42 Poems written most days between February & May 2023
Viola
Let’s have a chat, Viola
Your tense strings, your sticky bow
should spawn a mellow song.
You lie there smugly in your box
Pungent, curved and thoughtless.
I want to kiss your rich darkness
Will you ever let me love you?
I am not good enough for you
We both know that.
But can’t you try? Instead you
mock my little fingers, splaying
widely, sweating, round your neck.
Then the ultimate insult
Go and play a violin, you sneer.
But I am drawn to you, Viola,
your tartly scented wood and scroll
I stretch my arm, caressing you
and clasping you against my neck.
Your melody still haunts my dreams.
Why do you sing for others then
garotte your notes for me?
Sofa
You fold into the sofa, your profile full and still,
unchanged for many years,
though not now topped with hair
I am used to seeing you there
so much so now that I can hardly know
until I look again, and wonder why you’re there.
Maybe you, too, wonder, when you see me
in my chair, and if I think as hard as you.
But I move more.
Perhaps my mind shifts less.
Dog smell
You press your head against my foot
weight and hair, softly, loving.
Your smell is noxious, though, from skin and gut
You are unaware, no shame
perplexes you.
Does this render you unhuman?
(I don’t mean inhuman)
And does this matter?
You believe I care for you
whatever stench and musk you wear
and you are right.
But sometimes I can’t help but ask
Just what your nostrils make of me
sharp, perceptive, quivering,
and far more sensitive than mine.
What scent have I?
Is it curious
or beautiful
or just to be tolerated?
Cold dog
you lie there coldly sleeping
every expiration trembles
but you make no sound
do you dream of ice and water
diving low through gripping depths.
your hair is thin, and can’t quite
quell your shudders
it does not warm you
but you are not human
and you don’t complain
A and violin
Today you played violin
not viola
to which you are bound.
You played quite beautifully
sought high notes
fast notes, that
most days you would not wish
to hear or bow.
And yet your song was also long and deep
where possible.
Your hands pursue the warmth, the passion
of the slighter instrument.
And a bit of you wonders -
should I play these notes
these high, bright notes
that shine above the rest
or should I return to the
dark radiance of my love,
of the ardent viola,
which may not play for me
after hearing this.
N
How kind you are!
I’d no idea that there were some so kind
You let me talk
You waited, watched,
you made me feel that
you had time to hear.
You made me feel that
what I say is real and
true
that those like me
exist.
How kind you are!
J and beauty
You are so beautiful
and that you long ago emerged from me
can take me by surprise.
Perhaps the sum of the parts
produced a whole
so lovely
that the parts became irrelevant
yet sometimes, looking at the aging bits of me
I see a glimpse of sunken elegance
a smile not perfect
yet still radiant
eyes, less large and liquid,
with a darkness all their own.
Beauty shifts and changes in our lives
pouring from one to the other
and sometimes back again.
Treadmill
Where does a treadmill get its name?
The tread I understand, I think
but what on earth’s the mill?
I looked it up to see, it said,
a grain crushed into flour.
A nasty thought, it seemed to me,
but then I looked again.
I saw a different type of mill,
It said move aimlessly, like cows
I think the cow-like move is best
at least a lot more tardy.
A treadmill’s not for me, I know,
at no time do I want to
slowly grind my feet to dust.
Life from both ends
What if our lives draw near from either end?
A day as a tender babe
life arching ahead
then a day holding death
looking back, with
sorrow, regret and love
all past.
Then back again
to when life just began
Day two, if from the start
How could you think in snuffly wraps
that the next day would be quiet,
waiting to die, with joy or fear,
or boredom, even,
or acceptance.
A day from the start
A day from the end
meeting in the middle.
But memories can only look one way
All is forgotten
each second day.
For some life would be quick,
with little turnaround,
Death comes in a day or two.
For others, a massive leap
from start to finish
with each day less
until the end.
All we know is where
we are just now
and what is now?
Now thrusts itself at us
from everywhere.
The now we can remember
is not now
no longer.
My tiny hands
My tiny hands are rather cold
but not exquisitely frozen
short-fingered I type
then stretch them
round the wooden neck
of the laughing violin.
The gas fire warms them
sadly into strife
not life
hotter isn’t better
but I love you, hands
I like the way you finish off my arms
I like the rings that hang around my fingers
And the soft thin skin that holds them.
Rapsodie espagnole
Ravel wrote music so exquisite
that we still play it
silenced by its beauty
Rapsodie espagnole written
a hundred years ago, or more
Until I looked at him I didn’t know
how lush he was.
He didn’t write it for violas, though
but we fill in the spaces
and we can still unravel it
a nightmare or a dream
Green
The green of the leaves and my jumper
fills me with life and with song
a colour so deep in my soul,
but no less real for that.
If I were doomed to dress myself
forever in one hue
then I think it would have to be green.
It grows and twines around me
breathes and laughs a little.
I am never cold in green
or not that cold.
Perhaps the day will come indeed
when I must choose one colour
forsaking all others.
I hope I say green.
Yet without the others
will green be green?
Eyeballs
Take my eyeballs
larger than they look
when sunken in the holes
within my head.
They serve me well
that I can see
and walk with care
through trees and tables
yet without aid there’s little I would see.
Would this matter?
I wonder sometimes
whether I would see what’s closest
far more clearly.
Forgotten
I look at you and wonder
what else I have forgotten.
How could that which hurt you so
be lost from me entirely?
I am ashamed, appalled,
for that which I should know
is gone, and I can speak to
no-one of my guilt.
The sun shines, echoing your
beauty and I gaze at you.
I know there will be more
but I do not know to ask.
New coffee machine
Black and sleek and shiny
somewhat unexpected
with a grinding song
that signals coffee.
My room is suave and fragrant
from pods that burst
with different names
and golden silvery shades.
Too intricate for me
at first but then so oddly easy
there must be a catch, I thought,
but so far you’ve delivered.
Daffodils and grandmother
From green grass sprout the daffodils
dashing yellow tossed in spring
they make me think of Easter,
they make me think of you.
I liked to visit you in spring
before I knew I didn’t
you gave us chocolate Easter eggs
we knew this meant you loved us.
Much later you could hardly speak
I didn’t understand
was it sherry, gin or gums,
the cigarettes, or just bad luck?
They used to say I looked like you
I’m not so sure of that.
the pictures of you in the past
were far more beautiful than me.
I’m glad I said I loved you, though
the last time I was there.
I’m glad you said that you could tell
you saw it in my eyes.
Rain
The rain falls blankly
outside, against the window,
leaks through the roof
and makes the world-space grey.
There is no time, between
the drops, the wetness has
and holds you. Even here
it soaks, damply, through your
mind, slowing your thoughts to
soft moist words that know
this is forever,
that even dry, the memory
cannot leave, the sound of
spattering on the roof will
last through brightened air.
Stairs
Do you remember a carpet, Rebecca,
remember the circles and red
right up the stairs and past them it twined,
white paint at each side of the tread
You were quite small then, Rebecca,
you looked at it each time you climbed
and you thought of the pattern and wondered
how all of the circles combined
One day the circles all vanished, Rebecca,
the steps were all covered in gold
much softer when falling downstairs, I suppose,
but I still miss those circles of old
Fresh heart
Somewhere I saw this written
it made me think of you.
Fresh heart!
What could this mean?
Is it only for the young
their untried hearts
their certainty that love will come
and that their hearts will warm
and then grow tough and old.
Or is it the heart that sings
and stays and feels the beauty
changing around them
Fresh is not youth
Fresh is life.
Shower
I cleaned out my shower today
something shunned for weeks and months
but risking flood if not done soon.
The slime was unbeatable.
Long dark hairs, slithering round
a faint smell of drains and decay.
and I thought of my hair
light brown and dry and wondered
how could it change that way?
The hair of a witch, clinging
to something dead
wrapped around my fingers.
I almost liked it better
than my pale and ailing hair
with its costly visits to the salon
to make it briefly perfect.
ERSE
We are eclectic with lots of ideas
even when the books that make us so
remain unread. Our destination is the
land of literature, accompanied by
fine wine. We love the smells, the texture,
we love the books that lend us thought, far from
our lives, both narrow and impossible, which
stretch out before us. When we read
we become something else entirely.
And when we gather, we tell
words and tales
and live and talk and love.
Face
My face has from the inside hardly changed,
the smiles, the quizzical, the frowns
the anger, even,
all these feel the same.
If mirrors were not everywhere
I would think myself young, pretty even.
Was this so in bygone days
did people gaze with confidence
believing that they too were young?
And was that better?
If we perceived our faces only from inside
we would not know if beautiful or ugly
except when others said.
No selfies, no make-up, less people.
But might the lack of knowledge also hurt?
No idea why lovers spurned us
no idea why love changed as we age.
I paint my face with colours and disguise
to regain youth although I never will.
But inside I am young and very lovely
Soft skin, dark eyes, red lips
contrive to make the best I was
or even better. It is hopeless.
And yet a jewel that only I can see
I need no glass, no mirror.
Love
Love me
I beg of you
Do not turn your head
half-bored to something else
You have forgotten me I think
or forgot yourself
The way we glanced, smouldered,
even. All this is gone.
You speak to me,
remind me of the past
and what domestic duties
wait for me. I don’t know if you
wait for me.
I can’t tell if your heart
is drawn by me.
I hope so.
Rage at him
Last night you made me cross
and I was very cross indeed.
You came home late
your phone switched off
and when you came, you smiled at me
rendered dumb by drink.
I turned my back on you and
shouted. First internally
and then out loud, and said
Sleep where you want!
I just don’t care one bit!
And as I lay, awaiting sleep myself
you reached a hand towards me
a penitent hand
though your regrets
were more about my anger
than your lateness.
I love you still, I think, and yet
your words ignite my rage
and, I fear, vice versa
though you hide it more
Am I right to share my fury
or should I quench it?
And how? With pills? With drink?
With music and with words?
Sometimes I like to be angry though.
It makes me feel real.
Spring
We always sing that spring is beautiful
and so it is, I think,
Shining yellow, gleaming green
and weather that can’t make up its mind
or not for long.
This is spring.
Uncertainty mixed with crueller times
and the hope that sun and heat will
prevail, despite the clearest evidence
that spring can’t last.
And summer is closer to the colder times
which will return and seize our souls
a little tighter each year.
Beauty is transient
made lovely by transience
and so our song of spring is true enough.
But those of us who hum the chorus know
the words are harder to recall
with each passing year. And we care less
as we draw closer to the end.
Artificial intelligence
Your intelligence is merely artificial, I would say,
but does that make it less than mine?
I wonder.
In fact I’ll search online
just wondering’s a waste of time.
You often help me look for words
when I can’t remember
I look for synonyms and meanings
Relieved when I find one
Relieved when I don’t
If it isn’t there
then that’s why I can’t find it
If it is
then why should I think
when you can think quicker
The simple words are no less artificial
That I know them at all
is artifice.
These words exist
outside your intelligence
and mine.
How they are remembered
is irrelevant.
The imaginary leg
You haven’t got a leg to stand on
not even an imaginary one
Though how you’d stand on that
is anybody’s guess.
But then I thought – with two
real legs maybe standing on one
that wasn’t there could work quite well.
To say you can’t stand on an
imaginary limb suggests
that I know more
than what I do
which is nothing much.
It implies that you are lying, though.
And that you say or even think
that you have more than just two legs
which while unlikely
is hardly something I can prove.
Perhaps you have more? – three or four?
And do they stomp through your imagination
Or mine?
In any case, you have a leg or two to stand on now.
Time, perhaps, to count my own limbs
I think.
Pain
Why do our bodies make pain
releasing it through nerves
to bits of us we never knew we had?
Why is pain?
They say that it protects us
True, without it things may not go well
but why so much unnecessary pain?
Why do bits of us malfunction
shriek in agony and torment?
Our bones, our muscles, joints
once hurting, just hurt more.
And when the poppy juice is drunk
the suffering subsides a while
but still the body aches to ache
and tells the mind to drink some more.
When the soul embraces pain
nothing works.
Only death.
Youth
My youth was long ago.
I don’t think I crave it
though I could be fooling myself
In truth I yearn for
imagined youth
a youth of the time of my youth
no mobile phones, no online spats
a single fountain pen
Youth now is never mine
and never can be
I will always be much older in the youth of now
but my true youth of long ago is not
what I desire; a false one, rather, filled
with beauty and adventure
Instead it was a time of pain and fear
of dreaded work and longed-for sleep
interspersed with little bits
of happiness
Youth is best in the imagination.
Weekdays
How many days are in a week?
Usually seven, I think
yet sometimes it seems much longer
as though extra days have been tucked in
and sometimes shorter
when days seem squeezed right out.
When you are here the days fly by
one insignificance to another
Now I sit alone and think
of all the many things that I could do
and then, very slowly, do nothing
so it seems, that when I count the days
I cannot see the things I should have done.
Monday, a day of contemplation,
of stillness, then Tuesday, a lost day,
Wednesday, longer, busy, full of talk,
Thursday – well, who cares?
and Friday, tired and hopeful,
often disappointing.
Saturday and Sunday do their own thing
they hardly know the other days exist.
I wonder, if the days became unnamed,
followed each other, blandly, one by one,
called by only numbers in the year
what would it be like?
Each day, filled with possibilities?
Or a vast mountain, with no resting places?
Spring on the hill
Up on the hill the green grass grows
and blossoms try their best to escape
from dull winter stems.
My hair blows madly in the wind
Never was spring so lovely.
The flowers will die before it ends
the tender green leaves too
will age and drop.
The seasons come in circles
ever faster, ever brighter.
We blossom too, from birth
all beautiful if briefly
then our hollow fading.
The hawthorn blossoms cannot slow
time passing, they have no artifice.
We think we can, but just imagine
your lipstick, redly smearing the
silver, drooping blossom.
Spring comes back again
Will it return for us?
Will there be a second spring
or is this our only chance?
In either case, let the blossom go.
Pottage
Medieval pottage kept many alive
and probably did for some
Sheer desperation kept it as their dinner
with nothing else besides
Easy work to make some now
and that’s what I have done
but I have plenty otherwise
My cupboards squeeze with food
My pottage is not medieval
Peasants then would stare at mine
its nice new pan, boiling richly,
no battered cauldron here.
It’s good to think of times gone by
of food gone by as well
But have no thought when eating it
that they had food like us.
Bed
How often should I wash the sheets?
Ask someone who knows
I asked Mr Google
who found a microbiologist
with opinions online
and they said once a week
Once a week, I ask?
Why on earth would I bother?
Who says it’s better to lie
in a sterile and chemical lair
than a welcome, heaving
nest of bacteria?
I really wonder
Who decides what’s good for us
or bad, on what authority?
Less antibiotics, they say
so why less beasties in my bed?
Meanwhile I shall wait as always
until my bed informs me
that a clean is due
Return
yesterday he came back
I knew he would return
yet could not understand
the many thousand miles
that were between us
modern life I say
why do you let us do such things
when fifty miles took days
then we would see much more
the roads and changing of the clouds
the shifts of day to night
now we fly in planes
and overtake the nights.
he was so far away
for so short a time
I have forgotten.
The other aunt and uncle
I have an aunt and an uncle.
One of each, though neither one
I know or love. I know their names
but who they are I never knew,
Regret surrounds regret.
Behind them stand
two figures
shadowy
faces hard to see
forever young.
The other aunt and uncle
the ones I never knew.
The aunt I just remember
her name like mine
dark hair
bending down to me
then nothing more.
The uncle, gone before
lost in the sea at eighteen.
I would have liked to know them
I would have liked to love them.
I wish that they had lived.
Mediterranean diet
The shelves are almost empty in the shops
at least the shelves of green, fresh
vegetables. No sweet tomatoes,
empty trays, and dull hard roots that grew
so long ago.
What should we do?
A Mediterranean diet is what we need
they say, but in the dull wet north
there is no heat, no dancing fields
as in the shining south.
The grapes grow there, the coloured fruits
that we weren’t born to eat.
More turnips, eat your carrots, parsnips
These may all be good for you
and what the northern gut expects.
A Scottish diet may well yet suit
without Irn Bru and pies.
Treatment
Years of treatment have left me different
fatter sometimes, dazed and angry
that all this is necessary.
I feel I should ignore it
shout at it, run from it
but it whispers meanly
grasping at my heels.
What is my mind but a mass of nerves
tripped up by electricity
and chemicals.
Is it the same as it would have been
or do I miss the things that once
I would have seen?
Can I write the way I used to write?
I cannot tell
because there is no way
to know.
What is the point
of weeping for
what can’t be known?
I listen silently to sounds made
and clutch myself and my love
to my wondering chest.
I am lucky, I think
to be here.
Coronation
Something happened yesterday
What sort of thing? I cannot say
Some people seemed to love it all
Many others stayed away
The crowning of two OAPs is not
inspiring.
In years gone by
they never would have lived this long
Another king, both bold and bright
with knights and flashing swords
would not have spared their lives
and then we would have crowned him too
the crown on hair all young and thick
a lovely bride beside his throne
and old age but a fantasy.
Misogynistic, violent legends these
and firmly in the past. This king has waited
far too long for what’s no longer there.
What is truly left for him
by people, not his people?
Bedraggled bunting, damply waving
Allegiance gone for ever.
Clothes
My clothes hang in the wardrobe breathing dust
I find it hard to part with them
Each tells of a time,
of people, of conversations had
of love and laughter, at and with me
But when the wardrobe squeezes full
I have to part with some
Tired clothes,
clothes that looked not right
clothes which need some weight to go
but hang there, taunting.
Clothes farewell!
You lie now folded in a black and plastic bag
waiting for a trip out to the dump.
Do you remember me, I wonder
Do you regret your days in the sun?
I hope so.
San Cristobal
It’s quaint here, wouldn’t you say?
The little girls and boys
trying to sell pulseras to tourists
who don’t want them, and turn their backs
or at the best say ‘no, gracias’.
It reeks of our past, when servants,
slaves, even, were seen as not quite people
at any rate, not like us.
Even when we look at them and smile
what are we smiling at?
The bright colours, the gentle voices,
insistent, then defeated.
We can’t know what they want or love
or if resentment clouds their wares
they need to seem beautiful, or broken,
to make us look.
What do they think of us?
Do they admire us, envy us?
Deep down I hope they hate us
for making them what they are.
Mexico City
Mexico City
Massive in a massive country
We stay in an easy place
soft, leafy, food and drink, shops
Different
Warm and fast
People walking slowly through
vast spaces
Colours and smells
Dark braided hair
Stares and beggars
Very rich and very poor
right next to you
But you don’t see them
Drink your cocktail
Eat your mole
And try to sleep
if you can.
Memories
All that I remember may be just that
just memories.
And did it happen?
What is truth?
I gaze back to the past and it seems real
but is it just a sense of something
that never really was.
I know that I’m right,
I remember it well
we say
But what do we remember?
Why would it be true?
Belief in ourselves is dangerous
I’d say
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