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.