he disliked the coat he had been given
but wore it because he had no other
it had been made with love
and given with love
but only when it was worn through
did he learn to love it himself
the jar
I found an old jar in her kitchen
that for long had remained unused
it was like one I remembered from childhood
that I used to cling on to
the trees in my mother’s garden were many and beautiful
though she lived in a small apartment
by the sea
of the silent guest at her table
she would talk to her family
yes the trees in my mother’s garden were beautiful
but the jar
I threw into the sea
of the silent guest at her table
the sea has no memory
maw
my pieces should have gone to post this morning
to give me any chance to win a prize
but now the rain worries at my window
and I have turned to stone and cannot rise
and the raindrops on the lattice sit
like silent choristers holding lights
knowing there is no one to sing to
and no day but only night
when we first came here
we could see fields
and a copse in the form
of an all embracing circle
now there is only the deep cleft
into which everything has collapsed
the earth swallows its own
in an all-consuming maw
and yawns
parcels from Italy
when I was a boy
I would receive
parcels from Italy
quite regularly
books
I could not read
clothes
too small for me
maternal greetings
fripperies
now I miss them
infinitely
synapse
he thought about the little bay
where they had taken the children on holiday
and where he hadn’t been as happy
as he should have been
and he remembered holidays
with his own father
that brought him up with a jolt
like an electric current
connections occur across a tiny space
a synapse
or the passage of many years
now like a couple in separate rooms
he was out of kilter with himself
sleep couldn’t come too soon
lighter
the old man had lost something
of inestimable worth
more precious than he could ever say
now his burden felt a little lighter
a little lighter
as he went upon his way
(first posted 3 Feb. 2016)
scratch marks
after the dust broke
I hardly spoke to anyone
but took my relative to a psychoanalyst
and while he hung about outside
skated about on the elaborate floor
of the consulting room
apologising profusely for scratch marks
neither of us could see
outside
my relative remained reticent
declining to be recognised
I bought a poster of the whole event
but have never unrolled it
although I own it
and so does he
night came down like a …
night came down like a …
the mechanics of which he did not understand
why the darkness had descended early
why there was a blight upon the land
yes night came down like a …
as birds discussed the price of eggs
behind the lattice they were singing
slowly slowly it befell
… portcullis
howl
dog on the bed
like a polar landmass in the spring
I would give anything
to be like you
yours is an empire of the skin
mine the meandering way within
an island off the compass of the world
go howl your howl
let it be heard
release
I open the door and release them
one by one
they come to the door and I watch them go
in pale December sun
and some of them are beautiful
and some of them are old
and some of them are ugly
some as cold as stone
and some of them are holy
[first posted Jan 3, 2016]
