Poems, Winter 2019

Potions

I ate chains for breakfast,

so past any semblance of amount

and how things should be

it was all but piles of pebbles

and more edible substances

such as bread torn and dipped

into marmalade,

husks of corn

or I don't know -

sticks,

or some such

compostable relics.

When we made potions in the garden

it was mud and tore-in petals;

the bathroom was toothpaste and shampoo

overflowing the sink

with their clean volume.

Somehow ordinary materials

such as bark such as baking soda

took on life-giving qualities

or if not life-giving,

promising alteration

at least.

I wish,

I wish there had been sparks

or apparitions.

All of that,

all of my actions

were sponsored by wish.

And where now are the fruits?

The proof -

in rich mangroves,

baskets full and toppling,

stored up from the harvest

of our unequivocal dream.

_____________________________

My grandmothers fed me

Grandma Jean

Welsh cakes (home-made, misshapen, with chewy half-burnt raisins, all dusted white with flour, sometimes too dry, best were fresh and warm from the oven)

Liquorice bears (Pandas to be precise)

Chocolate ginger biscuits (shortbread dipped in dark chocolate, with a crystallised cube of ginger)

Pasta bake (under-salted, plain, crunchy round the edges)

Turkey curry (always after Christmas – plain, under-salted, watery yellow)

Sandwiches cut into small triangles (tinned salmon and cucumber)

Watercress salad (served dripping wet from its rinse, weighed down by cherry tomatoes)

Darjeeling tea (near-white weak, with soya milk)

Honey-soaked apricots (dried apricots soaked in boiling water and honey, kept in Tupperware in the fridge, served with porridge)

Baba Rosa

Cherry slatko (jam with a paint-stripper sweetness, served straight from the jar with a spoon, to accompany afternoon coffee)

Noodle broth soup (an appetiser before lunch – salty stock with floating puddles of oil and chunks of carrot)

Roast potatoes and peppers (salty, greasy, good)

Kafa (Turkish coffee boiled with generous spoonfulls of sugar, drunk from small cups, thick sediment of grounds at the bottom)

Watermelon (size of a small planet, dripping with juice)

Cherries (dark-purple red, full bowl living as still life on the table)

Rakija (brandy made from plum, pear, grape, any fruit, a cure for everything, like a river of fire down the throat)

Lav beer (never quite cold enough, thick urine amber)

Plazma (aimed towards children but enjoyed by all ages, in biscuit or cereal form, claggy sugary wheat, with Bambi as its logo)

_____________________________

My grandmothers were chameleons

they learnt how to shed

poverty

and walked without shoes

through snow,

and war,

to school,

leaving but a trail of footprints

to their now ancient

futures. 

 _____________________________

Still

Four identical

tennis rackets,

square shelves and

Japanese screens.

Books that promise Joy and Wealth

in equal measures.

The light, late November and grey,

the morning, still,

promising frozen hands.

Gracious, evasive, honest when needs be

- these are the clothes I pull across my body

after my shower of cold air.

Records leaning to the left,

essential oils,

a singing bowl.

The slats are closed

- what day is this? 

_____________________________

Confluence

Chinese pear

with elephant skin,

colour of grey-green

or

water

in a paintbrush jar.

I pluck doubt from the tree-top,

sift sand through the letterbox,

I reach out with shy tentacles.

You rummage in my purse

and draw out a pocket

bled and tuned

like a leak

streaming through a keyhole.

_____________________________

Plea

Wake me up when it's tomorrow.

I want to see that greasy sun-face

I want to see the ocean, the stars,

I want to drool on gingham

and scrunch paper napkins

into messy rosebuds.

Give me a chance

to be a star

give me a stage.

Give me a soapbox, a signal, a lemonade stall.

Let me stand for my country and

orate everyman's lost ventures.

Let me be dumb-deaf and profound

let me colour every space in between.

Let me lose, let me wallow.

Let me be at least one or two or three

let me be four

let the whole town roar

let me tear the carpet to shreds

let me bray

let me sizzle on my knees

let me pray.

Let me in, I beg of you,

what more could I ask

what more could you give.

Let me bathe

let me lock down

let me simmer and cajole.

Let me light-hock and ham-nail

let me fathom in the board room

and crack knuckles on my breakfast.

Let me lounge

let me percolate

let me titter and tatter and teethe.

Let me thaw at midnight

let me spasm at dawn.

Let me lug let me teeter

let me spool out in jewels.

Let me value the price of a single sitting

let me lap it up

and marvel.

Let me choose a card

let me turn it like a pro.

Let me trick you into redemption

let me lie for you

let me wait.

Let me foxtrot let me boogie

let me go all night long

let me swallow.

Let me fuss let me fix

let me rile let me twist.

Let me furrow let me live

let me glide -

and be nothing more

than an imprint on a footprint

on the snow.

The surface now is calm.

Let us pray with our hands and feet and fingers

Thank God for gloves

Thank God for those underground networks

Thank God for worms and warmth and song

It is so still

the light so yellow.

Let me in

let me be there

when the clock sticks us all to tomorrow.

What a joy we can count it to exist.

Poems, Autumn 2019

Body of Water

Rowan berries

and most of the moon,

awash with layers

of river-rush -

notes of seventeen or so

clean pitches -

cordial,

reminiscent

of glass

and quenched thirst.

Stem thick as

stick,

autumnal fruit

eager

as the old tree

growing sideways -

acrobatic,

spreading its branches

like a shade of mould.

You could wear the

reeds like ribbons

in your hair -

so thick and green

and begging to be picked.

You get the sense that

this water connects

glacier to swamp

in the same way that

this arm is an extension

of unwritten will

poured down rock

and gathering at the navel,

down at which

with my ancestors

I gaze.

__________________________

 

As if I Am a Map

As if I am a map

I am to track

each decline and ascent,

each pothole, plain and forest,

each groove where foxes sleep

and

bats claim ballrooms of sky.

As if I were not human

I am told to find patterns

as if it is simple,

as if it is cold as bone.

Chants move me,

such as,

it is better with the windows open

it is lighter when the moon is here

the hardest wood succumbs to rot

and beetle-shells make dye

morning and dusk are but shades

a rose speaks the violence of the heart

and when you crunch a stick

you must pray with your feet.

As if there were such a thing

as favours

and investment through planting,

I must present

all manners of evidence

all routes to existence -

the tundra

the mire

and the depth.

__________________________

Cobwebs

Cobwebs hang like cotton tails,

the farmer's son cries

with no sense of scale –

this could be war.

Reeds planted headstrong

with their banana-skin insides

like another kind of cotton

a wetter kind, of sugar.

A young girl

threads her fingers through mine

and leads me

down this path

so familiar

it could be a dream

and the air inside becomes the sky

just as grey and bright

and open.

__________________________

Salvage

Light gives way to storms,

the kitchen abuzz

with wholesome distractions.

The needle pierces the eye

and sews us conscious.

Ink becomes a smudge of nuisance

- antique blot on thumb.

We curate starvation

as if it alone will feed us

and become incrementally

more barbaric, and serene.

Less and less

I see the world

as an open picture.

I know now

it is all reflection.

What is real -

I ask daily, and over, and over.

I have friends who encircle

my patch of grass

and sometimes we have a picnic.

The road becomes

oh so lucid

in the dream in the cavity in the earth.

(Rail tracks become ski slopes become hill).

When I'm living I am not thinking.

How to live with the thinking.

The black spot

plunges down -

a dying star,

a parachute.

__________________________

You Caught Me at Breakfast

The last flight of a wasp

slow as jam

falling off a spoon.

Light inside becomes butter

and there is a smear of rainbow,

a film of cloud.

A door slams -

the reverberation,

its solid clang,

is how I imagine

the realest

and most tangible thought.

__________________________

 

I Could Disappear

The more I explore

the more I crumble

becoming as thin as spider legs

at the seams -

unmoored as I am

from the dinner table

so that I float like a satellite

in orbit

like a dancing teapot

capturing the glint of the chandelier

on its way out.

__________________________

Kiwi

I let my tongue roll

over kiwi and

words slither off

like the long vowels

I once drew out

under morning sheets.

How I recount

those devastations now

from my sexless tower

of river rocks

as big as plates

and kingdoms. 

 

Pockets of Prose

Baba Yaga Wisdom

She says, in a snarl, with a flick of a bug from her eyeline – Child, you are so young in your dance on this Earth. You are not yet a mother, you are pre-mother, you are dying the death of youth. These things must die. All those airy notions of Spring and pastel flowers, set them down. It is not a time for romance. It is time for death.

Become accustomed to these hot searing coals, for you will meet them again. It may feel like Hell, for they are demons, although, they are yours and yours alone, they do not exist outside of you. Meet them. It will feel confusing. Listen to them. Ask their names.

You will grow from the ashes when it is time. There will be bulbs and shoots of plants you can not even imagine. The soil, the muck, the ashes – this is your place for now. The earth needs fertilising with high-stinking shit. Things are not pretty down here, but truth is, this is where the magic happens. This is where magic grows.

It's OK to go down. It's OK to feel the weight of hopelessness. We all have our time. Be grateful that you have the space to sink and the awareness to know what it is.

*

The man you meet will love you wholly – you will not be the compromise or afterthought. It is possible to love and be loved when you surrender to the unpredictable flow of life. The currents are confusing, the rivers murky and dirty, but the riverbed is solid, warm, compact.

The path stays – do you understand?

Let your heart be the bed, let your love be the river.

You were never made to stay still, you were never made to settle. Be patient, be strong in your worth. He will know how special you are, you need not beg for crumbs. Wait for the whole loaf.

Be a wolf, not a dog.

You are a Child of the universe, a magic woman in the making, utterly sacred and made of the Earth. You need a warrior – kind, benevolent, sturdy. There will be no second-guessing. He is the one who can feed your creative life, who can give you stability, who can set your mind to rest.

The jungle does not go on forever, my sweet Child. It's overgrown with thickets and thorns and you will be bitten and scratched many times – but! Persevere. Follow magic trails. In your heart you will know - when it's time, when the clearing is to be found, when it is not a mirage.

*

So, my Child, you have met the miners.

They do not often wish to be seen, and are very good at keeping themselves hidden. But if you are curious and still and use the senses just-so, you will find them in the conscious dark, in the ocean, the dream theatre, and realise why you are so tired.

Mining takes a lot of energy. They are working day and night, and do you know why? They are under your command. They do not start their work until you are ready. They must wait for the gong-call deep in the soul, the call that says I am ready to look down now, I am ready to dive.

There are treasures buried deep in the seabed. Treasures left over from shipwrecks. It takes a brave diver to swim amongst corpses, to peer into hollowed-out decks and skeletal masts.

Death is close at the bottom.

The bottom is death, or so we think.

*

Kill the darlings, those feathery earthlings! Kill the illusions, the intoxicating promises of tomorrow, of next week, of next year, next life! It is hard to challenge these empty clouds. In the mirror they look so real.

Dance your furious dance to the edge of the sky. Look down and face unfathomable heights. Step off and die with me, I will hold your hand. You know Death is just the leap off the edge. The fall is something else, the fall is Life itself.

Do not get caught up with thinking your body is wrong. Just love it, for what it does. Exist and express. Things will come together in new, unimaginable ways. You are a torn dress being stitched and sewn anew. It is not painless, no no no. It is a mistake to avoid pain, in fact. Pain is puncture. Pain is the meeting of two opposing forces. Pain is the crash of the wave, the collapse of stone walls.

The more you know this, the more Death is invited, the more you can dance in a sweet swirl with Life.

________________________

Sally Draper

It had been a long night and she never had liked whisky, with all its connotations of sophistication and class – the little that could be salvaged from her father's heyday.

Up there in his office all those years ago, he had assumed the power of a King tucked up tight in his castle. Surveying the populace from his bay window, scurrying through traffic and conducting – to his mind – such futile tasks. What he didn't know at the time was that there were far greater powers looking down at him, thinking, What a dutiful man. How well-behaved. How charmingly obedient and predictable.

We had a dog then. He came to us as a puppy and left in a cardboard box. The neighbour shot him because he kept sniffing their flowerbeds. I remember the sound of the gun and its cold ripple to my stomach. Pepper, was his name. I hated flowers from that day on. They seemed to be nature's temptresses, luring innocent creatures with their symmetry and colour and scent.

It's what my father was doing, in a more masculine way. He was trying – and succeeding – the puppy-like layman to look at the shiny poster, the gaudy TV ad, to hum the jingle as natural as a recurring neurosis, and in that hypnotic state of lust and wonder to empty their wallets clean.

This is my more recent view, of course. I grew up with Dad as Hero. Which I'm grateful for, even if it was misguided. A little girl needs a hero after all, a protector. Otherwise she grows up with simultaneous distrust and obsession towards men, unsure whether they should be worshipped or trampled upon. I have plenty of friends with divorced parents. I know the type.

It was only when I started college that I really saw through my father's facade.

It was in a Psychology class – 'The Psychology of Desire'. I was surprised to walk into the lecture and see a picture of the Lucky Strike '62 campaign – one of Pop's most successful runs. The image showed a canyon at sunset, a cowboy with his back turned towards us, a trail of smoke rising up past his stetson. 'Because I'm free' in proud red script. I remember Dad speaking vehemently about this ad in particular. It was a big 'fuck you' to the health scares at the time.

The professor went on to explain the manipulation employed, the use of persuasion tactics, frankly, the exploitation, behind this ad, and all ads to some degree.

With a detached sadness I felt my pride fade, like an ember being stubbed out against glass.

________________________

Morning After

The harbour lay still even after the dream. She expected carnage and rubble, a world overturned, an open casket, a shit-storm – but no. Flat, calm water. From downstairs came the sound of her brother coughing and blowing his nose – comic and pitiful. And now, footsteps, soft and padded through carpet and sock. The dog running to keep up.

She caught sight of the mirror and prematurely scanned her face for signs of ageing. She felt so old already. So many lives lay behind her, like a trail of dead trees burnt by fire. Carcasses of relationships, abandoned, hollow (sometimes she liked to think she'd set them free, but didn't know if this was true or not). Jobs. Dreams. Phases. She'd come to a standstill – exhausted by the constant motion, the changes, the whirlwinds and disappointments. She remembered feeling invincible. That feeling clearly had a cost.

The tiredness was always there now. Sleep or rest did not remedy it. Instead it was a case of deciding when she could override it, when was appropriate to just get up.

She a saw a skinny guy outside the window. He seemed good-looking, at least from a distance. He scanned around suddenly to see if anyone was watching, then reached down to adjust his boxers. How she wished he'd reach down and stay there, get himself out, commit some heinous act of exposition. No – he walked onwards into the grey morning. To where, she had no clue. The fact it was so early could mean two things – either he was an early bird tourist on his way to a mountain-top, or he'd been up all night on a bender (which would explain his shiftiness).

She wondered how many times people had seen her off-guard. Rarely, she imagined. Even when alone she tried to see herself from the outside. Reflective surfaces would always command her attention. It was one of her least attractive qualities, or so she thought. Like a budgie, she was compulsively drawn to shop windows. She banked on the fact that it would seem as if she was idly perusing the displays of shoes, fine china, washing machines.

An old woman passed now, stiff hair the colour of slate, a shopping bag half that was half her size.

The air inside was stale. She didn't leave the house yesterday. The blinds, unopened.

Her dream lurked like trauma.

When would the details spill out, as they should?

________________________

An Open Letter to Whom it May Concern

You are loved,

because you are alive in this world.

You have your own special ingredient

to offer your surroundings.

All this pain, injustice, frustration you feel

will one day blossom

into wisdom, compassion, and the capacity to look deep inwards -

a brave, invaluable talent.

You are beautiful and striking.

You are intelligent and creative and admired by many.

Your parents love you very much.

They have their own pain which may act as an obstacle, sometimes.

If they could, they would give you what they need.

It's not your fault.

It's not your fault.

You are meant to be here, just as you are.

There's nothing wrong with you.

You are wonderful and strong.

This will all blossom exponentially -

into flowers and fruit and terrains.

Be calm,

be still.

You are loved.