TRADINGZONE_PUBLICATION_FINAL

TRADING 

ZONE 

TALBOT RICE GALLERY 

26 MAY – 23 JUNE 2018 

POEMS BY: TIM CRAVEN 

ARTISTS: KAT CUTLER- 

MACKENZIE/FRANCES DAVIS/ 

DARA ETEFAGHI/SAMUEL 

J H FROGGATT/HANQING & 

MONA/JACK HANDSCOMBE 

& JOE REVANS/ASAD KHAN 

& ELENI-IRA PANOURGIA/ 

LOUISA 

LOVE/DOUG 

MCCAUSLAND/QUENTIN 

SCOBIE/AMELIA TAN/ 

NESLIHAN TEPEHAN/ELLA 

YOLANDE/MATT ZUROWSKI/ 

ALLIE TURNER, FINN 

ICKLER & LUIS DE SOUSA 

CURATED BY: TESSA GIBLIN/ 

JAMES CLEGG/STUART FALLON

TRADING ZONE #1 

— 

I’m waiting for the universe to send a signal 

but we’ve not agreed upon its form 

so I interrogate each gust of wind, 

inspect the degree of lean in every blade of grass 

for clues to their own elegant semiotics. 

I expect the cipher will be delivered via tarot readings, 

decommissioned sci-fi shows, coded gravitational tugs 

at my sleeve sent from a molten darkness 

that serve to second-guess all that is fixed and human. 

To ward off the silence 

I read alongside the faint stammer of the TV 

right up to the boundaries of my nature, 

monitoring the message in Morse 

the fist of my heart knocks out. 

»»»»»»»» 

That’s why I can’t come to the bar tonight: 

I’ll be signalling to the self via the self 

using all of its terms and trapdoors. 

I’m waiting for everything to change. 

6

ight up to the 

boundaries of 

my nature, 

monitoring the 

message in 

Morse 

the fist of my 

heart knocks 

out. 

7

and every 

three-months 

our ten-pints 

of blood 

are removed 

and restocked, 

drop by drop. 

± 

8

TRADING ZONE #2 – GOOD SONS 

— 

When we’re all together like this 

we’re full of shit, 

trotting out stories that’ve been told 

till they’re all bent out of shape. 

But we pass the wine, 

we dish the potatoes 

we nod at the flashbacks 

as though it really happened that way. 

It takes about a decade for the human 

skeleton to dissolve and replace itself, 

and every three-months our ten-pints of blood 

are removed and restocked, drop by drop. 

As the sun fades outside the window 

the conversation turns 

to how he worked his hands raw 

to give us a better life 

and then he complains for the rest of the night 

that we have it too easy. 

Were it not for the lens of the eye 

and a few other lingering foetal cells 

we’d be entirely new people by now. 

9

^^ 


— 

It didn’t matter that it was only a local TV report 

exposing air pollution hotspots, 

when footage of our stretch of street 

between the chemist and the bus station 

made the evening news 

anything seemed possible. 

And when we spotted ourselves in the background 

kicking a frayed leather casey down the road 

we felt as proud as conquistadors. 

Air so rich with diesel you could taste 

the locomotives shunting behind the yard, 

and the factories that lined the train tracks 

their chimneys exhaling thick black stardust. 

Dirt, our dirt, rising into the heavens like wishes. 

10

11

»»»»»»»»»»»»»»» 

12 

you were owed 

or further back 

before the 

cognac glow 

and the 

inexplicable 

temper

TRADING ZONE #4 – DUSK 

— 

so we choose to remember 

some earlier version 

when you were ablaze 

and caught red-handed 

stretched and striving 

collecting all you thought 

»»»»»»»»» 

you were owed or further back 

before the cognac glow 

and the inexplicable temper 

before the new claws of winter 

began to show themselves 

and before the pale creep of dusk 

which has always loomed 

but now feels bigger 

and is getting bigger still 

13


— 

When you talk of a horse and I talk of a horse 

are you thinking what I’m thinking? 

What about cheval, pferd, perd, zaldi, uma? 

What lessons can we take from the first Portuguese 

who offered up flintlock muskets 

and brass bracelets to the great Oba of Benin, 

captor of the sea god, lord of the leopard king, 

as swaps for pepper, tusks, honey-coloured coral beads? 

We hammer out our discordance– 

you on an old oil can, me on a freshly undressed 

pig pelt stretched to taut transparency– 

and pass through the clashing rhythms of change, 

the ceaseless charge towards a common creole 

that might, just might reveal 

what we’re sure we’ve always known: 

hidden within the fragile negotiation of our histories 

sits a reluctant victory for us both. 

14

15

Vague entities d 

the other into a 

lexicons 


— 

I think they’re playing our song if this is the song 

we agreed is ours, I forget, yet I’ll swear 

to discredit all others who consider it theirs. 

It’s the meaning that occupies the distance 

between us, it’s the unexcavated dirt as two tunnelers converge, 

as thin as a cigarette paper, as wide as the sky. 

Vague entities dragged by the other into a new orbit of lexicons– 

mine tougher than yours, yours better at talking its way out of trouble– 

a common language as necessary as bread 

to get us closer to capturing whatever absolute truth 

is suspended in the air as delicate as hot breath. 

16

dragged by 

a new orbit of 

17


— 

There’s an overweighted question woven 

into the algorithm of the online dating 

compatibility questionnaire that imploded 

the distance between us. The one about 

whether nuclear war would be interesting. 

I guess we both answered ‘strongly agree’ – 

bored within our skulls, 

dreaming of watching the fallout unfold 

with someone new and beautiful, reloading 

fistfuls of popcorn into our aghast mouths. 

*** 

18

19

20


— 

How was work? You ask. 

I enquire how school went 

and we proceed to talk past the other– 

our speech slow, pronunciation deliberate 

as though we’re back in Spain 

and you’re guiding the barman 

through the construction 

of a Black ‘n’ Tan. 

We each make our quiet study 

of the other’s sadness: 

you the theorist, 

imprisoned in a bed-bound malaise, 

me the experimentalist, 

shitfaced out of my tiny liquid brain. 

In what might be a massive 

oversimplification of events 

we lovingly contaminate each other 

with our history of failings. 

I sympathise with tall buildings 

having to carry the weight 

≠ 

of themselves within their own walls. 

I love you and hate you 

with the static attraction 

of two rubbed balloons. 

We stand here in what will be 

our slow love to the death– 

your monkey claw 

versus my eagle’s fist. 

21

TRADING ZONE #9 – ZERO 

— 

You are driving me 

to the airport. 

How many more times will I see you 

in this world? 

The answer is scribbled on the back 

of an invoice that has fallen 

behind the sofa cushions – 

a finite number we can’t quite calculate. 

We’ve run out of words. 

We’re hungover from good Scotch. 

The radio says high interest rates & relays 

the final scores. 

»»»»»»» 

I am moving to New York, London, 

the Republic of Somewhere Else. 

It’s nothing personal. 

It’s always personal. 

Death guides us by the wrist; 

such strong hands. 

When the number hits zero 

and a phone call tells me it’s too late, 

I’ll be standing on the edge 

of important work that needs interrupting. 

Negotiating a compromise 

between theory and the empirical. 

The damn radio ceaselessly blaring 

as I search in disbelief for that invoice. 

22

It’s nothing personal. 

It’s always personal. 

23

~ 

liquid ferocity versus 

the howl of distance.


— 

I come here because 

I’ve become allergic to my own language; 

I can’t bear to write 

and the idea of speaking 

leaves a great ache in my heart. 

I even trap my thoughts 

where no light can penetrate. 

But nothing stays static for long. 

Close inspection reveals the tides are merely similar 

and when a wave collapses it’s forever archived 

with those that have fallen before. 

I watch the slow decisions of the sea, 

eavesdropping on the argument 

waged between waves and wind– 

liquid ferocity versus 

the howl of distance. 

Two untrained musicians 

hammering their detuned pipes 

in some unsyncopated surrender of call and response, 

like the way all my letters begin, 

How are you? I hope you are well. I’m fine. 

25

TRADING ZONE #11 – A HILL OUTSIDE SANTO DOMINGO 

— 

As the last of the afternoon light 

Falls off its boil and the moon waits on high 

We climb against a Rioja hill 

For a better look at the cathedral. 

Our panting leaves us 

Speechless but we sense the other’s presence. 

Small white-headed flowers, fields of yellow rapeseed, 

Greens so various each tree stands in sole identity. 

The slight disappointment at finding the summit 

Crowded with Spanish schoolkids passing around a bottle 

Waiting to share in the sunset. From up here 

The insistence that we’re the centre of the world weakens. 

A self-portrait on a hill staring down at the town. 

A form of mass worship in the language of landscape. 

In an hour we will all be staring into darkness, obliterated, 

Praying into the mirror of the night. 

The flat lushness of the valley 

Recalls my adolescence spent wastefully 

Underground in a basement snooker club; 

The acres of lush green felt, the explosions of colour, 

A spirits shelf in the backdrop 

Inverted bottles rising from their optics like stalagmites, 

Being slowly poured dry. Nostalgia: I’m probably remembering 

A time that never existed, the way ashes can’t evoke the fire. 

I love it here but what is it I love? 

The sun’s warm mouth, drinking wine for lunch, 

The brine of the olives, no-one complaining about the noise. 

Lavish in these perfect austerities. 

I know that the small amount of Spanish I’m learning 

Will atrophy back home. Synapses weaken 

And words slip away along with the taste of the wine. 

Slowly, my philosophy of no-regrets erodes.

A selfportrait 

on a hill 

staring 

down at 

the town.

Published on the occasion of 

Trading Zone at Talbot Rice Gallery, 

The University of Edinburgh 

Poems by Tim Craven 

Designed by Martin Duff 

©2018 the artists and Talbot Rice Gallery 

All rights reserved. The translation, the total 

or partial adaptation and the reproduction 

by any means (including microfilm, film 

and photocopies), as well as the electronic 

storage, are reserved in all countries. The 

publishers would like to thank all those who 

have given permission to reproduce material 

for this book. Every effort has been made to 

achieve permission for the images and texts 

in this publication. However, as in standard 

editorial policy for publications, the publisher 

remains available in the case preliminary 

agreements were not able to be made with 

copyright holders. 

Talbot Rice Gallery would like to thank all 

the students involved in this exhibition for 

their collaboration and artistic generosity. 

We gratefully acknowledge the work of our 

colleagues within the University of Edinburgh 

and Edinburgh College of Art who encourage 

and support all of our activities. 

Special thanks to Edinburgh Futures Institute 

for their generous support in helping to 

realise the exhibition. 

#talbotrice #tradingzone 

www.trg.ed.ac.uk 

+44(0)131 650 2210

#talbotrice #tradingzone 

www.trg.ed.ac.uk 

+44(0)131 650 2210

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