Collected Poems, page 26
smell like a dream; but the shirt sours my scent
with the sweat and stink of fear. It’s got my number.
I poured him another shot. Speak on, my son. He did.
I’ve wanted to sport the shirt since I was a kid,
but now when I do it makes me sick, weak, paranoid.
All night above the team hotel, the moon is the ball
in a penalty kick. Tens of thousands of fierce stars
are booing me. A screech owl is the referee.
The wind’s a crowd, forty years long, bawling a filthy song
about my Wag. It’s the bloody shirt! He started to blub
like a big girl’s blouse and I felt a fleeting pity.
Don’t cry, I said, at the end of the day you’ll be stiff
in a shirt of solid gold, shining for City.
Oxfam
A silvery, pale-blue satin tie, freshwater in sunlight, 50p.
Charlotte Rhead, hand-painted oval bowl, circa 1930, perfect
for apples, pears, oranges a child’s hand takes without
a second thought, £80. Rows of boots marking time, £4.
Shoes like history lessons, £1.99. That jug, 30p, to fill with milk.
That mirror, £5, to look yourself in the eye. A commemoration
plate, 23 July 1986, marriage of HRH Prince Andrew
to Miss Sarah Ferguson, £2.99, size of a landmine.
Rare 1st ed. Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone, signed
by the author – like magic, a new school – £9000. Pen, 10p.
Pair of spectacles (longsight) £3. P/b Fieldnotes from a Catastrophe:
Report on Climate Change by Elizabeth Kolbert (hindsight) 40p.
Jade earrings and necklace, somewhere a mother, £20, brand new
gentleman’s suit, somewhere a brother, £30. All Fairtrade.
The Female Husband
Having been, in my youth, a pirate
with cutlass and parrot, a gobful of bad words
yelled at the salty air to curse a cur to the end
of a plank; having jumped ship
in a moonstruck port,
opened an evil bar – a silver coin for a full flask,
a gold coin for don’t ask – and boozed and bragged
with losers and hags for a year; having disappeared,
a new lingo’s herby zest on my tongue,
to head South on a mule, where a bandit man
took gringo me to the heart of his gang; having robbed
the bank, the coach, the train, the saloon, outdrawn
the sheriff, the deputy sheriff, the deputy’s deputy, caught
the knife of an enemy chief in my teeth; having crept away
from the camp fire, clipped upstream for a night
and a day on a stolen horse,
till I reached the tip
of the century and the lip of the next – it was nix to me
to start again with a new name, a stranger to fame.
Which was how I came to this small farm,
the love of my life
on my arm, tattooed on my wrist,
where we have cows and sheep and hens and geese
and keep good bees.
Virgil’s Bees
Bless air’s gift of sweetness, honey
from the bees, inspired by clover,
marigold, eucalyptus, thyme,
the hundred perfumes of the wind.
Bless the beekeeper
who chooses for her hives
a site near water, violet beds, no yew,
no echo. Let the light lilt, leak, green
or gold, pigment for queens,
and joy be inexplicable but there
in harmony of willowherb and stream,
of summer heat and breeze,
each bee’s body
at its brilliant flower, lover-stunned,
strumming on fragrance, smitten.
For this,
let gardens grow, where beelines end,
sighing in roses, saffron blooms, buddleia;
where bees pray on their knees, sing, praise
in pear trees, plum trees; bees
are the batteries of orchards, gardens, guard them.
Rings
I might have raised your hand to the sky
to give you the ring surrounding the moon
or looked to twin the rings of your eyes
with mine
or added a ring to the rings of a tree
by forming a handheld circle with you, thee,
or walked with you
where a ring of church-bells
looped the fields,
or kissed a lipstick ring on your cheek,
a pressed flower,
or met with you
in the ring of an hour,
and another hour . . .
I might
have opened your palm to the weather, turned, turned,
till your fingers were ringed in rain
or held you close,
they were playing our song,
in the ring of a slow dance
or carved our names
in the rough ring of a heart
or heard the ring of an owl’s hoot
as we headed home in the dark
or the ring, first thing,
of chorusing birds
waking the house
or given the ring of a boat, rowing the lake,
or the ring of swans, monogamous, two,
or the watery rings made by the fish
as they leaped and splashed
or the ring of the sun’s reflection there . . .
I might have tied
a blade of grass,
a green ring for your finger,
or told you the ring of a sonnet by heart
or brought you a lichen ring,
found on a warm wall,
or given a ring of ice in winter
or in the snow
sung with you the five gold rings of a carol
or stolen a ring of your hair
or whispered the word in your ear
that brought us here,
where nothing and no one is wrong,
and therefore I give you this ring.
Invisible Ink
When Anon, no one now,
knew for sure the cu and koo
he spelled from his mouth
could put the tribe in sight
of a call they’d met before
in their ears, the air ever after was
invisible ink.
Then, hey nonny no,
the poets came; rhyme, metre,
metaphor, there for the taking
for every chancer or upstart crow
in hedgerow, meadow, forest, pool;
shared words, vast same poem
for all to write.
I snap a twig
from a branch as I walk, sense
the nib of it dip
and sip, dip and sip, a first draft of the gift –
anonymous yet – texted from heart
to lips; my hand dropping a wand
into this fluent, glittery stream.
Atlas
Give him strength, crouched on one knee in the dark
with the Earth on his back,
balancing the seven seas,
the oceans, five, kneeling
in ruthless, empty, endless space
for grace
of whale, dolphin, sea-lion, shark, seal, fish, every kind
which swarms the waters. Hero.
Hard, too,
heavy to hold, the mountains;
burn of his neck and arms taking the strain –
Andes, Himalayas, Kilimanjaro –
give him strength, he heaves them high
to harvest rain from skies for streams
and rivers, he holds the rivers,
holds the Amazon, Ganges, Nile, hero, hero.
Hired by no one, heard in a myth only, lonely,
he carries a planet’s weight,
islands and continents,
the billions there, his ears the last to hear
their language, music, gunfire, prayer;
give him strength, strong girth, for elephants,
tigers, snow leopards, polar bears, bees, bats,
the last ounce of a hummingbird.
Broad-backed
in infinite, bleak black,
he bears where Earth is, nowhere,
head bowed, a genuflection to the shouldered dead,
the unborn’s hero, he is love’s lift;
sometimes the moon rolled to his feet, given.
John Barleycorn
Although I knew they’d laid him low,
thrashed him, hung him out to dry,
had tortured him with water and with fire,
then dashed his brains out on a stone,
I saw him in the Seven Stars
and in the Plough.
I saw him in the Crescent Moon
and in the Beehive and the Barley Mow,
my green man, newly-born, alive, John Barleycorn.
I saw him seasonally, at harvest time
in the Wheatsheaf and the Load of Hay.
I saw him, heard his laughter,
in the Star and Garter, in the Fountain, in the Bell,
the Corn Dolly, the Woolpack and the Flowing Spring.
I saw him in the Rising Sun,
the Moon and Sixpence and the Evening Star.
I saw him in the Rose and Crown,
my green man, ancient, barely born, John Barleycorn.
He moved through Britain, bright and dark
like ale in glass. I saw him run across the fields
towards the Gamekeeper, the Poacher and the Blacksmith’s Arms.
He knew the Ram, the Lamb, the Lion and the Swan,
White Hart, Blue Boar, Red Dragon, Fox and Hounds.
I saw him in the Three Goats’ Heads,
the Black Bull and Dun Cow,
Shoulder of Mutton, Griffin, Unicorn,
green man, beer borne, good health, long life, John Barleycorn.
I saw him festively, when people sang
for victory, or love, or New Year’s Eve,
in the Raven and the Bird in Hand,
the Golden Eagle, the Kingfisher, the Dove.
I saw him grieve, or mourn, a shadow at the bar
in the Falcon, the Marsh Harrier, the Sparrow Hawk,
the Barn Owl, Cuckoo, Heron, Nightingale;
a pint of bitter in the Jenny Wren
for my green man, alone, forlorn, John Barleycorn.
Britain’s soul, as the crow flies so flew he.
I saw him in the Hollybush, the Yew Tree,
the Royal Oak, the Ivy Bush, the Linden.
I saw him in the Forester, the Woodman.
He history, I saw him in the Wellington, the Nelson,
Greyfriars Bobby, Wicked Lady, Bishop’s Finger.
I saw him in the Ship, the Golden Fleece, the Flask,
the Railway Inn, the Robin Hood and Little John,
my green man, legend strong, re-born, John Barleycorn.
Scythed down, he crawled, knelt, stood.
I saw him in the Crow, Newt, Stag, all weathers,
noon or night. I saw him in the Feathers, Salutation,
Navigation, Knot, the Bricklayer’s Arms, Hop Inn,
the Maypole and the Regiment, the Horse and Groom,
the Dog and Duck, the Flag. And where he supped,
the past lived still; and where he sipped, the glass brimmed full.
He was in the King’s Head and Queen’s Arms, I saw him there,
green man, well-born, spellbound, charming one, John Barleycorn.
Hive
All day we leave and arrive at the hive,
concelebrants. The hive is love,
what we serve, preserve, avowed in Latin murmurs
as we come and go, skydive, freighted
with light, to where we thrive, us, in time’s hum,
on history’s breath,
industrious, identical . . .
there suck we,
alchemical, nectar-slurred, pollen-furred,
the world’s mantra us, our blurry sound
along the thousand scented miles to the hive,
haven, where we unpack our foragers;
or heaven-stare, drone-eyed, for a queen’s star;
or nurse or build in milky, waxy caves,
the hive, alive, us – how we behave.
Nile
When I went, wet, wide, white and blue, my name Nile,
you’d kneel near to net fish, or would wade
where I shallowed, or swim in my element,
or sing a lament for the child drowned where I was too deep,
too fast; but once you found, in my reeds,
a boy in a basket.
I gushed, fresh lake, salt sea,
utterly me, source to mouth, without me, drought, nought,
for my silt civilized –
from my silt, pyramids.
Where I went, undammed, talented,
food, wine, work, craft, art;
no Nile, nil, null, void.
I poured, full spate, roared,
voiced water, calling you in from dust, thirst, burn,
to where you flourished; Pharaoh, firstborn . . .
now Cleopatra’s faint taste still on my old tongue.
Water
Your last word was water,
which I poured in a hospice plastic cup, held
to your lips – your small sip, half-smile, sigh –
then, in the chair beside you,
fell asleep.
Fell asleep for three lost hours,
only to waken, thirsty, hear then see
a magpie warn in a bush outside –
dawn so soon – and swallow from your still-full cup.
Water. The times I’d call as a child
for a drink, till you’d come, sit on the edge
of the bed in the dark, holding my hand,
just as we held hands now and you died.
A good last word.
Nights since I’ve cried, but gone
to my own child’s side with a drink, watched
her gulp it down then sleep. Water.
What a mother brings
through darkness still
to her parched daughter.
Drams
The snows melt early,
meeting river and valley,
greeting the barley.
*
In Glen Strathfarrar
a stag dips to the river
where rainclouds gather.
*
Dawn, offered again,
and heather sweetens the air.
I sip at nothing.
*
A cut-glass tumbler,
himself splashing the amber . . .
now I remember.
*
Beautiful hollow
by the broad bay; safe haven;
their Gaelic namings.
*
It was Talisker
on your lips, peppery, sweet,
I tasted, kisser.
*
Under the table
she drank him, my grandmother,
Irish to his Scotch.
*
Barley, water, peat,
weather, landscape, history;
malted, swallowed neat.
*
Out on Orkney’s boats,
spicy, heather-honey notes
into our glad throats.
*
Allt Dour Burn’s water –
pure as delight, light’s lover –
burn of the otter.
*
The gifts to noses –
bog myrtle, aniseed, hay,
attar of roses.
*
Empty sherry casks,
whisky – sublime accident –
a Spanish accent.
*
Drams with a brother
and doubles with another . . .
blether then bother.
*
The perfume of place,
seaweed scent on peaty air,
heather dabbed with rain.
*
With Imlah, Lochhead,
Dunn, Jamie, Paterson, Kay,
Morgan, with MacCaig.
*
Not prose, poetry;
crescendo of mouth music;
not white wine, whisky.
*
Eight bolls of malt, to
Friar John Cor, wherewith to
make aquavitae.
*
A recurring dream:
men in hats taking a dram
on her coffin lid.
*
The sad flit from here
to English soil, English air,
from whisky to beer.
*
For joy, grief, trauma,
for the newly-wed, the dead –
bitter-sweet water.
*
A quaich; Highland Park;
our shared sips in the gloaming
by the breathing loch.
*
The unfinished dram
on the hospice side-table
as the sun came up.
*
What the heron saw,
the homesick salmon’s shadow,
shy in this whisky.
Moniack Mhor
Something is dealing from a deck of cards,
face up, seven, a week of mornings, today’s
revealing the hills at Moniack Mhor, shrugging off
their mists. A sheepdog barks six fields away;
I see the farm from here.
Twelve-month cards, each one thumbed, flipped,
weathered in its way – this the eighth, harvest-time,
a full moon like a trump, a magic trick.
It rose last night above this house, affirmative.
I sensed your answer – hearts.
Or a single hour is a smiling Jack, a diamond,
or a spade learning a grave; charms or dark lessons.
Something is shuffling; the soft breath of Moniack Mhor
on the edge of utterance, I know it, the verbs of swifts
riffling the air
and the road turning itself into the loch, a huge ace
into which everything folds. Here is the evening,
displayed then dropped to drift to the blazon of barley, bracken,
heather. Something is gifting this great gold gathering of cloud;
a continual farewell.
The English Elms
Seven Sisters in Tottenham,
long gone, except for their names,
