No language is my first,
poetry is my second
stab at life; the trickling beck
to get some attention. Hello!
No mind to call my own,
regurgitation of rotten wordlings
belittling the shoulders I fell from.
Goodbye!
No language is my first,
no language is my second,
I cannot stand, legs crushed
and arms flailing.
I am but letters without an alphabet,
a farmer without land,
a smith without …
& silence.
I pull you alongside
memories
piled in the old toboggan
a blanket
a broken flask
chocolate stained knees
and fingers freeze;
holding the short straw
tightly to the chest
down the deserted hillside
faster and faster
,on the skid,
I pulled you alongside
memories
piled in an old toboggan
up a deserted hillside
to the summit
that never were.
I whet your golden axe,
pack my sack with fading memories
and limp towards the tree-line
of the forest of fourteen leagues,
to find the tallest pine
and fell it to the ground
then light the fire to purge
the last of the haunting memories …
the early years were small and there is no light no more and then warm milk but no cookies and then winter and cold and snow and cold and warm milk and then I walk but cannot talk the words they shout and shout and then sleep and falling and in darkness falling and then green grass and soft grass and naked feet on grass and gravel and those yellow flowers in the gravel and on the knees gravelling and rubbing the flower in the face of another face much older and the smell of pipe tobacco and fishing in early morn and smoking in elderberry to make supper by a mother’s mother round as the football we kicked but smelling of old cooking and not lederhosen as we are not from there or anywhere that can be found in a map of the Texaco brand in the door pocket of a tiny green box of British make and the longer red one that didn’t give me birth but a hospital and colour photos of a small one and a camera and an angry face of a little man clearly lacking from those early days any desire to be captured on film …
and as I toss the final photo
into the fire of my own desire
the crackling takes me back
to those early years
unknown then
the events to unfold
to bring a life through life
towards a death
both unknown in form and fact
in strength and sickness
in love and hate
now sprouting …
I whetted your golden axe,
packed my sack,
came limping back
through the forest of dreams
without memories or bliss
but wiser — nonetheless
I don’t really care if no one cares,
but I care if someone could care
of something I care about,
if we could share that care
we could, or would, or might
care
of
other
each
take,
go Center Stage in the play
of us; so …
enough of not caring
enough of swearing
at empty walls, at empty holes,
I don’t really care, but we could.
The oven speaks to me
in riddles before termination,
Me Me calling to attention,
ME ME EMPTY ME
it calls to anyone present;
I am
present,
I am
coming,
I am
the baker, the maker of sweet dreams:
sugar, honey, butter and oats;
(golden syrup would also do)
turned in the oven at 180C
into the sweetest of loves
there will ever be; ah, Jack
ye ol’ ripper did not name these
little beauties, the flapping of wings
did, though …
Ah, the wait for the cake (cake?)
the final step in my love make
ing, the wait the wait the … wait
for the first kiss of her sweet lips
— awaits.
Twenty winters later
the dreams are gone,
no memories remain
of why, of how, Oh why?
Did I stumble, stumble and fall
for another, another land
near but far,
fields of green like green fields
forests like woods, mere copses
lakes wet but oh, so far apart
and without paths and access
through private lands
of private people, and ladders
to climb from the bottom rung.
Twenty winters later
the dreams are gone,
memories absent without leave,
permission to depart rejected
by … the Fearful Department
of Unexpected Outcomes Ltd;
no jig brings joy
no gaol but chains
welded firm by firm hands.
Twenty winters later
the dreams are done,
Twenty winters further
& all will be gone.
culturally deprived, my language lost
in time, maybe possibly unlikely
to be found on foreign soil,
bound between foreign trees,
soaring in foreign skies
like birds of other kinds;
culturally deprived, my identity lost
in space, maybe possibly unlikely
to be found in foreign lands,
nailed to foreign walls,
stamped into passport in blue
like red without a union flag;
culturally deprived, a self lost
in otherness, maybe
possibly
unlikely
– ever to be found.
You Would…
Warts and all, you will take me;
go then and seek solace in my lost soul,
find comfort behind my floppy ears
and tingling fingers;
find purpose where ever be
found, where for ever be found,
where the forever
is found;
that is where I will be
– waiting
Warts and all, you will take me,
make me
find me
a soul and proper ears,
steady hands and a heart to share.
Ahhhhh, if only … I had warts
and all … a lost soul and … ears,
unsteady hands …
You would take me, take me.
You would.
Would… take me …
warts and all …
You would…
We wrote words — on glass
with a keyboard — of glass
We wrote from voices within
speaking the voices without
hesitation.
We cut down the trees
We pulped, pushed
and pressed
the words upon the paper,
bound it by sin and more pressure
as homage to the fallen ones.
We wrote words — on glass
We mourned the fallen,
Boye, Hemingway, Plath, Sexton, Woolf,
we mourned their words — unwritten.
We wrote words to remind us
of what we once were,
we wrote words for others
just to remember
— us …
