CRASH TEST DUMMY

ELEGY FOR A PAIR OF WHITE GLOVES

2012-01-23T17:51:00.000Z

The lady who used to make them

has died and no one can be found

to replace her

From now on all gloves will be

machine made only

On Sunday mornings always

a pair of white gloves

and with every best frock

and to the opera matinées with Daddy

at school assemblies they were

de rigueur along with the silly hat

(we were not mere girls but

ladies inwaiting)

If you had a lover

what better token than this?

If you didn’t have a lover

you might attract one by virtue

of their pristine butterfly beauty

Now the lady who made them

has died

and there is no one

to take her place

I am wearing on my long-fingered

pianissimo hands

the very last pair of white gloves

This poem first appeared in Snakeskin Magazine.

Photo: Audrey Hepburn in white gloves

THE IMMACULATE CONCEPTION

2011-12-08T12:00:00.000Z

a chamber swept

a garden all enclosed

a gate of gold

an ivory tower to heaven

she was born to bring us

Him and what more

could we ask of her

a child herself once

Today is the feast of the Immaculate Conception of the Blessed Virgin Mary. Often misunderstood to signify the virginal nature of Jesus' conception, in fact the Immaculate Conception commemorates the conception of Mary herself. She was born spotless, free from the taint of original sin, and surely anything less is inconceivable, for she was to bear the Christ within her own body. There's an old Catholic school joke about it that goes like this:

Jesus has been called to give judgement in the case of the woman who has been taken in adultery. The law calls for her to be stoned to death, but Jesus says to the men gathered round: 'He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her.' And then a stone comes flying, hitting the woman on the cheek; Jesus turns and mutters, 'Oh Mom, I didn't know you were here...'

No matter, let us honour Mary in our hearts, and strive to keep our own chambers spotless, that we need not be ashamed to receive the King when he comes.

Picture: A Girl at Prayer, portrait of Florence Anson by Julia Margaret Cameron

IN THE GOLDEN CHAMBER OF ST. URSULA

2011-11-29T13:00:00.000Z

Bones spiral outward

drenched in gold

small and thin, chicken or child

Golden chrysalis of pain

a stillness unbroken

by waves of thunder

That last night of Mary’s month

the sky dripped fire

and eleven thousand

Stars burned in the wayward streets

men phosphorescent

turned to little lumps of clay

In our hour of need, O Princess

did you spread wide

your ermine cloak?

Read this poem in Italian
This first appeared in Caper Literary Journal

Picture: detail from The Reliquary of St. Ursula, Hans Memling

FOR ULRIKE

2011-11-16T13:53:00.001Z

So you’ve done all right for yourself
Translating minor novels from an antique tongue
And the same man still on board – well done.
Well, it was what you wanted
That safe proximity of almost-art
The real thing scared you –
(Black goblin under the bed)
Remember the time you called the police
Thinking me about-to-die or dead?
Never mind, you meant it well
You had a good heart.

Your face now floats the electric air
Back from the underwater time
Half-remembered, half-forgot
The same dark thundercloud of hair
And heavy brows, a pair of bright blue eyes
I remember you laughed a lot.

Better I remember your voice
Soft and low round the stinking coal fire
We unrolled our selves like samplers
In the dim light, threads glinting dark or bright
While outside the snow fell
Hour by hour into the silent night.

I watched you fall in love that year
Perhaps gave you a push –
Jump in! The water’s fine
No need to fear
Somehow I knew you’d never sink but swim
As for him, he worshipped the ground
As well he might.

As for me
I drifted out to sea
And drowned. Let’s leave it at that.
Some things lost are better left unfound
You’d only remember
A crazy woman who could write.
Still, I’m glad you did all right.

This first appeared in Laura Hird Showcase.

Picture: Elizabeth Siddal, Dante Gabriel Rossetti

SONNET FOR ISABELLA

2011-10-04T17:33:00.000+01:00

A one-eyed butterfly fell

from the hammersmith flyover

crumpled on broken knees crawled

away - a tale for gondoliers to warble

on lurid nights once the money’s gone

nicrophorus vespillo a parasitic beastie

feeds on the bodies of others flies

towards the light - Impact!

right into a truck but now it seems

she’s still breathing through those red lips

exotic fruit beginning to rot badly

moulting bird a few parts broken

DRINK ME – it says on the label

DRINK ME

for the funeral the lady shall have a new hat

This poem first appeared in The Smoking Poet

Photo of Isabella Blow in Philip Treacy hat by Miguel Reveriego

THE FIRE OF LOVE

2011-08-16T13:31:00.001+01:00

Deep in the forest a fireis burning

That fire consumes everythingit touches:

love and hate

gain and loss

truth and lies

honour and shame

In that fire all things aremade

pure and simple

If I might be with God inheaven

or in the torment of hellwith you

I would choose hell

Picture: Hope, Paolo Uccello

ASSUMPTION

2011-08-15T13:30:00.001+01:00

A sudden whoosh!

of blue air under you

Earth dives away

Angels around you flying

Don't look down!

You're falling up

into the light

And a minute ago you lay dying

Heaven opens like a rose

to swallow you

Our last best hope

is to follow you

Into the sound of white wings sighing

How far is up

If you cannot see the ground?

Picture: Assumption of the Virgin (detail), Filippino Lippi

HUNGRY

2011-08-12T14:23:00.001+01:00

It began with cake. A finger-shaped slice of golden sponge cake wrapped in a slimy cellophane jacket, it tastes of resounding mystery: calcium caseinate, calcium sulphate, sodium stearol lactylate, polysorbate 60. This boy likes to eat. He licks up that creamy filling with his tongue, like a lizard after flies. When every last golden crumb has disappeared down his throat, washed down with foaming drafts of brown cola, he is still hungry. He looks round for something else. So, what else is there? He grasps a packet of cheese snacks and tears it open with sticky fingers. His heart is beginning to beat faster. Corn Meal cottonseed sunflower soybean or canola oil, whey, salt, cornstarch, calcium carbonate, monosodium glutamate, Yellow 6 Lake, Yellow 5 Lake all of this is wonderful tastes of bright light yellow tastes of salt lakes yellow rivers sunflowers weary of sun – it’s a melt-in-your mouth great taste experience! The boy is still hungry. What to do? In truth the wrapper doesn’t look bad. It’s delicate and shiny, a softly rustling empty chrysalis. He eats that too. Still hungry. The boy takes another swallow of cola and looks at the empty table before him. In the afternoon sun the faded colours of the oilcloth have begun to glow with a digital intensity. The boy puts one corner of the oilcloth in his mouth and bites down on it hard. It’s good! It tastes of even more resounding plastics and calls in a low, growling voice to the shining red and yellow lakes inside him – ‘Eat me! Eat me!’ So he does.

Now the boy begins to grow, bigger and bigger and bigger until he is so big the chair collapses under him into a thousand tiny splinters, too tiny even to use for kindling. They come with a special chair for the boy, a chair with wheels that will take him wherever he wants to go. Where do you want to go, boy? To the refrigerator. The boy is still hungry. He rolls right up to the refrigerator – what have they got in there? Ooh! lovely things… the boy eats all of them, then he eats the packets as well. He likes the packets best. Now the rolling chair begins to creak and whine – ‘Get off! You’re crushing me! You’re too big!’ says the rolling chair. They move the boy to a special reinforced bed where he can be cared for twenty-four hours a day. A special hydraulic arm lifts and turns him so his immense body can be wiped clean from time to time. A robot sits at the side of the bed and feeds him from a series of metal trays that are magically replenished – no sooner has the boy emptied one of these trays than another appears, filled with things to eat. The boy eats and eats. If he pauses at all, the robot will suddenly pipe up, ‘Eat your food, boy! Waste not want not! Clean your plate!’ The boy eats all of it. He’s getting tired now. It’s hard work, all this eating. Perhaps he ought to sleep a little? The boy falls asleep, propped up by an army of hardy pillows – the pillows don’t complain, they’re used to this sort of thing.

Now that he’s asleep what do you suppose happens next? That’s right, the boy has a dream. In the dream the boy is very hungry indeed. He’s so hungry, he’s actually starving to death, and there’s nothing, no nothing anywhere on the face of the earth to eat. He runs from room to room searching for food - in the dream the boy is still able to run - but every cupboard is bare. He runs out into the street, surely there will be something somewhere but no, there is nothing, he sees no one, meets no one, the streets are all as empty as the cupboards, he is alone on an empty planet with nothing to eat and he is still hungry.

This story first apearred in Xenith.
Photo: Hello Kitty Cookies by sushi♥ina on flickr.com

BETRAYAL

2011-07-31T19:51:00.000+01:00

you stepped on
that white wing
with muddy feet

you stepped
on that white wing
and broke it

you were not always
like that

Photo: Anna Pavlova as The Dying Swan

SWEET SHADOW

2011-07-05T16:31:00.000+01:00

Keep me as the apple of the eye, hide me under the shadow of thy wings.

Under the shadow of those wings
the little princess lies sleeping

The sun shone and my head grew heavy, my eyes dim. I lay down in the shadow of that tree and the supple branches bent low to shelter me, the tender leaves were all of them whispering my name. Soon I slept, and as I slept I dreamt strange dreams of a beautiful country where the sky was covered in golden clouds that sang to me night and day of endless love. Stay, sweet shadow - if these be dreams may I never awake. May I rest in your dark embrace forever.

In the corner of the garden
under that sweet shadow
the little princess lies sleeping
a smile at the corner of her lips
her face wet with rain
or tears

Photo: The Melancholy Queen Regards Her Garden, self-portrait by Grace Andreacchi

MULTAS PER GENTES...

2011-06-28T11:16:00.001+01:00

My own version of a favourite poem, Catullus' Carmen 101. The original text is given below.

Through many peoples and many seas have I travelled
to thee, brother, and these wretched rites of death
I bring a last gift but can speak only to ashes
Since Fortune has taken you from me
Poor brother! stolen you away from me
leaving me only ancient custom to honour you
as it has been from generation to generation
Take from my hands these sad gifts covered in tears
Now and forever, brother, Hail and farewell

Multas per gentes et multa per aequora vectus
advenio has miseras, frater, ad inferias,
ut te postremo donarem munere mortis
et mutam nequiquam alloquerer cinerem.
Quandoquidem fortuna mihi tete abstulit ipsum.
Heu miser indigne frater adempte mihi,
nunc tamen interea haec, prisco quae more parentum
tradita sunt tristi munere ad inferias,
accipe fraterno multum manantia fletu,
atque in perpetuum, frater, ave atque vale.

Translation by Grace Andreacchi with a little help from Daniel Hadas
Picture: Primavera, Roman fresco from Pompeii, photographed by Grace Andreacchi

SUMMER TANGO

2011-06-04T01:38:00.000+01:00

Through the window
somebody singing
an old song to make me smile

‘O my lady! Your face
in my dreams
a tangle of laughter and tears’

Shall I put on my dancing shoes?
and dance all over
your heart again…

If I had a little tagebuch
I might write there
something secret

Photo: Summertime, Grace Andreacchi

FOXGLOVES

2011-05-31T19:31:00.001+01:00

deep in the wood
fresh white gloves
for foxes

fox princess slips
small paws into these
for dancing and social occasions

take one home
in your pocket (if you dare)
heart medicine

Photo: digitalis alba

TO CHRIST, THE BRIDEGROOM

2011-04-21T18:59:00.000+01:00

They say I’m the bride but
You and I know, O best Beloved,
we know better.
The bride? This silly child

net curtain over her head
hands clasped in semblance of prayer
beaming bright-eyed laughing coquette
Who’s fooled?

But love’s all in earnest
All to thee, my heart.
O you, who loved little ones

Suffer this, your child-bride
to come, creeping softly
into your arms this night.

Photo: First Communion by Derek Kaczmarczyk

THE QUEEN

2011-03-17T19:16:00.000Z

I saw Love a Queen, richly arrayed
her crown adorned with high works
of the humble, who pay her homage.
They swear they are nothing
and Love herself is everything.

Her face was a clear mirror
where I saw the wonderful works
done in her name.
Her arms, open wide, embraced them all
and in her side she hid all the sweet kisses
ever given for her sake,
Perfect kisses, without farewell.

Under her feet her knights were gathered
and sang her songs of sad praise.
These echo through infinite spaces;
No one understands them
unless he too becomes her servant,
Loving in secret, in all humility,
ready to endure everything -
Sweetness and cruelty, joy and sorrow
All shall be endured for Love’s sake.

[very loosely after Hadewijch of Brabant, Vision 13]

Picture: Madonna of the Magnificat, Sandro Botticelli

SORROW

2011-03-01T18:55:00.000Z

‘Then I perceived a child being born in the souls of those who love in secret…’
- Hadewijch, Vision 11

A child is born to us
and his name is Sorrow
This beloved child
no man taketh from me

in the shadow of death
in the secret chamber of the soul
in the iron cage

I hold our child to my breast
and cover his withered cheeks
with kisses

Picture: Mother and Child, Mary Cassatt

BEAUTY HAS A THOUSAND FACES

2011-02-21T03:08:00.000Z

Beauty has a thousand faces
Misery but one.

Beauty breaks forth in the strangest places
Where hunger has been
and cruelty and want and lack of love
Suddenly a light behind the eyes
A living seed falls in the ground and dies
and breaks forth shining.

We are able to love
for a little - and the world
is a bright mirror held
to Beauty's face.
Every colour and sound
Moon stars sun
A thousand faces break forth shining.

We turn away
No light no love
No moon no stars no sun
The face you cannot see in the dark
is always one
is always crying.

Photo: Rémi écoutant la mer, Edouard Boubat

BUTCHER BOY

2011-02-14T12:51:00.000Z

Watch him wield that cleaver
he’ll cut you open quickly
lay your several parts
bleeding on the clean white counter
remove your heart and hand it
back to you with a smile
‘Thank you Madame for your business
Next!’

This first appeared in Snakeskin.
Picture: Bloody Valentine by Susannah Gilley

PRAYER FOR MY BROTHER

2011-01-30T00:00:00.004Z

Some days are holier than others
with a mild, sweet light
as once in Eden.
Some days are set apart
a private Sabbath
kept by the heart.
Words whisper all too loud
take my silence
a kiss the softness of a cloud
and two white arms
twined round your neck
in prayer.

Photo: Ladybird on Dahlia by Louise Docker on flckr.com

A VISIT TO THE PALACE OF WHITE DEATH

2011-01-13T15:42:00.000Z

I must travel for many days
across a snowbound landscape
utterly still
not even a bird to break the silence
When at last I arrive and ring the bell
no one answers
I wait outside in the cold for a long time
Then the door is opened by two tall orderlies in white
who neither smile nor speak
They lead me to a perfectly bare room
white or grey in the twilight

You are sitting bound to a chair
in the exact centre of the room
dressed in a straitjacket and striped
pyjamas darkly wet at the crotch
I look down at your
white ankle bones
legs like broken sticks
bare feet on the dirty white tile floor
I think how I once kissed those feet
on a golden afternoon by a lake

I look up
You neither smile nor speak
But once again our eyes lock
and I feel my heart begin to sink
like a ship going down in icy seas

This first appeared in Laura Hird Showcase.

Photo: Quaking Aspens by darkmatter on flckr.com

A CHRISTMAS LITANY

2010-12-24T17:36:00.000Z

I found him whom my soul loveth: I held him, and would not let him go, until I had brought him into my mother's house…

I buried you deep under snow
but gold leaf dripped from your dead mouth
calling me back again

Madonna of the glass tears
Madonna of the violets
Madonna of the white hands
and of the sheltering mantle
Madonna of loneliness
Madonna of perfect mercy
Madonna of tenderness
Madonna of infinite tenderness
Madonna of silence

Madonna of the dry tree
Pray for us
Madonna of the lamb
Pray for us
Madonna of the air
Pray for us
Madonna of the stars
and of small birds
Pray for us
Madonna of the shadows
Pray for us
Madonna of vanquished sorrow
Pray for us
Madonna of the secret room
and of the hidden garden
Pray for us
Madonna of the future

that broken glass with
our lips on it

Ich will dich lieben…

that broken glass with our
lips on it

drink deep

Picture: Madonna of the Dry Tree, Petrus Christus

SPIRITUAL LOVERS

2010-11-23T15:53:00.004Z

Asleep in my starry tent

Asleep in my blue white skin

I am a rose of Sharon

I am a tower of ivory

I am a vessel of gold

I sleep but my heart

waketh within

Open to me, my Sister, my Bride!

He has placed a crown of heavy gold on my head

A pearl of price in my mouth

I cannot move nor speak

nor turn my eyes

How then shall I rise and let thee in?

His voice in the rain and the rocks

His voice in the thunder

His voice in the tender birds

in the wind and the water

Open to me, my Dove, my Undefiled!

His head is wet with the dew

He has brought me the moon and the stars to play with

His hand is upon the lock

Open to me, my Sister, my Bride!

with myrhh-dropping fingers I go to the door

from BERLIN ELEGIES
Picture: Der Kuß [detail], Gustav Klimt

THE BUTCHER BOY

2010-10-11T14:04:00.000+01:00

The butcher boy has small, delicate hands, they wield a cleaver with wonderful speed and dexterity. Just watch him get to work. First he strips me naked, then gently lowers me onto the cold slab of white marble. I lie down without a murmur, I lie down like a lamb, strictly for the purposes of demonstration, you understand. With a few easy strokes he separates the upper and lower limbs from the body, stacks them neatly to one side. With an elegant chop he cleaves the head from the neck, takes it up gently and places it upright at the head of the counter. From this vantage point I now have a much better view of the action. I see he has laid aside the cleaver and now has a knife in his hand. It darts in and out, in and out of the soft red and white body. Neat incisions expose the brightly gleaming purple organs yellow sheen of fat a bone or two. The butcher boy reaches into the open chest cavity and removes the heart, which, curiously, continues to beat. (Please remember this is only a demonstration.) He removes the lungs and liver. Now he flips me over and with two masterstrokes lightly separates the crumpled wings from the back. The wings are black in colour and very soft to the touch, he holds them for a moment, stroking them between thumb and forefinger. The butcher boy has enormous sad eyes but I can’t tell you what he is thinking. No animals were hurt.

This first appeared in Between Altered States.
Photo: Bloody Rose, free use image

HEART'S DESIRE

2010-09-21T21:09:00.000+01:00

I found it under a mossy stone
in a wood where I wandered all alone
I found it under a greenwood tree
where nobody thought to look but me.
The moon was shining, the stars were nigh
I heard the northwind whisper and sigh
I took it home hid under my dress
the secret of all my happiness
Found in the greenwood under a tree
where nobody thought to look but me.

Photo: Mein Herz, by Grace Andreacchi

ELLE SUCE A GENOUX

2010-09-08T18:55:00.000+01:00

On her knees on the grassgreen carpet
on her knees mouth open eyes closed
to receive the love-gift
take and eat - this
my Body.
Quick she lifts her face for the inbreath
her face a garden
of roses and pink lilies
her face an orchid
with a dripping purple tongue.
Quick she tilts her head
the hair falls forward to reveal
white arch of the neck
under the invisible black lace mantilla
smelling of marsala and salt.

This first appeared in Counterexample Poetics

Picture; After Harunobu, Shunga print, early Showa period, 1931

DESTINATION HAPPINESS

2010-08-20T16:46:00.003+01:00

The Wanderer's Song

The distance to be travelled is 1,106 kilometres, that will take you 11hours and 14 minutes in your Merc if you don’t ever stop for gas or food or sleep or prayer or anything else. But the right way to do this is to walk, in which case the distance is 1,327 kilometres and it will take you 5 days and 17 hours - I’m not sure whether that includes the nights or not, walking is only in beta and the information is not that precise. You must sleep out under the stars. You must not allow anything to deter you. You must believe that you can do this, walk halfway across Europe with only your faith for company. In your knapsack you are permitted to carry with you only the following items: a magic compass, a Bible, a slender volume of poems entitled ‘Der Wanderer’ (already water damaged with seawater, rainwater, salt tears). To begin your journey go downstairs, open the door to the street, step outside onto the pavement and turn left. Follow the directions given you by the magic compass until you come to the ancient port city of Rostock. At Rostock you must board a ferry that will take you to Denmark, home of the melancholy Prince. You are now to walk the entire width of this small country. As you walk the highways and byways you are encouraged to sing to keep up your spirits, especially those songs in the small, water-logged volume you have with you. You are to purchase only simple fare, bread and cheese, an onion perhaps. If it is cold you will be freezing, if it hot you will be burnt by the heat of the sun.

Eventually you will arrive at a place called Ebsjerg where you will board a boat that will carry you over the cold dark water. You are to sleep out on the deck, you are to gaze up at the stars as you shiver with only your coat and scarf to protect you from the night wind, you are to say to yourself: Soon happiness will be mine. The boat will take you to a place called Harwich. You’ve still many weary miles to go, but don’t lose heart now, for you are almost there! Take out your magic compass – do you see? There is London, the great city stretched out along the river. When you get to London you must follow the signs which I have set up for you along the way. Turn right at the sign that says ‘Happiness’. You will find me waiting there. Don’t be afraid – neither of the length of the journey, nor of its difficulty, nor of anything else on earth. You will be able to do this. It is not as far as you think. If you zoom the map all the way out until the whole world appears many times over a pattern in misty blue and grey you will see - we are practically next door, and the little markers put their small green heads together and whisper of our happiness.

This story first appeared in Everyday Fiction.
Picture: Illustration by Edmund Dulac (1882 -1953) for The Arabian Nights
Music by Franz Schubert

GESTES INTERDITS

2010-08-03T13:41:00.001+01:00

The open-mouthed kiss

slow slow drink with the eyes
    half-shut

backward glance, over the shoulder
    half-smile

the closed-mouth kiss, teeth pressed behind

the open right hand
    fingers apart

The knees apart

arms ninety degrees apart
sky over, earth under

one knee on stone
one on water

mouth open eyes shut

mouth open lips open
      eyes shut

knee to shoulder
feet on the ceiling
    mouth open eyes shut

stomach to stomach
hipbones locked
hair trailing in water

hands open eyes open
    mouth shut

IKEBANA is a short story on a similar theme.

This first appeared in Counterexample Poetics

Picture: unsigned Shunga, early Showa period

I DON'T WANT TO WRITE A LOVE POEM

2010-07-21T19:38:00.000+01:00

I don’t want to write a love poem
to your eyes and to your mouth
(although they are beautiful)

I don’t want to write a love poem
to your body
(although I kneel down to worship it)

I don’t want to write a poem
with words at all
but with soft white wings

My poem is nestling at your heart
wordless in silken feathers
now stroke me

Photo: Girl with a Dove, vintage

EYES WIDE SHUT

2010-07-13T13:33:00.000+01:00

Under the lace smoke your skin
maggot white wriggle and silk
My lady, shall we dance?
Viennese jazz poured
into silver flutes
even the bubbles are real
Turn turn turn
in the imaginary Wienerwald
something is shining

*

Take me (she said)
Take me, mon Capitaine
Or is it only that every girl loves
a uniform?
(You think you’re so wonderful…)
This mask you see is actually
My face.
Take me, Herr Doktor!
Take me - or is it only that you
dream these things

*

That woman with the feathers on her head
Is only a bird
She will not harm you
Her death is an act of pure
Imagination. Come, put your hand on her
exquisite corpse
Do you see?
Turn turn turn

This poem first appeared in the cinematique issue of Sein und Werden.

Photo by Frank Kovalchek

NIGHT FOX

2010-07-04T15:10:00.001+01:00

Little fox-claws
tear at my heart
try to unravel happiness

Only stand guard
over me
a palace or a
garden or a much-injured
princess
that fox may get tired and just
slink away

All about foxes HERE

Photo: Girl with fox, vintage

THE WEATHER IN BERLIN

2010-06-23T19:01:00.000+01:00

Sunny today with only
a few small clouds
hotter tomorrow when the
roses will begin to wilt
towards late afternoon
will you sit on the terrace
a slim volume of poetry
in your hand and
fall asleep thinking of
me?

Photo: Landesgartenschau Oranienburg, by Judith74 on flckr.com

BEGGAR GIRL ON HORSEBACK

2010-06-13T17:41:00.000+01:00

‘If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.’ – English proverb

Laughing she clings to
his blue mane as together
they cleave the air

Little beggar girl
dressed in bright
dreams come true

Picture: The Magic Horse, illustration for The Arabian Nights, Laurence Housman (1865-1959)

MITTELPUNKT

2010-06-07T18:44:00.000+01:00

The middle of the world
begins with ‘W’
is a still green point where
pear blossoms drop
one by one into
my drugged heart as I
remember your sweet
crazy promises sung
in another tongue
the middle of the world
is right here and nowhere else
this small pure heaven
where we might have
kissed once under those trees
kisses that tasted of
childhood and stolen pears

Picture: Pear Blossom and Moon, Yun Shou Ping (1633-1690)

SONNET - FOR SEMIMARU

2010-05-07T16:15:00.002+01:00

Twin blossoms bowed
by the weight of white beauty
upon a single stem
twilight
whispered secrets
songs that any small
harsh wind might shake
break upon the concrete ground
brother and sister
unblemished chalices
to the glass brim
our still thoughts dreaming
two blossoms seeming
but one heart

MORE about the legend of Semimaru and his sister Sakagami

Photo: Twin Magnolias by Grace Andreacchi

THE HEAD OF THE PRINCESS

2010-04-23T14:00:00.007+01:00

I found it in the garden under a pile of dead leaves. A pale grey morning in early December, I'd been up the whole night unable to sleep on account of the cold. I wandered from room to room up and down my silent castle. Tomorrow is her birthday - I couldn't stop thinking of that. Do the dead ever come back? Perhaps on her birthday, I thought. I was nervous, I was afraid to sleep, perchance to dream of her face, her smile... I kept out of the bedroom, it was no problem, there are plenty of other rooms in which to wander. Or merely to stand absolutely still listening to the silence. I have never known a place as silent as this. The boards don't creak despite their age and obvious warped condition, the mice don't chatter though I see their tiny shadows in the half-light, the wind never rattles the casements, the rain makes no sound against the windowpanes. My feet make no sound as I go. Would my voice make a sound were I suddenly to speak? I don't know, it's been years since I have spoken. I believe it has been many years, I don't know, I have lost track of the time. 'My Silent Lover' she used to call me and as usual she is proved right in the end. Sometimes I sing in a voice bright and beautiful, 'like the sun coming up,' she said, but that is in another world entirely, that is in another castle, not this one. There are many castles. Many many.

For her birthday I always gave a concert, the music chosen especially to please her. What on earth shall I do now should she decide to turn up on her birthday? I can't possibly sing for her, my voice is dead, do you understand? Dead. There's a box of CD's in the closet, I don't like to look at them, let alone listen, I keep it locked, but tonight I've made an exception. I thought she might turn up for her birthday, she might come, expecting a concert. I thought, I'd better have something ready for her, just in case she turns up.

'Nothing you could give me could please me half so much as your beautiful singing,' she said. That was after the 'Caesar' I sang for her. Or was it after the Bach ? No, it was the 'Caesar', I remember. Her eyes full of tears and her cheeks like flames when I finished the aria my knees were shaking the room spun around I was afraid I was going to be sick. I pushed past the dresser, I couldn't bear to have anyone touch me. I locked the door, then sat with my head on my arm and wept - I don't know why. Something hurt, deep down inside. Her eyes so soft made me want to cry, made black things, like spiders, crawl around inside me. She was like a spider sometimes, a soft white spider with long long arms and legs they frightened me but her face was perfect like a Princess in a storybook, like the Virgin Mother of God, a face that you saw once in a dream and never forgot. A perfect little face, a neat little head, compact and fine as a flower on its long white stalk.

I found it in the garden, my attention first drawn by the antics of a little, lemon-coloured butterfly with tiny black spots on its forewings. I saw it fluttering repeatedly over a pile of dead leaves, and poking about with a stick I found it. Proud as a princess beautiful as an angel under a pile of dead leaves. So you've come back after all! I said, brushing the dirt from her eyes, from her hair. The hair was bound loosely round her head, she often wore it that way to the theatre, I liked it that way, I could see the whole of her neck that way and the gentle little hollow at the base of her throat. I could see her face better too with the hair bound up, the line of cheek and chin like a line of music, a melody at once so graceful, so sublime, so painfully simple and mysteriously beautiful - What melody is that, you ask? Ah! That's one of our many secrets. But if you can imagine that a song might have a human face, then hers is the face of that song.

It's old, you can see that, very old. It must have been lying here a long time under the leaves, many years, many winters, many many. White marble smooth as skin. Italian marble? I suppose. I know nothing of such things, of art and so on I know nothing, I know only music. But this is no deutsches Mädchen, that much I can see for myself. Speaking in strictly musical terms, an aria graziosa. Some Queen or Princess from the sunny southlands, from Italy or Spain, some long ago Princess or Queen, perhaps the Queen of Spain herself, the very same who paid me an incredible sum all in pure gold ducats to come to her castle in Madrid and sing for her. Because she is so sad...

The Queen is sad! She refuses to leave her rooms in the palace. For years she has stayed shut up in there with the doors locked, the curtains drawn, no one can persuade her to come out, not the King, not the Archbishop, not the Grand Inquisitor, not even her favourite dwarf. It seems I'm the last hope. Everybody's counting on me.

It's a long journey to Spain. The Queen sent her most trusted friend, the Admiral Don Alonso di Paragon, with instructions to bring me back at any cost. We went on the wings of the wind, travelling by coach, by ship, on the backs of mules, by chauffeured limousine, by private jet. She was waiting for me in the lobby of the hotel, wearing a black fur coat and a pair of dark glasses over her living eyes. I fell to my knees before her, I took her hand and pressed it to my lips. Her hand was trembling, cold as death. 'Start not, much-injured Princess,' I said. 'Pallido Il Sole,' she said in a whisper. 'Please, let us have, by all means, Pallido Il Sole.'

I carried her into the house and set her down on the empty mantelpiece. I noticed the little lemon-coloured butterfly had settled on her hair. It rested there, beating its pale wings in time to some inaudible music of its own. 'Just a moment, Your Majesty,' I said. I found the right CD and put it on the machine - Good I had thought of it ahead of time! But would it still play, here in the silent castle? I wasn't sure. I pressed the button and waited for the definitive whirr/click then to be followed by my rendition of Pallido Il Sole. Nothing. Then I remembered, I had shut off the power at the generator. To discourage me from too-frequent use of the Room. I went down to the basement and fumbled among the rats and got it working again.

My Voice, suddenly raised from the dead, a loud unruly ghost in the vast silence. 'Tutto mi spira rimorso e orror!' Is this really what she likes? It sounds awful to me... I think I'd better shut it off. Then I looked over at the head on the mantel and saw the living eyes filled with tears, the soft lips opening in an impossible smile - O meine Prinzessin! A smile be my reward.

from the novel POETRY AND FEAR

Picture: Isabella of Aragon, Francesco Laurana, c. 1490

SAKURA

2010-04-08T13:51:00.000+01:00

Like some absurd young bride
in billowing white silk
diamanté tiara, long white gloves
outside a grimy registry office

You, blossoming cherry
outside my door.

This first appeared in Laura Hird Showcase.

Photo: My Balcony by Shikeroku on flckr. com

TAGEBUCH

2010-03-27T18:24:00.001Z

What I need, I thought, is a TAGEBUCH, and not an ordinary Tagebuch at that but a secret Tagebuch. The secret Tagebuch will contain all the secrets of my heart, or at least most of them. No one will know of its existence – that is why it is a secret Tagebuch. The Tagebuch is not only a book, it is also a place, and if you know the magic word you may visit there some time. What sort of place is it, you ask? A tiny planet, made for just the two of us, where you need only move your chair a few feet to catch the next sunset. This suits our mood perfectly. If you wish to visit that planet you will need first of all to locate it – use your magic compass , it will guide you there. Look at the SITES where you have been before, ask yourself – what is new? What is different? You will notice a sign, ‘TAGEBUCH - THIS WAY’. On no account despair of your search, the Tagebuch is within your reach. A small bird stands at the door and asks you for a magic word. You have heard this word before, it is on the tip of your tongue. Remember the time we sat together and watched, forty-four times, the sun going down on our little world? Man sieht nur mit dem Herzen gut, mein Prinz!

Photo: Secret Tagebuch by Grace Andreacchi

ODI ET AMO

2010-03-15T12:52:00.002Z

I hate and I love you. Why?
I don’t know. But I feel it and
am crucified.

odi et amo. quare id faciam, fortasse requiris.
nescio, sed fieri sentio et excrucior.

My own 'version' of Catullus carmen 85, and not a literal translation.The author had fun doing it!

Picture: from the Ludovisi Throne, Profane Love, circa 460 B.C.

FROM MY JEWELBOX

2010-03-08T11:48:00.001Z

This pearl I made around a sore
a wound to the heart, to the core
My love, my pity

This ruby I bled
in the night for the dead
dark soul of him
See how it burns? bright red for him

This sapphire-star I wore
on my breast for him
That he might spot it from afar
far off on the heaving sea
and come to me

These diamonds I made out of time
Out of tears hard-pressed
and years alone for him
The ache in the bone for him

This emerald he gave to me
This green flicker, heart's hope
His love and his hate
here in my hand - Oh!
The weight

This first appeared in Poetry Life and Times

Photo by Swamibu on flickr.com

IN HAC LACRIMARUM VALLE

2010-02-17T14:47:00.002Z

A POEM FOR ASH WEDNESDAY

And still there is something to cling to
something unsullied
something understood
It is here with us in the dark valley
that we did not make and are not
permitted to leave - still
there is something

We know tears
We know hopelessness
We know unspeakable cruelties
heaped up and burning
so high and so many
their smoke has put out the stars
and still doesn't seem to reach heaven
We know silence
Is there something?
anything anyone at all?

We know the cold
at the bottom of the night
the body alone in the bed
inch by inch dying
We know fear at the heart
and after fear hate
and after hate?

A name, for example

This poem first appeared in Poetry Life and Times

Photo by Jon Gilbert Leavitt

SONNET CONTRAFACTUAL

2010-01-30T00:00:00.029Z

If you had not been, then was I also nothing
If you had not come into the silent world
bringing me this bright delirious dream
I half-made should refuse to be born at all
Not enough room between us
to get so much as a fingernail
Is there, my darling?
Oh you have battered this heart of ours till it bleeds
You have written my name in heart’s blood
in letters a thousand miles high
I have written your name
and still I love you
more and more
and evermore

Photo: Self Portrait with Heart by Grace Andreacchi

HAPPINESS

2010-01-18T22:54:00.007Z

Tonight my heart is full
and all my angels
are smiling

Sometimes grace amazes me
hands me happiness
on a plate
just like that

MUSIC FOR HAPPINESS

Picture: l'Ange au Sourire, Notre Dame de Reims, 13th c

THE EXPERIENCE OF SNOW

2010-01-05T12:44:00.006Z

from the novel POETRY AND FEAR

Crystallised water vapour. Velvet shoes. Gluey bits of cotton wool. Dr. Zhivago on the big screen. Nothing prepares you for the real thing. And then one day suddenly you are in it up to your neck and it's not what you expected, it's not at all how you imagined it, not at all not at all...

Frau Holle is making her bed. Shake and shake and shake till the feathers fly all around the little house, then it is snowing in the world above, she says with her terrible teeth. I shook and shook as hard as I could, I wanted to make the snow but it would not come - in the morning there was not snow but blood in the bed, soaking bright red into white sheets. There was blood on the door on the windows on the table and chairs. There was blood, so much blood - where did it come from all this blood? My mother was angry. Blood is hard to wash out! she said, hiding her terrible teeth behind her hand, but I knew they were there. She did not want this troublesome girl child bleeding inconveniently into the bed. I don't want you, she said. I never wanted you. I didn't want to rock your cradle. A fact I only discovered much later: Little girls are not supposed to bleed like that. How was I to know?

I wanted to make it snow.

Nothing, nothing prepares you for the real thing. I grew up in the tropics, yes, that's right, in a tropical jungle, a pink and green twilight jungle. We had pet tigers bright-faced monkeys slim-waisted Indians at our beck and call. We did not have snow.

And then one day!

What is it? I said in a loud voice. At first I simply did not know. Sitting under the green-gold shadows at Engelskirchen with Julio's slim golden arm only inches away from my own. What...is it? How was I to know? It was not at all what I expected.

I went to Venice, I nearly died there - of the shock, I suppose, it was a shock after all. I drank champagne till I was drunk in a blue room with a view of the Salute. I didn't know it was going to be like that! Nobody told me. Not my mother. Especially not my mother. Or rather, they told me. Masters of language, poets of long ages had told me again and again but still! Nothing prepares you for the real thing. Suddenly you are in it up to your neck. You are in it way over your head... To look upon that face, just to look once again upon that face, I would give anything, I would do anything... It's cold! you say, surprised somehow, although everyone's told you, you've read it a thousand times. It's light, it's fine as lace, it tickles, it sticks to your eyelids and the back of your hand, it has no taste it has no smell it's real.

Roll themselves naked in the snow
Too many deer on thin legs starving
Change the colour of their coats to harmonise with the snow
Now they are practically invisible to their enemies

I went to France, I sat beside a slow country river and watched the blue barges white swans grey cathedral towers in the rain. None of it mattered, none of it was Julio.

Tutto mi spiro rimorso e orror. In a blue and silver room I drank champagne to wash down the pills - eighty pills - I counted them - more than enough for one troublesome girl child bleeding from impermissible places, wouldn't you think? Go ahead and die then... Somebody said that to me. I thought I might as well.

But I did not die. Not then, not ever. I am not ever going to die.

I awoke in a hospital bed I was too weak to move even so much as a little finger there were wires attached to my chest and bloody bandages wound around my wrists, that's odd, I thought, I don't remember cutting myself, not this time, this time it was pills, I'm sure of it why then these bandages? The room filled with blue Venetian light and the sound of water running in a fountain just outside the window. The telephone began to ring there on the bedside table but I was too weak to answer it a butterfly settled on my bandaged bloody hand, a pale butterfly lemon yellow with tiny black spots one each on the delicate drooping forewings.

Set me as a seal upon thine arm, as a seal upon thy heart

I am safe and sound, I am going to live forever and ever, and every night I lie down upon a bed of virgin snow.

THE FORMATION OF THE CRYSTALS appears to depend upon a number of factors - the quality of light, the ambient temperature, the number of people in the vicinity and their dispositions towards one another, the sound patterns created by such phenomena as passing streetcars, the feet of horses, the motion of tree branches in the wind, a mechanical organ played at varying speeds, the voices of children, the flight of birds overhead.
- Leiermann, F.S., Schneekrystalle,
Berlin 1893

Today I was successful in the observation of at least seventeen new crystals. I was also able to make drawings of several of these before they melted completely away. I now believe that the crystals fall into distinct genera, and these in turn seem to occur in harmonic cycles determined by the phases of the moon, the direction of the wind, and the feast days of God's saints. All those days sacred to the Virgin Mother, as well as those dedicated to the Holy Virgins such as St. Agnes, St. Lucy, et cetera, are most favourable to the formation of crystals. On the feast of St. Ursula and the Eleven Thousand Virgins I saw for the first time the triple-headed crystal or triceratops. I believe it is formed by the simultaneous growth of three crystals that have come together at the moment of birth. They are like diamonds in their brilliance and utter purity, and may represent the three jewels in the crown of a Virgin - Patience, Wisdom, and Chastity.
-Olaus Magnus, Archepiscopus Upsalae,
Historia Naturalis, Rome, 1555

It was snowing in New York too, I saw it on television. Then it must be snowing on him, I thought. The pure white tasteless odourless jewels of heaven are falling one by one by the billions and billions and every one different upon the sacred head of Julio, upon his eyelids the back of his hand his patient upturned face the shoulders of the coat he wears...

POETRY AND FEAR read more

Picture: The Heron Maiden, Tsunetomi Kitano

CHRISTMAS SONNET

2009-12-23T21:52:00.006Z

Night and day I thought of it
that one face in a billion
dearer to me than worlds and time
more beautiful than every sweet perfection.
So the blue years rolled deep at my door
Still I never lost sight of you – wrought as we are
together heart sinew and soul
What matter whether near or far?
Now on this holy night I stand
ready, my lamp burning
in my hand, with the light
from your eyes still yearning
And the one gift
is to know you safe and good
and one last look to reach me
here on the dark road through the wood
across worlds and time
in all your sweet perfection.

A slightly longer than usual sonnet, for the author had much to say! A Merry Christmas and a very Happy New Year to all my dear Readers. - Grace Andreacchi

Also new for Christmas THE PRODIGY, a novella. A tale of devilish intricacy where pity, terror and laughter chase one another through the dark labyrinths of a dream-like world.

Picture: Angel, Piero della Francesca

BEREITE DICH, ZION

2009-12-11T15:00:00.006Z

From BERLIN ELEGIES

Fresh snow on the fields
and all along the track
frost flowers blooming
In the distance a single light
flickers and dies
Overhead the stars like golden fireflies
are winking in the forest of the night

I have put on my corals and rubies
I have put on my robe of purest light
I have sewed my heart to the sleeve of my garment
Ich bin bereit

This first appeared in Dappled Things Magazine.

Picture: Firebird, Marc Chagall

LULLABY (FOR MY BABY)

2009-11-22T14:03:00.002Z

Hush, my little boy
Don't you cry
Mama's gonna love you
by and by

By and by
Oh by and by
Mama's gonna love you
by and by

The stars be shining
by and by
The moon be shining
by and by
Every man is born to die
by and by
oh by and by

Hush, my little boy
Don't you cry
Jesus gonna take you home
by and by

FROM BERLIN ELEGIES

Photograph by Julia Margaret Cameron

WINTER JOURNEY

2009-11-18T17:11:00.002Z

If I come
will you open once more
your dark heart to me

Will we walk again with swans
beside a black canal
(the sky is falling)

and drink the wine
of coal dust and decay
(the sky is falling)

Will we lie awake
the night long
as we used to do

dreaming of forests
where it is always winter
(we have lost our way…)

A single step and
I’m there
light as bird upon snow

and whatever
you wanted to know
will be clear at last

If I come

Photo: Lost by Alexander Boden

GHOST

2009-10-21T21:17:00.006+01:00

If you think that you can’t still hurt me

If you think the very fact of your existence

doesn’t still hurt me

then you know nothing at all

The colour of your eyes

still hurts me

The sound of your voice

still hurts me

The way you look round a room

still hurts me

The clothes you wear the things you say

Your smile the shadows hiding in your eyes

All of these things hurt me

Until I want to scream

Stop! you are killing me…

And my happiness would not be complete

without this neverending sorrow

PLUM BLOSSOM

2009-10-12T11:43:00.012+01:00

At first we did not think it was anything – she bruises easily, that’s all, is what we said. I bruise easily myself. I only have to stumble against a table leg and there will be a dark blue mark the size of an egg. Then she stopped sleeping at night. She’d lie awake wide-eyed till morning and if we tried to go to bed she’d cling to us with all her strength, not crying only deeply insistent. We began to be exhausted as a way of life. One day I realised she had shrivelled until she now resembled a little bruised plum. They say that the plum tree is the first to bloom at the end of winter, that its blossoms open even while the last snow still lies. The tiny, delicate petals are pale pink or white, and at the centre of each flower the red-tipped stamens raise their arms as if in joyful anticipation. But Mia died before the spring could come. In the end she was matter-of-fact about her own death in a way we had not foreseen. She drew pictures of herself flying on the back of a bright blue bird, upwards towards an orange sun. God’s waiting for me, she said. Maybe He is, I thought, but still I don’t want you to go. In the end we got rid of all the tubes and all the machines, they couldn’t help her anymore, in the end we took her home and sat quietly in her room waiting for her to go. In the end she had no strength to hold us anymore but we held her, gently, trying desperately not to bruise that plum blossom skin. She died in the middle of the afternoon on a Monday. She was only seven. The room was exactly the same as it had been a few minutes before, when she was still breathing.

This first appeared in LITnIMAGE

Photo by kengen at flickr.com

BERLIN ELEGIES

2009-07-28T00:09:00.003+01:00

THE PRINCESS

2009-07-03T12:00:00.002+01:00

All the windows were dark but one

All the candles were burning

I lay in the rosewater bath and watched

the sky turning

that strange light-fingered grey

that comes before day

Watched the blood petals floating

All the veins were open

The windows too

Out in the street

the snow was crisp underfoot

And the sky like a sheet

of cold metal burning

From BERLIN ELEGIES

Picture: Dead Ophelia, Odilon Redon, 1840-1916

ANGEL

2009-06-29T12:00:00.005+01:00

We found him lying by the side of Highway 91 under a light coat of snow. He was wearing only printed cotton pyjamas, his blond hair was caked with ice, he was certainly dead. We put him in the back of the van and drove home. When we got home we brought him into the house and lay him down in front of the hearth. In no time he was sitting up, ruffling his grey-orange wings before the fire to dry them out. He didn’t speak our language, nor any of the other languages we tried on him. He may have understood a few words of Italian, for he smiled when Paulus, the musical one in the family, said allegro ma non troppo, but why he should smile at that is hard to see, so perhaps he didn’t understand after all but only liked the sound of it.

He stayed with us for many years. He neither spoke nor ate. As time went by he grew sadder and sadder. He never grew any older, but always retained the appearance of a child of five. He could play any musical instrument to perfection, simple melodies none of us had ever heard before. But don’t think it was always easy. He had his moods. Black moods in which he would break things, especially phonograph records. Then take off and wander around town, frightening us all, not coming home till dawn, followed by all the birds of the neighbourhood. They flocked so thick on the lawn you couldn’t see the grass at all – the whole lawn seemed to shiver and sing – they perched so thick on the trees the branches broke with their weight. Later we had to call the tree man to haul the branches away.

He died fifteen years to the day that we had found him. He walked out into the snow and lay down and died quite suddenly. His eyes were turned to glass his skin to white wax. We weren’t sure where to bury him or what to put on the tombstone, but while we were still discussing it among ourselves the body dissolved in the morning sun. When we went to look for him we found only a rainbow-coloured pool of sweetly scented water. It was an unusually warm day for December. All over town the snow was melting, the birds were singing. The angel-water ran off with the melting snow. We managed to retrieve a cupful, and keep it still in the deep-freeze. You never know when it might come in use.

This first appeared in Dogmatika. The podcast was made for Beat the Dust magazine.

Brüderlein

2009-06-20T02:54:00.012+01:00

When my brother Julio was a young boy he had the most enormous blue-grey eyes in the world. He had such a sweet, fresh young face it would break your heart to look at it, just to look once into those frank, innocent eyes, at that open eager sweet smile would be enough to break your heart all of it to a million pieces forever. That’s what he was like at – oh, about ten years old. I found this out today when I came across an old photograph of him, my little brother, from long ago.

Musik von damals

Picture: Illustration for Bruderchen und Schwesterchen, Otto Spekter, c. 1833

A LETTER

2009-05-22T12:00:00.007+01:00

I saw you last night

in a white TV studio

Talking nonsense and laughing

I thought you looked old

You said you were happy

You looked a bit fatter

But they’d cut you up nicely

to recharge your heart beat

Maybe your heart has got

weary with aching

I know that mine

has grown weary with pain

I know you still love me

I know I still love you

I know it won’t help us

We’ve said our good-byes

You said that your fans

No more offer you marriage

I’d offer you still

My heart if you need it

So if you get sick

and need a replacement

Keep me in mind

Tell the doctor I’m ready

You took out my heart

from my chest once already

So why not again if

You’re sorely in need

This first appeared in Word Riot.

Picture: Sea Serpents IV (detail), Gustav Klimt, 1862-1918

THE WEDDING

2009-05-11T18:31:00.005+01:00

'Schlage doch, gewünschte Stunde.....'
I'm dancing with your brother under the trees
round and round in time to the church bells ringing
my white dress whirling in time
to the ringing the clanging the singing
the long-desired hour come round at last
You're leaning up against a tree
watching me
your neat arms folded across your chest
your eyes smiling
your hour come round at last
I love him so much, I say to your brother
I love him so much, so much
Beer and cider and buckets of best champagne
tables groaning under weighty german food
Everyone's singing everyone's smiling
everyone's eating and drinking and dancing
and clapping their hands and shouting for joy
I love him so much, I say to them all
A Queen in white satin
I take off my shoes and the grass
prickles my feet makes me laugh
We kiss and somebody
takes our photograph

This first appeared in Poetic Diversity.

Picture: The Wedding, Marc Chagall, 1938

MESSALINA'S MONKEY

2009-04-17T12:00:00.004+01:00

I sleep in her bed
red silken cords
bind my hands and feet
If I scream she tightens them
She feeds me sugared almonds
Beetles dipped in honey
I drink from her cup
And entertain the gentlemen at dinner
Most of my tricks are pornographic
My mistress never laughs

This poem first appeared in Sein und Werden.

Picture: Two Chained Monkeys (detail), Pieter Bruegel the Elder, 1562

Spring Comes to the City

2009-04-03T12:00:00.001+01:00

Rising from the courtyard early
Children’s voices light and sweet
‘Eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen...’
Older brothers jostle a football in the street.

At noon the sky is white as pearl
The Polish girls in blue with yellow hair
smoke cigarettes beside the new forsythia,
A patient dozes in a wheelchair.

Sunset comes in violet
and tender green. The evening star
begins to shine.
A small girl on a scooter
circles like a pink bird in flight.
The cool of the night.

This first appeared in From East to West.

MISTER MOON

2009-03-20T12:00:00.004Z

A hymn to bright beauy, a childhood memory.

This piece first appeared in Six Sentences.

Tonight I Am Ingrid Bergman

2009-03-08T19:30:00.001Z

Bend over, he says, holding the flashlight close so it burns my skin. But tonight I don’t mind, because tonight I am Ingrid Bergman in a black lace cocktail dress with a skirt that eclipses the moon and the stars, with slow eyes that glow a helmet of golden hair a silver laugh and a coat of pure one hundred percent illegal ocelot. Notice my Swedish accent. We will always have Paris. Tonight I am Audrey Hepburn just look at my beautiful bones all draped in skinny black my cigarette holder between my slightly off-colour teeth (wartime hardships I suffered as a child) my feet childishly awkward in stiletto heels. I told you not to touch that he says, smacking me. Touch it, he says. Touch it again. But I don’t care because tonight I am Marilyn Monroe and everybody wants to touch me, everybody wants a piece of me, even the President of the United States until I can’t take it anymore so I tell everyone I’m dead and run off to the Nevada desert where I live forever along with Elvis, John Lennon, Jesus, Mozart and anybody else you care to name.

This first appeared in Hobart Literary Journal.

Picture: Ingrid Bergman in Viaggio in Italia , 1954

Voices from the Palace of Illlusions

2009-02-20T12:00:00.009Z

For more about the melancholy Queen read my novel
POETRY AND FEAR.

THE AGE OF INNOCENCE

2009-02-10T19:00:00.006Z

A poem for lovers for St. Valentine's Day

Do you remember the taste of my lips?

The roses that strewed our path

the light to our feet?

Do you remember honey cakes in the grass

and sticky hands unwilling to part

Do you remember, my Heart?

How kind you were to me then! How good -

Showed me things in the wood

birds' nests and fairy rings

When I cried you kissed me

Laughed and called me 'little Sister'

He knows everything, I thought

He can do anything

Do you remember our dance?

Do you remember our song?

And the shadows at twilight purple and long?

The little white bed where we lay

and the magic we used to say

to make the moon rise

and the fairies come out to play

The stars that shone so bright

The secrets whispered at night

The Angel who stood at the foot of our bed

The place on your shoulder where

I always laid my head

From BERLIN ELEGIES
More for Valentine's Day: SACRED HEARTS
More about FAIRIES

Picture: The Fairy Feller's Master Stroke , Richard Dadd 1812-1886

WINTER SONNET

2009-01-30T12:00:00.001Z

I wish the snow were falling

On my heart grown black as a burnt crust

With hating you, whom I did love and trust;

I could not hate you so if the snow were falling.

I wish the pale morning would arise

And lighten with the lost light of your eyes

My eyes grown dim with watching for the dawn

And my tongue dumb with dreaming.

There is no joy in hate, it is a poison

To the very soul. And though

I loved you badly, loved you late

Love itself was ever rich and great.

I wish the snow were falling

In my heart I wish it were morning.

Picture: At Rest in the Dark Wood, Kay Nielsen (1886-1957) from East of the Sun and West of the Moon

La Vénus des Neiges

2009-01-23T12:00:00.005Z

When he has drunk enough so he is no longer afraid he will buy a ticket and go into the dark. There he will sit and touch himself alone with all the others sitting there in the dark around him. If there is one among the flickering imagos at all like her, one whose hair is dark and long down her back, it is a simple matter to substitute her angel's face for whatever blurry mask the imago wears. The memory of her rose-white skin, the silk of her hair, the orchideous odours of her perfumed flesh transmute the paper-thin imago into the reality of the goddess made flesh - when he has drunk enough. He will sit in the dark and touch himself and weep - copious bright tears that blur further the blurred flickering imago, while all around him strangers breathe and cry in stifled agonies of fulfilment. He feels her voice trickle honey in his ears, sees the three drops of sweat between her breasts break and run like rivers under the snowy mountains. There was always too much light in the room from the many windows the mirrors the sky - he could see the tiny fissures in her pink lips, the beads of cut bristles in the moist grottoes under her arms, her soul, like a piece of smoky golden lace rippling just under the snowy skin, his own shadow falling across her face. There was always too much light and perhaps ultimately it was this that killed her, for snow will melt in the sun after all. Now, in the dark, weeping, when he finds release it is not the remembered sweetness but the terror of infinite loss that swells and bursts inside him - a poison bubble that bursts and spreads the sweet corpse-odour up into his steaming fuddled weeping head. The tireless imagos now nauseate him no matter how much he has drunk - he pushes his way out past the others breathing there in the dark, he staggers out into the light which, steaming on the plate-glass and mirrors, reveals to him his own face, sweat-drenched but he has no handkerchief.

Read more about the literature of snow here .
This piece appeared in Dogmatika magazine.

Picture: The Birth of Venus [detail], Sandro Botticelli

DEATH'S ANTIDOTE

2009-01-12T12:00:00.002Z

muckle bones bumble

knees eye-jellies bright

famous candy mouth.

In one hand

the grinning sweat-stained card

In the other hand

the red pill of forgetfulness

Swallow at your ease -

you'll find the cure far worse than the disease.

This poem appeared in Sein und Werden.

Picture: Crucifixion (detail), Fra Angelico, 1435

SLITHER

2009-01-02T11:00:00.001Z

I was walking slowly along the banks of the Seine, it was an afternoon in August, Paris was empty, hot, reeking and unbearably sad. I had intended to browse the bouquins along the quais, but all the booksellers were away in the ancestral countryside, their stalls shut up like glistening green cocoons, dripping with jungle moisture. I took the stairs down to the river and crouched at the edge, watching the garbage bobbing gently on the green water. A red and yellow crisp packet, a blue cigarette box, a translucent plastic bottle, a doll with a grimy face. Something crawled out of the water and wrapped itself about my ankle, pulling me with great force towards the river. I felt a sharp, stinging pain up my leg - screaming, I floundered for a handhold, grasped at an old iron mooring ring set into the pavement. The thing let go and slid back into the water. I staggered back, collapsing on a bench under a little, dusty lime tree. The little tree looked down at me, unperturbed.

This story first appeared in Twisted Tongue.

Photograph - Banks of the Seine by Lucien Hervé, 1948

DAYSPRING

2008-12-25T00:00:00.001Z

So you came after all?

We'd just about given you up

It's a trick, it's a lie

(This is what we said)

Born, suffer, and then you die.

When lo this light from the manger

This baby's breath, this silent little stranger

Picture: Nativity, Georges de la Tour, 1593-1692

MERRY CHRISTMAS AND A HAPPY NEW YEAR TO ALL MY DEAR READERS!

THE ANTS

2008-12-24T12:00:00.002Z

Heiko was killing ants in the cool shade under the chestnut tree. He didn’t kill them outright, but first inflicted various wounds upon them, then set them to run races against one another. He was interested to see what sort of injuries an ant could sustain and still come in first. Right now the ant without any back legs was easily passing up the one without a head. They were large black ants, crisp and shiny, and when you broke them open a thick yellow substance oozed out of them. Mari came out of the house and called to him. ‘Heiko, leave those poor ants alone! You want to go to the beach?’ He got up quickly, brushing the sand from the palms of his hands guiltily. He liked smashing up ants, but he knew he wasn’t supposed to.

On the beach the heat was visible as a pale blue haze shimmering over the water. It hurt his eyes to look at it. Mari dumped their beach gear in the sand and then rubbed sun creme into his back and shoulders while he squirmed uncomfortably, blinking into the haze. He didn’t like the the sticky feeling of the creme. He walked down to the water’s edge and stepped in only up to his ankles. The water was very cold. Mari ran right into the water, jumped in head first and came up streaming. ‘Come on, stupid,’ she said. Heiko shook his head and looked away. ‘I’m looking for needlenoses,’ he said. He stood peering down into the water, watching for the little snake-like creatures that lived in the shallows. ‘You only want them to torture them,’ said Mari. ‘Why don’t you leave those little things alone? They never did anything to you.’ ‘I don’t want to torture them. I want to make an aquarium,’ he said. Mari came up and dragged him into the water, holding him close to her chest. ‘Sailing, sailing, over the bounding main...’ she sang, and plunged up and down in the water with Heiko in her arms. He screamed with pleasure and held tight, his arms around her neck.

Afterwards they sat on the beach and drank red Kool-Aid from the thermos. Mari stretched out on her towel and started reading in a book. Heiko knelt in the hot sand and started on the aquarium. First he made the elaborate outer walls, which he decorated with bits of broken shell and colourful rocks, then the inner moat where the animals would go. He decided to add a tower for effect. When it was all ready he took the bucket down to the water and stood very quietly, waiting for the needlenoses. Soon he had three. Their tiny bodies were slippery and cool, and they squirmed desperately as he lifted them out of the water. But once they were in the moat they settled down. ‘Now you’ve got to guard the castle,’ he said to the needlenoses. He’d decided it wasn’t an aquarium after all. ‘What do needlenoses eat?’ he said to Mari, but she pretended not to hear him. He got up and stood at the edge of her towel. ‘Mari, what do needlenoses eat? What do they eat?’ he repeated. She looked up from her book. ‘How should I know?’ she said. ‘Didn’t I tell you to leave those creatures alone? You’ll be sorry some day you picked on things littler than yourself. How would you like it if somebody did it to you?’ ‘I’m not hurting them,’ he said. ‘They’re my dragons.’ He gathered some red seaweed and put it in the moat for them to eat.

That night Heiko had a dream about the needlenoses. In his dream a group of six needlenoses came to visit him. They weren’t like the ordinary needlenoses, which are dark greenish-brown, these were each of a different colour, and they sparkled like beautiful jewels. The brightly coloured creatures reared up as if they were standing and spoke to Heiko in thin, high-pitched voices. ‘You’ve got to come with us,’ they said. ‘Come and guard our castle.’ They began to twine themselves around his arms and legs, one of them twisted itself about his throat. They weren’t tiny any more, but bigger and bigger, as big as anacondas. Heiko struggled desperately to free himself. He tried to scream, but was unable to make a sound, so strong was the pressure round his throat. Terrified, he rolled out of bed and woke up with a bump. He fumbled for the lamp and switched on the light. The room was full of shiny black ants, they covered the floor like a dark, shifting carpet, they clung to the walls and the furniture, and swarmed silently over the tousled bedclothes.

This story first appeared in Twisted Tongue magazine.

Photograph by Hazel Motes on flickr.com

THE QUEEN OF SPAIN

2008-12-05T12:00:00.005Z

An Excerpt from POETRY AND FEAR

I am the melancholy Queen of Spain. For years I have refused to leave my room, a blue room, spacious, handsome, more than comfortable, what reason have I ever to leave this, my own room in the palace? I have everything I need here, I have silk sheets embroidered by the Sisters of the Holy Shroud, I have thick carpets, fur rugs, a good fire in winter, chandeliers of the best blue Murano glass, I have a view of the palace gardens if I care to draw the heavy blue velvet draperies and look outside, which I do not. Why should I look outside? Everything I need is right here in this room... The Queen is ill, they say. The Queen is mad, she will not leave her room. But I am not ill, I am perfectly well. Mad? Perhaps... I have nothing to love. For years I have been locked up inside this room, for years perhaps for centuries, I have sat alone hour after hour before the mirror and watched her. There, in the mirror framed in gold. She watches me, and I watch her, we have a vigil to keep, often the long night through. By day she sleeps, as do I. At first she was young and beautiful, she had however strange eyes, rather too large. Through the long nights she has changed, yet remained the same. She is no longer young. She is not yet old, she will perhaps never be old. She is ever beautiful. She has dove's eyes, she has remarkably gentle eyes, but they are rather too large, brimming over with pain or is it fear? Her ears are small and fine, the most sensitive parts of a highly sensitive mechanism. The Queen is indeed a highly sensitive mechanism - with her fingertips she can feel the coming spring in a single leaf, with the soles of her feet she can feel an earthquake in China, with the tip of her tongue she can taste the blood of an insect that once lit upon the grapes in a glass of blood-dark wine. But with her ears! Take a good look - up close, it's worth the trouble, I promise you. Look closely now at the ears of the beautiful mad Queen of Spain. When she dies surely they ought to be kept as curiosities? Surely they ought to rest on a bed of black velvet inside a wrought gold reliquary behind a little window of frozen glass to astound the sceptical eyes of posterity? They are small and round and white, elegantly furled with a slight point up at the corners fox-like, and very small lobes that struggle under the burden of the Queen's jewels. Unburdened, they reveal tiny holes that the jewels may be inserted or withdrawn.

The Queen had not spoken for many years, she had not left her room in the palace for many years, when Signor Farinelli arrived at court, brought at fabulous expense from the theatres of London and Venice to take part in a desperate experiment. A concert was held in a room adjoining the Queen's apartment; the singer performed one of his most enchanting arias, 'Pallido Il Sole' by the German composer, Hasse. The handle of the door to the royal apartment was seen to turn, slowly turn - the door stood ajar, at first just a crack, then wider, wider, until at last it stood quite open and the Queen was plainly to be seen, a thin figure dressed in blue with a lace veil covering her face. When the singer had finished his aria the Queen slowly put back the veil from her face and approached him. She took him in her arms and kissed him on both cheeks.

Now I will tell you something truly remarkable about this Signor Farinelli, something that nobody knows but I. He has Julio's eyes. Dove's eyes, gentle, rather too large, brimming over with a terrible and mysterious pain or is it perhaps fear? Somehow or other the dreams from my head had made their way into Julio's head, or the other way around, I cannot tell which, but this much is certainly true: That Julio in lace cuffs and a white silk coat, in a white wig that only accentuated the pallor of his fine-boned face, that fragile case of perishable loveliness that I love! That Julio at the very time I dreamt this dream, in a white wig a white face a white silk coat was singing 'Pallido Il Sole' to the melancholy Queen of Spain.

The Queen took the singer in her arms and kissed him, she asked what she might do to reward him, she assured him that she would refuse him nothing. And all my treasures at thy feet I'll lay! Because you touched my face once with your hand, because you touched, because you touched, gentle as a mother, my royal melancholy bruised-and-battered secret infant face.

Corridas comicas. Do you find this sort of thing amusing? The little crooked legs in pink stockings, the heavy head struggling for balance atop a tiny body, the shock of a withered face where one thinks to see a child, the tiny feet the ring of gold in ear or nostril the grimace of pain or is it fear? The tiny toreador outfitted in pink and gold miniature finery the arms too short to reach behind the surprising head and some of them are handsome! Would have been men to follow with slow eyes if they had grown. The baby steer bellowing in pain or is it fear? The sweat the dust the blood the stink the cruel laughter the wine and morphine and sausage, the piles of excrement the dances and comic songs, the broken bones, the dreams of love under a woman's skirt, the huge sad eyes that cloud over in pain or is it fear? The screams in the night of pain or is it fear?

Some of them can't even wipe their own asses, their arms are so short.

Some of them long for women, some of them long for death.

Some of them are even handsome, would have been fine men, had they only grown!

Do you find this sort of thing amusing?

The Queen too must have her dwarf. To remind her of human frailty. She keeps it in a box under the bed, it is very quiet, most of the time it sleeps. When the Queen is lonely she sometimes opens the box, she sometimes takes it out and dresses it in tiny garments. Now you are a toreador, now you are a nun, now you are the Pope in Rome... Do you find this sort of thing amusing? Neither does the Queen, she is not smiling as she dresses and undresses her living doll, as she helps the tiny crooked limbs into and out of pink stockings. The Queen never smiles, neither does she laugh - she is melancholy indeed. It runs in the royal family. When she is unbearably lonely she sometimes opens the box, she sometimes holds the little one on her lap and sings to it very low - I have heard this from the guards who keep watch day and night outside the Queen's apartment that she sometimes sings to it in the night in a voice low and sweet. She holds the little one on her lap, she caresses the tiny crooked limbs, she waters the infant finery with her tears. Then she puts it back in the box, the box back under the bed. It sleeps peacefully. But sometimes in the still of the night she can hear it breathing and this sound is disturbing to the Queen's rest, for it reminds her of human frailty.

Well. There was something I wanted to say about Julio. That he has dove's eyes. O my dove, that art in the clefts of the rock, in the secret places of the stairs! I said those words once, to Julio. O my dove! Julio did not say anything at all. Julio's eyes are grey as the wings of a dove, they are pale and shimmering as the dawn sky over Berlin. So betimes when I have sat the night through in my chair, when I have sat listening to the snow or the rain, to the soft low music of my dreams, to the screams of pain or is it fear, to the quiet breathing in the box under the bed that reminds me of human frailty when I have sat too long before the mirror in the golden frame or well away from it and then the slow clear light of dawn, pale and shining, looking at me out of Julio's eyes.

Get your own in time for Christmas! POETRY AND FEAR
Printed and shipped internationally. Price adjusted in all currencies.

This excerpt first appeared in SEIN UND WERDEN

Photograph by Julia Margaret Cameron (1815-1879)

PAVANE

2008-11-29T18:35:00.005Z

The remains of a child

have been found by police

in a neglected garden

The remains of a child

are thought to date

from the early 1960’s

Police have not said

whether the remains of the child

are male or female

Police have not said

how the remains of the child

came to be there

Under the black soil

of a neglected garden

Shall I tell them?

This poem first appeared in The Beat

Photo by dmodzelewski cc on flickr.com

The Perilous Puppets of Dr. Praetorius

2008-11-06T12:00:00.009Z

An excerpt from SCARABOCCHIO

I had not been back at the hotel more than a quarter of an hour when there came a knock at my door and I opened to find Dr. Praetorius stooping over a guttering candle that lit up his white wisps of hair like a demonic halo.

‘Won't you come and observe my little experiments, Professor?’ he said, and then added in a singsong undertone, ‘Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, Will you join the dance?’ to which accompaniment he executed a species of shuffling dance. He then laughed a singular dry little laugh that was more like a cough than anything else. Somewhat taken aback by this display, I nonetheless accepted the invitation - indeed, to have done otherwise would have been awkward and I had, after all, a certain curiosity as to what manner of ‘experiments’ the strange little Doctor would prove to be engaged upon. I confess it had occurred to me that he did not appear to be a suitable guardian for his sensitive young charge, but this need have no bearing on his aptitude in the field of pure science.

I shut the door to my room but neglected to lock it (an omission I was to rue later in the evening), and followed him up the broad staircase in the dark, guided only by the fitful light of the candle. We had climbed to the attic storey before he turned down the narrow corridor and stopped before a heavy oaken door identical to my own. I was wondering to myself why, in an empty hotel, he had been given rooms so far out of the way, when I head a low sobbing and the sound of someone or something thumping at the wall. The Doctor turned to me as if I had spoken aloud. ‘My charge is sometimes restless at night,’ he said. ‘It is better for us to lodge well away from the other guests.’ He unlocked the door to the room and bid me walk in.

A pair of candelabra stood upon a table, by the light of which I saw a room similar to my own, although smaller and not so completely furnished. The blinds were down and the curtains drawn, the atmosphere was heavy with the ill-assorted scents of carbolic, candle smoke, and oriental perfume. A joss-stick was burning before an ugly little black-faced Madonna in the corner. The table was piled high with glass specimen cases which refracted the light in soft, rainbow-colored patches upon the walls and ceiling. The floor was nearly covered with leather travelling trunks, and it was with some difficulty that I made my way inside the room to take the proffered chair.

‘What is the meaning of life?’ said the Doctor, smiling as at a good joke. ‘Have a look at this, my dear Professor.’ He opened one of the glass cases and selected an object. I took it and examined it closely. It appeared to be an ordinary stone, a piece of hyaline quartz in fact, the crystals beautifully formed and very pure.

‘An ordinary stone?’ said the Doctor, again echoing my thoughts. ‘But look again, my friend. Observe! The crystals are arranged, not in the usual hexagonal prisms, but in an octagonal prism you have never seen before.’ To my surprise, I observed this to be the case.

‘But silicon doesn't exist in octagonal crystals,’ I objected. ‘What is this stuff?’ I handled the rock gingerly, holding it up to the light. It wore the usual aspect of quartz - smooth, hard, clear, and virtually colorless, the crystals formed along diagonal sutures, rising to form narrow, pyramidal prisms at the extremities of the rock. But these prisms were, indeed, octagonal.

‘I call it lapis regignens,’ said the Doctor. ‘Under certain conditions, this stone has the ability to reproduce itself. The specimen you hold in your hand I grew myself from a piece of Indian rock crystal which I first altered by means of an electric current. It has several very interesting properties - for example, the ability to radiate light. Light is stored in the interior of the crystal at the rate of several million particles per second, and is then released at a much slower rate when the ambient radiation falls below a certain level.’ I cupped my hands around the stone and observed it to glow with an inner radiance, milky soft and bright, like unto moonlight. ‘These crystals,’ continued the Doctor, tapping the glass cases upon the table, ‘are in various stages of growth, as you may see for yourself. Now you begin to appreciate the importance of my original question - What is the meaning of life? Is life reproduction perhaps? The ability to generate others of one's own kind? Or is it...something else? I have occupied myself for over thirty years with this question, and I can assure you I have left no stone unturned and no power unsolicited which might help me to the knowledge of life and death. I have entered into communion with powers, the mere naming of which would be enough to raise the tainted smoke of the auto-da-fé...Are you afraid, Professor? I understood you to be a man of scientific temperament, a philosopher in short. Say it isn't so, and I will say no more upon these dangerous matters, but only wish you a very good night.’

‘Not at all,’ I said. ‘Please go on with your demonstration.’ But my lips were trembling as I spoke. The room, so high above the street, was deathly quiet. I could hear the joss-stick crumbling as it burned, and thought I heard a subdued rustling, as of rats, inside the largest of the travelling trunks.

‘Seien ruhig, Kinder!’ said the Doctor. It was a large, upright trunk of the sort that generally is used to transport coats or other long garments. The Doctor loosed the catch on the trunk and swung open the lid. Inside, dangling from the clothes-rack by thick wires attached to their bodies, were some half dozen or so of puppets, each between a foot and a half and two feet tall. They were painted and costumed in the typical florid Sicilian manner to represent the personalities of the national epic, and I easily recognized Orlando and Rinaldo, the blonde Angelica, and the black-faced Saraceno brandishing his crescent-bladed sword.

‘I had the good fortune to obtain these from a gentleman in Palermo. They cost me a great deal of money, for they are very old, and of the finest workmanship. See here!’ He twisted one of Angelica's golden ringlets around his finger. ‘Real hair! The dress is real silk, and the armor is genuine. The swords, I assure you, are tempered steel, and quite sharp enough to chop off a finger. Then the skin - so life-like! We are not dealing here with marzipan or any such cheap tricks. Touch it - please, go ahead and touch it!’

I had risen from my chair and stood at his side before the open trunk. The puppets hung on the rack at nearly eye level to ourselves. The plumes upon their helmets, dyed turquoise, pink, and red, were stirring although the windows were shut tight and the air in the room was quite still. I took a step closer and felt a hot breath upon my face, like that from an oven. The puppets' eyes seemed to glitter, their hair and clothing seemed to rustle as with a supererogation of life. A suppressed sigh escaped from the depths of the trunk. Carefully I reached out a hand and stroked the cheek of a bold, red-lipped Saracen who was grinning into my face as if in a very ecstasy of irony. But no sooner did my hand make contact with the bearded cheek than I cried out in pain and terror, for the Saracen had caught my finger in his jaws and was biting down hard.

‘Nein, nein!’ cried the Doctor, striking the Saracen upon the nose. Whereupon he released my finger, and I fell back into the chair, convulsed with laughter as by an ague.

‘Oh my!’ I cried, wiping my eyes. ‘He...he bit me...He did indeed! Oh my! He...he bit me!’ I was simply unable to stop laughing; my convulsions were truly painful. Meanwhile the Doctor had closed up the trunk and stood looking down at me in disapproval.

‘You are hysterical,’ he said coldly.

‘He...he bit me!’ I said again, still laughing hopelessly. The Horror - I thought - the horror the horror the horror.

‘Obviously,’ replied the Doctor. ‘Yes, you must excuse him. My children are a little unpredictable as yet. They have not yet had time to master all the niceties of polite society. It was only that I took you for a man of science, or I would not have made the introduction.’

My laughter finally abated, I lay back in the chair, still sobbing and hiccuping, and feeling very foolish. I examined the index finger of my right hand - the blood stood in tiny drops in a double row along the first joint of the finger. No further noise came from the trunk. In the renewed silence I heard again, from the other side of the wall, the desperate lamentations of young Beethoven.

‘If you will be good enough to excuse me,’ said the Doctor, ‘I must attend to the well-being of my charge.’

‘Certainly,’ said I, getting to my feet. ‘What's wrong with the boy anyway? Why does he carry on like that?’

‘The revivification process is not yet complete. You must understand, when I was called in young Paul was already ...gleich Tod. I don't know, how would you say in English?’

‘Quite dead?’ I volunteered.

‘Yes, just so, he was quite dead. I have been able to restore the semblance of life, the breathing, heartbeats, and so on, but not, so far, the will to life. It is this will that lies at the root of all life. Young Paul must fall in love. Then my treatment will be complete. You look surprised, Professor. But surely you have not so soon forgotten our conversation at the Governor's table? Or do you doubt the ability of dead men to rise? Aphrodite is a powerful goddess, able to breathe life again and again into exhausted flesh. She is the source of all life. But what am I saying! You, the Poet, are intimately acquainted with her, of course.’ A series of loud thumps upon the adjoining wall, accompanied by two or three terrified shrieks, led us to hasten our adieux, and I made my way back to my own room in the dark. I had neglected to take a candle, and nearly broke my neck in getting down the stairs.

Get your copy of SCARABOCCHIO in time for Christmas. Printed and shipped internationally.

Photo on flickr.com cc by Markus Sepperer

THE MAN OF MY DREAMS

2008-11-03T10:56:00.004Z

Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool. - Isaiah 1:18

This morning it happened again

I awoke suddenly, breathless and cowering

arm raised to ward off the blows

or something worse

head full of your personal pornography,
Daddy.

This is how it is

And half a century of woe is not enough.

You are still the man who haunts my dreams

crowding out all others

So you get your wish at last

(Be careful what you ask for, they say)

You get your wish

Somewhere deep inside

where no healing touch can reach

nor holy spirit hide I remain

Daddy’s little girl.

A letter from your hand glanced by accident

left lying carelessly by my beloved son

And all the old familiar dread returns –

So you write to him, do you?

So you dare write to him, do you?

So he writes to you, does he

this beloved son

What does he know of us two

the movies that play in our heads

would make his blood run cold

this beloved son who has known

only tenderness.

Unadulterated tenderness, Daddy

Not your kind.

Easier not to believe.

Easier, she made it up.

Easier, she exaggerates.

She’s an unreliable witness!

Fathers don’t do things like that

to their little girls.

Do they?

Fine, Daddy, have it your way

Old man afraid to die

But forever’s a long time

And though you cling on, the day will come:

You’ll stand before the Lamb

whose white coat is sprinkled in the blood

of this girl child you broke.

This unreliable witness

will not be called upon to speak.

The Lamb in his spattered coat

was there all the time

saw everything, knows –

everything.

Awaits your explanation.

This poem first appeared in Poetry Life and Times .

Picture: The Adoration of the Mystic Lamb (detail), Hubert and Jan van Eyck, c. 1432

HALLOWEEN

2008-10-28T11:14:00.006Z

Halloween is scarey

I love it very much

The children all disguise themselves

As witches, ghosts, and princesses

And pirates with big cutlasses

And animals and such.

We go to all the houses

And holler 'Trick or treat!'

In the cold and the dark you hardly dare

Such a big jack-o-lantern grinning there

And one time a ghost even pulled my hair!

And they give you candy to eat.

from Little Poems for Children

Picture: Skeleton by Utagawa Kuniyoshi, 1798-1861

GOLDEN OCTOBER

2008-10-21T16:47:00.005+01:00

What’s to taste in autumn’s breath

but your tongue?

What those live gold whispers

but your hair?

What limpid light

but your eyes?

The fresh and heavy dew

each morning your tears

The restless shadows your hands

The moonlight your breath

The fall of a leaf

your kiss

The golden golden golden

slowly dancing river water

your smile.

Picture: Huguenot Lovers on St. Bartholomew's Day, John Everett Millais (1829-1896)

DULCE COR

2008-10-09T13:20:00.014+01:00

She might command what worlds she will, being a Queen

and fair, might dress bird-feather pearl or satin sheen -

She goes in black, her beauty undiminished by the lack.

The midday moon in blue silk dress over silver-sack

fields and greenwoods is but the pale sister of the white

Queen of the Night, who makes our dreams and pillows bright.

She might tell sorrows, care, her cracked soul's despair

to any ear, all hearken, being a Queen, and fair;

She tells nought but her beads. The veil is silent 'round her

like a nun's; her eyes alone speak and ponder -

For she speaks but to the casket that she keeps,

day and night, ivory and gold, whither she goes,

and tells her thoughts to that sweet silent rose.

His heart is there, who once had been her love, her King -

She gives: heart's drouth, ghost's mouth, every thing.

Sweetheart Abbey in Scotland was founded by Lady Devorguilla, who was so overcome with grief at her husband's death that she carried his heart about with her in an ivory box.

This first appeared in Rhythm Poetry Magazine.

Picture: Mary Magdalene, Pietro Perugino 1445-1523

ADVICE TO ORPHEUS

2008-09-30T13:07:00.012+01:00

If I should die pretend

that I’ve just gone away.

She’ll be back in a day or two!

Say that - pretend to believe

Don’t grieve! Your tears

would raise me up, I know,

Right up from under earth

and stone and snow.

Climbing out of my grave

Dirty rotten smiling like a saint

I’ve come to take you in my arms -

Don’t faint!

My Darling, if I should die,

Don’t cry.

This poem first appeared in Mad Moth Poetry Magazine.

Photo at flickr.com cc by Markus Sepperer.