IN THE ALDER THICKET
UNDER THE WEATHER
MORNING SHIFT
THE WOLF INSIDE
READING
THE POET AS HIS POETRY
MOONRISE
LA GARFAGNANA
FLY
AS PET
BLOWN UP BY MY
OWN TIME-SAVING DEVICE
THE
GLITTERING SEA
FEET
SORRY
HOW TO GET
THE
MOST OUT OF YOUR JET LAG
MY HONEYMOON WITH MYSELF
TRAIN
DRAIN
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
IN THE ALDER THICKET
Choreography
of kingcups
splayed out
as if flung by a hand
across
the strip of meadow by the pool
where the ducks wait
their
turn
digging deep in their
feathers
for ticks
and further on, a coot,
white-billed, long-legged
stalking demurely to the pool,
like
a Victorian lady with girded drawers.
Two trains
cross,
and a runner speeds by.
I’m
lost to the world; no,
it’s more that, neither
sleeping, nor waking,
I become the world, feel its slow turn.
(A
couple go past,
a woman with headdress
and her
husband scolding her.
The ducks make their escape; she
goes
off and sits on a bench, head bowed.)
In the first
touch of summer you surmise its end –
dusty
August, late afternoon,
a heat haze dumbfounds the blue,
while
thunder peals along the horizon,
like a set of bowling balls,
or
a plane circling off course
lost to all runways.
Parched
grass.
This is my secret garden,
where I disappear
for an afternoon,
yet even here
I feel the city
drawing near.
Amsterdam
spread out behind me like a
carpet,
threadbare, the pattern faded, frayed at the edges.
Silence
hemmed in by sounds.
Voices of passers-by
distant as
voices in a dream.
A plane homing in low to Schiphol airport
and
then there is the sound of silence,
that even the shrill
piping of insects
or the moorhen’s splash as it
somersaults,
hardly disturbs.
‘In
the Alder Thicket’ was originally published in the anthology
‘The Book of Hope and Dreams’ (Bluechrome, 2006,
ed. Dee Rimbaud: http://www.rimbaud.org.uk/bookofhope.html)
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
UNDER THE WEATHER
For Selese
I am standing with my love
on
Battersea Bridge
in the first heat-wave of summer.
Along
the Embankment the river of cars is unbroken
but the Thames,
lowest water on record,
has the look of a pool being drained
and
the sky, pale colour of urine,
is furrowed with flight paths
like
a forehead frowning with age.
Helicopters
giant
blades
harvest the late-afternoon haze.
One
I saw in mid air
hovering motionless
in a furious
standoff with Battersea Power Station.
It’s
as if a huge membrane
transparent as a featherlite condom,
has
been stretched
between us and the sky,
a
dome of millennial malevolence
between us and infinity.
The
sky’s the limit,
a plangent lid
under
which we seethe,
no longer an ever-receding cerulean
blue
promising infinity,
but an echo-chamber
where
our words are thrown back at us,
our broken promises and good
intentions,
and hell is hearing ourselves speak.
On
this evening on Battersea Bridge
the gentlest emotion
is
a wistful sadness
but the kiss you plant on my cheek
is
light as a butterfly
riding on a blade,
readying
itself for takeoff.
Maybe it doesn’t change anything,
but
all attempts are welcome.
‘Under the
Weather’ is to appear in ‘Ambit’ in 2008
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
MORNING SHIFT
8
am Starbuck’s
Astor Place
the
first crop
of office workers shows up
clipped
speech at the counter.
as they order
their
coffee and Danish
I’m up there with the best of them
but
as I turn I glimpse
the street people
as
they slide from the benches
where they’ve rested
since dawn
one after another
a larval stir
of
old stiff overcoats
shuffling outside
at
the signal of the first comers
through the swing doors
the
whole event
a conversation-stopper
so
played out
in absolute silence
but taking
less than a minute
leaving us to enjoy
the
heady tang of Jamaican
Blue Mountain coffee
more
or less undisturbed
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE WOLF INSIDE
downstairs
5 to seven
caught the weather forecast
like
a bad cold
could have looked outside instead
radio
blares out
as I make my tea
still dark at
seven
even darker than yesterday
for some
reason
time seems to be going backward
make
a cuppa but first
open back door and slam straight shut
but
the wolf got in anyway
a raging blast
scouring
the larder
howling around the kitchen
furiously
licking
the four walls
clean like an
empty jam jar
then out once more
but I
caught his tail
as I slammed the door
hungry
wind
hungry wolf
stinking tail
of
a cold wet wolf
rotten way
to start the
day
‘The Wolf Inside’ is to
appear in ‘Ambit’ in 2008
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
READING THE
POET AS HIS POETRY
decided to take a look
at
the poet not the poetry
to read the poet
as
his poetry
gave him three marks out of ten
for
lifestyle
hardly an innovator,
though he
made a great nuisance of himself
raided the larder
at 1 am
for supplies of marmite-flavoured twiglets
committed
mixed metaphor
in relationships
mistook
people for each other
kissed his enemies
did
he influence
future generations
did he
pass on the message
of the great tradition
adding
his own thumbprint
to magnificence
no
he came down
late for breakfast
forgot to
return
borrowed money
on his bicycle
knocked
down old ladies with shopping carts
his poetry was
marvellous
passed him
like an Aston
Martin
on the motorway
leaving him
standing
no apparent connection
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
MOONRISE
On
the far side of the Westerdok
they’re building new
flats
twelve storeys in Amsterdam
a crane
slices the evening sky
two big lamps with the firm’s
name
on the cross-bar
hanging like
moons
in the November dusk
while the real moon
looks
like a bad-tempered pinched little baby
dandled upwards
by
the cross-bar
as if ushered
sky-high
by
real estate developers
later at 4 am
a
steel-blue light wakes us
and we peer from our bedroom window
on
the far side of the house
from its absolute height
the
same moon
is gazing down
on our sleep-
drenched
state
as if dangling
by a thread
from
eternity
‘Moonrise’ is to appear
in Ambit in 2008
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
LA GARFAGNANA
Summer
had already marched a long way into Autumn
when we drove into
the hills.
At a height of 1500 metres
with the road
surging upward into San Pellegrino
through the swirling mist,
it
seemed
we had reached the end of the known world.
A
blind view and sheer curves on the road down,
but more than in
the mist
we were lost in each other.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
FLY AS PET
Some
people have a dog
I have a f1y
follows me around
more
faithful I know not
keeps close to me
if I move he
does
if I leave anything
on the kitchen table
could
be a dog
he wolfs it
If I leap into bed
late at night
pull the cover over
my head
then
come up for air
and stick my nose out
he makes the
perfect landing
just guess where
Would
you keep a f1y as a pet
take him out for a walk
with
a mini-mini-scoop
for his little poopie-doop
would
you take him out for a walk
a long one a short one
a
last one?
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
BLOWN
UP BY MY OWN TIME-SAVING DEVICE
A computer
got
one in the eighties
told
it will do my
translation for me
save time
save money
a
time-saving
device
now I’m a
translator
three times as much
work as
before
no time to live
I’m an
extension of
a time-saving device
what
saves time
costs time.
phone-trees
computer
software
booking your flight
on line
modern
existence
ran away with our lives
all costs
money
wch. is time
downloading
costs
time
instruction manuals
learning that
language
costs time
installing
your
time-saving device
costs time
start feeling
comfortable with it
it crashes
recovering
data
costs time
or else there’s
an
essential update
that costs time
more
instructions
how to install --
the most
recent versions
are hypersensitive
complex
to use
too many possibilities
none of them
you need
complex procedures
are
resorted to
to restore your former state
save
time
junk
all time-saving devices
only
got one life
might as well enjoy
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE GLITTERING SEA
I
dreamed I fell from the highest building,
but that highest
building was me.
For my work took me to the ninetieth floor
down
by the glittering sea.
My sweetheart said, "Don't
go in today,
just snuggle up close to me."
I said,
"Sweet, you're naughty to say such a darling thing,
but I'm
saving for you and me."
She said "Tell your boss
you're sick or so,
we'll lie in a little bit more."
But
I sighed and slipped into my clothes
and out of our bedroom
door.
She turned to the wall and closed her eyes
but
didn't sleep in for long.
She woke to a blaze of TV news,
and
remembered where I'd gone.
Oh! please, dear God,
make me late for work
down by the glittering sea.
Let
some minor incident slow my train
to those canyons down by the
sea.
I dreamed I fell from the highest building,
but
that highest building was me.
For my work took me to the
ninetieth floor
by the glittering, glittering sea.
The Glittering Sea' was shown in the exhibition, 'Reactions'
at Exit Art gallery, Lower Broadway NYC, Artists and others respond to
11/9. (2002) It has appeared in Ambit, no. 170, Autumn 2002 and is
featured on the Ambit website (www.ambitmagazine.co.uk/Poetry.htm) .
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
FEET
This
month's ill part of me will be my feet.
I distress myself
looking at them.
How shiny they are, the skin could be Chinese
paper,
surfaces like moon plateaux.
My feet
are growing old faster than the rest of me -
though running on
ahead would be an imprecise description.
Rather they stumble
forward on their own momentum,
like a great power past its
prime.
Crusty they are too, with fissures.
Less
biology than geology.
Unsafe for walking on, a foot
fetishist's worst case scenario.
I visit
chiropodists all over town.
Each has a different version of
what I should do.
They look at my two tombstones, mentally
wringing their hands.
Mentally I watch them mentally wringing
their hands.
Perhaps I'll need socks of elastic all
my life.
Don't worry, they say. Flesh-coloured, they're almost
invisible, they'll soon become part of you.
Various
preparations may be applied, three times a day.
Don't expect a
miracle however; you have unusually dry feet.
Others
tell me the only solution may be surgery.
How everyone has it
these days.
How you don't even need to overnight in hospital.
How
with lasers it leaves no scar.
How I can get a
replacement with feet of clay.
Next month I will
celebrate my teeth.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
SORRY
"Sorry if I made you cry", John Lennon
Sorry
if I'm bothering you.
Sorry if I'm in your way.
Sorry
that I interrupted
Sorry that I came to stay
Sorry
if I don't look sorry.
Sorry but I really tried.
Sorry
I outstayed my welcome.
Sorry I broke down and cried.
Sorry
I always missed the point.
Sorry if I changed my mind.
Sorry
I didn't understand.
Sorry I wasted your precious time.
Sorry
I didn't pay back that loan.
Sorry that I used your phone.
Sorry
I messed your busy schedule.
I had no schedule of my own.
I
couldn't stand to be alone.
Sorry that I bought that
ground
for a burial in style
in an overpriced
monument - you know,
one of those pointed ones along the Nile.
That
way I'll go down in history
and have my cut of the cake of
fame.
Though I was a frightful bore,
at least you
won't forget my name.
click
here to view a video of Donald
reading “Sorry" at the Pink Pony Cafe, New York
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
HOW
TO GET THE MOST OUT OF YOUR JET LAG
If you must fly,
take a plane.
Try flying backwards.
Count time
backward.
Lean forward to go forward.
Count your
blessings before they're hatched.
Count yourself happy.
If
you can't control yourself go all the way.
If you can't help
being stupid, stand tall and proud.
If you land in jail return
to New York.
Don't sleep before you're spoken to.
Catch
up on lost sheep.
The sheep of the desert is a camel.
Passengers
flying through the eye of a needle are only permitted to carry hand
luggage.
The elephant of the skies is a Jumbo jet.
Give
up smoking - set fire to a camel.
To fly safely is better than
to arrive.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
MY HONEYMOON WITH
MYSELF
Under the stars of
Naples
Alone at last!
In the hotel I booked
the queen-sized matrimonial suite.
Friends and
family gave me a great sendoff.
My aged mother, tears in her
eyes, waving goodbye:
"I'm glad to see you finally
settled.
You weren't exactly the easiest person to live with."
"Great,
mother", I say, "finally I've found someone you really approve."
Yet
after all the excitement I don't know what to think.
Is it
love that I feel?
or did I just talk myself into it?
Won't
I get bored?
And, indeed, next morning at breakfast
in the hotel dining room
the atmosphere is a little subdued,
Everybody
smiles at they look at me.
What must they be thinking?
Suddenly
I'm a stranger, even to myself.
I look at myself, my
downcast eyes.
Will conversation always be this hard?
And
I wonder:
did I make the right choice?
Will I make
myself happy?
Should I have spent more time
surveying the field?
But as the mist lifts from the
sea,
like a curtain opening on distant islands,
perhaps
there is hope.
A stroll along the cliffs might cheer
my spirits.
Still the nagging doubt:
I
wasn't quite sure if I was a virgin.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
TRAIN DRAIN
This
train got started at Leytonstone.
This train could hardly bear
to leave Leyton,
only really got going at Stratford,
decided
it wasn't worth it at Mile End,
opted for the category of
non-achiever at Bethnal Green,
changed for the Metropolitan
and Circle Lines at Liverpool Street,
lost all grip on reality
at the Bank
This train took leave of its senses at Saint
Paul's.
This train has drained the sweetness out of
life, including the nostalgia for
sweetness.
This train stole love from me and gave me a career
with prospects,
stole my ability to feel love and
compensated me with money.
This train made sex into a
commodity item.
This train carries in its bowels the memories
of the beautiful trains: Train Bleu,
Trans Siberian, the Orient and Rome expresses, the Cairo-Luxor train
rushing with joy down the blue, yellow, green valley of the Nile where
white egrets flew between palms.
It would like to be
these trains, but oh! no this train is destined to convey
commuters,
silence coagulating between passengers,
poker-faced
sadnesses behind newspapers.
This train is adept at
making major pronouncements between stations,
got off and
walked round the platform at Chancery Lane,
enjoyed a mid-life
crisis at Holborn,
rode again from the dead at Tottenham Court
Road.
At Oxford Circus stopped for water,
mumbled in
its beard at Bond Street.
That's right, blame it on the train,
stopping between all stations.
That life's not what it used to be.
That you didn't turn things as you'd have liked them,
got stuck in obsolete tunnels, never exited to light.
That your relationships bogged down in a condition like lumpy porridge.
This train killed God, and replaced him with cybernetics.
Witnessed the slow dissipation of old friendships.
This train produced a new, annotated version of the lamentations of
Jeremiah.
Where light became a legendary thing,
and colour an unheard-of dimension.
This train
rolled over and wanted its tummy tickled at Marble Arch,
had a
bout of asthma at Lancaster Gate,
ululated at Queensway,
ejaculated
at Notting Hill Gate
This train excavated itself at Holland
Park.
This train eradicated itself at Shepherds Bush,
extinguished
itself at White City,
distinguished itself at East Acton,
but
not in any way that was intended.
It
never knew what was intended.
It was the fault of
the train that you became derailed.
That you can't
have your life over again.
That no ticket refund is
possible.
You made your journey, now you must pay
for it.
This train exterminates at North Acton.
This
train attempted to commit euthanasia at West Acton.
This train
terminates at Ealing Broadway.
Step out at Ealing Broadway,
dazzled by the steel-grey daylight.
Somewhere I've never been before.
Maybe not such a bad place after all.
Products in serried ranks in all the supermarkets.
A racially mixed population.
Gaps of sky between the housing estates.
A thousand new impressions.
Ealing for ever!
'Train Drain' was first
published in Long Shot magazine (ed. Danny Shot) vol. 24, Hoboken, NJ. (http://www.longshot.org/).
It also appeared in Ambit, no.171 January 2003.