MISS WORTHINGTON*
I saw her one last time. Erect and hating her condition, she rolled her chair a little more towards the windows of her winter garden: “The elms will have to go, you know. The elms are sick... “I climbed them as a child.” There was that catch of hidden sadness. Her voice had lost its edge. Miss Worthington had stayed alone from choice. She’d had her lovers. The spinster word was not for her, a vibrant beauty once and weathered now to autumn’s gold and shorter days. And in that instant, when I looked at her, I knew that winter’s crystal hands had reached for her and brittled her resolve. “It’s time,” she said. Perhaps she meant the elms. Then she leaned back and closed her eyes. “It was just yesterday when I was young. And suddenly I’m being called to give account. “Oh yes... I know. “One day, I thought, I will be wise. We shall have time – tomorrow. First let us conquer, change the world. Let’s catch the firebird and torch old customs, thoughts, moralities from yesteryear. “But what is wisdom... am I wise? All that I’ve learned is: time cannot be saved. The time you do not use is lost. There is no piggy bank in which you later find those days you wasted saving time. And while I lived my life in haste it passed me by. “The elms will die...” Her voice trailed off. She followed some internal discourse from which I was excluded. I waited quietly and was at peace. Her triffid garden filtered light and sound, some wild, exotic green caressed her lovingly. My dear Miss Worthington, you were my teacher and my friend. Because of you my mind took wings, and you it was who taught me courage. You are the wisest of the wise and your accounting will suffice. Her voice came back, her eyes stayed closed. “They fuss so, don’t you know?” A fly, emboldened, settled on her cheek. When no hand waved it off, I knew. I did not move. Her eyes stayed closed. A smile had woven sunlight in her face. A sudden ray of brightness touched her silver hair. Oh ... *third prize 2009 Margaret Reid Poetry Contest for Traditional Verse (US) *** GOOD FRIDAY IN SPAIN Drumbeats. Whirling bones on spanned hide. Pure pain singing lament. Bearers shuffle. Cobbles glisten dark and wet. Blood or tears? It’s raining. Felt deeply. Displayed proudly. The show is back. ¡Maria! ¡Santa! ¡Jesús de los pobres! Holy Mother of Christ! Another canto streams from a balcony. The gently swaying plaster virgin drips painted tears. Anonymous faith hides under hood and robe. Echoes of the Ku Klux Klan let the watcher shiver. Obscene gestures honour the Mother. Dark rites. Dark souls. *** FOR THOSE I LOVE I'LL BE How can I know that I am here when no-one knows my name; my child looks past me when it cries. I don’t know why I came. I beg you find the deepest me in subterranean caves of ancient pain and countless scars. For those I love I’ll be. *** ABSENCE Unquiet, furless animals, her hands are comforting each other on light-blue cotton and a piece of creamy silk. Still there is beauty in her face – all folded in upon itself. Her eyes have found a focus in the Milky Way; her ears are tuned to broadcasts from distant nebulae. Acknowledging my touch she almost turns to me. Her puzzled voice is hesitant: “And who are you?” *** the slut I there she is pushing that poor kid through the rain with what’s coming down she could of put the hood up couldn’t she now she’s not even got decent shoes on her feet ought to be reported that skirt’s so short you can see her knickers not even a coat on her back and that kid of hers doesn’t look happy, does it now bet they’re under the doctor and who pays for that I ask all of us I say somebody should do something shouldn’t be allowed that should’ve used condoms that’s what I say II housing hadn’t given Nell her cheque and Pete had pissed off gone to Glastonbury hadn’t he never wanted kids he did and she hadn’t wanted another abortion III the rain washed the tears off her face she thought it would be cool to drown in that huge water tank at the back of the estate *** SWEET MUSIC The counterpoint has closed its eyes except for two it keeps on flugelhorn who rightly sighs: you’re giving me the creeps. And interlude would dearly lead the madrigal in dance, but overture and chord agreed they wouldn’t miss the chance. Libretto leans against the bar determined to demur. He is the cleverest by far and won’t join in. No Sir. An octet passes by with friends. The requiem is drunk. Preludium has made amends while fugue has done a bunk. It’s late. The chords have had enough but little coda scores; glissando slides into the trough. Finale shuts the doors. *** UNDER THE FLAME TREE Soft-fingered wisps of green emerge from many-elbowed branches topped by red, so red it hurts; reach out umbrella-like to give the gift of shade to those who’ll stay a while. Flamboyán, Krishnachura, Gulmohar, Malinche, Tabachine, Poinciana, flames of glorious beauty line the tropical street. I press my back against its double, triple twine, serene under my royal canopy, watch passers passing, urgent and unseeing, rushing from someplace to elsewhere. *** old rig rusty tubs lion seals sea lions alien improbable structure points at horizon get bigger come closer black water slaps rusty metal fat bodies blubber over each other bored eyes ask and who are you? black cloud of pollution announces arrival of environmental team turtle undisturbed floats beneath pelican mafias dolphins undulate in powerful waters insignificant surfers find calamity in small waves *** DEEP FROZEN That summer’s last fair made me ask the man to dig a deep hole in the garden, line it with plastic and fill it with water. When the kids came home 11 happy goldfish dizzied in the new pond, from left to right and up from down, blobbing the surface with quick mouths. We added water lilies, iris, marsh marigolds and marginals until the dragonflies flitted across our magic spot; even the frogs moved in. That winter’s last frost made me ask the man to lift out the huge block of ice. I thought I saw 11 small orange stains. *** |
THE ACTOR
I heard some say you were a genius, a veritable master of your art. And then they added as an afterthought that you were kind, and modest, and – in short – a being of unique perfection. You’re dead. Of course. And so the vain and empty souls that live still bathe in your reflection, a light which they create by feeding on your flame. A mighty crowd of hollow spectres became your moons and slowly dance your songs. They never were your friends. Just hear the voices in the dark: I knew him well. He kissed me once. I knew him better still. He was a saint! He tried to get me into bed, but I refused! I knew he favoured prostitutes. He liked the little boys, my dear. He couldn’t get it up, you know... I saw him in this play – sublime. You just can’t get it right. Your damaged self sought refuge in your art, a reinvention of the frightened boy. What did you say to me one day? “I have to be another once a year, or find myself too burdened by my self.” *** CLARISSA ON THE ROOF Clarissa on the roof holds on to the lightning rod. People take her in their stride. After all, the villagers have seen it coming. “It started when her mum locked herself in and painted tsunamis.” “Yeah, and then her dad built a boat in the living room.” “They had to take out the wall to move it!” Clarissa above the flood waters waits to be picked up. *** 600 KILOS OF MUSCLE AND BONE Six hundred kilos of muscle and bone shake the ground. The huge head moves left, right, up, down. Spittle runs from the muzzle and a sound like the hissing of a steam train shoots towards the lone human figure. The torero flings back his head, putting the peacock to shame with his dance stance. – Hey, hey…hey, toro! His eyes hold death and his heart holds pride. The bull moves its mass only to be cheated in the game played by the small killer and his helpers. The picador cuts the tendon that carries the weight of the powerful head. The banderilleros distress with their colourful stings. The torero plays tricks with the red cloth while the crowd applaud. When the butchering’s done the mighty bull at last gives in to the monstrous wounding and accepts an inevitable death dictated by the rules of a game written in blood centuries ago. It’s a warm and pleasant afternoon in Madrid’s bullring. *** UNLIMITED POTENTIAL choose, they said and opened the door to unlimited potential – your thoughts create your quantum world. blasphemy, she said yet was tempted. looked deep inside herself – and thought of scones for tea. *** NEED They bought her a puppy when what she needed was her mum and a ride across the far side of the moon. *** MAGICV MARKERS The memory train passes stations that have long since closed for service. Eyes in windows – hollow black sockets – follow the dreamer. Nameless things with wings are leaving the eaves, rising up high into mindspace, settling softly on flotsam ostensibly discarded eons ago to lighten the journey. Wondrous transformation: sackcloth and ashes become precious lace with the help of magic markers. *** Know what? You took off, left behind your memories to seep into my head. My brain’s going off orbit, can’t deal with mine and yours. Know what? As far as memories go I like yours better. Sitting on a pile of clothes can’t find my socks. Look at my hairy legs. I’m chaos! Do you know what drugs do to your notion of self? Know what? As far as selves go I like yours better. The big empty house lives, whispers and threatens the shadows behind which I live. I was in need and where were you? Living your own life you selfish cow. Know what? As far as lives go I like yours better. It’s alright now. No it’s not. Cried when I dumped your painting of the ducks we fed in the park. Remember? You made them into an abstract flight. You took off. And so did I. Know what? As far as takeoffs go I like yours better. There was a time when it no longer hurt or anyway that’s what it felt like. No longer hated you. Lost the power. *** SECRET KNOWLEDGE The ‘p’, the ‘b’, the ‘d’, the ‘q’ were shapeshifters. He had seen them dance away and he couldn’t catch them. His parents called him ‘stupid’. But they didn’t know that he flew with blue horses when nobody was looking. *** whatchemecallits rustling things wrapped in crinkly coats made of burgundy, russet and ochre, packed what they knew about whirling and danced away to the autumn flute played by the fall guy, swooshed across the widths and breadths against the time zones, only to find themselves in uncharted waters driven by the painful newness of an unexpected spring *** did you see the sun? did you see the sun reflected in the dewdrop squatting on the dogwort before the tyres of the tractor left it squashed into the muddied earth soaked by last night’s summer rain? *** RUSSET RAGS Russet rags torn at the leaf obscure the clear waters where Ophelia opens pale eyes behind green veils. While received knowledge is exposed to the time winds accepted truth is swallowed by the maelstrom between Scylla and Charybdis. Hubris, like a swollen blowfish, floats in darkness. I watch in silence and wait for zero point while listening for the last time to Bach’s latest fugue. *** MOURNING Even the pigs wore black when they buried mole. *** |