Mrs. Zhivago irons (a home movie)

Zhivago watches his pregnant wife,

hears her purpose in the rhythmic thud

of  flat triangle stroked over cloth.

 

She takes its point into the tuck of cuffs,

follows the edge of pleats, with heat

and weight loosening the long chain bonds.

 

I look on,  share her fixed impatience

with the slightest crinkle, straightening

in my head the crooked fibres.

 

Collars are flattened wrong side first;

even in the yoke of his shoulders

creases are pressed knife-sharp, no puckering.

 

Here, we bring you this pile of lines,

smoothed and fastidiously folded.

Finish the job: put them where they belong.

 

 vi. 2009


Ariadne's Thread #7, June 2013

WEB

The web stretches, and

a spider inches inevitably

toward its prey. Meaning

in the moment of a snatched pause

to close, and kill.

 

Tenuous strands wait taut

to trap us. We build walls

with stepping stones,

dug from the ground

between our mortared circles.

 

Tomorrow over turrets,

looks away and sees

the picture sketched:

it speaks unconsciously of

my comfortable deafness.

 

1986

 

The Longstone, #1 - May 1987

PLAIN SPEAKING


Discarnate transport, pillarbox red,

across the sea of living dead.

Secrets whispered through a cutting slash;

incurable, the victim’s rash.


Answering, I sent a picture card;

its fractured message impacting hard.

Then turning on a headline jest,

I met myself, an unwelcome guest.


So back-to-back, torn off a strip,

conviction walls a three-way whip.

As football pools in weekly pink,

written down with pen at sink.


1984

PREGNANT PAUSE


The spellbound ear sucks in noise
random as nature, or inevitable as moths
at a bedside lamp in August:

month of dusty pages turned
before another year’s fall, another
unconclusion reached and left aside.

Written in the fissures
of change, of anticipation,
labour sweats from every barely woken pore,

oozes miasmic, and seeping venous
to the river, hears daylight
yawn at its own sultry waxing.

viii.94

Northwards Now #14, 2010

"Things can only get better" - the 1990s

And indeed, for myself at any rate, they did. If PLAIN SPEAKING represented a personal nadir, then the last completed pieces of the 80s – ENGAGED TONE and GOODBYE – point to an upward and onward path. Much of the 90s was spent becoming rooted: marriage, children and building a working niche in radiography. There was little time for poetry, and I became a collector of scraps – disconnected fragments of observation scribbled down in the back of a diary. I guess there was always intent to utilise these images and phrases somehow, but I had little notion as to how and when this would prove possible.

As the paucity of material posted demonstrates, it was a slow and tentative return. One focussed principally on domesticity, and uninformed by a sensibility of craft skills – though I had started to count syllables. By the end of the decade however, having completed a professional MSc, creative momentum was building once more.

On the political front, it was a time of acquiescence. The collapse of the Iron Curtain had dispelled the urgency of the anti-nuke movement, and after Thatcher was ousted (akin to a modern-day Julius Caesar) we knew it was only a question of time before her establishment was finally cleared out. What an unforgettable night May the first 1997 was – like Hercules’ cleansing of the Augean stables. But a false dawn for the left. By then I’d left the Labour Party after it ditched Clause IV (part4). Not because I thought that elegant, but dated, language couldn’t be enhanced, but – in trying to arrive at something of wider, more contemporary appeal – the conceptual cornerstone of “common ownership” had been abandoned. Without indicating this means by which it would achieve its goals, and with an acceptance of the market written into the Party’s constitutional aims, Labour forsook any socialist credibility.

Which is not to say that – initially – there weren’t significant gains. For instance, the Tories internal healthcare market – in which hospitals, rather than co-operate, competed with each other to the detriment of outcomes overall – was swept away. Later, of course, it was revived on the wholly spurious grounds of patient ‘choice’. (Primary Care Trusts have even employed ‘care advisors’ to persuade patients to use privately-run services; like having John Prescott come round to insist you must shop at Tesco.) The only difference this time round being that ‘the market’ has been deliberately rigged in favour of the private-sector, who’ve been creaming off the easy, routine and – above all – profitable work ever since. (So not the chronic, A&E, or the elderly…) Just goes to show how far it is possible to stray from supposed ‘core values’ when there’s no underpinning ideology.

Phew. I feel better for having got that off my chest. Allegedly this is a poetry blog, so pay no heed to the above (unless you want to), just make what you will of the poems. More about them, I hope, in my next spiel.

OURSELVES ALONE


Blink back your bittersweet tears

That well of honest pain;

Someone, in their darkness, hears

And knows our black terrain.


Some loneliness remaining

Between the lost and found;

Latent, half-remembering,

A love that makes no sound.


Just anger stills the sorrows,

Which fetter and deceive;

In hope, unchained, tomorrow’s

No shadow we believe.


An audience without a cause

Behind net curtain hides;

Numb, deaf, and locked in laws

That solitude derides.


Fearful but for unity,

The ghost that haunts my sleep;

Weep not, nor felon be,

If dreams you cannot reap.


1986

Green Ink #5, 1987

AFTERTHOUGHT


Sunday morning lies abed,
reluctant to awake;
turning over turning
the tears we shared last night.



That nuclear dawn we fear
each day renews our sorrow.
And words, the human curse,
do not bring forth new light.



Only hope's two daughters,
hand in hand together,
our anger and our courage
can put an end to might.


1983
Green Ink #5, 1987

ELEGY ON A GRAFFITO


Seeking asylum in a slogan,
I came your way, and you were gone.

Along that misnamed Canal Walk
the railway’s looming curtain wall
strides parallel, is overlooked
by brutal sixties council blocks.
There, in deliberate two foot
capitals, loaded with purpose
and almost forty years timeworn,
the brush-stroked statement, green on grime:
“WE LOVE THE VIETCONG”.

Before advent of day-glo spray,
before stencils and CCTV,
whose dissenting hand and eye
conspired to frame this risky sutra?
Back, when bovver booted skinheads
made fearful my own middle-class
teenage long hair and platform soul;
when the message was the message,
not some braggart’s frontier tag.

Now crumbly pointing gets rebuilt;
those painted words bricked over,
forgotten fellow travellers.
But no more writing on the walls,
move on. The rest is masonry.

viii.2008
 edited version appears in This Island City, 2010

THATCHER'S AUTUMN


Harvest fields aflame
burn
black scars of bigotry
in these greed and peasant lands.


Youth across the pages run,

angry cries rent the air,

petrol bombs are in their hands.


Trapped in spiral despair

our wasted cities turn,

riot, and ignite a TV scream.


Now through high mist wanly

a huge and bloody sun

sets like her puritan dream.


1982

SCARLET WORDS



Fresh with showers a south London morning,

sodden yet unbowed, drips sparkling tears.



Yawning, the earth awakes eager

to sunlit shafted cloudbreak;

stirring growth, emerging complex,

slow as a lucid orgasm.



Flushed from my bath of vanities

to learn of thoughts beyond imagining;

there, in simple knowledge of

your breathing, seeing, hearing arrival.



Returning steps: the raindrop details fall

and break on my ears as gravel underfoot;

but I taste only the echo

of questions tumbling in our breach

with an urgent touch of resistance.



Who lights the fire of conflict?

As half-forgotten, huddled round,

innocent embers bittersweet choke;

and spark new flame – it burns

beacon for the change you bring.

 

 v. 1982