Portrait of a Widowed Poet

For this photo

you slide left hand 

around left cheek

incline head

so that hand

appears to be preventing head

from floating off -

restrained, contained:

hand sculpts face

with things once felt

distant memories

childhood toothache.

Contrived thus, at dead centre of frame,

your wedding band sings below its knuckle

to show that you are buckled up tight

against others’ eyes.

But he who slid gold

onto your burning finger has dropped

and is buried now

under some slab of Wales

which may explain the delicate shade of grey

your eyes reflect.

What wild Welsh walks

were taken by you two

after sleepy morning sex?

His gentle genitals fit so snug.

You slipped like rain around each other’s necks;

fed one upon the other’s subtle breath;

raked nails on backs;

tattooed your bloody yearnings

into each other’s skins;

kept each other’s words

as earrings.

But against this solid, black ground -

your parked left elbow

pinning down

some imaginary table

out of frame -

you lean gamely forward,

and are snapped

never to truly breathe again.

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