chains

There had been a moment

when our fingers touched

as I handed you the plastic cup

of cola from the sticky table

by the wall bars in the gym,

and then

just for a moment

you saw me

as you thanked me.

We swayed side by side

as others talked

relaxing in a subtle gravity

that held us now

each in the other's orbit.

I could not look at you again

but my cheek bones knew then

and grew warm

at the thought of you.

And you had chosen

my finger

and led me through

to the dance floor.

There had been a moment

as we danced

when

you had curled yours

one by one

around mine

and my other hand

had found your waist

and my clumsy toes

your toes.

And you were there

my nose to your hair

my lips to your ear

my arms full of you

as the pale last song

smoothed the evening to its silken end -

how not in love,

oh no,

the singer was.

I talked you home

along the December High Street to The Manse

and we stopped

by the bookshop

because you loved to read

and I told you that I did too,

and maybe there

was something here

displayed

which might have stayed us

out this evening just a moment longer.

As if for reassurance

when we resumed our walk

you lightly linked your hand

around my arm

so that as I lifted mine

towards my heart

I might fix you there.

But at your front door

you turned to face me

in the first of our goodbyes

and at last you met my eyes

and curled into me that

our supple mouths might touch

and with tongue tips

taste each other's

teeth.

You

drew the breath from my lungs

fanned the furnace flames

of my desire

and forged

then

these binding chains

link

by golden link.

swallows

I perhaps should have suspected

as we watched swallows gather

in punctuated groups on high-wire lines

that this would be an end

I noted how they were crotchets on a stave

you rejected the cliché

but at that moment

as if to save me

from an open window a nocturne played

and became the cooling breath

of that September evening

finding its way to an imperfect cadence

classic pianissimo

the music dying

into an uproarious silence

between us

and your attention drifted

to a purple horizon

where the moon was climbing -

a cream minim

floating in ink

my hand found your shoulder

and thoughtless fingers

played the coarse seam

of your cotton white blouse

creeping from soft nape

to the shrug at the joint

I sensed your tension

and the chilling breeze

and now you are no longer here

to empty my thoughts

and I swallow the lyrics I wish I had sung

bees

The Vicarage, Morwenstow - the beautiful house
built for the eccentric Reverend R S Hawker
See also The Wreck of the Caledonia

My siblings and many cousins will no doubt remember our big family holidays in North Cornwall and Devon

and staying at the vicarage in Morwenstow

and the little room called The Eyrie that looked down into the courtyard

and how the bees had built a huge hive in the ceiling

which became so laden with honeycomb that the plaster bulged ominously

and how inevitably it had to go.

For homework from my writing class last week, we were asked to write a piece on "consequences" and we were given a poem TheWasps by David Constantine as inspiration.  This is my response.

we are the bees

(because she is here)

that fizzed in and found her (be-

cause she is here) and we have

been fuming about

the blooms

of this summer

garden (because she is here)

supping colours up from yellow

cowslips and black-ey'd susans

till we are foxglove

dust laden

with sunny set

honey-suckle pollen (because

she is here) and we are thick-covered 

with dusky jasmine warmth with

 carousing courage from

our craving labours

and we have found

the hole between blockstone

and mortar (because she is here)

worn by rain these two hundred

years that leads to the

cavern within

the roof among

the smoky joists above

the plaster and we have stocked our

larder (because she is here) full of

plenty with this season's

sucking and churning

and spittling and

wraggling and you human

can see the bulging pendulous

bagsacks of our great labours

groaning (because

she is here)

combing (because

she is here) in the flaking

ceiling and you come and crack-

make with your bullnose

chisel (because

she is here)

and your mallet

and your shrouded hat

and your tight-cuffed sleeves

and your tarry fumes and you

chop us out drowsy

(because she

is here) in this

evening as this sun's day sets

sizzling into the sailing sea and

yes you hesitate (because she is

here) but still you

burn us up

Absolutely Anything Achieved

My dear wife came across an advert for this company in the Big Issue - it seemed such a bizarre advert that she looked a little further and found their website.  This is my imaginary prospectus for the company and I hereby offer every possible disclaimer - it in no way reflects their actual services, and is not my endorsement of them as a company!

Absolutely Anything Achieved

Absolutely Anything Achieved -

just ask and this will be the case,

for there is nothing we won't undertake

and nothing we are unable to complete.

Should you need aid, assistance or advice,

should you require a helping hand or two,

we are available at a reasonable price

(subject to what we're asked to do.)

Absolutely Anything Achieved -

(within the bounds of law) just make demand.

There is no job too large or yet too small

that cannot be accomplished by our talented team.

There is no task that we will not address:

we can find your long-lost lover, cousin, son;

we can decorate your bathroom; paint your stairs;

or sell your company and, thus, release your funds.

We'll dot your tees and cross your eyes, of course,

and sort the details of your mother's will.

We'll fix the boundary dispute with the 'friend'

who lives next door, or we'll 'help' him move.

For gardening jobs we are happily engaged.

A chauffeur can be prearranged.

Need a bread oven in your granny flat?

No problem, let us draw up all the plans.

Fulfilling requests for vinegary pickled eggs

is a speciality in which we quite excel,

and sourcing other picas for the young

expectant mother can be done as well.

We'll ensure your acrimonious divorce

is hassle-free from start to sour end,

and we offer our cast-iron guarantee

that you will not be beaten in the settlement.

Do not despair if you should need to know

the value of your dying grandma's ring,

or we could arrange for you to go

and meet almost any player from the premier league.

A request that quite frequently recurs

is the acquisition, at a suitable price,

of a peerage, baronetcy, earldom, or the deeds

of some reknowned estate within the British Isles.

No problem there.  And did you see the news

of our great success in finding for Miss C____

a rare recording of Paul Robeson singing

all the greatest hits of Booker T?

Which brings us to the matter of our fee.

You'll find the trickier jobs may cost a little more

but please do not be too afraid to ask -

there is no obligation if you are too poor.

We sense you're wondering if there is a catch.

Do our services seem too good to be true?

a little over-ambitious in your eyes,

well,

yes, maybe in ours, too.

the last blackberries

am out too late again this year and all that’s left

are gritty on the vine, some bleeding under

clumsy thumbs, some bullet red, some green

some sourly shaded from the autumn sun

I pick a handful, two, just for the sake

of other more refulgent times and roll

them in this optimistic tub, where bruising stains

cloud plastic sides and maggots mouth their fill

more berries here but just at dog piss height

so left by others and by me and those

above protected by tall grey nettle shoots

that catch the fingers as the hand withdraws

then through the wood to see the tree that once

I fancied held my mother’s breath in sun,

where once I stood my hand held still against

the bark, and dumbly wept her loss again – again

Snap

The garden gate is new

and unfamiliar toys

stake claim to the lawn

some new flop-haired child’s tricycle

some other one’s ball

there are people living

in the place now

that I do not know

and although

I once inhabited

the ground they squat upon

knew every inch of hedgerow

I am a stranger now

and the kitchen cupboards

glimpsed through cupped hands

against the glass

are of a new design, soft closing

and where the cutlery drawer once was

it is not now

and where it was not

it now is

I imagine

I stand at the bedroom window

on the upper floor once more

and feel the tense twine that attaches me

to every item in the room

and every tree in the garden

snap

Dead Fairies

A late Summer Thursday afternoon

and dreaming

I revisit the garden of my childhood Spring

two merciless, samurai leylandii 

preaching 

across the grass

the cherry tree, rope ladder strung from its lower branch

the prunus, spotted with blossom buds and busty bullfinches

closer to the house, a small slope against which we handstood

or rolled down on daisy afternoons

over here 

to the right, the old widowed shed

racked with bikes and plant pots and rakes

shelves of powders

against ants and slugs and fungus

I step behind it

to rediscover the dank hiding place

where golden rod stems snagged socks

where spiders the size of apples waited for sandalled feet

where fence panels, slipped from between posts,

have sidled to the ground and dried to a silver grain

and here next to the bald tennis ball and a decaying shuttlecock

I find the tumbled grave of small bones and dried hair

of shattered gossamer film

I pull small rot-welded corpses of dead fairies one from another

here where magic died 

and wishes made 

yet unbelieved

were finally abandoned

essentials

We

coincide 

inside

T K Maxx

you two

smiling

linked

arm in arm

setting off 

up the

escalator

me

I’m heading down

to look at

pants

you two

just out for the joy 

of shopping

seventeen

swapping opinions

on leopard skin tops

on minions 

on Tshirts

checking out boys’ crotches

all elbows

and giggling

me

aching neck

sore feet

fifty five

stacking my backpack

with cheap necessities

reduced knickers

up against

economy cheese

and essentials tea

I'd have come

down there with you

once

but it's

too late

for that.

A Nice Change - guest spot

This is something of a departure for me...

I have a writing friend,  Pleasant Street aka Rose Red aka Geletilari, from the USA via Twitterland - @AreYouThrilled.  

She writes some very lovely poetry and posts them on her blog here - In My Parlour .  She heard one or two of my readings of my poetry on Soundcloud and asked if I would record a reading of one of hers.  I was of course very flattered and delighted to do it - the Thespian in me still alive and well somewhere in there.

And so here is the text of her poem and a link to me reading it on her Soundcloud account...

A Nice Change 

She had always lived there
Her father's house and garden
Her mother's scent of carnations
And chicken and dumplings in a pot

Once she said to her mother
I have to go soon
A man has offered me a ranch
and a dozen cows on a hilltop

But you are a vegetarian
Yes but he makes me smile
And the cows bring me peace.
I will set up my easel in the meadow

She painted fantastic visions
of oceans she would never see
and skies higher than the atmosphere
full of stars and comets

One day her mother showed up
Suitcase in hand
announcing that peace
would be a nice change of pace

That evening when she came in
Wet painting leaning against the apple
They ate, remarking
Those were the best dumplings ever.

Chris reads   A Nice Change on his soundcloud account

Podding Peas

I knocked and after several moments she came to the door.  But before she opened it she said in the smallest voice

“Hello?”

“Hello, Miss B­­­­,” I said, “It’s me – Chris – I’ve got your shopping.”

No word from inside.  But after another moment I heard the door chain slide and the door cracked open a little.  Then wider and wider.  Then there she was backing quietly away into the room.  Gently smiling her way back into the debris, muttering.

“Can you… would you just…?”

“Shall I put it here?”

“Please.”

She’d left a space among the clutter on a side table by the door.  Just the right size for the box.  It was the same every time – one box-sized space left sacrosanct to save the muddle of having to create one under the pressure of the moment.

I showed her the bill and she turned to find a pen for the cheque.

“How are you today?” I asked, “how have you been doing?”

“Oh, not too bad.”

“That’s good.”

“Not too bad.”

She paused for a moment, her pen poised over the space for the date.

“Oh, what day is it?” she was mildly irritated that she didn’t have it there at the tip of her mind.

“It’s the twentieth,” I said.  “I should know that!  It’s my big girl’s birthday!”

“Oh, how lovely.  Which one?”

“Naomi, the one who’s up in Edinburgh.”

“Oh yes.  Lovely.” 

She carefully wrote the date.  The soft white whiskers on her chin twitched a little as she pushed her lips together.  Then suddenly she said:

“I sometimes think I’m dying,”

“Oh!  No.  Really?”

“Sometimes.  Then I think, oh, I could live another ten minutes.  And I do.  And so I’m still here.”

“Ah, yes, you’re still here.  My wife’s grandmother used to say ‘I’m not well but I’m not lying down.’”

“Oh yes.  I remember my grandmother when she was very old.  She lived with us but she couldn’t get out of bed and I remember her sitting in bed podding peas for my mother.  So she wouldn’t be a burden.”

She paused a moment.

“They were tough back then.  Tough old birds.”

“I have to say I think you’re a pretty tough old bird, yourself, Miss B.”

She gave a small giggle and handed me her cheque.

August disgust

I thought that you had said

in August we would count

hazy days of dusty sun

and lazy afternoons would sidle

with Pimms and white wine spritzers

into drowsy nights

but here now is the lie

as the wind rattles fence panels

between their posts

and rain beats

on the incessant glass

and the second blanket

thrown off in May

now lies across the bed

again

Friday Fairy Cakes

I lift my

the cloth of my

shirt

my T-shirt

my drenched T-shirt

*

three o’clock

three

Friday

and she

triangulates the kitchen

with busy-ness

waiting for the homecoming of us

on the four o’clock bus

pondering tea

and so she

anticipating hunger

reaches into the centre

cupboard

for the large gripstand bowl

and fetches

fat and eggs

from the Lec

in the scullery

stands them next

to the range to warm

washes her hands at the kitchen sink

by the window

glancing up the garden

to the point she knows

in an hour we will become

visible

to see beneath my

under my right ribs

a gaping hole in

wrenched in

the flesh of me

where

*

they

therefore

they

because it was

the preparation day

that the bodies

should not remain

upon the cross

on the Sabbath day

besought him that

their legs might be broken

and that they

might be taken

away

so came the soldiers

to brake the legs of the first

and of the other

which was crucified with him

but when they came to Jesus

and saw that he was dead 

already

they brake not his legs

but one of the soldiers

with a lance

pierced his side

and forthwith

came there out

blood

and water

where the guts

the guts have been

and the heart

the heart has been

they have been

damaged

*

four ounces

four

each of caster sugar

and soft unsalted butter

creamed together

with an ancient wooden spoon

then eggs, two,

free range

beaten and added

by drop

by drop

with a teaspoonful of essence -

Madagascan Vanilla -

followed by flour

another four ounces

self-raising, sifted and weighed

folded

into the glossy mixture

and then the batter

dolloped

by spoon

by soft spoonful

on top of a finger of scarlet jam

in the bases

of paper cases

stood

in the tarnished indents

of a well-used muffin tray

then posted

into the oven

preheated to

three hundred and seventy five degrees

Fahrenheit

until domes of golden cake

glisten proudly above tulips of paper

ready to be

lifted gingerly

and lined up uniformly

on the waiting

mesh cooling-rack

through loss

through injury

injuries

and through loss

*

it was the consultant haematologist

who

in maybe some clumsy attempt to

comfort her

had pointed out

that as she

had older children they

would after her death be

able to attend to

the infant

with whom she

was now

pregnant

and the triangular

the triangular blade

the wound made by

the triangular

bayonet blade

is such

that the sides

the sides of the cut flesh

cannot be

drawn

together

 to staunch

the flow

* 

six o’clock

six

and at tea

there are ham sandwiches

and soft-boiled eggs we pass over

before we

can peel the papers

from the waiting fairy cakes

to reveal the terrifying

broken heart of jam

that has burst into the sponge

to leave a chasm of syrupy sweetness

blood red and oozing

while she pours tea

while she still can

from the aluminium teapot

its dull tannin-stained

surfaces scoured

to a shine

in the last few moments

transfigured

before we arrived

home

and the

wound

the wound thus fails to

it bleeds

it still bleeds

and thus

fails to

it fails to

 heal

to heal