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Concrete Jungle
Feb. 1st, 2021 01:44 pm A few years ago now gardening expert and TV personality Monty Don did a series called 'Around the World in 80 Gardens', focussing on stunning or unusual gardens on all the different continents. It was fascinating learning about places I'd never come across before, and my favourite of all was a garden called Las Posas ('the pools') near the town of Xilitla in Mexico. Here, in the middle of the 20th century, English surrealist, writer, gardener and poet Edward James set about creating a fabulous garden from the surrounding jungle. He never completed it, but what's left is a strange, compelling mix of odd organic concrete forms, steps, paths, archways, and towering green plants. I've never been, but it's top of my list for the days when we can travel again.
Inspired by the gardens, by Edward James' story, and by strong hints of a homosexual relationship between him and his head gardener, I wrote an experimental prose-poem flash fiction called 'Concrete Jungle'. The result was almost as strange as the garden and quite unlike most of my writing, but I rather liked it and was delighted when it was published in the British online magazine Ink Sweat & Tears. It's no longer available on their site so I thought I'd re-post it here, along with a picture of one of the features it refers to: giant hands that appear to be planted and growing out of the soil.
There's a brief description of the garden (and more pictures) in the Guardian, here. Picture credit: Sophia Hares/the Guardian.
***
Inspired by the gardens, by Edward James' story, and by strong hints of a homosexual relationship between him and his head gardener, I wrote an experimental prose-poem flash fiction called 'Concrete Jungle'. The result was almost as strange as the garden and quite unlike most of my writing, but I rather liked it and was delighted when it was published in the British online magazine Ink Sweat & Tears. It's no longer available on their site so I thought I'd re-post it here, along with a picture of one of the features it refers to: giant hands that appear to be planted and growing out of the soil.
There's a brief description of the garden (and more pictures) in the Guardian, here. Picture credit: Sophia Hares/the Guardian.
***
Concrete Jungle
Clutch and thrust of the concrete jungle reminds me of you. Roots clutch at the soil, fingers of men buried alive, gasping their last into the thick brown earth. Stems thrust lightwards like the cocks of men at play, criss-crossing, bobbing, stretching towards their life. Leaves clutch the sky, stitched to the heavens, your fingers in my hair.
Your body a brown arrow as you dive, diamond drops capturing the light and holding it to ransom on your skin. You laugh, the sound echoing down the waterfall, smashed on the rocks below. It could so easily be you; I peer uneasily. You eel past my legs underwater, skin brushing skin, and laugh again. Your voice as tantalising as your touch, promising more. Your teeth startling piano keys against your black moustache, but the piano does not make such sweet music as your voice.
You emerge, a salmon leaping for the land, scattering the diamonds which wither, releasing their pent-up sun back to the sun. The sun warms your naked body as you lie, head pillowed on my chest, my heart speaking to your ear.
Sudden flash of blue amongst the twisted shadows of fig trees: a twisting river of butterflies. Like sun on moving water they come out of the forest: five, six, a dozen, their wings reflecting the reflection of the sky. They settle on your torso, painting it with light: cornflowers in coffee, blue eyes in a brown face.
You raise your hand to brush them away. I catch it, bring it to my head. Your fingers taking root in my hair. We are complete.
