joh nm u c k le
4poem s
At the Top of the Hill The evening’s star rises each time higher, A rat’s tail slides under the floorboards As I glance into the dusty window of a shut up shop: Fallen planks, exposed wiring, emptiness. Everything moves on, this is the result Of holding on to those last indelible posters For yesterday’s Chinese state circus; I have posted my memories in a low letterbox. A pleasure to say goodbye, so hard to depart, Pushing away from the dust-choked shore Out onto the dark, slippery lake of surfaces Onto the sliding planes of no true horizon – But the mind lingers over things of the past: Some people will live with them forever Although women are more likely to move on And hold fast to their firmer judgements. Who actually owns this fine circular building Planted in the fork at the top of the hill? His name is well-known to all of you, I imagine, And his tenants live above the empty shops. Litter blowing over the night pavements, Doors open, a crack of light is showing As feet patter away in search of a night bus, God-knows-where to the end of the route. Envelopes are scattered on the rough floor, Hopeful invitations to get a large pizza sent in, Bills never to be opened nor paid in full – Amongst them my sweeter memories, True or false, rubbed as smooth as pebbles, A number of songs to the same sad tune. The frost here is at the hands of human messengers Who will never reply nor click on send.
My ambition, to survive and to multiply, Like a large rat gnawing through rotten wiring. A young Romanian will grease my tail, And as we gorge we will make happy noises. The world will not be stopped, all passes by On its way to where it is going, breaking free Or falling back amongst the rubbish bags As your friends ride by to the beat of their arts. (after Tu Fu)
Blue Square Let the smoke drift up to the blue sky On bank holiday Monday, Eastertime. Feathers falling through a glass of milk O Daddy’s little boy, my roly-poly, How I’d like to have called you Roy. French kisses, grammar, one two three The leaves a silver agony, it seems Nought forming nought, equation’s dream Grime of a clean ceiling, a mirror, Found artifacts from the daily dig. Thumbprints on the door, and vinegar To clean them with, a sheaf of songs Will lull me to my rest beneath sod On plotted ground intending crimes bought. It doesn’t pay to try so very hard. Territories carved up between the alleged A pink sparkly bag of incense sticks Surmounted by an icon, his chin in hand, A white globe lantern dirtily lit up, A candle for my hand, coffee, and pillows. Twinkles for a tuning fork, I file a page My ink’s as plentiful as North Sea gas Steering for deep waters, away from the rage That clicks my synapses like rusty points Riding high on a list of tacks, disjoints.
The Fairy Castle I spotted it peeking out from behind A clump of bulging black binliners Beside the blank wall of the garden shop, Next to a door, an alley – either one Of which could be the way it was carried down By the parent of a child who no longer wanted it. Too grown up? Or … what. Suspicious Here in Harringay, the home of child murders And complacent social services. I took it home, I couldn’t resist it. So much like – exactly like – A larger one I hallucinated under the hall coats With a prince and princess waltzing out of it Before I fled past to my parents’ room. That’s why I wanted it. And why I took it home. I took the dead batteries out, wondered what It did. Lit up? Glittered? Played a tune? But I haven’t replaced its four dead cells – yet. Just set it up on the hall bookcase Beside the square mirror, a place I daily pass Where I can easily glance at it. The rabbit was rattling around inside As I overturned the castle and shook it. Two loose pieces – a rabbit and a laden tea-tray, And a slot in her little paws to hold it, A fairytale castle with nine glittering blue minarets And pink pennants facing every which way, A clear plastic fountain at the top of steps A half-open silver door where the rabbit stands Tray in paws, to welcome visitors. None as yet. Not much of a toy, perhaps. How could you even Play with it? Just cheap moulded coloured tat, A mass-produced dream within my empty pocket. But to me, it’s as if it has squeezed its way Out of my own head rather than Walt Disney’s wallet. And it sits here in all its beautiful, discarded Fragility and hope, its pennants every which way. The clock will strike, tea will be served, And any furthermores - will be Welsh rarebit.
THE FRIENDS WHO TRIED TO EMPTY THE SEA There were two friends, fishermen on the shores of a great lake somewhere, a lake they believed to be an ocean, an ocean teeming with edible fish and some that were inedible, which they sometimes forgot to throw back. I can’t remember how they came up with the idea of emptying the ocean, or why they’d want to do so, but somehow this idea appealed to them, it took hold of them, as the spirit of competition does, in this case an apparently futile contest that nevertheless had spin-offs in the shape of a bigger hut and more comely wives for the best fisherman, and for the runner-up all the fish he could eat, and more, until the shores of that lake stank of rotting fish, and more fishes spawned and swam around, dodging their nets, and the two friends developed superior methods of fishing: dredgers, dynamite, magnetic hooks that were not friendly to small fry; and one sad day there weren’t any fish left in the lake, ocean, sea. And on the seventh day the friends rested, like God, the fruits of their destruction spread around them. On the eighth day the comeliest wife of the winner wanted to know, if you please, what was for dinner. Not fish again, she hoped. But there was nothing left to eat of on those shores except for the neighbours. So they ate the wives first, and then the children minced up and patted into fish-shapes by the good-looking wife of the winner, and then the fisherman himself for being such a good-for-nothing character who, it was opined, had had such a silly idea. It was only fair he should face its consequences, the dirty sinner. Of course more fish soon sprang up again in the sea and the two friends who’d tried to empty it were no more now than a vague memory for the wife of one who had even eaten up her own children and now swam out on the lake in search of dissolution in the great element of which she had been borne. A mermaid, she swam out and sank to the bottom where a fish-king greeted her, his only daughter come back to him at last, just in time for supper.
This is the story of the friends who tried to empty the sea; a story washed up on my shores, made up by nobody, no challenge to the status quo or to ordinary morality. But the friends were friends once, and in the beginning their scheme had seemed a bit of a lark, in good fun. And this is the kind of tale it’s best not to tell to anyone unless you want a reputation as one of the spoilsports of poetry, a sourpuss pretending to have all the answers rather than just a man in difficulty, like the others. Are fish to be envied, are wives necessarily monsters? Wouldn’t it be nice to swim to the bottom of the ocean into that dark, cool place where Poseiden holds court to a circle of fish-heads with stickleback spears; I think and think, but the truth of the matter is no way closer. Sailing By comes on the radio; I wake on the sofa. I run a hot bath; and I scrub my back with a loofah to remove the dead skin and prevent spots from forming. I emerge like a snake, all shiny: a brand new man-thing.
b la rt