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Fiona Templeton





The First Banishment
                            from Neither Out Nor In


a wild day
and all the skies at once

weather
lays its hands on me

tilting me
gripping

on a ferry facing front
blown inside and out

his mouth made small
by short breath
an old sheepskin coat

his cap covers
whether the pain
is where he’s leaving
or where he’s going

drops close my eyes
drooping with distance

the water
shifts

green
shifts like weeds
shifts like his hair
under it

knocking in
to dock

another house
another face
I see where I’m not

I see the hand
holding me to the shore
I cross

dead man below
the living above
no different

red berries
seam the cracks








From The Blue – Scene 23 (Speaker A)

such clouds
that say
blue sky

such a small word
such pulling

that says
from various parts of my body
and from where in my body
I feel them
and think them and know them

such a shaft of colour
that reminds me

not the blue of sky
but others
of cold lips
or swollen lips

the fact that hair keeps growing

cyanotic interference
runs lips dry

with blowing
with who
with where

intercession
girl into a room
versions of myself
stand around

one looks out of the window
one has a hand on the table
I’ve been here before

and how questioningly
I turn to me
sitting down

and yet I know
the others
pay no obvious attention
and though I don’t see their faces
it wouldn’t make a difference

except that this way I see them
as I see out of myself

except from myself who looks at me
and is me
and I’m not sure what I see
on the face I look out of

I too sit down
I’m welcome

the long shafts of evening
withdraw from the corners

and our gazes
that is, the directions of our heads

draw to the blue window

some only for a moment
letting it fall
on their profiles
their hair
on a hand

sweet talk up
excess
but calm

and I must go

threatening
at the window

there’s only the window
mesmerizing

bleaching colour

and I must go in
turn
hold a hand
turn

close

turn

into the unfascinating night








From The Blue – Scene 24 (speaker B)


what’s at stake play
all little misses
and all the mornings after
gulls and bells
and burnmedown
in a theatre of clamor

all up
and I’m circling
at the bottom
in the turning
of the outside

trombone thunderstorm
torpedo
what’m I
circling upon

left outside
take this
it’s all I

could cover with one hand
biting into
the century
as the one knot I am

and drips
with cream or cosmetic
blood

as all
language
is not naming
but is all naming violence

dying diving
out of clarity

and the gulls
clear without naming
red on their beaks





Fiona Templeton is a poet and director. She lives in New York but spends a lot of time in Scotland where she was born and grew up. Her books include The Medead, Cells of Release and You-The City, all published by Roof;  Elements of Performance Art published by Raven Row, and London from Sun & Moon Press. She co-founded the Theatre of Mistakes in London in the 1970s, and is Artistic Director of The Relationship in New York. Fiona has received Fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts, New York Foundation for the Arts, the Asian Cultural Council, and the Woodberry Poetry Room at Harvard, as well as multiple theatre commissions internationally. Her poetry often uses oral methods of composition, and she has long been interested in the female voice. In addition to multiple voices and languages, her performance work particularly considers space and the audience. She is working on a Scottish/Japanese diptych.