Basil Bunting, 'Briggflatts'

Here is the stanza from Basil Bunting's long poem Briggflatts that I mentioned yesterday:

Rain rinses the road
the bull streams and laments.
Sour rye rises from the hob
with cream and black tea,
meat, crust and crumb.
Her parents in bed
the children dry their clothes.
He has untied the tape
of her striped flannel drawers
before the range. Naked
on the pricked rag mat
his fingers comb
thatch of his manhood's home.

I started writing an essay about this very odd piece of writing today. Briggflatts is a long, autobiographical poem of the Pennines, and some other things, and it is very beautiful. When I work out precisely what it is that I'm trying to say- something to do with eroticism, secrecy and cadence, with reference to Auden's Paid on Both Sides- I'll explain further.

The 'T' key on my laptop is being a pain in the arse so it's difficult to write much. It reminds me of the story of Deleuze's fingernails.