Beeston

"Artists must be sacrificed to their art. Like bees, they must put their lives into the sting they give."

                                                                                                     Letters and Social Aims, Inspiration

                                                                                                     Ralph Waldo Emerson

When you lived in Beeston, I wrote in scrawled ink

on the envelope and felt like I was writing 'I love you'

everytime I wrote Beeston.

Something that caught my heart strings

something like Bees stinging, the infernal buzz

of Summer's last, banging and banging against

one sheet of glass, in one spot, trying to get back

into the sun, trying to feel the wind, as if it were

the last. Beeston, somewhere near the end of the line,

I'm searching for the postal code, sealing the envelope.

standing in a train station, drinking bad coffee,

the tannoy speaks 'Beeston' and my lips burn.

As if I am being swarmed, I am stung.

Walking the cat

Sometimes, a poem arrives,

uninvited, gifted whole,

it already knows your name.

It is not a good time for this guest,

you might be walking the cat

or washing up - the poem has arrived –

you peel off your damp marigolds

you give in to the insistent rhyme;

the words demand paper.

Your pen writes, you forget

your name, the cat, the dinner plates;

a poem arrives -  sometimes.

Red Shoes

I could click

my heels
dance
‘The Blues’

wake
up ‘Abroad’ –

if
I had a pair
of

red shoes.

But,

1950’s N. Devon
says
‘Red shoes,

noDrawers!’

If
only I was in
Texas.

There, they say
'All hat,
no
cattle.’

Treasure

Catching eyes

with Joseph Fiennes 

while waiting - 

knowing Jo's famous 

when no one else does.

Lying on Bryn Estyn Road

between Simon and Vlassis

in the cold.

Looking out for shooting stars

and cows…

Playing Tig

with the older kids,

being caught

by a blue eyed boy.

Leaping on a camel

to escape

the photographer

who took a photo

of me,

Clifton Beach

Karachi.

Standing on

Vie de Belle Donne

Christmas in Firenze.

Being told that

I was the street.

Talking in

Barcelona, with

a philosophy lecturer.

Remembering

Alain de Botton

over tapas

and mineral water.

Dancing under

Cherry blossum,

a beautiful dance

for a Moonnight…

Walking into E6

my old classroom,

having my class

applaud.

When I ask them why

they smile.

Brown eyes,

a suede jacket,

a short bus trip –

the day we met.

Sunset in Brighton.

Me taking photos,

you lending me

a camera, while

taking back

your heart.

Meeting a poet

I admired,

drinking tea

then being

hugged, just

for being me.

The old black man

at Fisherman’s Wharf,

asking me if I was

‘Somebody’

because I sure

looked like

somebody.

Am I famous?

Having my dad

say “I love you”

just once

in DFS

as we bought

a new sofa set.

Meeting Darren

the ‘homeless’ man

who took me to Macdonalds

and bought me

cups of tea

as we talked books, god

and poetry.

He told me that

he was not homeless –

the whole world

was his.

I believed him.

Bee and the frog

 

Rescuing a frog,
marooned,
in her hallway 

she guessed

Bad Bee had left
an offering
on her crimson
Persian rug.

The almost glint - 

green eyes warning - 

‘look I didn’t kill…

I could…
           I still could.

Question?

 

What is the word for heartbeat in Russian? 

I can not think of many people to ask and I lost

touch with Louisa who was diligent at A’level.

If I ask you will you think there is another meaning,

after all when the heart is mentioned, it is mostly

love or medicine at stake.

We haven’t got enough words for rain either,

but that Dranovsky kid told me  ‘It can’t rain all the time…’

Stolen American song lyrics. But it works.

I don’t think about that rain now.

If it doesn’t rain, it is dry

if the heartbeat stops…

I must try to remember how it was

without words, waiting

in the dark wings of my mouth.

Waiting for the 366

 

An elderly couple in the rain,

peeling

an orange,

feeding

each other

segments.

I stand, eyes frozen to the ground:

there are 107 concrete squares,

23 pieces of litter,

32 pairs of feet.

This space where once I had a heart

fills up with the scent of oranges,

the silk of summer rain,

and the sense of an all abiding love.

My heart, harboured at some unknown address

that is somewhere near the sea

skips on skips on skips on…skips...

Mirror

“Life/Soul is like a clear mirror; the body is dust on it.

Beauty in us is not perceived, for we are under the dust.”

                                                                Jalaludin Rumi

Pretty pictures cycle past me,

me, here, in this café.

I feel the picture in my fingertips –

the smell of linseed and the smoothness,

the low lying land and the railway banks

moving against my brown skin.

My six and twenty score of crisscrossed lines,

the lucky star you said would always be there

always to protect, always to guide.

I am that amulet!

Shield me from the small pieces of grit

which only draw tears

and blood. It is dust, only dust

I am covered in it.

There is only the blue of your eyes

bathed in sea-spray and forget-me-nots,

the blue uncovers me.

I am the battered rockface

threshing you against me, you against me.

Shiny sky pieces are in my hair and the dewdrops

on my fingertips feel the pulse of the oceanbed.

Waiting for you to find me, life tremors.

I am here, in this café.

Book store

Poetry book 

makes their small talk
too big for the suburbs.

He stands behind, she
feels the moment his mind stops
listening, starts moving.

Old eyes smile, watching
as two drink Starbucks coffee
and he rescues her smile.

It’s not a movie
but in their coffee booth world
all eyes type-cast them:

The hero, blue eyed
Captain Smith, Amazon wo-
man, Pocahontas.

*****

She sips her mocha,
in her eyes for a moment
he is twelve again.

At her parent’s house
he’s calling for her brother
on his mountain bike.

She remembers more
summers of cinema trips
and exchanging books.

Alexander Blok
for Whitman’s ‘Leaves of Grass’; they
never gave them back.

He sees her smile, but
to explain, she’d have to say
‘I’ve still got your book.’

Smiling back he says he’s
glad she’s exactly who she
was supposed to be.


*******

Talking with many words,
cold hands, accident touching,
they walk slowly home.

Night stars and car head
lights, divisible by three
breaths of leaving.

Speaking with you is
like putting a book down, 

without marking the page.