Diana Dixon
'Fledgling Flight' Newlyn Art Gallery 2012
The Fradgan Studio and Gallery,
01736 333180 and 07743461895
dianadixon.co.uk
THE BLOOD LINE
Too hasty the
needed slake of blood
that binds bonds
too sharp the ire
fuelled by the
unholy pooling
of shared desire
to hurt to hurt to hurt
thrice like navies
striking a stone
quelling the
viscous unease
tasting the
aloe the yew the
deadly shade of black
unknowing why
like Macbeth’s witches
thrice more they
strike the gentle woman
allowing the dagger gleam
to stroke the phonic air
of their shared remorse
from where once their
soft sibilance and
smiles were given
freely for dessert
alas ‘tis said that hapless souls
so bereft of human understanding
they mistake the act
of kindness for weakness
perish hungry not knowing
‘tis sad to take to your lips
and drink the honey spoon
of giving then spit
their contemptuous lees
into the empty pot
of spoil already reeking
an acid vengeance so vile
so devoid of love
even their consciences recoil.
THE SHORELINE
A shifting thing.
A subtle, dangerous thing.
Something changeable, moody.
Unpredictable and likely
to knock you off balance.
No ‘pieces of eight’ coinage,
no pearls, or jewels.
No treasure but, possibly,
a nasty surprise.
Glass! Not yet loved by the sea.
Sharp as a butcher’s knife
slicing a toe.
Metal too,
lying in wait.
Poisonous with intent.
Waiting to bite vile oxide venom.
Coloured so beautifully
even the sea forgets.
Just there, over there,
a plastic shape.
Made to mimic art.
Artful but deadly.
A pretend personally
borrowing guises.
Masking the ‘self' and
just waiting to be picked up.
So here we are.
Beachcombing
the embarkation
between land and sea.
Seeking a one-ness
with an element so huge
we need the Moon
to guide the way.
Walk on the
ebb of the tide.
Alone.
Be an entity of ‘one.'
Take on the might of
the world’s shoreline.
Draw that ‘line in the sand.’
Beware, though,
the
Undertow.
UBERLEBENDE
Sonorous the dong of the long-case clock bidding us rise,
breakfast
at
nine.
In the dining room there are metal trays on a sideboard, exuding
heat
and
steam.
A copper gas urn, magnificent, sucks in air and plops out coffee,
gritty
and
scalding.
In an orderly queue we select from the griddles,
hot plates,
tureens,
a roll of bread.
Clutching my plate I look around the refectory table, seeking a place
to sit,
quietly,
to observe.
She is sitting opposite me, still, silent – only her eyes move around the room,
watchful,
wise.
opaque.
She wears a cloche hat, floral and grey, drop earrings, there is no hair that
can
be
seen.
Her jacket has jutting shoulder pads and wide pockets, her thin fluffy jumper
a
pearly
pink.
The table is now full, cutlery clinks, plates screech. She takes off her jacket,
proceeds
to
eat.
I watch her; she’s oblivious, her elbows knobbed on the table. Her probing fork hurriedly scrapes away the remains
on
her
plate.
I see her lumpy flesh; the uneven contours of her arms and breasts;
her
empty
face.
In the soft hollows above her wrist I see the tattooed number, millions
upon millions long.
black,
bitter,
stark.
She doesn’t wear a watch; no point, because she has survived and
passed
through
time.
POISED OVER
THE VOID
I climbed a stair going
nowhere passing
a balcony falling
backwards through
a hidden door on to
a wall-less ceiling
suspended over floorless
depths through space
without ending
where a wire is strung
to twang my supple weight
hitched to a hook tacked
to a shelf and I am walking
not falling and I am
poised over the void
balancing my life
kismet…
IN THE DARKNESS
She didn’t see
the figure’s
insinuation
of a shadow
She didn’t hear
the metallic
sizzling
of his zip
She felt the
might of his
body thrust
into hers
She tasted
her snot
her tears
his slobber
She smelt
her fear
her blood
his cum
Now
in the
untime
of rape
they wait...
Pathos 51cms x 19cms
AN IMP IN GREEN TROUSERS
An imp in green trousers
Came, sat down on
The Heath one day.
'What you reading?'
Voice like Ringo,
Laced with Glasgow.
'Auden’s poetry.'
Our willing hands mingled.
'I’m Thom, Thom Gunn.'
So began a summer of great content.
Sadly, by autumn,
Words threatening armament
Sheathed our loving senses.
When he was leaving
He gave me a pristine
Copy of Thom Gunn’s selected poetry,
Unopened, unrecited,
Too modest, he said!
I wasn’t to see or hear
A Gunn for a third of a century.
Not until I met his brother recently.
Shyly I told him of our
Meeting on Hampstead Heath,
Of delightful days and nights of
Fun and whimsy.
How we lay, naked, on his
Worn killim as he read me
The Rubaiyat of Omar Kyayyam.
Made it more authentic, more romantic
He said!
And more, until…
Calmly, gently, Ander murmured:
'Thom came down from
Oxford in 1954
With his boyfriend.
And has lived in San Fransisco
In a clapboard, wooden house
Since 1963.'
'He knew the Heath,
We grew up there
But he wasn’t there
In 1970.'
Incredulous I stared.
So, if not Thom Gunn,
Who was it that stole
His poetry and had
His impish way
With me
All those
Hot summer nights ago?
Not an imp but an impostor!
What a joyous memory.
A BUTTERFLY WENT SPLAT
and it was such a loud splat…
It skithered down the glass - the scarlet
was fading, and the black.
It lifted one thorny leg in a tired wave.
The antennae and the swivelling
head couldn’t comprehend.
Nor I, that it could die – that it
was, in fact, dying.
My eyes saw the yellow goo,
the faded wings, and I told it
how sorry I am to do this to you.
It fluttered on a thermal: a zig-zaggy
drop to the gravelly path.
And began a crazy… wobbly… walk… away…
I am sad as I lift my red-shoed
foot and stamp – stamp - it down.
OUR WALK IN THE DROUGHT
He was so wise, knowing it was only a mirage,
so we all turned left instead of right.
We burrowed our way into the gopher warrens,
sucked pebbles and licked our hands.
Sipped from prickly cacti at eventide,
drank our brothers’ pee from a rusty can.
He told us to follow his footfalls, compassed
by the Pole star glowing red in the sky -
some faltered, took a virgin route: quietly died.
Strafed sand raining down as dust half-blinded
the rest of us, walking to survive.
Walking into dawn light, silver and cold,
we could see our shadowy ghosts: mothers’
teats shriven; puckered babies; waxy kids.
Young men and women silent, tearless:
our old folk had died in the night.
He crouched at a yawning,
coaxed us in: sand-less, dry,
rock living with colonies of scorpions;
transparent, tiny, barely-formed.
Too young to sting; we ate them - every one.
He told us to listen: the faraway roaring of
trucks on a highway; a speeding freight train’s
falsetto scream. High, very high, above us
an aeroplane’s droned.
We turned right, followed a road.
Found a rising spring.
I KNOW THE LOOK
Yes, I know the look:
secret, hungry, sly, shy.
A look going deeper,
saying trust me.
We’ll trust each other.
No talk of tomorrow.
We know we would
like a night with dinner,
talk, laughter, thereafter...
The look intensifies,
the merest twitch of the mouth
and movements heavy as clay.
The light-lines converging:
and, finally, we kiss.
Yes, I know the look.
I
THE MARSH
Slurging on mud,
gouging reeds too.
Needles of ache
insinuating my face
through a torrent of nerves.
Feet slithering on broken
crab shells; sand, old mud,
old as the river god.
All pulling and caressing
young, eager toes.
Tidal water has canopied over
my head and my sad, dear, eyes
watches the beguiling sun
shimmer a smile on the dimpled
waves.
Everything is silent
in the land of fishes.
Silent until the swollen blood rush
of hushed air bids death enter.
Even the bladderwort, soft fronds
swaying silent as angel wings,
silently waits and tinkles a
wave of farewell.
Wait! Wait: grass,
river grass, coarse
and sharp as pampas
in my hands, pulling me up, out, out…
Sinuous feet straining to
hold a dance on the tide.
Rising, up and through water.
Wet, at last, living…
I am living. Yes, I am living.
Aged, but alive.
Wiser than birth pangs am I.
My soul came home.
I had escaped the land of the fishes.
Saved by the marsh.
A papyrus of gentle rushes –
Not even a scratch.
GRIEF
Grief makes me
feel sleepy,
half alive,
other-worldly.
Old and young
at the same time,
it feels odd, my
eyes feel cloudy.
Not a clear vision,
or too much vision,
empty, a void full of memories.
I’m awake, lying still,
there’s no movement,
no lozenge of
warmth on my thigh.
No reason for birds
to fly by but they do,
screeching a beseech
to someone else.
Not me, please not me.
I never want
to see those
alien eyes again.
They are too
powerful, too dead.
It’s time to pee,
make tea, sit musing.
NIGHT CALLS
Was that a steaming kettle hiss,
or a wet breath, sucking?
Was that a tittle-tattle
window rap?
Did that light
dim a moment?
Or a shadow
somewhere
in the…
HELP ME please help me…
I can hear
bare feet missing
a step.
.
Hissing again, like pee.
No, old gas jets
pluttering.
Now a shock wind
past my face.
Was that my name then?
Their snide tutters
coming closer
but I can’t see them.
Only sounds, like
bulrushes brushing
the door frame.
What was that?
It’s a wireless,
somewhere near my head.
My head is making
noises - like far away
tractors in the wind.
They’re here.
Over there.
Voices crackling like shrapnel.
Bud Flanagan,
tomb boom.
Scrape. Like an
old man’s belch.
So loud it sounds like my
chest wheezing.
A sneeze from the bin cupboard!
I can hear them
listening to me.
They’ve found me…found me!
I lived here…
I lived here… ONCE...
.
DETACHMENT
I live in a detached
house by the sea,
whose quaint
granite walls
seep sea spit
spat two
centuries ago,
and a dead
ship’s grieving
beams moan
to the sighs
of the easterly breeze.
I live in a detached
house by the sea,
with clusters
of entities stacked
thigh-high,
who play their
vocal chorus
in the seams
of the draughts,
in the creases
of the shadows,
even under the floors.
I live in a detached
house by the sea -
dreaming about
a lover younger
than me,
who walks
causeways,
tram ways,
sometimes ancient
track ways,
but who will never
walk with me.
HIDDEN
I hide in the forest,
where none may
pass but you. From them,
from light lines,
even the darkness,
because I exist
in gloom.
I’m a wraith,
a figment,
a filigree.
I’m the
shy spirit
loved by the trees,
who know my age,
my wisdom,
but who
have never
seen me.
My presence
gives them
light in their darkness,
substance
in their shadows,
a quiet peace.
We soothe each other
the forest and me,
we grow old together,
we are dying together.
In the forest,
where none
may pass
but you.
Waiting...
THE VISIT
It was such a lovely day for the visit.
the smell of bluebells and warm rye grass.
No one spoke as we drove through the
Hertfordshire countryside.
At least two hours from London, new
horizons already and a low mist.
We passed fields of stones, sheep, too.
Someone’s statues on a hillside.
Then we joked, ribald jokes, about the name:
Much Hadham.
‘slags’ and ‘old dogs’ laughed our Jakey.
‘Enough already’ said our father.
Silence again as we drove on,
we knew the way you see.
The tall gates closed on an entry system.
We wait, a silence, so unalarmed.
The pulleys oiled rasp divide the gates
and we accelerate, jumping through.
People sit on the grass, under trees,
no one laughs, smiles even.
‘Grim innit.’ says our Jakey.
No one speaks.
And then we see her.
Standing there, just standing there.
Waiting, just waiting.
CALL FROM THE SEA
I wish you were here,
I wish you were not…
It’s the Sea who’s speaking,
my message in waves says:
Go away,
come, come a lot…
I will always remember ‘ee,
though some I’ve forgot…
So come see me on glad days,
grey, blue and sad days…
If I’m not here,
I will always come directly…
Come, ride my white horses
some days I may shout…
Whether I be a draining or a making,
‘tis better without clout…
You can always surrender,
how gentle I’ll be…
Come my sweetheart, my ‘andsome, my cocker,
my lover, my bird…
Come, come, come… swim with me….
(IF YOU DARE!)
DO YOU REMEMBER GRIEF?
Do you remember Grief?
Sad, misty eyes, always got the snuffles.
Used to be quite chubby but when I saw
him recently he’d gone to skin and bone.
…Always on the buses, down the station, on the beach.
Saw him in the Post Office last Wednesday, drawing out
His savings.
Didn’t take long.
…Turns out he’s got s missus.
She looks as miserable as him.
Can’t tell them apart.
Funny really.
…Always muttering to himself, hardly ever speaks.
When he does voice like a crypt.
I wouldn’t want to see HIM
out on a dark night.
…You must remember Grief: skinny, short hair or long.
Lost it last year but it grew back.
Always in the chemist, up the doctors, down the pub.
Got problems – drink they say.
Poor bugger.
Saw him at Tescos the other day. Picking over the
‘out of dates’ Saw me looking at him.
Smiled he did.
Then I bumped into him again last week.
He recognised me, stopped for a chat.
Asked me if I lived locally.
‘See you around’ he said.
Not if I see you first I thought.
But I said ‘yes, see you Grief – Bye.’
Remembered him yet? No?
He’s often standing by the War Memorial
but when you look again he’s gone.
It could be her I suppose. Poor Soul.
Try to remember him.
Always hanging about waiting for a train to come in,
or leave. Always catching the last bus.
Like last night he was in the bus shelter.
We got on the same one. I got off
Before he did though.
Then this morning, I got such a shock!
Heard knocking at the door…
Opened it and,
Talk of the devil, it was HIM.
‘Hello’ I said ‘Are you lost?’
‘No, he says, ‘I was looking for you.
Can I come in a minute?’
‘Are you on your own?
I’ve got something to tell you.
It won’t take long…’
Oh, yes. You’d know him
If you saw him.
You can take my word for it.
Believe you me.
You’d KNOW him.
If you saw him.
MANILLA PLACE
My mate Charlie Strode
lives in a box, a cardboard box,
a ‘des res’ - a Hitachi.
Comes with polystyrene walls,
and anti-damp sachets.
Ella Mount lives next door in a Sony,
a thirty-eight incher. Bijou,
compact, with nylon reinforcements
and big Velcroed flaps.
Tommy Grime lives next door in a palette frame.
Polythene windows and a raised platform
base, under floor heating too - if you
don’t mind the fug.
Pete Small lives in a White Knight combi
divided down the middle: fridge,
with poly walls one side,
freezer, with poly walls on the other.
Long Tall Sal lives in an Indesit.
Seven feet end to end - slim as a whistle.
Lined with bubble wrap,
and she’s got LED lighting.
My new box is coming tomorrow.
A Fridgidaire. Very basic.
No bells or smells.
Just two-ply manilla.
A snug fit though.
Probably my last one.
KATH’S SCULPTURE
Lying there,
Forgotten – too old
For eating.
That Marris potato
Past its prime.
Just one of many,
Lying, waiting for
The compost heap.
Lying still,
Looking dead.
Almost, but not quite.
Somewhere a
Life force
Spreading a
Verdant stain.
Skin tone changed.
Gone now the
Chalky hew.
New tendrils, as
Tapered as aspen,
Weave up,
Towards the light.
Kismet for this
Tuber.
Arrested
By a hand
That picks it
From the many
And takes a
Knife – as
Sharp as a pin
And cuts
And cuts
And cuts
The glistening
Flesh into
A shape.
A tiny sculpture,
A baby dog –
Lolloping,
With baggy skin,
Too big feet,
A wrinkled brow.
Proud
It sits,
Carved to
Perfection.
Loved the
Moment it is
Given away
To stand
Amongst the
Flowers
And watched
Everyday
As white flesh
Mottles black,
And plump,
Puppy folds
Crease into
Ligaments,
Sinuous,
Shrivelled,
Old.
The hand that
Held the knife
Lies still.
Kath is alone.
Past waiting.
The moment
Quiet,
When
I till
Her
Sculpture
Back into the
Earth.
Eulogy to Kath Kelly
RIP12/2/2011
THE JOURNEY
Your name hangs heavy - as thick as a miasma in the air
breath motes vaporised syllables spoken between us
hushed memories broke surface seeking an outlet
squeezed through my tear ducts, formed snot in my nose
my tired pubis swelled with an ache as old as Eve
shucked ancient chords of déjà vu...
We left a time train of thought standing
on a platform waiting to rail away into history
before I – finally - said goodbye to you.
LISTENING TO MY QUIET
It shut out the train load
of baggage when I left home.
Already years of de-railments,
side-trackings, ice-on-the-line.
Empty, freezing platforms.
Waiting for love.
Waiting for that homely chuff, chuff
of steam, already spent.
The homely every-day pong
of tired old carriages welcoming warmth.
Railing away to be with you.
The new era begins.
London, my mother, awaits.
MONSTERS
People who smile with cruel eyes.
Feigning surprise
At your kindness.
They’re twitching the air with
Eagle delight.
Waiting for a fall,
Any fall.
Preferably your fall.
They’re standing in tandem.
Too afraid to attack, alone.
Yet ready in a trice
To spit in your face.
Claw your throat.
Eager for a reaction are monsters.
THE ROSE-TINTED
SPECTACLES
Sat high on her nose,
so high she saw the sun glisten
and converge into twin orbs -
almost celestial their vision
as they watched, waited,
dipped in coy deference,
rose again, polished and
powerful – almost invincible
in their ability to perch
in their eerie safe from
flaying fingers clutching
an arm, defying cruel
gravity waiting its turn.
The rose-tinted spectacles
tilted in the mist, couldn’t
get a bearing – sought
to regain their balance, find
a centre-point, seek
out solutions, raised their arms
in supplication, changed their
position, sat lower on her
nose – to wait out the
murk and misdoubt
steaming their lenses,
clouding their vision,
fearing the worst.
The rose-tinted spectacles
slithered and slid
down they fell,
down, down,
into a place neither
knew – to where the
air was clear, where
her resting cheek
smiled, and her thoughts,
clear as crystal,
recognised you.
Cornish Shag p.c.
THE MARSH
Slurging on mud,
gouging reeds too.
Needles of ache
insinuating my face
through a torrent of nerves.
Feet slithering on broken
crab shells; sand, old mud,
old as the river god.
All pulling and caressing
young, eager toes.
Tidal water has canopied over
my head and my sad, dear, eyes
watches the beguiling sun
shimmer a smile on the dimpled
waves.
Everything is silent
in the land of fishes.
Silent until the swollen blood rush
of hushed air bids death enter.
Even the bladderwort, soft fronds
swaying silent as angel wings,
silently waits and tinkles a
wave of farewell.
Wait! Wait: grass,
river grass, coarse
and sharp as pampas
in my hands, pulling me up, out, out…
Sinuous feet straining to
hold a dance on the tide.
Rising, up and through water.
Wet, at last, living…
I am living. Yes, I am living.
Aged, but alive.
Wiser than birth pangs am I.
My soul came home.
I had escaped the land of the fishes.
Saved by the marsh.
A papyrus of gentle rushes –
Not even a scratch.
VOICES IN THE MIRROR
It didn’t happen suddenly -
it crept, like your smile,
slow and sublime,
into my mind: those soft, tender
eyes mirroring mine.
They were lovely, those early
hurried words; breathless,
sometimes like leaves
surprised by the wind,
lifting us aloft.
We began to share
two lifetimes of vignettes -
just tokens but more
for you so sad,
feeling loss.
And so it was, this
gentle sharing until,
one day, the sights and
sounds went away,
I didn’t see, or hear
the voices in the mirror,
or heed my body’s warning
until, too late, I saw
your eyes seek those
of my friend
and my friend,
preening, tilted
the compass,
kissed me
and delivered the ‘coup de grace’.
Composite Mother and Child, with Pieta.
SHE
She
bought
a tiny
bird box.
And nailed
it to the
garden
wall.
One day
she saw
blue-tits
nesting.
Soon,
a noisy brood.
She watches
a fledgling fall,
and gently
carries it indoors.
Mewing and
stroking its tiny
head she lays it
in a metal cage.
The trapped
baby tit cries,
its frantic parents
peck the glass.
She films
bright eyes,
teetering feet,
skittering, flittering,
thrumming the bars.
She films the
yellow, green
and blue of
flashing wings
as desperate
family tap in vain.
The little bird
bites the bars,
wings akimbo,
tendons stiff as a wire
She listens to
the fading cheeps,
the fluttering wings,
the pecking, slowly die.
She thinks tomorrow
I will collect the photos
and put them in an album,
and call it ‘Tweetie Pie’.
CALL FROM THE SEA
I wish you were here,
I wish you were not…
It’s the Sea who’s speaking,
my message in waves says:
Go away,
come, come a lot…
I will always remember ‘ee,
though some I’ve forgot…
So come see me on glad days,
grey, blue and sad days…
If I’m not here,
I will always come directly…
Come, ride my white horses
some days I may shout…
Whether I be a draining or a making,
‘tis better without clout…
You can always surrender,
how gentle I’ll be…
Come my sweetheart, my ‘andsome, my cocker,
my lover, my bird…
Come, come, come… swim with me….
(IF YOU DARE!)
IAN GRIMSHAW JUNIOR
He sits, slumped, in my seat.
A stringy lad, big green eyes
and smelly feet.
I oust him with a cool stare.
We exchange seats, smile.
Settle down.
He offers me a mint.
Pulls at a grubby pink holdall.
‘me mams’ he says, ‘I’ve never
been further than Oldham.’
I offer him a sandwich. ‘No, ta.’
‘Are you going far?’
‘I’m going to Minehead to see me
girlfriend, she’s a fishmonger
in Asda, an she’ll be wanting to
show me off. We’ve nought seen each
other since Christmas.’
‘That’s nice, is it a special occasion?’
‘Me grandda died on Wednesday, he’s
out of pain now. It were ‘orrible.’
‘All me family said ‘ave a break and
me mam paid fer me ticket.’
‘I’m really very sorry to hear about your granddad.’
He nods, his green eyes mournful. We share
another round of mints.
‘I put his death in the paper, it went like this’
IAN GRIMSHAW
Died Wednesday, 27th June.
Beloved husband of Winnie.
Father to Jimmy and Maureen.
Dear grandda to James and Shaun.
Dearly loved friend and neighbour.
Funeral on Wednesday 4th July,
St. Andrews, Rotherham.
At 2.30p.m.
Tea after at Old Staff’s.
Everyone invited.’
‘What do you think?
That cost me a hundred and eighty quid
that did.’
‘I think you’ve done your granddad proud.’
‘Ta, I’m saving up to have him tattooed
on me leg, here: Grandda, one in a million,
million. R.I.P. That’ll cost summat.’
We share another mint.
Touch elbows and thighs.
And wait.
Fledgling Gull - N.A.G. 2013
THE MESSAGE
I’m listening to
a chirruping wind,
bird-song,
cats, whistling air...
Your voice heard
on the telephone
in another room...
You are talking
to me, saying
my name, though
you can’t hear
me listening.
So wanting to
cry out, to
say to you:
I love you.
PRISONERS
A legless bumblebee
fandangos in tight circles.
Her legs are paralysed.
Her facetted eyes swivel.
Her hum’s a falsetto.
The yellow and black fur
‘stares’ brittle spikes.
The vixen stoops, the wire
cuts deeper – has gnawed
almost to the shin bone.
She stops, pants, spittle
corrugates her maw.
She mews in supplication.
blood flows, crusts, stinks.
A withered, waxy toad
lungs bellowing, gulps
dry, smothering earth.
Her lidded eyes blink.
So sad, so human: toad eyes.
She tries to flex a
shrivelled thigh – fails.
The little white mouse
claws at the wire.
Her tiny pink hands wave,
palms up – begging.
Evening shadows fall,
she tries to nest.
The cold frost settles.
A home-bound pigeon
streams off-course.
The coast tilts, a landing in view.
She gathers her bearings,
follows a migrant flock.
The quiet man smiles:
tonight her dues are due.
The collie dog whines a
muted, miserable lament.
The house, dank, cold, empty,
reeks of human depression -
shades of animal, too.
The dog taps a soliloquy
on the vinyl floor – lies down
and sighs himself to sleep.
THE LIFT
We got on in the basement.
You know, where they do the scanning.
Down in the bowels.
Only the service lifts go there.
And the people of course.
Those still standing, those
who’ve delivered someone.
And those who’ve just been scanned.
Everyone stares at the pneumatic doors -
oiled as silkies, moving in tandem,
closing in, shutting out – as silent as thought.
Nobody speaks and then:
‘I suppose you’re a little bit radioactive,
you’ll be glowing in the dark.’
The young woman smiles at her joke.
Pleased with her self.
The older woman
stares at the doors.
We all stare at the doors.
We are all silent.
Primo Levi. Survived The Holocaust
.
EYES
It’s a lock-in,
a glowing, tender,
moment of awe,
when something
ocular circulates
orbs of thrall and
fear, and I try to
break the seering,
yearnings -
act, like normal,
sense, sense
again, the profound
depths, the depths
beseeching you
to let me
love you -
begging you,
begging you,
to love me, too.
SPACE ODYSSEY
Is that you
speaking to me,
shifting tired diphthongs,
enlivening panoplies,
circling the synapses,
moistening the memory cells,
talking to us, lovely sounds
that marshal a chosen word,
so welcome, so vibrant
the movement of air between
us as we listen, think eons
in a moment, laugh
at all the thoughts that occurred
to us when we were far apart?
.
SPACE ODYSSEY
Is that you
speaking to me,
shifting tired diphthongs,
enlivening panoplies,
circling the synapses,
moistening the memory cells,
talking to us, lovely sounds
that marshal a chosen word,
so welcome, so vibrant
the movement of air between
us as we listen, think eons
in a moment, laugh
at all the thoughts that occurred
to us when we were far apart?
I MUST RING YOU
Before I forget.
How are you?
I’ve been meaning
to call to ask how
you are.
How are things?
Now that, well, you know.
We’ve been so
busy, what with
the bathroom and walls.
I heard your car
and thought
if I don’t do it now
I’ll get so caught up.
We’ve got such a mess
to clear up – you see,
and it will take ages yet.
I must clean the paintwork.
So how are you?
Ahh, I knew you would
still be grieving.
It’ll take time.
You had her for
such a long time,
you will miss her.
I’ve got such a backlog.
Haven’t even begun the
backyard, such a mess.
Anyhow, when you feel
like it come over, o.k?
Or we’ll come over to you.
Whatever.
Did I tell you
we’ve had to throw
every drop of kitchen
water outside for three
years?
Well, can you imagine…”
“No.”
FOR COUSIN LYDIA...
A mackerel sun
risen over yesterday's
fish market,
herring gulls' carolled
in the bay:
flats and sharps,
missing a beat.
Quiet streets remembering
yesterday’s last-minute dash
to the Co-op at five to ten;
glasses clinking in the ‘Swordie’.
A woman's bawdy laughter,
with a suspicion of pain,
echoed up the window panes –
tinny, shiny
and glowing
for his delectation.
Today it is New Year's Eve,
a long ride to honour a date,
thinking empty roads and
aqua-planing - not relishing it
much but resigned.
A quaver in her aged voice:
‘are you still coming, please
let me pay.’ We argue, and I
feel her verve to give, yet again,
slip quietly away. We eat,
talk laughable nonsense.
With sleight of hand, I pay.
THE WATCHERS
The waiting room listened:
Clack, tick, clack, tick, clack…
A youthful person appears
wearing heavy-metal heels.
The ‘clack-tickers’ are
buckled, ugly, militia.
One boot’s straps
have been left undone.
She waggles the gaping boot,
exposing a skinny, mottled shin.
The loose strap tick-tacks
on the vinyl floor.
Nobody gives a toss.
Everyone eyes the clock and
counts minutes of their wait.
An itchy screech from a velcroed
pocket this time, slow, slow…
Like a burlesque: duh, du, da, da, dah…
She produces a tobacco pouch,
Rizla papers, a plastic lighter.
Attention! Eyes swivel,
lips purse, legs uncross.
We watch her tiny fingers smooth a rizla,
tease out golden threads of tobacco…
Arrange them neat as matchsticks then raise
the curled ‘rollie’ to her lips.
It’s a pulmonary clinic.
A smoke-free zone.
A puff from her would
destabilise a platoon of waiters.
Everyone
gives a toss.
It rests on her knee,
this deadly white worm.
A chemical weapon leashed
on the knee of this bolshy waif.
Who’s just watching the clock.
Just like the rest of us,
watching the clock,
Just waiting.
PANIC
Slithering, slithering,
skittering
like a whisperer’s
echo,
that one
quiet sibilant
of a sigh
rising from
cells imprisoned
by memory
already
in disguise
masquerading
as quietude
slyly denying
the rising,
unseen threat
that insinuated,
slithered some
more and
overcame
me – until
I recognised
that childhood
moment when
you tried to
enter.
A ‘MERRY MAIDEN’ SPEAKING.
I’m as merry, merry,
Merry as can be.
Come on ye now, come
See my sisters and me.
Come see us cavort
In the sea-salted mist.
Come, make love in our
Circle, we do like a good
Tune. We’ll watch and
Cheer thee by the light
Of the moon.
I’m as merry, merry - merry as can be
Come see us
Change shape by
The light of the stars.
Come count us
Fine maidens,
An hour before dawn.
When one of us creeping
Away for a while -
For some say the
Tally is never the
Same.
That the
Missing sister is
Spirited afar to
Court a lone stone
Down near St. Loy bar.
I’m as merry, merry – merry as can be
If you listen hard
You’ll hear them
Down in the zaum
A lapping and a
Grinding – sounding
Like shingle on the shore.
Now ‘tis said our
Reputation to make
The barren swell -
Or for a maiden crone
To touch a knave
And then watch his
Seed well flow…
‘Tis said to ‘ave been around for
Centuries but my
Andsome none of us
Can tell;
There is one thing I
Can tell ‘ee though!
We’re so bloody cold
In winter no bugger
Will come and see us
In the rain and snow.
BUT…
I’m merry, merry – merry as can be...
Stricken Gull 24cms x 17cms
Fledgling Gull Newlyn Art Gallery 2013.
Studio view Open Studios 2018
Mother and Child unfinished 2018
Raku sculpted bowl - smoke fired 1993 pc
'Eve' burnished terracotta pc
For Rosie and John RIP
Black-winged Gull bowl 50cms x 26cms
Leviathan - 2018 70cms x 54cms
ANOTHERLAND
The stroke struck at one o’clock…
Seeing the sight of darkness,
the light unknown.
Numbing the pain before it began,
the hurt that never came.
Saying a word without an echo,
another saying nothing.
Thinking a thought that had
lost its destination many times ago.
…the sight of a smile
heard in a dream
…the weightlessness of fingers
and the movement unseen.
Reaching for a hand that isn’t there
but that leads me into another land.
Sensing a gloom that’s going nowhere,
a shadow that has been hiding.
Opening the pages of a book without words,
hearing words without a book.
…a frame of mind
that looks like a picture.
A night time without dreams,
it happened again yesterday.
I am walking the path before it began
and before it went away.
Hearing the wind losing its way,
the sound of emptiness.
Watching the sea shallowly breathe,
as it waits for the evening tide.
Remembering a gentle look that
hovered between the days.
.
Feeling a smile going inward,
a heartbeat catching up.
Waving at someone,
someone waving back.
Primo Levi - Auschwitz survivor
Thank you for reading my poems. This is it
until the summer months. Time to work the clay... 28th February 2023