, we<br \/>\nturn our face, to see reflections congregate.<\/pre>\n<noframes><a href=\"https:\/\/soundcloud.com\/peakepoetics\/underworld?in=peakepoetics\/sets\/sensing-spaces-wandering-words\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Listen to \"Underworld\" read aloud.<\/a><\/noframes><br \/>\n<strong>Please Do Not Walk on the Stones<\/strong><br \/>\n<span style=\"margin-left: 2em;\"> <em>after the installation by Li Xiaodong<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n<pre>Lost in a woodland in London,<br \/>\nwe put on commuter demeanour,<br \/>\nstand right, stride left, corner<br \/>\nthe twiggy labyrinth quietly.<\/p>\n<p>At the room's impossible end,<br \/>\na reflecting garden of stones<br \/>\nflaunt their tangible crunch<br \/>\nunderfoot, but are prohibited:<\/p>\n<p>\"Please, do not walk on the stones.\"<br \/>\nThese are special stones, symbolic<br \/>\nstones, unlike you, they are not<br \/>\nto be disturbed, as they watch<\/p>\n<p>themselves do stony things in the<br \/>\nfloor-to-ceiling made-for-stones-<br \/>\nonly mirror. Sometimes matter<br \/>\nmatters more than mind, and this <\/p>\n<p>time, stones win. Turn back into<br \/>\nthe forest that is the middle<br \/>\nof your life, the flaking bark<br \/>\nand mossy smell you navigate,<\/p>\n<p>turn back with a pebble's knowledge<br \/>\nin your shoe, shuffling your way<br \/>\ninto tunnels and bus queues,<br \/>\nwearing your face like a stone.<\/pre>\n<noframes><a href=\"https:\/\/soundcloud.com\/peakepoetics\/please-do-not-walk-on-the?in=peakepoetics\/sets\/sensing-spaces-wandering-words\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Listen to \"Please Do Not Walk on the Stones\" read aloud.<\/a><\/noframes><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p>About As one of a dozen poets commissioned by Ekphrasis, I wrote poems in response to the Sensing Spaces architectural exhibit at the Royal Academy. We all read these poems in situ at the RA on March 7th, 2014 as part of an evening of “Wandering Words”. The Poems Banshee Tubes after the installation by …<\/p>\n<p class=\"read-more\"> <a class=\"\" href=\"https:\/\/www.robertpeake.com\/poetry\/sensing-spaces\"> <span class=\"screen-reader-text\">Sensing Spaces, Wandering Words<\/span> Read More »<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":5866,"parent":102090,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"site-sidebar-layout":"default","site-content-layout":"default","ast-global-header-display":"","ast-banner-title-visibility":"","ast-main-header-display":"","ast-hfb-above-header-display":"","ast-hfb-below-header-display":"","ast-hfb-mobile-header-display":"","site-post-title":"","ast-breadcrumbs-content":"","ast-featured-img":"","footer-sml-layout":"","theme-transparent-header-meta":"default","adv-header-id-meta":"","stick-header-meta":"","header-above-stick-meta":"","header-main-stick-meta":"","header-below-stick-meta":"","footnotes":""},"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.robertpeake.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/5860"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.robertpeake.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.robertpeake.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.robertpeake.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.robertpeake.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=5860"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/www.robertpeake.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/5860\/revisions"}],"up":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.robertpeake.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/102090"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.robertpeake.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/5866"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.robertpeake.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=5860"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}]]>