#amwriting 184a

"What the hell are you doing here?"

"Who is this," asked Diana, eyeing the grinning stranger with suspicion.

"Non binary, eh? She's nice," Saul, caught himself mid-sentence, "he... it... sorry, do you have a preferred pronoun?"

"Get out," she growled, pulling her grubby housecoat tighter.

Raj found himself in somewhat of a bind. He gestured to Diana that he had the situation under control. He had not seen his cousin in years. Not since a family holiday in his teens. He had disliked him then. An he disliked him even more now that he was standing in his sitting room confirming every snippet of news that had percolated through the family with the past week.

"May I?" asked Saul, gesturing towards the sofa. Raj nodded. In pique Diana declared that she would make tea and made a flamboyantly noisy exit from the room. Saul made a great display of making himself at home. He spread his arms along the back of the sofa, "do you mind if I?"

"This isn't that sort of house."

"Isn't it anything goes?"

"No drugs," said Raj, firmly.

Saul nodded sagely, moved his hand away from the inside pocket of his jacket - all the while surveying the room. He drummed his fingers on his knee, continued to nod his head, then sucked his teeth, "You used to..."

Raj cut him short, "not anymore."

"Messes with the hormones eh?" grinned Saul, tilting his head toward the kitchen. "My you are a sly dog. Getting her to dress in traditional costume to send those pictures to auntie. A wise move, I must say, old boy. And such bad luck to be struck down with flu for my sisters wedding. Leaving the women to look at her picture, and make educated guesses if our children would have blue or green eyes. It wasn't cricket. Not that some of us aren't followers of the limited-over game."

"What do you want?" repeated Raj, his voice deeper, his tone more deliberate; bordering on menacing.

"I'm here for the sixth international conference on Men's Rights," Saul declared, proudly: before adding, "well I am for visa purposes. But between you, me and the family, I'm here because my father and two brothers are in jail, and we need money."

Raj crossed to the door, made the briefest of small talk with Diana to see if she was alright, then made a very weak excuse that he almost was embarassed to say before closing the door. "in jail for what?" he asked, turning back to his cousin.

"Oh the usual thing. Taz's wife claims he raped her. You know the usual thing."

"Did he?"

"Of course not. Her family want to dispute the dowry, and her father wants... well, God knows what he wants. He's got himself involved in politics, and is trying to get himself in with some NGO that's paving the way for a big contract. You don't need to know the details. The long and the short of it is that we are stuck unless the girl remembers she wasn't raped, or we come up with a million dollars to make this go away."

"Can't you go to the police."

Saul laughed, "the money is for the police. How do you think things work in India?" This time he took the wrap of cocaine from his pocket, "why don't we have some fun. I bought this stuff from a friend of ours in Southall. I thought she might like it. Wasn't your wife a raver? Or was that another lie, on your non-family facebook account?"

Diana entered with a tray of tea in mugs, and a plate of biscuits. Seeing the wrap of drugs on the table somewhat lightened her mood. This was quickly deflated when Raj, by way of changing the subject from the situation in Mumbai, explained that Saul had come for a Men's Rights Conference.

"Those fascists," Diana spat.

"We are not all like that," smiled Saul, opening the wrap, "some us can spell hetro-normative. And some of us even know what it means."

#amwriting #fiction #flashfiction #fantasy The Horse Lords

Barghal lay the three berries on the table beside a small brazier. They glowed in the heat of the charcoal. Within the shadow of the moving flame Gegli fancied she saw herself as is when alone beneath the winding sky.

The old man took an earthen-ware bottle, no bigger than a thimble, from his bag, pulled the stopper with his teeth and sprinkled silver dust into the flame.

"Tell me what you see child," he said, tapping the cork back into the neck with his index finger.

Nothing happened. Gegli felt only the heat sear at her cheek-bones and brow. Then suddenly the flame flashed into an intense white light. Blindly Gegli gasped, as the light worked through her mind cleansing her; like bathing.

"Tell me what you see," repeated Barghal.

Gegli steadied herself, placing her fingertips on the table as she sought the safety of the corporeal world. "Trees," she said.

"You lie."

"Milk."

"Go on."

"I can't. I see nothing. Only the spirits of this place returning."

"Very good," Barghal said, softly, "you show promise. Now let us see together, so I will know if you lie. If you do it will be so much the worse for you."

Gegli shuddered, knowing Barghal worse than any warrior, knowing he knew more than simple death.

Barghal took the first eye moist between his fingers and cast it into the burning embers. "Look child," his voice seductive with hidden knowledge, "let us see what secrets this berry holds."

Gegli furrowed her brow, willing herself to see more than the shriveling brain cord, the glazing shine of the crust, the fear of mirrored darkness.

"See girl," commanded Barghal, before changing his to tone with an invitation to, "see, don't think."

In that moment of the berry imploding, when Gegli succumbed to the light of the sun, she saw a man's sandalled feet, the hem of his purple gown, the carpet of the woods, and the vagueness of singing voices.

Without asking, Barghal took up the second eye. "She was a sacrifice," he explained, "a woman pure and shamed." Gegli nodded. "Watch again."

This berry was not so whole, longer gone, wetter and filmy. The vision it gave was brief: a Sar man, tall, blonde, full-bearded with braided hair hanging in plaits. His smile curved in sneer. Across the broken bridge of his nose was carved a ditch-like scar from an axe.

"That is Neb," said Gegli, "the man who came as emissary to m father."

"You learn fast," commented Barghal, and then noting a smug expression begin to spread on Gegli's lips he snapped, "do not be prideful girl, or I will carve the whore mark upon you cheeks."

Instantly the mask of pleasure dropped from her face.

The last eye was the freshest, taken from the woman hung from the oak tree.

When asked this time, Gegli hesitated, swallowed twice, "my uncle," she whispered.

#amwriting #poem # poetry Sense of Sunlight

Sense of Sunlight

Clearly delineated, the ridge in water
moving at will between shadow and air.
Narcissus exhale upon the zest of spring -
pale yolk, unbleached, brassy stout, and slut -
in the verge of wheeling pollen. Chill light
reflects in echo of the time cutting brook.
Here the tongue knows only patterns sweet,
that in lost moments, name all things.

#amwriting #poem #poetry #anorexia Anorexic on a Swing

Anorexic on a Swing

At the height, her feet breaking clouds,
she counts - banana - counts to be higher
in the giddy emptiness that comes with falling
uncaught and broken. Counts - Fruit Pastilles -
to go higher than the laughter of her secret
laughing self. Counts - roast chicken -
screwed her eyes to remain hanging
without back-swing - without counting -
without her father and his worried smile
encouraging her to pull once more on the chains -
to deepen the well of her collar bones
in which the salted beads of counting dwell.

#poem #poetry #amwriting Common Core

Common Core

Walking past a playground, I see three girls arm in arm
promenade, with noses raised, in the cage where football's played,
amidst a horoscope of boys, pulling shapes of their stars they seek to ape
without technique nor style, around the pinging ball they pile.

And seeing this, as I pass, provokes a spiteful thought. Alas
how sad would it be for fickle fate to intervene
to put these girls in their place, back in the grounds beyond that space.

My fag ignites, and I delight, gleeful at the ball in flight
scooting, mis-kicked far from goal, and up the arse of the left hand girl.

A schoolyard ma'am, in alarm, calls for calm, knowing well which boy did harm.
He might protest, in tongue bitten rage, but that does not keep him in the game.
To prove the gynocentric point, and push further noses out of joint
she orders that the game must end, and send the boys to join their friend.

Where they all kick their heels against the wall
learning men have dogs lives after all.

#amwriting #poem #poetry #easter Hymn .... after Wordsworth

Hymn
     ...after Wordsworth

pinched, the ragged daffodil
   risen from new rollen earth:
points the way to risen sun
   as slippered winter, disappears.

Then dance the lamb, more free
   than they: bulbous, rooted, clod to clay:
who see not there the brighter day
   of leaden coldness, disappeared.

Torn from tawn, ungilded shine
   each petal held in prodigal:
for those inclined to witness time
   when darkness washed, disappears.

#amwriting #poem #poetry - Between Us Two

Between Us Two

My love and I still smile when kissing;
secure to know we have no dog.

For in that falling moment, lightness,
bright as each I we plucked in wooing.

We assume the blind; we float in joy;
at the every very weakness, weighed in light.

#amwriting #poem #poetry - The Wall of My Childhood Bedroom

The Wall of My Childhood Bedroom

More blue:to hold this flick of tongue
that like a lizard basked on stone.

More blue: in dusted memory turns
to play as smoke in shafted sun

so soft a wrist now pressed; more blue:
against all summers brighter, then.

#amwriting #shortstory - The Delivery Man

The Delivery Man

By ten past, the train was still late.

Lucas sat in the station cafe contemplating the film of tea now forming milk patterns in the bottom of the lime green cup. His toes tapping idly against the cool-box under the table.

The man at the table to his left apologised for the third time for the overly inquisitive spaniel, who had taken rather too much interest in the box's content.

Three hundred quid, is three hundred quid. But, time was getting tight if he wanted to get paid; and the attentions of the dog was beginning to play upon Lucas' imagination.

In an effort at distraction Lucas picked his way around the coffee stains and grease of the abandoned newspaper. But, guilt pricked him, and poked him, until eventually he found the excuse of a droplet of water at the farthest corner of the box to spur himself into action.

With snakelike guile he slithered past the lip of the table on the pretence of tying his shoelace. However he could obtain no conclusive proof, as he caught the gleaming eye of the dog who sprang forward with tail wagging.

Again the owner apologised, and again Lucas settled into the guilty nonchalance of checking his phone. His foot once more tapping at the cool box. And, again the station announcement apologised for the delays: due to an incident on the line.

Clearly a suicide, or some other act of selfishness, thought Lucas. In a further moment of lucid incisiveness he decided the now dried spot of water was melted snow that had fallen from the shoe of a passing stranger.

Thus satisfied, he drained the final dreg of tea, patted down his pockets, and all present and correct he set off, with the box, to find a bench in the open air of the platform: in the cold.

#amwriting - A Letter to Charles Ortel in the Style of the Ladies Number 1 Detective Agency

Dear Mr Charles

Further to our correspondence of the 21st, I want to apologise for not replying sooner but I have been most busy with a very important divorce case.

Dr Mkazi is no longer employed at the Sunshine Clinic. Everybody told me that he had gone to Germany, but I learned from his Uncle Samuel that he is actually working in a nearby village on the estate of Mr Vazam.

I suspect the reason for the tale of his going to Germany is the disgrace his family feel at his no longer being a medical doctor. His Uncle Samuel would not say so with precision. I did not press his uncle's new wife on pertaining matters, as she is a slip of a girl, and I don't think she could have been more than a child when proceeding occurred.

Mr Vazam is an Indian gentleman with interests in the mining industry. I did not obtain access to his person, but I can assure you he is a man of good taste, he drives a BMW, and I do not believe he has involvement in the case: beyond his current employment of Dr Mkazi.

From the post office I have learned that Mr Vazam receives a lot of letters from a legal firm in Bombay. I have included photocopies of these letters that were awaiting delivery, so you may know the name of the firm from their embossed envelopes. I have further asked my friend the post-master to keep a record of correspondence. To which end I have provided him with a special notebook - invoice included - the book is a legal pad, and will therefore be acceptable in evidence in the event of legal proceeding.

Dr Mkazi is no longer calling himself doctor, and at present works in the farm office. His is employed in accounting and the payment of remittance.

I have managed to find three others in the district who took the drugs. Their families all deny they were infected. As I explained, on other occasions, such an admission would affect the marriage prospects of their other children. One mother told me her daughter was taking the medicine purely as a prophylactic.I realise I should not say this, as your people will think me rude, but this woman is very stupid. All the people in her village know her daughter died of AIDS. You may read it upon the death certificate, which I have obtained - invoice included - from my usual sources.

My calculation is that the number off people in this district who have died is 16: 3 from drug poisoning and the others not.

I have been unable to find the girl called Tabitha, in the photograph with Mr Clinton. I have heard rumours that she was eaten by a crocodile, but I cannot confirm this.

I shall be going to Serowe at the end of the month. Obviously I will pass back any information I gain from my cousin at the bank.

Yours



documents and invoice attached.

#amwriting #poetry #poem - After, Napoleon Crossing the Alps by Jacques-Louis David

After, Napoleon Crossing the Alps, by Jacques-Louis David

In wrapped in red, to drive him south

pulled by the compass caisson wheel;

sky points he marks unconquered foes,

onward, upward, on he goes.

And all the world swirls fallow now

encaught new bright in fire glow;

translates into the restless mane,

onward, forward, on he goes.

What of that face so boyish still

that tames the eye's unruly roll;

serenely stern, when bold at arms,

onward, onward, onward go.

#peom #poetry #amwriting #ilkleywriters #Ilkley Scry

Scry

I found the cord of honeysuckle, you made,
garroted in the stump. One flower remained
hyaline, embossed where bark had flayed
before the tree lay drowned, in waves
of sinking sand and mud. Ungrievous grave
so simple there, where land meets sea in play
of silted dawn, of squelching dusk; opaque in clay.

#poem #poetry #amwriting #ilkleywriters jfhksdbfkj

I have given everything away
for want of love and hate:
to find returned this space to dwell.

What hell is other people;
who from this well draw cups of hope
and bid me drink of bitter charity.

#poem #poetry #amwriting box

It yields with the coy resistance of weak magnets.
Of artful sublunary skill constructed
this box, embossed with marigolds
burnished the colour of plasters, once held a ring.

cliffhanger

My wife, now more bone than skin, insisted we burn the last of our furniture to heat the iron, to press the clothes. Hunger and defeat hung now so thick, that walking to the square occasioned no name calling or spitting. When they took our papers we knew. But still, hand in hand, beneath that rainless winter sky, foolishly we allowed ourselves the folly of hope.

It was then we heard the first of the planes.

#poem #poetry #amwriting #ilkley writers group

a couple of things based on the prompt weddings - and something found in my notebook -

.....

 on the first evening when my shadow
is longer than the night
three people hustle past complaining
in accents custom built for complaint

instead of drunks drinking on pavements
they want an ornate square
neat tables - wicker backed chairs -
and a little pernod and water

I would listen - if only to laugh -
but the tulips have been weeded
from the flower beds and tubs
- summer is officially here

.....

as the youngest of nineteen cousins
I was always wearing velvet bow ties
and checked flared trousers - creased for shaving -
occsaionally I would carry a train - to supplement
my diet of cake and sneaked whiskey -
I would marvel at edna rolling fags one-handed -
sat with my clan - within the clique
fenced in by past wrongs -
of which I had no understanding -
for to me aunt so-and-so was the one who made me smash
I didn't care about the elephant's foot umbrella stand -
but duty is duty
so I smiled politely - played my role -
and drank beer from the back of an uncle's hand

....

she was married up the registry
away from prying eyes
and only invited those she liked
which did not deter the spies
who hung around the flower beds
to gossip throughout the pictures
about the bulging wedding dress
let out by fifteen stitches

....

peace:)


The Blue Book

#poem #poetry #amwriting #ilkley writers group

a couple of poems based on the prompt - of memoir

...

I'm not looking at the bloody business end
just talking for the sake of hope
and holding the squeezing hand
all emotion pushed deep down
                         or I'm drowned

the spring light is bright upon the pimpled wall
as I slide light-headed to the floor
noting the dust on the skirting board
all emotion is pushed deep down
as I gasp for the air or be drowned

between the sucking squeezing sigh
that terrible silence that draws the eye
from this feinting self obsession to the red baby
dangling downwards - cry - oh cry -
                        please make a sound

and it comes - unreal in that morning in sobs
the burst'd lungs to breach the damn
as the pent up feelings of failure flow
                 gut freed in laughing grief

....

'what's up with him' says the midwife
poiting at the weeping laughing man
'I've seen it all now'

....

the business end lies hidden
we talk and bark in hope and pain
the squeezing hand grips one last time
as into a silence I slide
crumpling like folding paper
gasping at the cooler air of the floor

....

peace:)


The Blue Book

#poem #poetry #amwriting #ilkley writers group

a couple of poems based on the prompt - a canvasser comes to the door - and the suggested line - as I opened the door I knew

....

as I opened the door I knew -
the mermaid in the bath would sing
for the unicorn under the bed

'vote labour' he said -
my teenage self joined the call
of myths in which we stand
- appalled -

that discontent would slam the door


....

as I opened the door I knew -
the mermaid in the bath would sing
bare arsed kids would run to see
who it was that rapped

'greenpeace' he said - to match his badge -
a smile followed slick with oil
can he take my details
to help save the whale

now when I'm cooking gammon
                        finding mammon
on my front step
                made my climate alter - 
my words were less than eco-friendly
as I put yon wood in toil

....

peace:)


The Blue Book

#poem #poetry #amwriting #ilkley writers group

don't mind me....

I'm just putting together some poems to read at ilkley writers group...

...

 bedsit

the room lay up three flights of stairs
the telephone three flights down again
and those below never climbed
   when it rang
- which suited me just fine -

for in my simple life of luxury
- of foldout bed - I sipped my tea
from the finest china tea cup I have owned -

when the door closed behind me I was alone -
free to view from chimney height
   the backs of houses opposite
and the higher clouds that drifted
above horizons out of view -

and there was no you -
to interrupt this life of what could be boiled
on a single ring -
and there was no you to interrupt
the blissful silence of reading

...

 english carnival

there's something splendidly naff about an english carnival
those smiling children in costumes plucked from the dressing up trunk
and the town crier ringing his bell - crying 'god save the queen'

boxes with holes cut for the head and for the arms
   on which are sketched big ben or books or playing cards

the brass band - marching to the beat of the big bass drum -
playing colonel bogey and dambusters always a little off key

cake stalls and the ubiquitous tombola
with yellow tickets for sweets and pink for adults
   the star prize always a bottle of whiskey

yes there is something marvelously naff about an english carnival
                                                          which makes them so special


...


after an early supper

 grey night shrinking without sunset settles
in like a moth on paper - as rainclouds
swaying full gutted and black scut tittle
the moon in malicious jest - for night
knows best - knows the hidden corners
of our shadow - collects our shrouded
self in sleep and pours in those things
often misforgotten - often slight -
but grey as this shrinking into night

when we look again through the window
the clouds have dimmed and night pulls in
and that which was shrinking darkens
quicker than the spill of electric light
can fill - from the garden comes a child's
voice - of an injured cat limping
from a fight whose ear torn price
it has paid - and we close the curtain -
cover the still soapy dishes with a teatowel
and turn our backs - though some still pray

...

on the royal birth

I shan't buy a mug nor wave a flag
or run excited naked through the streets
my life won't change - rearrange -
in fact nothing about it will have the slightest effect
                                                                         on me

but I am glad that a child has been born
and I'll not succumb to the fascist wittering
of those dullards who hate the royals
and complain
oh how they complain
that this child will not want when others do

yes that's true

but neither will the thousands
dragged up in the gutter
be helped in the slightest by wantons
who mutter and carp and bleat
and express their sad lives in jealousy

and so congratulations to kate and princess will
and their son - what-his-name -
who will no doubt have his nose put out of joint
                                                            by a sister

...

fair

my arms are pulled in two directions
by boys o'erwhelmed by confections
of spinning chairs and swimming ducks
and barkers crying to try one's luck

I rein them in and note the prices
and look for bluetack under prizes
as round we go once to check the rides
they may pick two I gently chide

but all is new and all exciting
walking is poor in place of riding
they see the faces of the paying guests
and those two boys want nothing less

...

 may

the rain so light is
so light it hardly noticed be
tickles the ransom
   and the bluebell
to fill this world of wood
   budding leaf pale green
with all the powers of the earth

no birds sing today
clustering within themself
taking shelter where they may

and in this silence footsteps
   against this thickening
   wall of summer
coming drown from the hills
    in the drying draining streams
of unreflected luminescent sky
the water may be of itself
   clean and clear as tears we cry

....

 the dying wish of the shaman

footprints in the bacon fat
the pin-tin upset of it's contents
   red-head green-head blue-head
   settle where they will
for angels rise on point
                                    but not to scare
the sheep of the field - now in the garden -
    and barely disturb the flapping red curtain
    at the cracked window pane -
       for black roses and lilies taste too good

but not as good as old tom
   on the brown tiled kitchen floor
   - face half lost and fallow -
one arm reaching from the phone

even in death he has retained
style and keeps his cap
in place
             the mousey nose
             in the jowl eaten jaw
   widens his beatific grin


they shovel him out when the dog starts to bark
    and cover their noses with chemical masks
    and everyone says it is all such a shame
for a lover of nature
                              to go in that way

....

spelling test

this morning the sky was brightest blue
blue as a child's eye reflected on the sea
when after a period of pleading
                      they run to get ice cream

after laying in late we ate toast
hot from the toaster
                       with watery butter
that ran to our cuffs
before stepping into the morning warmth

spelling test today
                     last day of the week
cribbing 'excitedly'- making sure
you keep the 'c' behind the kiss
three times and each time correct

...

 magic

twice nightly
   - three time at weekends -
   they die
in pealing laughter
   - bow to the paltry applause -
in seaside cabaret

it doesn't help
that the false bottom of the cage
   gets stuck
so he never knows if the dove is gone
   when he pulls the cape

nor that wanda
   - real name beryl -
has got ideas of spring in rhyl
and fallen in love with a bouncer
called errol
who doesn't like the cut of her cloth

it really isn't right
for a magicians assistant not to show a bit of leg
but errol will not have it
and stopped her getting sawn in half
    which mainly leaves the cards

they'll not get booked again
the manager has told them so
   but twice nightly
   thrice at weekends
they play the trooper in a seaside magic show

...

 backstage

he's sitting in his dressing room
cleaning make up with a greying towel
   stained with five and nine
   at each passing of the rag

I knew him first from television
   have admired him from afar
watched across the orchestra pit
in full voice the tragic actor

now I see the real tragedy
as I offer my book and pen
did his performance fulfill
tell me tell me once again

nothing can convince him
of the finest of his craft
the lines multiply with each
'thank you - how kind you really are'

...

 widow

he's more real than when he was there
those wisps of his scent in the chair
the cold bed

the things that didn't need to be said
in the unspoken mirror of feelings
half the peelings

half the portion and all the bed
in sickness and in health you said
his chair

now moved for the sake of change
and the ornaments rearranged
he's more real

when you shut the door and call
'I'm home' at that blank wall
within you

and without you as you face the world
the sense of strength and the aching ball
of grief

is more real now he has gone
as you escape to his side
of the bed

...

peace:)

The Blue Book

#poem #poetry #amwriting #ilkley writers group

don't mind me....

I'm just putting together some poems to read at ilkley writers group

....

Musing In Ilkley Cemetery
No more on the hill the Middleton clan,
     now resting apart in municipal plot.
He to the left with the Romans and Catholics,
     she to the right among Protestant stock.

He passes his time amongst sisters and Irish,
     she spends her days with the cream of the mill.
And were they to rise, and meet on the pathway,
     they could look through the Ash to the pile on the hill.

Walking once more, hands crossed behind me,
     the A plots, the B plots and C's tucked behind,
reading the stones, somber and solid,
     eaten by moss and losing their shine.

Now here's a baby resting with mother,
     daffodils, and brambles over their head.
Laying untended, their family departed,
     'gone safe to the Lord', the legend there says.

A squirrel picks crisps from littered green packet,
      vinegar, bites and claws at its tongue.
Skirting the line of war fallen heroes
      into conformists I gladly move on.

Past teachers and doctors, inventors and shepherds,
     he was a pal of George Bernard Shaw,
her flag she raised with Garibaldi,
     his soul he saved building homes for the poor.

At last, I complete my ambling circuit,
     back once again beside Middleton sun.
Surely despite religious contention,
     husband and wife might lay here as one.


....

 for a dead child

where shall I take these ashes
   my urge is to the sea
   to the wide norfolk sands
   and trudge across the flatness
      on a receding tide
   so that I might have excuse
   to keep you

I will keep you close
   to my beating heart
      lay down on the wetness
      of drying sand
push my head
   backwards onto mussel shells
      so that I might have excuse
      to keep you

and when the tide turns
   chasing me to the land
I will find excuse
   why I never take you
   to the sea

                for I am you
and you are me

                and one day
                we shall be

....

 in praise of wb yeats

fuck I hate yeats -
every molecule and electron
within me - despises him -

he's a priest of cheap tricks
   shoving his mitre
   in a choirboys mouth -

nothing he says has merit -
and everything is divisive
and dull - and dulled
because he says it -

put him beside a real poet -
like rilke - who peels you apart
like lsd - or emily dickinson -
with her subtle honesty -

yeats is the lowest of the low
  which is why
   he is held so high
to enable his admirers
to jump - not at all -
   to surpass him
   in their quest for the sky

....

 Remembrance
the doctor says, 'your baby is not alive'
yeah I know
but it's the missus I'm worried about now

the Simpsons play on the TV in the side room
but you don't laugh
instead the missus lets out a wail
that no actress can reproduce
no cliche ridden bullshit will let you hear
no poetic crap about darkness
or pretendy metaphor nonsense

the fact is
that it's not what you think
losing a child

yeah you hang onto each other
and
yeah there's anger
but there's more fear

fear that 
not being kicked by that ball of hope
when you spoon in bed
will cut the thread
the umbilical of kindness
that makes cups tea
shares jokes
holds hands in the street

And no
you are not the same
when later you lay in bed
hand on her belly
wishing that fart
was a moving finger
a flickering eye
a thought

and you do despise the sympathy
the well meaning advice
the imposition of grief
the morons who say 'oh how dreadful'
'I can't imagine'
'you have to keep talking'

fuck off

and then there's the coffin
in the chapel of rest
and the instruction not to open it
because the veins are too small
for the formaldehyde
and you won't like to remember
what you see

which will not be that child
who was born dead
and lay in perfect stillness
on the blanket your missus crocheted
with the rattle you bought
in an idle moment of expectation

it will not be the child
with pink fingers
the scratch mark under the eye
that you imagine was done
when waking from sleep in the womb
and not when dying
those bowed rose lips
thinning and darkening
from which no sound ever came
in the few hours you spend together

that child who you dressed
in a white Sunday dress
with white tights
and white shoes
and tended
with all respect
and all duty
in death
because you couldn't in life

so you do what you are told
the coffin stays shut
and you kiss it
and embrace the sharp edges

and then a day or so later
tears rolling down your face
you lift it from
the hearse
it don't even cover the spare wheel
and carry it into the chapel
in front of your family and friends
and cry
and cry
and hold onto each other

and then the little white box
slides through the curtain
and you get ashes in a plastic pot

...

 dawdling

laying here - stroking your back - as you sprawl snoozing
it strikes me how much you have grown

though you are still small enough to ride mahout on my shoulders
and tug reluctant on my arm when shopping

your face when sleeping carries those babyish curves
   you pull the heart at the smallness of perfect

      but you are definitely growing

just as I get used to the slim child
   you grow chubby
   branch out and up
and a new slim child appears

   you tell me that one day you will be taller than the sky
   I can wait
   for I love the smell of your hair

....

 evensong

the town hall clock strikes maunful tone
   tea washed and dried
                                  she leaves her home
this time of day she calls her own
    as she makes her way to evensong

those who live their life by reasons
    will not comprehend her love of seasons
    nor the smallness of her hoped for pleadings
        as she slips away for evensong

she goes not for god or wealth
not even really for herself
but to hear the birds in full breath
    in glorious joyous evensong

...

 To Tenby

that moment at the end of bleary chivvying
summer special on my lap sweets already half eaten
in that moment when with a thunk
unclunked or clicked we were sealed into our holiday

brown vinyl burning legs below my snake belted shorts
father's cigarettes virginian sweet ashen flicked midges
caught on the wind sucked back through the window
sugaring minnie the minx or ginger and numbskulls

all the while mother asking 'are you feeling sick'
brown paper bag ready in the footwell
with the tupperworn buttered ham sandwiches

into an A-road world of trees and hedgesrows
square council housing jig-saw cottages new build bungalow
portico piles down long yellow driveways
and tractors and caravans bicyclists and muttered
white knuckling grip cursing lost time

through country towns with one set of lights
church clocks and women wandered markets
wearing chemically printed polyester

                        i spy sky road car 'can I see it'
and groans for the unguessed three cows drinking
five miles behind
                          
as we ingested the size of the journey
and digested olympic breakfast pancakes fizzy orange
tartrazine brightness free lollipop
the afternoon sibling squabbling
the threats to sit still and put your feet down
then songs would begin

how young my mother was
as she slipped a fox's glacier
                          into my fathers mouth

...

peace)



The Blue Book