Notebook
how the cut tulip stands
tall
fistfully defying all that
contains her
beauty opening full as the world
innermost
yellow heart and black thoughts
the weight of
colour
breaking her back
the edge of her
folding
as she bows, wiser
to the world
‘Women, prominent in the field of florists’ pinks, seemed to have little to do with tulips. The Miss Dalton who, at Lancaster Tulip Show on 22 May, 1826, won first and second prizes…was a rarity’. Anna Pavord, 2000, The Tulip: 205-6
cold as a papercut
Damacles’ fungus foreboding
over a curtain spored
almost black
dog white
skin’s cringe
in the limpwarm sputter
a towelclad breath before
the nylon carpet bog
oozing through
soft toes
Don’t go all casual
at her door,
thinking you’ll need to
button the metaphors,
zip the similes.
Under this ‘Press Enter’
garb she’s a poet;
published and keen as a pin
lurking in a seam.
So, while you speak
s-l-o-w-l-y
she’s nipping at your skin.
à Paris j’ai rencontré
M Bro dans le métro
his eager charges guessing
his age in an arrondissement flush
with balconies a fashionista tacitly
acknowledged my vintage
jacket and later
drinking red wine whilst eating
escargots
quelle horreur
a rendezvous of Spanish gaggling
then
la Japonaise
flowing with the cut and
smiling on the bias
bows
Act I
(in which a mother returns home without her son)
When you left, you left.
The door open to a terrible draught
and me with just a shift of barbed time.
Because the door was open,
I knocked.
Six times I knocked.
All the passers-by stared,
but no one answered.
Act II
(in which the police return her son’s possessions, to whit: one rope.)
Until the postman came with a parcel.
It was a present from you, but not.
An invitation, of sorts.
I set it on the mantelpiece
and looked at it for seconds, for minutes, for hours, for days, for weeks, for months.
I wanted to be sure I had read it correctly.
In the end, what else could I do?
The clock had long struck twelve.
A priest, you said, or a traffic warden.
And it’s funny that;
your silence is punishing.
Despite our vow never to be
like them
my voice shrills to fill
the void of your holy order.
The chaos of me swelling
against our golden restraint.
We angst over dinner.
In the half-full, half-empty glare
of a green bottle,
we collapse
with consumption.
As profligacy is our bond,
so bankers reap our ruin.
Tighten the lid.
Store the bottle on the shelf.
In the midst of Rome we may yet
be Greek.
Such a pity the analogies all featured
men. Picture a Powell and Pressburger
hero navigating the clashing
strait through steep rocks, mountainous sea,
strong and faithful sailors
surplus to fate.
When all poor Ladybird Rapunzel can do
is grow
hair thick as rope and twice as strong,
pouring from the head like syntax.
Enough to circle a thousand drowned.
we have ways with words
You and I
we file them
to points
yours
and mines
buried deep
detonating later
after co-constructing
cementing
partitioning
our ways
with words
You and I
This skin is not holding.
It is all and everything and nothing and none.
These marks are not keeping.
They are all and everything and nothing and none.
These things are not speaking.
They are all and everything and nothing and none.
Then all is keeping and everything is speaking.
Then all is everything and nothing is none.
Then none is holding and holding is gone.
