(Re-)Living History by Georgie Lorimer

Mr M of Telford

In a break from my usual topic of National Trust properties, a good friend of mine, Georgie Lorimer, has asked me to showcase her latest publication; (Re-)Living History: songs of Appleby, a collection of short poems based on the Sir John Moore Foundation in Appleby Magna, Leicestershire.

GL Pamphlet

(Re-)Living History is a collection of poems that explores the history of Appleby Magna, a village in Leicestershire, and of the Sir John Moore Foundation, a Grade 1 listed building dating back to the 17th Century, tracing the history of human settlements in the area.

The collection was commissioned as part of a lottery grant to improve outreach to young members of society. The programme, which unfortunately ended prematurely, included a gallery opening, featuring a film to which the ‘haresteps’ poems were to be an accompaniment. Following the programme’s end, WordsmithHQ, an online creative platform and community, which publishes online and in…

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Book IV – Naked in the Snow – 2:11

And Suddenly –

like a sonic boom
clamouring across open landscape
cutting through silent cities
splitting skies
as a white hot knife edge

like lying naked in snow
in burning scrolls of snow
that blister from between the fingers
from the curve of your shape
into rivulets of perfume
tainted perfect by your taste

– there was____with the angel
_____a multitude


For loe, the winter is past,
the raine is ouer, and gone.

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Book III – The Artist’s Kintsukuroi – 2:10

You feathered wings like he deflowered love:
Dispassionate, cold, ugly as beauty,
Beautiful as the burgeoning pustules
Of salt-scented, red sea anemones
Blossoming from an outcrop of rock.

At night, walking back to the flat above
Your studio, it was hard not to think
Of the wire feet in jars and ampullas
Of glass eyes staring like spiders, winking
Into a blank expanse of space. The clock,

Ticking static shudders from crumpled wings,
Chimed a single syrinx for nineteen
Ravens, laid out seconds, white and bare, in
Lines, like paper-chains of pale, hand-clasped dolls.


My beloued spake, and said vnto me, Rise vp,
my Loue, my faire one, and come away.

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Book III – The Artist’s Kintsukuroi – 2:9

hunting for________dog foxes
ten days be________-fore Christmas

we took a_________–shortcut through
Kelham Bridge______nature plain

and there on_______-the tree line
our horses_________were stopped short

by a hart_________-unconcerned
quite pale as_______-sienna

he held eye________-contact for
perhaps a_________.minute then

ambled on_________unhindered
later a____________swan started

from the lake_______struck the wires
i only____________-heard hart song


My beloued is like a Roe, or a yong Hart : behold,
 he standeth behind our wall, he looketh foorth at
the windowe, shewing himselfe through the lattesse.

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Book III – The Artist’s Kintsukuroi – 2:8

it was autumn when we kissed
that first time____after one
last summer storm on the beach

hair plastered against your face
and__disfigured with sand__we
were hideous as tempests
battering into the cave

maybe if we’d stayed for more
than that moment we’d have been
trapped forever____much later

i danced a fresh edge of sea
until even the soft shush
je t’aime__je t’aime__je t’aime__left
my leaps sinking into sand


The voice of my beloued! behold! hee commeth leaping
vpon the mountaines, skipping vpon the hils.

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Book III – The Artist’s Kintsukuroi – 2:7

my love sleeps__slumbers cold and damp as oldstone
lacklustre as pearls long unworn
unable to even adorn the paper-frail necks of dying duchesses
my love sleeps
her perfume wearing thin as lingering whorls of incense in wood
growing less distinct with every passing hour
until i no longer know what is perfume and what is memory
held in the fragile flickering red light of the monitor

i tried to awaken her but like ice she cracked
and the face engraved into those bro
ken slates was my own
disfigured to an unreal beauty
made unrecognisable by desire or
was it hope  ?


I charge you, O ye daughters of Ierusalem, by
the Roes, and by the hinds of the field, that ye
stirre not vp, nor awake my loue, till she please.

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Book III – The Artist’s Kintsukuroi – 2:6

I do remember you
even if you could not believe this painting
would ever hold any lingering truth
whilst you were still alive

the free boys still come to view your canvas
drawn like pilgrims in need of promise
still able to find your effortless
beauty beneath the witherings of pain
and wastelands

I began your face before the virus was visible
before the risible wrinkling disfigurement
etched into your emaciated skin
don’t let them call me dorian__you said__don’t let them name me after him


His left hand is vnder my head, and
his right hand doeth imbrace me.

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