Young again In my dream
I was young again,
Limbs lithe,
Lungs strong,
Roaming fields and
Soft forest paths
Shouting
From rocky outcrops.
In school,
Loud laughter
With firm friends,
Making a mockery of
Stern schoolmasters.
And then….
I woke and
Reached out
To touch
My young me
But it was only
My old me
And I wept. Halt
Halt! Stop! Stay! Please wind back my days. Uncreak my joints. Straighten my veins. Unbald my patch. Darken my greys. Make whole my teeth. Sharpen my gaze. Lighten my breath. My brain unhaze. Lift from my heart The millstone of age Winter nights
I curve around you
In duvet-sealed warmth.
We breathe together.
Will it be like this
in the end?
One cooling,
One crying. Sick room I was once a lively, sporty child Who revelled in the joys of being young, A happy view of life, a sharpish tongue A love of parties, being just a little wild. But then for many years, I was so ill That in my room, I bled, and there I’d lie, To doze, or count the birds across the sky While fighting the disease, by staying still. I wonder now how was it that I bore The turgid flow of days and surging pain, While on my mother’s brow was etched the strain Of caring for me while her heart was sore. I moved away. For her the door was shut Upon my illness, till the surgeon’s cut. Full circle As I approached the
car park And there she’s
tensely waiting. She knows this is
the end, now. So here is where it
starts, when Her shopping bursts
the bags and. My girls, they run
to help her. She smiles her
thanks so gently. The girls and she
then chatter. And next week in the
store, when I’m alone and she is
not, This time she’s got
her two boys. We talk again, more
deeply. Her boys begin to
moan and. We swap our numbers
quickly. So starts our sweet
affair, and It dies, just where
it started. And her keys? I give
them back. As she approached
the car park Her blood is boiling
now, as She thinks of three
years, wasted. The bastard seems
the one, with His girls, so happy,
babbling His calmness while
they help her. And later, in the store,
where The boys force swap
of numbers. So quickly love
arises. The passion grows
and deepens, Two minds and bodies
fusing. Then morning school-run
chaos, Large family joys at
dinner. From nowhere comes
the shock of Trips on business that
are not. Curious calls, the
truth that dawns. And her keys? She
takes them back. The remark “The truth is, I knew nothing about him.” (Borges) He enters the dining room, looks around. His fleshy face is florid, eyes bulging. The head waiter rushes over, fawns, asks, “Where would it please you to sit, excellency?” “In the corner, by the open window.” Without waiting, he strides to his chosen seat, Nearly tripping on my walking stick, “Take care where you put that damn stick!” I had. His words wound, add to my pain. As his bulky body brushes past, the air swirls and spreads his smell of sweat and cigar smoke. He sits down heavily and the chair creaks in protest. He scans the menu, orders. I eat, I watch. His soup is served. Then suddenly, he takes out his handkerchief, wipes sudden sweat that pours from his brow. Clutches his chest, falls forward into his plate. At first no one moves. Then chaos. Who was he, in his swollen self-importance? I would read his obituary the next day. Missed I turn the corner, see it coming, ten seconds to reach the stop. The last bus of the day, to get me to the church to see my father buried. But as I run, my heel falls off, I stumble, fall, and it passes. I run for half an hour, arrive in time to hear the earth striking the coffin lid. Thud, thud, thud. Home sounds Rustle of rat in the roof, Whine of the wind in the wires Thump of the apples that fall Howl of the dogs that are caged Crack of the wood in the fire Roar of the kettle that boils Swish of the curtains that close Silence of the night that falls Snores as I sink into sleep Attempt The three of us were due to dine I texted you, to find out where You were, and you called, “You won’t believe what I just saw. A woman tried to top herself Right in front of me. I’ve never seen such a scene. She stood with her can of beer Lamenting her life, With no one to love her, Saying she would end it all. She drew a blade from her filthy coat And cut her wrist. Blood exploded everywhere, she faded, fainted. I called an ambulance, you must have heard the sirens. They took her in, cleaned the blood. We sat, all three, drank our beer and laughed. We asked, is that what you Normally do to your women? Girl on a train from Exeter Your beauty’s too much for old men like me. Your brightness of smile, your clearness of gaze Remind us too sweetly of old loves and days. For today when we smile we show a display Of gaps, crowns and fills, or simply decay. Our skin’s lost its sheen, our hair is all grey. So, when you raise up your shining blue eyes, Then lift your hand to brush aside hair To meet the bare gaze of some old man, Quickly averted as if in dark shame, Forgive him, with pity, for all that he’s done Is remember the joys of a life nearly gone. The other girl on the train from Exeter Your train arrives late But so is your connection, And the platform has changed, So a porter rushes you over, Dragging your chaotic case. You sit next to me, Panting, trembling, cursing. “I hate travel”, you say. Then come countless cell-phone calls to catch you – Your mother or your lover? The latter. A holiday gone badly wrong. Glad to be going home. Your search for your ticket, Scrabbling in handbag and pocket, Give it, creased, to the guard, Who deciphers it. “Change at Salisbury!” Your slashed arms and calls That tell of prescriptions - Analgesics, anti-depressants, And uncompliant medics, Show that you just need Human care and kindness, Not the surly shout of the woman Whose suitcase you shift While hunting in yours. I hope you make it! Paris flight Heathrow heaves and throbs, But you avoid the mobs, Flying business class Insulated from queues, Checked in on-line, Security fast track. No public concourse, Qualified to relax In the business lounge A vintage whisky Sipped at leisure. Boarding late, and Only when called, To sit in the front Exquisitely tended by Stylish stewardesses The flight’s sedate Unstressed and - suitable. Attic guitar Out of tune, a dusty dischord, condemned to rot strings unwound, snapped, yearning to be plucked, strummed, loved. Arthritis-condemned, To certain decay. Waking Dream Tied down by ropes and watching the scene,
Yet
still the dream returns, | Lyrical 1974
A recovery year,
for money and for me. The year before, embattled miners and power cuts made a dark, dismal winter. I lay in hospital, in Stockport, in December, also cut, below and above. They said, lucky to be so, between black outs. The New Year’s first half I convalesced, walked, derailed and doped listening to music that indelibly stained my brain. Some songs washed through, but still make me smile. Wimbledon’s Wombles, Glasgow’s Rollers, Osmond’s ordinary orthodoxy. Abba exploding with Waterloo. The greats remain, Bowie rebel then as now, sheriff-shooting Clapton, Hollies’ air that we all breathed, McCartney’s winged band, jetting on the run, killer Queen and 10cc’s early, eerie shuffle for Wall Street. These few joined my deeper grooved sixties. Let’s celebrate their time, for forty years on, they’re still as strong, and mostly living, like me. Listen to yourself She said, “You talk to yourself.” People see you in the street. Your mouth’s moving, but you’ve no mobile. Do you think anyone’s listening?” She didn’t know. I was listening - to my own confession, for the first time, with no distraction. No lip service – “yeh, yeh!” No kidding myself. I told myself about all those things I said I liked, even enjoyed. They were a myth. I hated them, and I knew that I had by-passed joy successfully by drowning myself in work. And now my life is nearly done, I wonder where all the time has gone. If I have a next life I’ll confess early And listen.
Hopeful
Hopeful, dopeful, dreamful girl.
Always wanted to achieve the impossible.
Always believed you
could make it, quickly
Over the bodies of those who had tried
So much harder and longer than you.
Believed in yourself,
in your empty talent..
What was the basis? Where was the logic?
Did anyone tell you how good you were?
No, just that your
singing was “wonderful, dahling!”
And so you produced even more of the wailing.
It was sad, it was trash, like the tin cans, that rattled,
Collecting the money from trusting people,
For people that starved in distant lands.
They deserved it much more than you ever did,
But not once, not once, did you give it in.
You lived on the dole, poor, wannabe, never be,
Your Mum and Dad told you, forget it and quickly.
“You’d better give up, for you’ll never succeed.”
And so on, back to meaningless cleaning, keening,
Whining and weaning yourself
From the sad idea that you’d ever be famous,
Like thousands of others watching TV,
Licence-free. You couldn’t afford it
But down in the pub you’d get tipsy, then drunk
And fall on the floor in a vomitful trance.
So what did you use for money, for vodka?
You tripped up old ladies, and picked up their bags.
Found their purses and nicked them,
Then in your coat stuck them.
It’s only funny money, honey, you’d say.
Buy some cans and go home, and on the TV,
Who loves yah baby? A funny old bald star.
Telly Savalas, saveloys, lots of noise
As you bit into it, crushing, garlic
Smells on your breath, kiss of death.
Like when you were young and had money,
On the Metro, averting your nose
From a smell that attacked you.
Bateaux mouches. Now you’re louche,
Let him leave, have a douche,
Wash it away, your home is your castle.
Throw yourself back on your bed,
Lie down, on your side, and fall asleep
In dirty sheets, who gives a shit? Fifty years on Yesterday once more, and every day, a chord, a phrase, a harmony, sometimes just a note, turn my mind to a rose-tinted time, when blues and ballads rocked through soul and good vibrations, to raucous adolescent groups braying, thumping drums, sizzling cymbals, booming basses thudding out
the beat, finally sedated by flower power and mystic sitars. The sixties were my dream dawn, a rising sun, full of fun, fun, fun, furtive fumbling, energetic action, hasty homework that marked me out a flyer. And then, at fifteen, I crashed to earth, With hellish fevers and a blood stained nine years, ending with offending innards excised. Now, forty years on, I look back to my steady ascent from the depths, always lifted by those early tunes, and wonder why the magic of music could do only so much. The conservatory - two views Idyll Chair-cradled haven. Page dissolves and my eyes droop in and out of sleep. My breathing slows down, the book falls onto the floor. Body now relaxed. Drowsy pleasure waves wash a gentle siesta into my tired mind I lie dreaming. Devil Flies buzz near my ears, but the door must be open or heat will kill me. Wasp on my trousers. I slowly reach for the swat, dispatch it. Thigh stings. The wind is changing, so planes take-off over me, peace sharply shattered. I go indoors. Villa pool Warm water wraps our bodies Browned by basking in Florida sun. Pleasingly Pims-soaked palates Produce sweet sleepy sensations. Our open book’s pages Are blown by the breeze To lose our places As we succumb to slumber. Verandah A winter draught and the view is brown, Strraw-white grass and grey-brown trees. Sparse green leaves draw curling tongues And wrenching trunks drag down branches. Ruffled by the lightest breeze, The ripple of wine as we lift a glass To toast a glorious African day. That pair
You served me well. I wore you when I played guitar And danced on gritty Northern night-floors. I wore you when we met and married. She saw How down at heel you were, but for two more years You supported me, then as gardening shoes, Muddy, watered, left outside. So now, goodbye, to shoe recycling, for Reincarnation as a fresh pair somehow. The travel magazine The dustmen have gone And left you behind Flat on your back Pages waving like palm leaves In the wind, evoking Sunny beaches Spanish palaces Swiss splendour and Stateside theme parks. But then the rain comes Sticking your pages together And you remain open At the tale of the old couple Whose contented cruises Help them live out their time. Graham Goble at 50 We might have sworn you’re a merman, reborn. You lived the other side of the rising tide. Your choice of dwelling invites the swelling sea through your door, over your floor. Happiest in summer, when you swim across the bay, SADdest in the winter, when the sky is grey. You half-centuried human, raise your head and laugh. For your future will be better than your past. Lying by Side by side we lie, silent, barbed-wire between us, signs forbidding entry. Moon-shine, white line, curtain-gap guided, divides our wide bed in endless night hours. Today, we tried to reconcile our lives. Words passed by, meaning missed, mutual sight blinded. You asked, was I happy, directly saw my lie, lightly hidden by unstifled sigh. I've identified why life is fine with someone that's not you. I revel to have again an ally along the way. We are drained, tired, retire in silence, strangely polite, no hint of spite, no child in sight. Slowly climbing stairs we'd take two at a time, friendly familiarity of bed now a faint memory. Inactive, perspiring, unrhythmed respiring, feelings unchiming, poem unrhyming. We're flat on our backs, two tram lines, rod-straight, that cannot meet, cast in concrete. |
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