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.

***