March2017 Wendy

Passions Waterloo Station, 21 February 2017

The passion in this fruit

Is spent now

It is empty, it is bare

I shake the tree

Cry out in despair

Move on

You change places.

****

Two boys play

Chase the pigeons

Flap their arms

They flap their wings

I sip and sit

A grey strange world

The red lines of the

Underground sign, the mainline

This, the only tint

Of vibrancy, a brilliant thrust

To show the way

To commuters travelling blind

Lost in the bustle, the blur

The dull throb

As one train empties

And I thrill at the thought

Of meeting you.

****

“Can we sit calmly and talk?”

You plead, twist the paper

In your hands

A betrayal of your thoughts

That tension in your thighs

I knew so well, caught

In an instance then was gone.

****

He screamed ever louder now

Breathe short and rasping

Tiny beads of sweat

Breaking through, mixed with

His blood, stopped still

Dead? His passion spent.

****

She stared aghast

Hands to face, to stop the tears

The anger bubbling

Her frustration, her dismay

As twisted fingers, now deformed

Could no longer grip, but let sway

Let fall, what was precious – that last drop –

I stooped, bent low, out of sight

Out of sound, picked up the pieces

The fragments

And gave you another glass.

To Valérie Cluny, 5 March 2017

You pulled back your shirt, bared your arm:

“This”, you said, “Is how the surface of my bowl

Should feel, soft, gossamer thin, pearly, the

Same as those tiny drops of perspiration.”

You rolled back your sleeve, pointed to this

White porcelain bowl, smooth, almost translucid,

Brilliant cream, ribbed with your pen strokes,

Your guiding hand, expert, directive, together.

A cloud slipped in your fingers, rolled on your palm.

I leaned closer, listened, enraptured by your talk,

Your passion, a skill gathered over a life-time, after

Negotiations with your parents, your friends,

Teachers that you refused. From the long

Apprenticeship, the years of school to your first

Productions, your first sales, you stood good stead,

Childlike in your wish, in your convictions.

Everything went, sold out on the first day. In Paris.

You were launched, and in love. Now, with your own clay

From your garden, your own mix of glaze, stains and dyes,

Your bowls talk back, resonate and shine, carry that radiance,

That sheen in your eyes. Your voice a bubble, a never-ending stream.

I put the bowl down and take another sip of your enthusiasm.

To Babo Cluny 13 March, one sleepless night

He used to collect postcards

In every size and shape, of

Castles, of lakes, of pretty hats

Aligned in a row.

He then collected lighters, all

Shades and hues, that rattled

And wheezed in plastic bags

Next to boxes of postcards.

He latterly collected labels,

In every size and shape, from

My dresses, my t-shirts, and

Even new from the shops,

When he slipped away, that fateful

Day, scissors in hand, to snip, to pinch,

To steal Benetton labels, Petit Bateau,

Lacoste, from children’s clothes,

That tiny attire, now sorted

In albums, pristine clean, behind plastic,

Behind bars, a shelf of them,

A dread cupboard of souvenirs.

Chinese homeopathy Cluny 13 March

Too much passion he said

As he pushed and pulled, crushed

Her bones, her ribs, her sternum.

Too much passion, it must come out

And he pushed some more,

Creasing her skin as he pulled again,

Wreaths of flesh in his hands, wads

Of it, caught in his strength, pliable.

That Chinese doctor, the traditionalist,

The one who used twigs and leaves,

Decoctions of the most foul odour and taste,

A miasma of rotten earth, putrid decay

So bitter on the tongue, so efficient?

I ached, I bruised, I picked up the pieces,

Held myself steady, limped to the door

As tiny, tiny scales of me slipped to the floor.