Wake

Pitt Rivers Museum 5^th October 2011: A Ghanaian coffin designed to celebrate its owner’s life and ambitions.

Amongst the Victoriana, hieroglyphic tablets ponder,

two exhibited dead eyes that have viewed

a trillion sunrises, with glyphs that silently scream.

Cornered sentinel candles provide

unreflected light. The cloaked over-mantel mirror

fails to reflect parade-ground ladder-backed chairs,

veiled women, frock-coated men, sherry in hand.

Central to the scene, confined, the Ghanaian Grocer

and a coffin decked in the colours of Africa. A casket proclaiming

a life’s work, a toy shop with windows of adverts

for porridge, toothpaste, energy drinks, washing powder and margarine.

A toy shop with a grey corrugated roof.

A toy shop with a full sized occupant.

A toy shop that shrieks vitality and achievement, a biography.

In a hushed atmosphere that rings with muted minted voices,

rested on white ruched silk cushions, the shopkeeper

in a make-believe shop surrounded by Victoriana.

Glasses rested, the reverent middle orders watch as their friend,

their colleague, their peer, is carried to that final rest.

Riddles Three

Riddle One

All has everything if you know what to see.

It is there in height, both the high and the short,

in rows at the market, where a booth is your key,

or when tiredness stuck and your bed you sought.

Just give me a shout when you identify me.

Riddle Two

Major and minor, a sweet and sour melody.

Strategic and significant, I am something quintessential.

Codex and security makes me totally fundamental.

A gift at majority, it assumes authority

but at the dock you will never find me.

Riddle Three

Essential, breathed in,

flammable, released as waste,

iced, liquid, or gas.

New Love

We were asked to write a love scene. This is the beginnings, when two people talk of anything but their attraction to each other.  

He drew up a chair to the desk and set two mugs of tea between the files.

‘I thought you could do with a cuppa. White, no sugar isn’t it?’

She looked up from the book. ‘How are the children? Did you have a good holiday?’

‘Yes, thanks. They’re great. They met some kids there. Their mum was about your age.’

‘Oh. … Was she nice?’

‘Yes. Her conversation was a bit Eastenders though, not like ours. How’s the studying going? Exam soon?’

‘Did I really want to do Law? So much reading.’

‘Am I interrupting? Do you want me to go away?’

She shook her head and smiled. ‘How’s the garden? Has the rain left you with a ton of weeds?’

‘Yes, the bindweed’s gone crazy. It’s tied up the buddlia. It’s going to take ages to clear it. Mind, that’s shot up too, it’s as tall as you now.’

‘Deb’s, where’s the file for this afternoon’s meeting?’ The voice preceded the woman into the room. ‘Oh, should I come back?’

‘No, no. Here it is.’ Debs picked up the file simultaneously with the man sitting with her. They looked at each other and smiled. He let go quickly and the contents floated to the floor.

‘I’ll just pick these up and go shall I?’ The woman spoke, struggling to hide her own smile.

‘Yes please,’ they both responded.

‘I’ll see you later then,’ the woman replied.

With the woman gone the pair picked up their cups and sipped the tea.

‘This is good tea,’ Debs started.

Carpenters Cento

A poem created from the first lines of Carpenters Songs

Day after day I must face a world of strangers,

every night, every day,

you tell me that your leaving.

I've been so many places in my life and time

like sailin' on a sailin' ship to nowhere.

Talkin’ to myself and feeling old,

love, look at the two of us,

maybe I'm old fashioned feeling as I do.

The hardest thing I’ve ever done

I’ll say goodbye to love.

In your mind you have capacities you know,

are you really happy with

no-one in the world?

Day after day I must face a world of strangers.

A Hardy Cento

A poem created from the first lines of selected poems by Thomas Hardy

‘Woman much missed, how you call to me, call to me.’

You did not come.

Why did you give no hint that night?

You did not walk with me,

-       it was your way my dear.

When you slowly emerged from the den of Time

where we made the fire,

we stood by a pond that winter’s day.

Well World you kept faith with me.

We sat at the window looking out

(it faces west, and round the back and sides

the swallows flew in the curves of an eight)

on afternoons of drowsy calm;

there floated the sounds of church chiming.

The Ides

eight point nine

Lucky; two hundred and fifty miles offshore, fifteen underground.

Thousands missed; the dead cry.

Floated on the wave; fires burn. Whirlpools sucked

apple bobbed cars while the surge tossed boats to their deaths.

The ring of fire burned, land shifted. All points warning

North to South; walls of water leave salt soaked land.

This happened to the Best, the well prepared, today

all communication crashed.

The biggest for one hundred years.

Remember the Luck; two hundred and fifty miles offshore,

fifteen underground.

The earth moved

A shout and legs ran, pumped fast, got closer,

a voice, (mine?) said ‘no, don’t touch.’

Blood waterfalled over bounced land locked glasses

kicked by the feet of a Samaritan,

First Aid Angels administered, green knees hugged.

A woman walked past as was her right, neck craned;

another turned back without a rubber neck.

Was it only that morning I had rubber necked Japan’s disaster?

A journey flat backed and codiened.

Speed bumps and pot holes

shot sharp chilli’d grass into my shoulder.

Hurry and wait. Cubicled, twice morphined,

x-rayed, super-glued, collared and cuffed,

sent home. Hurry and wait. Tomorrow it began again.

To May days

Scooped up, rescued, jailed in an open prison

subjected to gingered grass cuts and red fire ants,

surrounded by alternate walls of silence and noise,

wanted and in the way, bone aligns.

Bounced on buses, hospital appointments kept.

Stop start, hurry wait; Fear stood in shadows

while Progress was monitored by the Boys.

Tortured by Physio; bone knits.

The instruction ‘bad arm first’, simply said became

a daily measure of success. Day fourteen salt water poured,

the arm hidden. Week eight and t-shirt toyed

into position. Bone heals.

Daily, baby-like achievements turned into tiny parcels of joy

contrasted with the media’s dementia; nuclear devastation gloried

as factories slowed, water-logged, mud-logged, salt-logged,

and people remained un-homed. Bone mends.

Note: Getting by

Buried in work from morning until night,

slipped into shadows to keep out of sight.

Helpful to everyone, there on demand

busied constantly, with pity banned.

Scurry, flurry, don’t stand still, must hurry.

Hide in plain sight; avoid all and any fights,

don’t let the buggers grind you down,

prevent voices, prevent the entrance

of that sound, your voice echoed, bounced off walls

‘It’s not you, you’ve not let me down.’

Bustle, hustle, don’t stand still, no hassle

just avoid radios and nineteen thirties musicals.

Be practical, keep a pocketful of excuses

alongside havfever tablets and paper tissues.

I am not in love, I have not been discarded.

Your voices edges in ‘You’re highly regarded.’

Pity banned, busy is the answer, run

to stand still, yet every night my clichéd heart pays

the extortionate bill.