Certus Incertus
Noon classroom heat, the rhyme a perfect whole
shaped in her head, the air
as heavy as a drape about her
as she stands, the clever one,
her hands pressed hot against her skirt.
Then dumb-show swallowing
and mime. The rapid fire of cocked-up consonants.
The stretching out of time -
A sentence come unstrung. And no escape.
God wove humility into my tongue,
stitched knots into its root:
words made my stumbling blocks
and snares. Both gift and downfall,
so a syllable could catch me unawares
despite the careful path
I’d laid about the difficult.
Alone, a poem was paradise.
Aloud, an ambuscade.
And still my name is treacherous:
the first an easy swim,
a sibilance, soft labial,
and then warm lateral rest.
A stubborn plosive bars the last,
refusing. The mouth’s tough muscle trapped,
a clumsy toad that’s scarred and furrowed
as if mapped with all its failed assaults,
the long embarrassments
as listeners’ lips chew silently,
rehearsing what they think I mean.
Pace! I’ve better words inside than these –
gladly abandon sound bytes
and embrace the peace of foolscap,
the pleasure of a faintly humming screen.
From A Fold in the Map, published by Salt in the UK and Jacana in South Africa
King Kong Déjà vu
'And lo, the beast looked upon the face of beauty.And it stayed its hand from killing.And from that day, it was as one dead.’
Old Arabian Proverb, King Kong, 1933
This town sure is full of hicks, Barnum was right.
So in my silver backless halter-neck
I’m waiting for the moving picture ship to dock.
I’ve been through so much excitement
it’s in my blood like dope.
You should never trust a man who waves a map
that he won’t let you read –
that’s fourteen knots I’ve learned to tie.
and I’m still no closer to the truth.
And I don’t know where, but I’ve seen this view before:
twin pillars, and that moon,
the city’s midnight canyon
so much deeper now the lights are gone.
There was that roar from the sold-out theatre,
like a three-alarm fire –
some movie stunt about a monkey, someone said.
No, it wasn’t the aviators, in the end,
and a girl may steal an apple, love an ape…
But, on the other hand, all that doesn’t matter
now that Captain Engelhorn’s at the helm,
the Venture ready for my leaping on.
What a picture! What a chance!
Yes, sweeten it, sweeten it –
everybody likes romance,
so here’s to all those blackout babies,
all the future sons and daughters of King Kong.
Published in Staple Magazine's Film Issue and included in The Tempest Prognosticator (published by Salt in the UK and Umuzi in South Africa)
Startling Point
You think me unsurprising. Wait –
I have a thing or two to share. I’ll never
be the river in full spate, the raging fire,
but, look, I have my moments too:
fish-leap, a flash of juggled silver
barely seen before the splash,
a fleeting shadow shooting through
the water to some secret place;
the sudden kudu in the underbrush,
etched by your headlights, leaping clear.
And you paused at the wheel, aware:
at first just awed by muscled grace,
but then, the mind’s eye’s shattered glass,
the heart’s revealing race, the taste of fear.
Published in Seam
Meet My Father
Meet my father, who refuses food –
pecks at it like a bird or not at all –
the beard disguising his thin cheeks.
This, for a man whose appetite was legend,
hoovering up the scraps his daughters couldn’t eat.
The dustbin man, we joked.
And here he is, trailing his fork
through food we’ve laboured to make soft,
delicious, sweet. Too salty, or too tough,
it tastes of nothing, makes him choke,
he keeps insisting, stubbornly.
In truth, the logic’s clear. His very life
is bitter and the spice it lacks is hope.
He wants to stop. Why do we keep on
spooning dust and ashes down his throat?
From A Fold in the Map
Usury
You pith me, borrowing a layer of this milky skin -
your magic cloak, invisible, to wrap
your hero-lover ego in –
and snap this spine in two, like that,
so I am supple, pliant, bending backwards
to your fingers’ click. Your acrobat.
Your little monkey coaxing coins into the upturned hat.
A cute apprentice turning tricks, I caper
to the tune and grin, teeth needled like a cat’s.
Your tame familiar, little pet, so silky-sleek,
I’m always game and play so well –
the heist, the hoax, the bare-faced cheek –
always your slick accomplice, Bonnie to your Clyde.
Your lucky charm. Oh yes, I am
your bread-and-butter, milk-and-honey bride.
Taught by ‘Yours Truly’, Master Shyster, Mr Money Man,
this good-time girl is never at a loss,
but can be streetwise, run a scam,
work sharp at cards and somehow always wins the toss.
So caveat emptor, this baby don’t come cheap –
is not content with surfaces, the gilt, the gloss,
but wants the dark and dirty, meaningful and deep,
and has a yen for more than just a pound
of flesh and blood. The interest’s steep,
I know, but if you really want to play
and pare me, melt me down, strip off
and dress me up, you’ll have to pay.
Did no-one tell you there’s a catch to every wish?
The genie’s out the bottle, boy –
I am no gold-egg goose, no sovereign-bellied fish –
I am the lone shark, love,
and now it’s pay-back time.
2nd Prize, Ilkley Poetry Competition, 2007
Vision
At first you think they’re birds,
swooping low
into the summer dusk
when the long hot day’s distilling
means the garden’s only roses, roses –
most beautiful with your eyes closed,
shut against the tumbled
brickwork and the weeds –
but soon it will be dark
and from the high, thin squeaks
you’ll know they’re bats,
as the stars’ spores
swell, promising more,
poking their green-white light
through the black soil of the sky.
First published in The Wolf
"Essentially British"
Alice Unintentionally Offends the Queen,
Who Calls the Executioner: People can
get careless about making tea. The Don bats on,
the glory of Down Under, England’s Despair.
But Alice Growing Bolder, Boxes His Ears.
How can you come to England and not see the Tower?
Let every cup of tea be a cup that cheers,
each teapot warmed, kept scrupulously clean.
“Do tell me, are you boys from the Empire?”
Magic it must be that makes men sit and dream
of beauty of shingle, cliff and moor
and wistful yearnings never quite fulfilled.
“You’re all idealists – practical
idealists if that softens the blow.”
Why travel abroad? Land’s End to John O’
Groats, Tea Revives and We Sing as We Go!
“Ee, custards and all, I call this a bit
of a do!”– In the Confusion That Ensues,
Alice Awakes: “I don’t know how you chaps feel,
but I could do with another pint!”
A bit of fun from a British Film Institute commission, using films in the Mediateque's 'Essentially British' collection. All lines are quotes (very slightly adapted in a couple of cases) from the following films: Cecil Hepworth’s (now newly restored) Alice in Wonderland (1903), Cricket (1951), From the Four Corners (1941), The Open Road (1927), Sing as We Go! (1934), and Tea-Making Tips (1941).