Collected Poems, page 5
The days are mosaic, telling a story for the years
to come. I suck my thumb. New skin thickens
on my skull, to keep the moments I have lived before
locked in. I will lose my memory, learn words
which barely stretch to cover what remains unsaid. Mantras
of consolation come from those who keep my portrait
in their eyes. And when they disappear, I cry.
Sanctuary
This morning you are not incurable, not yet, can walk
with your disease inside you, at its centre
your small pearl of hope, along the entrance path
where tall, cool pillars hold the sky. Ahead,
the archway, white, benevolent; calm doctors
who will dress you in clean robes. Now you cry
tears you have not wept for years. Relief.
Already, being here, you half believe, arriving
in Reception, acquiescent, giving your old clothes
up to the flames, giving your name. Thank you,
yes, yes, the anxious words like worry beads.
You will do as you are told, anything, accept
that the waters are holy, work wonders;
for a perfect fleshy shell exchange a golden ear.
You’re sick. This placid world of thoughtful space,
philosophy, design, has taken you in. Forget.
Forget how you came here, what suffering
you endured to wait in the Circular Cure Centre
for a nurse, your heart reciting its own small number.
I want to be well, recall this treatment miles away,
pass pain on the street like a stranger. Please.
In the Library your shaking hand takes up a book,
thumbs miracles. These men were saved, prescriptions
scrawled upon their dreams. You read of venom,
oil, cream, a rooster’s blood. Later your shadow
precedes you into the Chamber of Dreams. You’ll dream
about yourself, chant your therapy as dawn arrives
with light for the blind stone eyes of statues.
Breathe in. Out. In. Sometimes you wake in darkness,
holding your own hand as if you will stay forever.
Think again. The months flew, that year in the Sanctuary
when you were cured. Remember a fool’s face
pulling a tongue in a mirror, your dedication
carved in the Temple of Tributes. Its blatant lie
blushed on marble, one sunset as you died elsewhere.
An Old Atheist Places His Last Bet
Ace in the hole; ten, jack, queen on the baize.
As far as I can see, you’ve got nothing, mate.
My old eyes are tired and it’s getting late,
I have as many chips left as days.
Outside this window, a willow tree sways
in the evening breeze. Deal the cards. I wait
for a king as shadows lengthen; hesitate,
call the last bet. I think again, then raise.
Silence. I leave my card face down and stare
at the empty room. It is turning in space
slowly, sadly, and there is nothing there . . .
and opposite me, the dealer’s vacant place
piled high with chips. We gamblers do not care,
win or lose. I turn the card, turn my poker face.
Strange Language in Night Fog
Not only the dark,
but a sudden mist also,
made where they walked an alien place.
Beasts moaned from nowhere,
the cows the moon would have,
and, to their left, the pond
had drowned itself.
They stopped,
wobbling on straight lines,
and watched the Common
playing hide-and-seek behind the fog.
A bush nipped out,
then disappeared again;
a tree stepped backwards.
Even their own hands
waved at their faces, teasing.
But it was a strange language,
spoken only yards away,
which turned the night into a dream;
although they told themselves
there must be a word for home,
if they only knew it.
I Live Here Now
I live here now, the place where the pond
was a doll’s mirror and the trees were bits of twig.
I invented it, that wee dog barking
at the postman (an old soldier with one arm, still)
and the path of small grey pebbles
in the avenue of flowers. Tall daisies, buttercups.
It nearly got a prize, balanced on topsoil,
carried up to the Big Tent where grown-ups peered
over the rim of the world. Highly Recommended.
Being grown yourself was half a dream, warm breath
clouding the ruby tomatoes, a sudden
flash of sixpence on the bright green grass.
Come in. Take the window-seat. The clouds
are cotton wool on pipe-cleaners, cunningly placed,
which never rain. In the distance
you can see Pincushion Hill. That’s me, waving,
at the top. I live here now
and sometimes wave back, over the fields, the years.
Homesick
When we love, when we tell ourselves we do,
we are pining for first love, somewhen,
before we thought of wanting it. When we rearrange
the rooms we end up living in, we are looking
for first light, the arrangement of light,
that time, before we knew to call it light.
Or talk of music, when we say
we cannot talk of it, but play again
C major, A flat minor, we are straining
for first sound, what we heard once,
then, in lost chords, wordless languages.
What country do we come from? This one?
The one where the sun burns
when we have night? The one
the moon chills; elsewhere, possible?
Why is our love imperfect,
music only echo of itself,
the light wrong?
We scratch in dust with sticks,
dying of homesickness
for when, where, what.
The Dummy
Balancing me with your hand up my back, listening
to the voice you gave me croaking for truth, you keep
me at it. Your lips don’t move, but your eyes look
desperate as hell. Ask me something difficult.
Maybe we could sing together? Just teach me
the right words, I learn fast. Don’t stare like that.
I’ll start where you leave off. I can’t tell you
anything if you don’t throw me a cue line. We’re dying
a death right here. Can you dance? No. I don’t suppose
you’d be doing this if you could dance. Right? Why do you
keep me in that black box? I can ask questions too,
you know. I can see that worries you. Tough.
So funny things happen to everyone on the way to most places.
Come on. You can do getter than that, can’t you?
Model Village
See the cows placed just so on the green hill.
Cows say Moo. The sheep look like little clouds,
don’t they? Sheep say Baa. Grass is green
and the pillar-box is red. Wouldn’t it be strange
if grass were red? This is the graveyard
where the villagers bury their dead. Miss Maiden
lives opposite in her cottage. She has a cat.
The cat says Miaow. What does Miss Maiden say?
I poisoned her but no one knows. Mother, I said,
drink your tea. Arsenic. Four sugars. He waited
years for me, but she had more patience. One day,
he didn’t come back. I looked in the mirror,
saw her grey hair, her lips of reproach. I found
the idea in a paperback. I loved him, you see,
who never so much as laid a finger. Perhaps now
you’ve learnt your lesson, she said, pouring
another cup. Yes, Mother, yes. Drink it all up.
The white fence around the farmyard
looks as though it’s smiling. The hens are tidying
the yard. Hens say Cluck and give us eggs. Pigs
are pink and give us sausages. Grunt, they say.
Wouldn’t it be strange if hens laid sausages?
Hee-haw, says the donkey. The farmhouse
is yellow and shines brightly in the sun. Notice
the horse. Horses say Neigh. What does the Farmer say?
To tell the truth, it haunts me. I’m a simple man,
not given to fancy. The flock was ahead of me,
the dog doing his job like a good ’un. Then
I saw it. Even the animals stiffened in fright. Look,
I understand the earth, treat death and birth
the same. A fistful of soil tells me plainly
what I need to know. You plant, you grow, you reap.
But since then, sleep has been difficult. When I shovel
deep down, I’m searching for something. Digging, desperately.
There’s the church and there’s the steeple.
Open the door and there are the people. Pigeons
roost in the church roof. Pigeons say Coo.
The church bells say Ding-dong, calling
the faithful to worship. What God says
can be read in the Bible. See the postman’s dog
waiting patiently outside church. Woof, he says.
Amen, say the congregation. What does Vicar say?
Now they have all gone, I shall dress up
as a choirboy. I have shaved my legs. How smooth
they look. Smooth, pink knees. If I am not good,
I shall deserve punishment. Perhaps the choirmistress
will catch me smoking behind the organ. A good boy
would own up. I am naughty. I can feel
the naughtiness under my smock. Smooth, pink naughtiness.
The choirmistress shall wear boots and put me
over her lap. I tremble and dissolve into childhood.
Quack, say the ducks on the village pond. Did you
see the frog? Frogs say Croak. The village-folk shop
at the butcher’s, the baker’s, the candlestick maker’s.
The Grocer has a parrot. Parrots say Pretty Polly
and Who’s a pretty boy then? The Vicar is nervous
of parrots, isn’t he? Miss Maiden is nervous
of Vicar and the Farmer is nervous of everything.
The library clock says Tick-tock. What does the Librarian say?
Ssssh. I’ve seen them come and go over the years,
my ears tuned for every whisper. This place
is a refuge, the volumes breathing calmly
on their still shelves. I glide between them
like a doctor on his rounds, know their cases. Tomes
do no harm, here I’m safe. Outside is chaos,
lives with no sense of plot. Behind each front door
lurks truth, danger. I peddle fiction. Believe
you me, the books in everyone’s head are stranger . . .
The Brink of Shrieks
for S.B.
Don’t ask me how, but I’ve fetched up
living with him. You can laugh. It’s no joke
from where I’m sitting. Up to the back teeth.
That walk. You feel ashamed going out. So-and-so’s
method of perambulation, he calls it. My arse.
Thank God for plastic hips. He’ll be queuing.
And the language. What can you say? Nothing.
Those wee stones make me want to brain him,
so they do. They’re only the tip of the iceberg.
Time who stopped? says I. Ash-grey vests,
you try cleaning them. Heartbreaking. Too many nights
lying in yon ditch, counting. God’s truth, I boil.
See him, he’s not uttered a peep in weeks.
And me? I’m on the brink of shrieks.
Recognition
Things get away from one.
I’ve let myself go, I know.
Children? I’ve had three
and don’t even know them.
I strain to remember a time
when my body felt lighter.
Years. My face is swollen
with regrets. I put powder on,
but it flakes off. I love him,
through habit, but the proof
has evaporated. He gets upset.
I tried to do all the essentials
on one trip. Foolish, yes,
but I was weepy all morning.
Quiche. A blond boy swung me up
in his arms and promised the earth.
You see, this came back to me
as I stood on the scales.
I wept. Shallots. In the window,
creamy ladies held a pose
which left me clogged and old.
The waste. I’d forgotten my purse,
fumbled; the shopgirl gaped at me,
compassionless. Claret. I blushed.
Cheese. Kleenex. It did happen.
I lay in my slip on wet grass,
laughing. Years. I had to rush out,
blind in a hot flush, and bumped
into an anxious, dowdy matron
who touched the cold mirror
and stared at me. Stared
and said I’m sorry sorry sorry.
Absolutely
Thank you. Yes please. After you. Don’t mind
my asking this, but is politeness strange?
Don’t mention it. What do you think yourself?
The politeness of strangers worries me,
like surgical gloves. Irrational, I know.
Nasties in childhood or the woodshed.
How very interesting. Magritte opened the door
to a journalist, politely bowed him in, then
booted him up the arse right across the room.
And How Are We Today?
The little people in the radio are picking on me
again. It is sunny, but they are going to make it
rain. I do not like their voices, they have voices
like cold tea with skin on. I go O O O.
The flowers are plastic. There is all dust
on the petals. I go Ugh. Real flowers die,
but at least they are a comfort to us all.
I know them by name, listen. Rose. Tulip. Lily.
I live inside someone else’s head. He hears me
with his stethoscope, so it is no use
sneaking home at five o’clock to his nice house
because I am in his ear going Breathe Breathe.
I might take my eye out and swallow it
to bring some attention to myself. Winston did.
His name was in the paper. For the time being
I make noises to annoy them and then I go BASTARDS.
Psychopath
I run my metal comb through the D.A. and pose
my reflection between dummies in the window at Burton’s.
Lamp light. Jimmy Dean. All over town, ducking and diving,
my shoes scud sparks against the night. She is in the canal.
Let me make myself crystal. With a good-looking girl crackling
in four petticoats, you feel like a king. She rode past me
on a wooden horse, laughing, and the air sang Johnny,
Remember Me. I turned the world faster, flash.
I don’t talk much. I swing up beside them and do it
with my eyes. Brando. She was clean. I could smell her.
I thought, Here we go, old son. The fairground spun round us
and she blushed like candyfloss. You can woo them
with goldfish and coconuts, whispers in the Tunnel of Love.
When I zip up the leather, I’m in a new skin, I touch it
and love myself, sighing Some little lady’s going to get lucky
tonight. My breath wipes me from the looking-glass.
We move from place to place. We leave on the last morning
with the scent of local girls on our fingers. They wear
our lovebites on their necks. I know what women want,
a handrail to Venus. She said Please and Thank you
to the toffee-apple, teddy-bear. I thought I was on, no error.
She squealed on the dodgems, clinging to my leather sleeve.
I took a swig of whisky from the flask and frenched it
down her throat. No, she said, Don’t, like they always do.
Dirty Alice flicked my dick out when I was twelve.
She jeered. I nicked a quid and took her to the spinney.
I remember the wasps, the sun blazing as I pulled
her knickers down. I touched her and I went hard,
but she grabbed my hand and used that, moaning . . .
She told me her name on the towpath, holding the fish
in a small sack of water. We walked away from the lights.
She’d come too far with me now. She looked back, once.
A town like this would kill me. A gypsy read my palm.
She saw fame. I could be anything with my looks,
my luck, my brains. I bought a guitar and blew a smoke ring
at the moon. Elvis nothing. I’m not that type, she said.
Too late. I eased her down by the dull canal
and talked sexy. Useless. She stared at the goldfish, silent.
I grabbed the plastic bag. She cried as it gasped and wriggled
on the grass and here we are. A dog craps by a lamp post.
Mama, straight up, I hope you rot in hell. The old man
sloped off, sharpish. I saw her through the kitchen window.
The sky slammed down on my school cap, chicken licken.
Lady, Sweetheart, Princess I say now, but I never stay.
My sandwiches were near her thigh, then the Rent Man
lit her cigarette and I ran, ran . . . She is in the canal.
These streets are quiet, as if the town has held its breath
to watch the Wheel go round above the dreary homes.
