In Which The Poet Attempts To Say Goodbye To Poetry

When we part ways

the world will be

straightforward once again. 

A cup will be a cup. 

A shoe will be a shoe

not a soup ladle 

not a megaphone

not a submarine.

Mornings will not awaken 

as if they were creatures 

stirring after long sleep. 

Yesterday’s eye exam

should have been routine

but I saw the optician’s legs curl

round each other like snakes. 

I saw the back of my own retina 

as the cracked surface of a clay planet. 

This will not do. 

My eyeball is not a planet

for if it were then I would be

my own solar system

perhaps even a galaxy.

Just thinking about it

makes me dizzy.

When I am in your company

the whole world can shift in a moment. 

There is no solid ground.

When you and I part ways

the women will wear quite ordinary hats. 

Their heads will not sprout flowers, 

will not become bird nests. 

Trees will not grow arms or claws. 

I will be able to go 

for an ordinary stroll 

on an ordinary day 

in the ordinary woods. 

The green will just be green,

not a leprechaun’s shirt or dragon’s eye.

You were wonderful. 

You sang me songs 

when the train chugged out of the station. 

The tunnel was the night, 

was a route to the underworld, 

was the inside of my own mind. 

Now everything will go back to normal. 

I won’t cry. 

Only poems make me cry. 

They produce tears like jewels 

tumbling out of a treasure chest.

I am trying to say goodbye

but I can’t do it.

You see,

I think

I may 

have

fallen

in love,

with 

you.

Last Night My Heart

The Doctors

Apocalypse

Made in Italy

Double Date

When you avert my gaze

it seems as though you are shy,

as though I’m some beautiful girl

who wouldn’t want to know you.

Perhaps you are

star gazing,

divining futures from the clouds,

the tops of trees,

cranes, kites.

We drink our coffee

and still

you do not look me in the eye. 

Instead you gaze at the space around my head

as if I exist there beside myself,

another me 

to whom you can address your comments, 

another me 

who will hear you better,

will answer you in some enigmatic way.

I grow jealous of her,

knowing that to look into

the dark of her eye

is to be stripped bare

and once seen like that

you can never be clothed again

no matter how many brightly coloured shirts you try. 

The Spin

I live in the mountains

but you’re not gonna

find me there.

I'm coming to the city

to seek you out.

I move like silk

smooth and cool

towards the district

the golden bucks

the business

where I’m gonna

pop some corks

and release 

my motorcycle roar.

What do I do all day?

I am planning your life.

I distract you with the high 

slit of my skirt

my perfect thigh.

Don’t try to chase me.

I am a red wheel.

I am spinning like a snake.

and I 

am following 

you.

Bread

Each time

I am amazed.

Flour, water, yeast.

Some salt.

Simple.

But then

our muscles mix 

the flour froths

and the bright bread 

starts to bubble.

Our aprons ache 

for more warm water. 

More!

Don’t be afraid!

The room lights

and rises

and the dough turns

in our high hot hands

to something 

as real 

as you or I,

miraculous

and alive.

The Last Storytellers of Cremone

I see them emerge 

from St John’s Wood underground:

the women of the bare feet,

the women of the crooked back,

the women of the shuffling step,

turbans huge as baskets

wrapped around their heads,

necks bent to the left as if listening

to the dreams of scuttling trains.

I follow them to their little room

just off Grove End Road.

They promise to tell one story

for each round of fabric 

that is unwound from their heads.

And as they talk, all that they have carried

falls onto the floor:

painted tea-pots, silver thimbles and spoons,

wedding dresses, candlesticks,

waistcoats and blankets sewn by hand.

We sit on the floor and laugh.

They strip the night from my eye.

They tell the story of the king of the wind.

They voice the jewels of my own wonder.

I ask them where their land lies.

I ask them why their heads are weighted down.

I ask them what they yearn for.

One story for each round.

But every piece of fabric they remove

must wind around my own head

as each tale I hear becomes my own.

I hear of the lost land of Cremone

and wonder how a country can be lost.

Each woman tells a different tale:

the trees grew too tall and toppled down, 

the borders stretched too thin and disappeared,

the people turned too proud and moved away.

I hear of a land that faded out of time.

I hear of a land now carried in the stories,

in the turbans, on the heads of these women.

One story for each round.

And when the night is through

I feel my own head

newly turbanned

filled with stories.

We are the women of the milky eye.

We are the women of the laughing teeth.

We are the women of the vanished land.

We are the last storytellers of Cremone.

Reality

These Old Cafés

Not the smart redecorated ones 

with mobile phone top-ups 

and take-home mugs. 

The archaic ones 

with walls that flake and puff 

where strange folk sit and pick 

their nails with toothpicks, coins,

the corners of matchbooks. 

A book of matches. A book of fire. 

A book of all the things that burn 

before your eyes 

and in that end regain their dignity 

like a viking warlord aflame in his boat 

pushed out to sea

lighting the night with his memory 

held in the minds of men 

who will drink long horns of ale to him 

and sing the ancient songs. 

In these cafés there are such things;

books of matches

books of the stories that cannot exist 

anywhere else in this world. 

Men who are not yet old 

prop themselves on the crumbling chair. 

A newspaper rests on the table 

but these men don’t read; 

they are busy with something else, 

some invisible work that eats up all their time. 

You wanted a take-away coffee 

but you have come to the wrong place. 

You have entered with too much speed. 

Your voice sounds too loud 

and disturbs the thick air. 

You realise it only once the words 

have left your mouth. 

This place doesn’t do take-away. 

It may take a while for any drink to come at all. 

Fame

A Vanishing Act

Susanna's Bath

After Nuno Júdice

I enter the water, which smokes

with steam. Then I fetch The Luz

which surpasses in value all our gold.

My sombreness evaporates, so

fickle immobile, sobbing on cue.

Under the stars of São Oleos

the reflexes of my skin dissolve.

My spirit lifts in accordance

with The Luz, like a quietness that

is whispered. And when The Whole

is explained, described in blazing detail

on my body, around each curve,

I dance inside like a wild snake.

And today the stars are brilliant

like our ancestors of the world.

Enter. Fetch the water. I invite you.

Enter the bath, and we will do well

in the salt of the three courts, the

teeth of the caravans, those boxes that revolve. 

We will hear the chimes of the two sisters,

quiet as The Luz is quiet, 

whose cost is above all else.

Then freshen your skin with the sponge

for the hours have traversed us.

The NaPoWriMo prompt for today is to choose a poem in a language you don’t understand and then translate it into English based on the look of the words and their sounds. I have attempted a translation of O Banho de Susana by Nuno Júdice of Portugal. I did not look at the proper translation until I was finished. But when I did, I was rewarded; Júdice's poem is beautiful and worth reading.

The Furnace Man

The Furnace Man 

barbecues 

people for dinner

picks them up like logs 

stokes his mouth full

doesn’t have to chew 

the flames in his belly 

flicker hot and fast

vaporize the bones

until nothing remains 

no skin no eyes 

no diamond necklaces 

not even dreams. 

But one day 

the memories of the girl 

he has just consumed 

evade the heat

flip-flop in his mind

salty and fresh.

He separates them out 

from everything that burns 

and keeps them 

in the cool of his head

just behind his left eye. 

She swims along the beach 

she and her brother 

they bob up and down 

in the waves 

sink into the depths

imagine they are mermaids

shipwrecks seaweed

then the sky lifts them 

into the blue

so much happiness it brings 

this rise and fall rise and fall.

The Furnace Man 

loves the girl’s memories 

of the sea 

will not burn them

plays them over and over

until he loves her too  

and wishes she could 

be there with him. 

But that can never be 

for he has gobbled her body 

until there is none of it left 

no flesh

no eyeballs

no eardrums 

no pink fingernails 

none of it.

All he can do 

is drown 

and the salt 

cleanses the air 

the water bathes 

the red cheeks 

and the laughter rises 

from the water

like a song.

Lune

The football moon

someone kicked up a tree

never came down.

My Waitrose Bill

It was Friday the 14^th of March and I had just come back 

from the dentist on Carnaby Street. My face was still half 

numb but I wanted to eat something, maybe something 

that didn’t need much chewing like a smoothie.

I popped into Waitrose, the big one on Finchley Road, 

it’s the best one. They have everything there. 

I saw Bill Nighy. I was so siked! I acted all normal. But then

he dropped his loaf of bread. I ran after him and picked it up. 

Hallo! Hallo! I said. You’ve dropped your loaf! He was so cool.

He was wearing a stylish dark blue coat like in a film. 

But his basket was too full. He needed a trolley, didn’t he. 

But I had interfered enough. I could have said I love you I love 

your films but I was all anonymous and didn’t suggest 

anything. Should I have got him a trolley? They shouldn’t 

let people walk around like that all laden with stuff. 

I should have looked more carefully at what was in his basket. 

What does Bill Nighy eat? Was he having a party? 

He probably knows people like Jude Law and 

Michael Caine. Would he ever invite me to his party? 

He doesn’t know me. Maybe I should have talked to him 

some more. But I was all anonymous and I rushed off. 

Later when I was at the till I kept looking out for Bill. 

And as I stood there I realised he probably wouldn’t want 

that loaf, not after I had touched it with my fingers 

and hands, and certainly not after it had been on the floor 

which is touched all the time by the underneaths of peoples 

shoes which have also been outside. But maybe he didn’t mind. 

Do you think he would have minded? I wish I would have 

talked to him some more. I looked him up on FaceBook 

when I got home. I wanted to friend him to thank him to say 

Hallo! Hallo! I was the girl in Waitrose who picked up your loaf. 

It was nothing. Don’t mention it. But listen, do you want to come 

to a party? But I couldn’t find him. There were all these Bill Nighy’s 

and none of them were the real one. None of them were my Waitrose Bill.

A Penal Colony For Poets

I committed a crime when I was young:

I threw my poems away.

The poetic police caught up with me,

they said I’d have to pay.

When I asked them how they found me,

they said I had a haunted look

from the ghosts of words discarded,

enough to fill a phantom book.

The colony was on the moon,

the mode of transport: ladder.

I had to build it myself with words;

this only made me sadder.

I had thrown my words away, you see,

so I had to go door to door

asking if anyone had spare words.

My cheeks burned ’til they were sore.

Eventually I had the words

like toaster scuttle marmalade.

They weren’t my own but they would do;

I had none that were homemade.

The ladder hooked the crescent moon,

I climbed in my bare feet.

Hands snatched at me, knives cut my skin,

how I wished I could retreat.

When I got there all I had were years

mining words from the white dust,

words from my lost writings,

words I did not trust.

The first I saw was corridor

then travel dream and trees

always time skies flown and child.

They brought me to my knees.

Happy I was to see them again,

I would reclaim my poems at last.

But they had dissolved into each other,

stray phrases floated past.

Let travel you me with always

I couldn’t piece them together

of the through the labyrinth night

my sorrow had no measure.

But whatever I found was mine to keep

so I made a little garden.

With autumn sunlight meadow and rose

my heart could now unharden.

When my time was up they found me,

said I was free to move to Mars,

but I told them I would stay here

in my hut made out of stars.

The Staircase

The staircase 

appears

one day

bursts 

through

the middle

of Mrs Weinstein’s

pampas grass.

First one step 

sprouts 

then two.

It grows

towards

the sky.

By the end 

of the week

it has reached 

the sun.

No one knows 

what 

to do.

Then Benny 

her eldest 

starts 

selling tickets.

He has 

a fortune

to accrue.

What’s up there 

neighbours ask.

End of the world 

he replies.

I’d get there first 

if I were 

you.

To boost sales 

up he goes

with nothing 

but

a jacket and

a bagel 

or two.

From the street 

they watch

as he coils 

into 

the blue

becomes a speck 

disappears.

Suddenly 

everyone 

wants a ticket

wants to follow 

too.

So Jake

the second son

takes over 

family trade

he doesn’t want it

to fall 

through.

What’s up there 

neighbours ask.

Rubix the collie 

Grandpa Max

Grandma Sue.

He says, 

I’d get there first 

if I were 

you.

The street

is one big

spiralling 

queue,

caterers set up 

a marquee

offer fresh 

baked bread 

and stew.

Reporters

bring their own

news crew  

ask Jake:

Are you 

the brother 

of the hero guy

who pioneered

into the sky?

That’s all Jake 

needs to hear

to get him up 

those stairs 

too.

What’s up there

neighbours ask.

But Mo

the youngest

prefers his dreams

has no mind 

for ticket schemes.

Most of the street

he says.

My brothers 

too. 

Other than that

I haven’t

a clue.

He says, 

I’d go home 

if I were 

you.

When they insist,

he let’s them 

travel free.

And off they go

in two’s 

and threes.

Kids rest 

on shoulders 

sleeves flap

like wings 

in the breeze.

So many 

people 

walk 

into the sky.

None return

from out of

that blue.

I shouldn’t 

have taken up 

gardening,

Mrs Weinstein

cries.

I think my heart 

will break 

in two.

Sky, Cloud, You...

I sit on a bench

in the lamp-post park

and make notes 

on the world.

Yellow jacket skaters

baby pram pushers

fence talkers 

and coffee cup whistlers

scoot along the path.

I write it all down:

how the hawthorns 

have almost fallen over,

how the dogs

fly into the open arms

of clouds,

and then I see

the long hair tied back

the gentle face of a lion

the eyes like water.

The women are calling:

Come on! This way! Come on!

But we sit on the bench

you and I 

and talk 

ten years worth of tales.

Old friend,

you stroll like a miracle

out of the shoe lacers 

and the rucksack joggers

out of this green painting

and into the day.

breakfast after space travel

two eager astronauts 

we board our rocket

strap ourselves in

lap up the sky 

fast as we can

we explore the stars

from sargas to altair

play on lyras harp

hear orb music 

in the silence 

fly on the wing of apus

dizzy with constellations

meet other worlds

they show us 

how we are all dust

we love the taste of oxygen 

we dont need food

our minds grow wide 

fill with particles of light

bathe in ultraviolet

nebula dive 

deep and deep until 

our rocket shakes and smokes

rust metal bits threaten to fall 

we have our fixing kit 

try to fix 

the planet rings 

screw those rocket bits in place

we land on earth

we cant explain 

but i see in your eyes

what 

together

we have seen 

we try to make a normal breakfast

what do people eat for breakfast?

what is normal?

breakfast

two astronauts

sit together at a table

it sounds like

the start of a joke

it seems important to get this right

we sit for hours 

take in the scene

liquid fills the glass

is this milk whiter than the moon?

why do the flakes of bran

not float into the sky like asteroids?

any moment i expect the furniture to drift

gravity is strange

what keeps us sitting here?

i have to take my space suit off

gloved fingers 

cant hold 

so intricate 

an instrument

a spoon

you keep your space helmet on

the visor down

how will you eat?

i like the oxygen you say

its better than the stuff out there

but the world is out there

the table is out there

i am out there

how will i kiss you?

A Family Visit

These two sisters can’t stop visiting each other. 

Anna is the queen of heaven and earth, 

an A-list celebrity on all the invite lists. 

She learns that her sister, Kiki, queen of the underworld, 

is mourning the death of her husband, Frank. 

He was a complete animal 

but Anna must pay her respects.

Before her journey to the underworld, 

she decks herself out in her designer best. 

She begins her descent, 

only to be stopped at seven security gates during the journey.

(Kiki always was a bit of a control freak.) 

At each gate, Anna is required to give up another symbol of her status: 

her faux fur, 

her Jimmy Choos,

her iPhone, 

all her passwords,

the keys to her Porsche,

her tickets to the Beyoncé concert,

and, at the last gate, her personal trainer, Mike. 

She arrives at Kiki’s domain 

stripped of everything she was, 

completely naked.

The place is a mess of mould and rotting food. 

I love what you’ve done with the place, she says.

What are you doing here? Kiki roars. 

I’ve come to pay my respects, says Anna. 

Your respect makes me want to barf, says Kiki.

It looks like you already did, says Anna. 

Sometimes the shortest of conversations

Are too long.

Kiki kills Anna and hangs her body 

on a meat hook in a corner of her living room. 

Nice, she says. 

Everyone should hang a family portrait on the wall.

But Anna’s no fool.

Before she left California, 

she suspected something might happen. 

She texted her Grandpa, the king of the gods, 

if I’m not back in 3 days come get me xoxo luv u!

Three days and nights drag by.

Kiki watches reruns of The Sopranos

and shoots macabre selfies with Anna’s phone.

Something to remind her of her visit, she says.

When Anna does not return, 

Grandpa creates two therapists 

from the dirt beneath his fingernails, 

(he has real dirty fingernails) 

who descend to the underworld in search of Anna. 

Arriving in Kiki’s living room, they find her freaking out. 

She says: “Oh, my back!" 

They say: “Oh, your back!" 

They show compassion for her pain, 

recommend a good osteopath. 

She is moved by this. 

She offers them anything they desire. They say: 

“We want the corpse hanging from the meat hook in the corner". 

Kiki is pissed off about being tricked out of her sister's corpse, 

but she honours her promise and gives them the body. 

She may be queen of the underworld but she, too, has a code.

The therapists sprinkle spirulina and wheatgrass juice on Anna’s body, 

and are able to revive her. 

I feel great, she says. I must have lost ten pounds! 

The therapists think she looks like shit -

her face too drawn, shadows under her eyes - 

but they keep their mouths shut.

Anna ascends back to California, 

regaining all the regalia of her position 

at each security gate on her return. 

Unfortunately, she was dead during the Beyoncé concert.

This puts her in a bad mood.

When she gets back, she discovers 

that her husband is also an animal. 

He’s been shtooping her PA while she’s been gone.

But it doesn’t matter. 

She knows that Kiki will visit soon 

and then the fun will start again.

Going to See The Queen

They say every woman is secretly looking 

for that one perfect destiny, 

which can be worn day and night. 

But I wanted a regal destiny 

so I could go and see The Queen.

When I entered the shop,

the sales-assistant took my hands and said:

Every girl deserves her dream destiny 

and we want to help you find it! 

Not only do we offer an incredible price point, 

but all of our destinies are customisable 

so you can really say your destiny was made just for you!

I was amazed at the array:

Rainbow coloured fur, 

silver nets studded with stars,

golden samite, bright as the sun.

The lady frowned and said: 

Why not try a cream-coloured A-line destiny? 

Perfect for that family wedding,  

you can also wear it in the garden, 

while shopping, even while sipping a gin and tonic. 

Simple and plain, it can go anywhere. 

But, I told her, I wanted a regal destiny 

so I could go and see The Queen.

I tried on trapeze destinies fresh from the circus,

the silks and veils of the Arabian Nights,

himalayan prayer shawls scented with incense.

Nothing seemed to fit.

The lady looked concerned: 

Why not try a little black destiny

that creates the ultimate look 

for just about any occasion: 

in the office, at a business dinner, 

dancing the night away or even going to the beach. 

But, I told her, I wanted a regal destiny 

so I could go and see The Queen.

She said: Our destinies feature lace detailing, 

bold floral and new season prints. 

Mini destinies make a statement 

in monochrome tones with flashes of “hot off the runway” shades.

For a summer destiny to be an all-time favourite, 

it has got to be loose, flattering and washable.

And then I saw it:

in cloth the colour of the moon

washed by hand in the sea of shadows

sewn together with invisible threads.

They say you should never pay

for your destiny in cash.

So I took it and fled.

I ran through the streets.

I ran with my moon destiny.

I ran right up to the palace,

and I went to see The Queen.