#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 #skecthbook stones

Skimming stones, it's pleasant today, river
bright dancing, each
stone drawing a rainbow haze. And over
on the far bank in the shadow of beech
and willow a trout breaks the surface
with a fin. My son doesn't notice this.
he is far to busy, trying a new trick,
or so he says. But really it is face
saving. Claiming whole manner of chance hits
on a dead log, as proof he has the grip

doesn't throw like a girl.Only a girl
would complain at
this, and so rather than

#amwriting #poem #poetry #sketchbook stones

Skimming stones, and easily getting three
or fours, drawing rainbows, occasionally
bouncing seven before smacking the tree
bent drinking like some wizened cow. My son
has less success. As for the other one
he has given up completely. He runs
about the shore, prefers lobbing bricks

#amwriting #poem #poetry #sketchbook scales

I think I have a kind of pain, too numb
and pinch away

.....

Frankie went out to the street.
Late again, so would you with a quarter
of whisky.

......

That Wednesday, with summer still sweating
I was late.

....

I think I have a kind of pain, again
it came before.
The alder in the cutting

.......

Whenever I see an alder on a cutting
Whenever I see alder from the train
I always think
that would fit the theme

.......

 Whenever; when coming into a station
or braking from
a tunnel, the alder grabs attention.
Hardly the stuff of ballad or song
that. Nut then weddings at a distance seem
equally bland, equall fleeting, as when
trying to explain why you are teasing
your son for throwing like a girl.

......

Skimming stones, down by the glinting river
I turn and snap
'stop throwing like a girl, you will never
do anything unless you mean it.'

........

She was on the edge of the story
argy bargy

......

At distance, the wedding passed like alder

......

But then weddings at a distance seem
equally bland
equally fleeting as trying.

.........

cold stone steps
from the now defunct

The wedding passed like
the wedding passed alder

#amwriting #poem #poetry #plath #heptonstall Sylvia Vists

Sylvia Visits

My children, hot from the sun and dragged
around, perhaps having fun, do not see
why we have come to this walled pen of graves.
Nor why I tramp the trampled grass, a ragged
path between the plots and stones glance reading
the waiting names: all strange, all unknown, save
a few that have their story carved in brief.
And out beyond, lies a landscape, soft, steep,
and green. Relief
comes quietly here. Noiselessly as seeds

falling, and as jumbled as the chatter
from the church fete.
I have come to find a poet who matters
too much to some, but not me - much. I rate
Ms Plath fine, but too wild and hidden, mad
in encouraged ways. A consumptive, drawn
to the sea but choking in fear of flood.
Why else climb up here, to lie? To seek sad
searchers for saints who celebrate and mourn:
votive pens, a flower button of wood

shines in the wind bleached air. Ownerless,
ash, grey bitch comes
toward us wagging full body - eel in grass:
lithe snake; something dying in the ebon
of eyes, which hang begging almost opal.
On light toes the dog dances for affection
while we shoo her and walk on, untouched, clean
away from the dangled tongue; bid 'go home'
to where she belongs. Not in perfection -
of this brochure ordered place. Where girls dream

for the unbearable romantic want
of resurrection. Scratched names, dirty nails,
the tapping silver trail of a single
tear that will salt the high pastures, dry the font
for babies yet unborn. For when God fails,
and men die, there will dry white petal
on summer bramble, the fly eye bubble
boil into yellow berry: bells ring still
for all troubles.
But no trumpet, and no brine touched hills.

#amwriting #poem #poetry #sketchbook sylvia again

Sylvia Visits

My children, hot from the sun and dragged
around, perhaps having fun, do not see
why we have come to this walled pen of graves.
Nor why I tramp the trampled grass, a ragged
path between the plots and stones glance reading
the waiting names: all strange, all unknown, save
a few that have their story carved in brief.
And out beyond, lies a landscape, soft, steep,
and green. Relief
comes quietly here. Noiselessly as seeds

falling, and as jumbled as the chatter
from the church fete.
I have come to find a poet who matters
too much to some, but not me - much. I rate
Ms Plath fine, but too wild and hidden, mad
in encouraged ways. A consumptive, drawn
to the sea but choking in fear of flood.
Why else climb up here, to lie? To seek sad
searchers for saints who celebrate and mourn:
votive pens, a flower button of wood

shines in the wind bleached air. Ownerless,
ash, grey bitch comes
toward us wagging full body - eel in grass:
lithe snake; something dying in the ebon
of eyes, which hang begging almost opal.
On light toes the dog dances for affection
while we shoo her and walk on, untouched, clean
away from the dangled tongue; bid 'go home'
to where she belongs. Not in perfection -
of this brochure ordered place. Where girls dream

for the unbearable romantic want
of resurrection. Scratched names, dirty nails,
the tapping silver trail of a single
tear that will salt the high pastures, dry the font
for babies yet unborn. For when God fails,
and men die, there will dry white petal
on summer bramble, the fly eye bubble
boil into yellow berry: bells ring still
for all troubles.
But no trumpet, and no brine touched hills.




 it's body eel
through grass: lithe snake. In search of affection
on light toes, begging leper, blackberry
eyes squeezed from dark to opal blue; peels
us away from this garden of perfection:
back through the iron gates. With all we carry.

#amwriting #poem #poetry #sylviaplath Sylvia Came to Visit

Sylvia Came to Visit

My children, hot from the sun and dragged
around, perhaps having fun, do not see
why we have come to this walled pen of graves.
Nor why I tramp the trampled grass, a ragged
path between the plots and stones, glance reading
the waiting names: all strange, all unknown, save
a few that have their story carved in brief.
And out beyond, lies a landscape, soft, steep
and green. Relief
comes quietly here. Noiselessly as seeds

falling, and as jumbled as the chatter
from the church fete.
I have come to find a poet who matters
to many, but not to me - much. I rate
Ms Plath good, but too wild and hidden, mad
in all the wrong ways. A consumptive, drawn
to the sea but choking in fear of flood.
Why else climb up here, to lie? To bring sad
searchers for saints to celebrate and mourn:
and offer tokens, like pens. Anger should

shine not dull, or roll like beads of sweat down
necks. Having not
found the grave. And children eager to go
find food, and play more games - then a grey dog
comes wagging toward us, it's body eel
through grass: lithe snake. In search of affection
on light toes, begging leper, blackberry
eyes squeezed from dark to opal blue; peels
us away from this garden of perfection:
back through the iron gates. With all we carry.