Anaconda Root

A thick black root shed light on the ruler
Curled up, snoozing in my mind
That crimson inability
Not to weigh her eyes
Or quantify the fear
Of a twitching spider
Sizing up a continent of flesh

Nothing to do with inches
More a relativism of effort:
Beyond the tearing of soil
Lies the serrated edge of a father’s saw
The sound of which, the last rasps,
Propels his absent aftershave over me
And the careful placing of a new blade

But this anaconda of a root
Proud of girth and curves
Has lain in wait for such a battle
Its victories over the soil and stone
An endless stream, until the son of
Defeated by sweat and weakness
Ran a different cabled river…

…its excised trunk
Hurled on the discard pile
Destined for an evening’s warmth
Spoke such discomfort to me
With ancient wood-eyes
The same look that shrivelled
A dismantled apostle

An unexpected tonnage
The onus of desecration
Filtered away with each
Plunge of spade and fork
Until the disturbed soil
Raked to a tilth
Exhaled its scent and lay still

The Dog I Never Knew

We’re all palm readers
If we switch off our eyes
And sit at the smelly feet of
Our six-year-old selves
Sneaking an early feel
Of Xmas treasures, lumpy
Beyond the wrapping

Or, hands held out,
Eyes still shut,
We catch the heat
Of a suffering Guy
And learn about
Defeating despots,
Gloves on cold nights

And that living creatures are
Slow-motion fires
With sparkler eyes
And tail-wagging joy
I gaze at my palm and
Grasp the ruff of the
Dog I never knew

The dog I never knew, he’s
The evidence of things not seen:
If I’m Radio 4, his ears prick up
If I’m a helium balloon
He, too, leaps up to heaven
And, if I’m immobilised
His chin and paw find me

He takes me for walks
And reminds me
Of the wide planet to enjoy
Until the days of weakness
And, like seeds, we’re sown,
Our horizons made secure
Incarnate love, off the lead

Ain’t

Forbidden fruits aren’t
Limited to one far-off tree
Eden is such a risk-laden garden
Nervous parents slap a ban
On children venturing there

It’s the Comp, bog-standard,
That hollows out the
Bowels of gymkhana parents
Silver cutlery polishers
The risk of infection, too great

It’s mustard on lamb
Or wearing a tie on a Saturday
Or dragging a tongue, cat-like
Over a saucer of milk
Or speaking backwards

Those things that appeal
For no rhyme or reason
All coming to a focus of joy
In using the word Ain’t
Expressly Verboten

And juicier for it
The sharp A filling the void
The living cave of a sound-filled mouth
And the nasal red-raw Ain finish
Like a rich, long-lasting Burgundy

The T is optional
Depending only on mood
On temper, on the need
For percussion, for impact
A vocal jab in the ribs

Say it with me…
Let it build, louder and louder
Ain’t Ain’t Ain’t Ain’t Ain’t Ain’t
Ain’t Ain’t Ain’t Ain’t Ain’t Ain’t
Ah! The joy of Ain’t

1492; Semicolon Love

One dot and one not
Mesmerise my longings
For origins
To know which mind
First conceived
The secondary clause to
Paint the primary
In colours unknown

Along the street from Titian
The grinding of a black ink printer,
Manutius, performs
A Venetian copulation:
The black hole ovum
And its spermatozoan lover
Swimming forever closer
Never to fuse, but

There is an elegance about you.
You will not conform
To those calling for symmetry,
A false perfection.
You belong in the real world:
The two sides of everyone’s nose
Not two distinct persons
But isonomy, rich in uneven smiles

From you has issued
More than a literary mark
A duel, disdain, devotion
But, for those who are too close
To a premature full stop,
A life-preserving pause.
“When an author could've chosen to end their sentence but chose not to.
The author is you, and the sentence is your life”

Who would’a thought?

Project Semicolon was born from a social media movement in 2013. Project Semicolon exists to encourage, love, and inspire those in mental distress. But why a semicolon? "A semicolon is used when an author could've chosen to end their sentence but chose not to. The author is you and the sentence is your life."

So, here I am, sitting at my desk
Wondering if you can see
The next phase of your life?
Exploring the other side
Of your nose.
Similar, but distinct.
There’s more to you than you know
Walk on, into colours unknown.

Tomorrow might not work

The weather forecast
Has its sun yellow spikes
Diminishing in number, and
Temperatures on the slide

Nevertheless the rucksack,
Boots, socks, map, thermos
And karrimat: all strapped in
With a lack of good sense

Limiting factors include:
Fourth toe on left foot,
Bladder, or worse, and
The thought of home

It doesn’t say that Jesus
Set his face like flint
Just: ‘set his face
To go to Jerusalem’

But His praying soul
Percolates into mine
Maybe it will carry me
To Ivybridge for tea?

For I look for comfort
Not a cross, or nails
Or nakedness
Or false witness

A kudos on Strava, perhaps
To ease the pain
A cognac, make it a double
If tomorrow works

Tomorrow might not work
For any of us
My prayer is for all those
Whose tomorrow doesn’t work

The Lord bless you, and keep you
The Lord make His face
To shine upon you
And give you peace

The Servant Girl & the Prodigal

In case you didn’t know
My name is Miriam
My apron is filled
With dry thistle heads,
Slivers of bark, and
Desiccated dung

And my flints

Today, I am honoured
Brought to the Master’s house
To fire up the cedar wood
Piled under an oval bath
A hot soak for the prodigal

Everything for him

Steam and sweet smells
Unlike the submerged one,
Him with the matted hair
Dirt-packed fingernails
Cracked, parched lips
And blackened feet

I washed his head
With lye and scented oils
Until his skin
Taut with worry and weather
Yielded its hidden colours
And forgotten warmth

I saw his lips curl, the
Crease of an early smile
And tears drop silently
Onto the water.
His soul retrieving
Its long-lost peace

On a peg, a fine silk robe
Flowed down to meet
New leather sandals

With my eyes closed
I saw all his history
Slip away and sink,
Claimed by the water.

His fragrance followed me
To the music and the feast

I watched the other son
Loiter in the shadows
My smile, my scent
Only hardened his final gaze
As he stood alone
Before joining the night

Beloved Tehran

Slack-jaws slung low
Stomach knots
Tightening their grip

My passport lost
I’m losing connection
With citizenship

All my antennae
Their anxiety exposed
No false alarm

Tension is rising
On the city streets
Of my beloved Tehran

A Persian beauty
Unwilling to be defined
Hatred of Israel declined

Seeking a partner
In pursuit of peace
Began to sing

A song that carried
One heart then many
Into the courts of heaven

But not before
Bullets made of lead
Had painted in blood

And laid low
The courageous choir
Of the silent dead

And so…I hold my breath
My prayers?
Inaudible groans

As lives, once more, are
Reduced to the rubble
Of temporary loans

Friday’s Irregular Poetry Corner – a day late

Guest poet: Kimberley Johnson
Featured Poem: Golf
Collection: Uncommon Prayer, Persea Books, 2014

Golf

Glory be to God for bungled things, for the early frost, for the miscarriage the land mine sunk forgotten in the wheatfield, the liger. For all things marred and misbegotten, praise Him – hamfisted, hamstrung, and never else so like us. So comforting a kinship that we hymn it constantly: “OGod!” at the carpenter’s hammered thumb, “O God!”, at the failed marriage, “God damn!”, on the fourteenth green. The chorus amens; cue the responsory:

Versicle: Why in lightning should you hold up a one iron?

Antiphon: Because not even God can hit a one iron

Heart of flesh

Oh God, please don’t make me
Remove the wrapping paper
It’s the thought that counts

But He said, ‘But if I hear you
Pleading with Me,
The gift is already given’

I felt the gift like a child
It was knock-hard and
A chill ran through the paper

I held it and looked
Into His eyes
But He reached out

‘Look at the label’, He said
So, I did
‘In remembrance, only’

Floored, as so often
My tears, the overflow
Of a heart of flesh, ran free

It always comes to this

Curious how subtraction
Weighs heavy
Like cold cement
On an old fire

Or loss sharpens
The appetite
Like the blades
Of hail on unkempt hair

Or how distances that
Cannot be bridged
Drag on the memories
Of private maps

But maps have
A power of their own
To clothe the feet
In hours and miles

And lift the eyes
To the unexplored
Crevasse, col, or cwm,
And down to laces untied

It always comes to this
Squinting in the morning sun
A stretch, a sigh, then
To add one small step

Rolos

In the winter playground
The boy delves
In his pockets
Grey shorts over
Pink chapped thighs
As had all the others

December: break,
Ice and snow
Toggles and duffle coats
And bare shins
His thin gloves
Locates the target

A packet of Rolos

He unfurls the silver foil
Exposing dark brown circles
And, hand thrust out,
The Rolos are offered
To scraped knees
Footballs and wellington boots

In return
Impenetrable silence

No matched fingers
Extended to the silver foil
No swaps for sugar cigarettes
No words, no nods
A rebuff so irreversible
And dense as a vacuum

His first taste
Of estrangement
Of invisibility
Of finding the others
The shunned ones
Made rich with less

The Rolo lovers, those of
The Cave of Adullam
Dwellers to the East of Eden
Lepers with perfect skin
A kingdom of includers
Thawing the ice

Longing for Snow

January

A month to long for snow
Empty blue skies
And fierce cold
Sharp, virus-killing cold

Snow drops
And crystal-clear air
Short days
To compress an excess of joy

February

To rob Christmas
Of Rosetti’s bleak midwinter
Here is grey shadow
And cold to be avoided

A shudder that no scarf
Can repel

Unless January’s prayer
Is answered in
Blizzards blasted
To the waiting Earth

And a new generation
Learn how to spell toboggan
And frozen hands
Launch endless missiles

A month that demands
An open fire
That scorns the industrialness
Of ugly rectangular radiators

Deep cries for dancing flames
The crack of logs
Of wet gloves, and scarves
Steaming their way to Tomorrow

All is quiet
Cars are hibernating
Just the trudge
Of boot on snow

Let no one wish for dirty slush
Eliminate ‘thaw’ from the lexicon

March

March can stay away
Its unwelcome longer days
A threat to…this
Enforced Sabbath

More Than a Barber

Booking the barbers online?
Feels vaguely feminine
Am I having my hair ‘done’?

Arrived on time
Pushed on the door
And sat down, alone

A silent one, his head
Still as a barn owl
Is in the chair

The absence of talk
Of footy, or Trump, or carburettors
Is an unusual interlude

And the silence
Like invisible honey
Circulates the room

Looking for anyone
Who wishes to
To enter in

Into the unknown.

In the background
The circumcision
Of surplus hair

Continues, the squeak
Of the barber’s shoes, the
Schink of blades

The inane radio
Saying nothing, oblivious
To the moment when

Confessions are made
Clues to some inner world
Left scattered on the floor

Forebodings, snip
Longings, snip
Hopes and dreams, snip

The barber,
Waterlogged
With our words

Like a priest,
Unburdens himself
Sighing into the night

Gifts

Become like little children?
Infants? Really?
So, on with the shorts
Sit cross-legged, for hours
Or lie on your back, feet
Up on the sofa
Pick your nose if you must
And daydream

Make faces
And odd noises
Plop your cheeks
And play hide and seek
Try so hard
To stay quiet and hidden
For five long seconds
Become three again

At the sight of wrapping paper
Be bubbly with excitement
And use your perfectly-formed
Three-year-old fingers
To prise up and away
All that Sellotape
Let your eyes
Grow larger than the Moon

And learn joy, learn love

Learn Amazing Grace
Learn that sweet sound
The music of heaven
That longs for you
Not to be stiff-necked
But let the tears fall
As you collapse

Back through the griefs
The broken-heartedness
The shields
That have not saved you
Hold your hands out
And see you are three again
Three at last! Three at last!
Thank God Almighty, we are three at last!

Guitar String

Fingertips prise open
The waxed end of a packet
And fish out a thick E string
Golden, reflecting any light
It could find

I thread its narrow end
Through an aperture
The other bulbous end
Planted in the soil of the guitar
Out of sight

Flexed between two ends
Time wound me, tuned me
Turned metal into music
But you were with me
When time took its toll

Dulled now, flattened
Stretched, not broken
Requiring attention
Careful hands return
To cleanse and retune

Old Man Quinney

I’d be sprawled on the back seat
Beltless and free
When small, perched on a child’s seat
A clear view of the wild
Speedometer reaching 50
And feet playing with pedals

In front, a parent
Winding down a dirty window
And old man Quinney
Leaning in
His unshaven chin
Wobbling with the effort 

“Fill her up. Four star”
Words I’d hear like a mantra
Watching the petrol ball bobble
And numbers roll round
Gallons and pounds, just like
The one-armed bandit at the golf club 

Only winners here
As the pleasant fumes invaded
The Zephyr Six:
Money handed over, a brown
Ten bob note, and change given
And cheerfulness 

Now the age of my father
I speak to no one
I can’t remember when I
Last talked to someone I paid
Exchange is a series of beeps
Before I belt home

No Heroes

Five men and a crane from dawn
Hoisted, laid, connected
A sewage pipe, its effluent carried
Daily, out to an incoming tide
No journalists, no cameras, no heroes

The mudflats at low tide
Like a magnet, drew the boys
To its edge. Tide one side.
Land the other. One found a
Mirror, flotsam, and turned

The world the wrong way round
The tide, without asking, seeped
In between the boys and the land
Darkness and dampness in the sea
Found its way to the sky

Surrounded by the inrush
Five boys inched their way
Drenched with storm and tears
Astride the unsung pipe
To landfall

Met by flashbulbs
And family
The famous five
Pictures in the paper
No heroes?

Wazzock On the First Tee

So small, helmeted and unstable
In the crook of the parabolic head
Of a bright orange tee
Sliding down its edge, unable to
Avoid the strike

A spoon selected and deselected
He heard the hyphenated word
Mashie-Niblick float down
For the first of four practice swings
Shuddering the air

Exploding in a shower of
Hurt and soil, Wazzock,
Now one with turf
Renamed as Divot
Landed on the fairway

Laughing as helmet and mud
Rolled from hillock to trough
A puncture in the 18 holes of
Wedged and puttered pain
Sliced to oblivion

Longing to be lost
Out of Bounds
To rest, recuperate
Bunkered back to
An above-par condition

A wazzock walked home

The Arithmetic of a Dead Tree

There’s a field north of Tiverton. In its centre is a dead tree. It’s either landed from another world and no one noticed, or it was abandoned by its fellow trees, removed by some inhuman force. Either way, it has lost the fight.

Pleasantly chilled this corpse
It was a stray thought
Not unlike the effervescence
Tumbling up from the morning’s antacid
Prior to the first incision

A hangover beat against her skull
Like lower-branch apples
Bouncing rhythmically
In the breeze, on hard ground,
Crushing to the cranium

Cause of death: unknown
She noted, adding abandonment
Internal contusion
Dictaphone didn’t argue

The timeline of death,
A matter of philosophical debate
Last moments preceded by
Irreversible decline
Autumn’s gorgeous browning

An annual preparation
For the final apple pluck
Its trunk and branches
Thrust up to heaven
In fist-like silent protest

Skeletal and off-white
Reflecting the sun that
Gave it life, reduced,
Unswaying, ready to rot
Subtracted to zero.

To the windward side
An apple, softened and bruised
Unloads its cargo
Nomadic cells multiplying
Secretly in the soil

In tiredness, she lay a palm
Flat on the upturned fist
Cause of life – touch

Mustard on Lamb?

The liturgy having passed through us
Once more, we scurried, smiling
Through the tended graveyard
With the organ raging in full retreat
To the silence of a Zephyr Six
And home to remove our polished shoes

Every third week
Sunday roast turned to beef
To remove the sickly nothing
Of communion wafers
And I, with a dollup of tap water,
Twiddled Colman’s Mustard powder
Into a perfect paste

If done, if repeated, if attempted
For pork or lamb the following week
My mother’d recoil in horror:
‘Mustard on lamb!’ Then,
‘You heard your mother, John
No mustard. Period!’

This house with its maze
Of mustard-like rules
A puzzle too perplexing
Too burdensome
Like an empire tottering,
Its final stumbling steps
Crumbling under a heavy load:
An indecipherable conformity

This house was my liturgy
My home, my rhythm of days
Of coal fires, ice on windows
The radio in the background,
Crosswords and pipe smoke
Dress patterns and pins
A piano barely played
The sweet smell of Airfix glue
And another Spitfire
To fly me far away.