Editor’s Note
Someone described the conscious to me as “a pimple on the face of the unconscious.” The former can pester or pop like a pimple, but it is the latter that, like a face, bears the definition of a mind. When I first read Marcus Silcock’s ‘Duck Cure,’ I immediately thought of Rene Magritte’s ‘The False Mirror’ where a sky is painted in place of the white of a person’s eyes. The painting challenges me to wonder what I can discern and what I can see, what is contained and what is on the outside. Such is the image of ducks in Silcock’s poems, which one can imagine as the word ‘ducks’ standing in for the duck meat in a pate, although the poem lulls one into thinking of a pate with “ducks in it.” And then, the poem asks us to imagine these ducks in the speaker’s eyes.
When a poem makes such elliptical demands of me, I find my own gaze moving away from the pimple of the conscious to taking in the unconscious through its whole face—eyes, eyebrows, ears, nose, lips. This metaphor is not far from the playful, grotesque, microscopic gaze of the noisy unconscious in Marcus’ poems that makes maneuvers from foaming blond ales to “new lips for new lovers” and, as in the poem ‘Easter Rabbit’, people the poem as thoughts bubbling in someone’s mind. The poems, in giving us the impression that they are emergent and unfolding before us, show the moving face rather than the stillness of a pimple.
—Devanshi Khetarpal
The Bombay Literary Magazine
The country is being choked by onions. We visit the river. Ducks swirl the water. At the wooden hut they play accordions. We feel the pull. Gather the wooden cups with foaming blond beer. Gather the Basque pâté. Do you know Basque pâté? It has lots of ducks. In fact, ducks are the meal of choice around here. I was born with emerald eyes. Sometimes these eyes bring blessings. Sometimes they spell trouble. If you look into my eyes, you can see spooky action at a distance. But lately, my eyes are full of ducks. Some people like to feed them and other people like to eat them. Off in the distance, someone is shooting them. I look down at my Basque pâté. Smear the duck grease onto my crusty beard. My heart is full.
We enjoyed the more melodious sound of the French in the French Pyrenees. Also we inhaled the sulphur fumes and dipped our feet outside the 800-year old hospital. Also we ate cheese and of all cheese French cheese. Also Belgium blond ales. Part French, the gnome beer is the best blond. At the night shed, everyone linked sausages together. New lips for new lovers. We slouched against each other. Our hats full of straw. You can place the shoes in the net, he said. At 6.15 we turned on the oven to make the French tortilla. Then we examined the hoards of notes in our pockets. The stars shining like shook foil.
(for Ewa Rasala)
She harbours old ships, straw baskets and crusty bread. It is all in her head. Clicking buttons for dimes. One week folds into another. Don’t let your dog sit inside all day. He needs nature. You need to exercise your love muscles. She books an Easter break to the islands. Rides wooden trains into high mountains. Three friends for three decades. They are not yet matronly. Splotchy sunsets in skeleton trees. Your wild days over. No they are just beginning. Half moon on the horizon. The waiter platters the Easter rabbit on the table. The cracked ceiling is speckled with dream dust.
Acknowledgements
Image credits: Paolo Puck. Duck Knight. Medium: painted iron helmet, of indeterminate karmic heft. The Duck Knight is a resident of Fliffmellington. More about Puck & Fliffmellington here. © Paolo Puck.
TBLM is proud to include the noble duck as a honorary member of the corvid family.
Author | Marcus Silcock
Marcus Silcock is a high school teacher based in Barcelona, Spain, originally from Portadown, Northern Ireland. He is the co-editor of the surreal-absurd literary magazine Mercurius. His recent prose poems and stories have been featured, or is forthcoming, in publications such as Maudlin House, Willow Springs, Bending Genres, Broken Antler, and Your Impossible Voice. His latest book is Dream Dust (Broken Sleep Books, 2025), a collection of microfictions and prose poems. Find out more at www.nevermindthebeasts.com. [Text source: Marcus Silcock]
