Inside Cover
Sixteen
A collection of poems by Karen Rydings Design & Typeset by Edward Webb, under the Canopy | www.underthecanopy.co.uk Printed by Tandy Group Ltd. All right reserved Š Karen Rydings, 2012
A Meeting A young woman rushes up some steps clutching a bag of plums. Those plums, being over ripe, spill their sweet juice onto the brown paper bag encasing them. Inevitably, the weakened paper splits spilling its contents. Plums fall, leave her hands, bounce down the steps she is running up. She stops, stoops to gather them, torn between her desire to retrieve the fruit and her need to catch the ferry home. A young man witnesses her distress takes time from his day to help her. Together they collect the fruit, both catch the ferry. And I am thankful for that bag of plums; spilled by my grandmother, witnessed by my grandfather half a century before my birth.
[ 1 ]
Unsaid The bus came through the village twice each week; on Wednesdays for market and on Sundays to take the faithful to prayer. Her father always remarked loudly that one journey fed their bodies, the other their souls. Her clothing indicated which bus she expected, Sunday’s best hat and gloves set aside for mid week practicalities. A small purse containing only her lace handkerchief and a meagre offering for the collection plate left behind on Wednesdays in favour of sturdy baskets for produce and weekly housekeeping money wrestled from her father’s pay packet before it disappeared, with him, down the pub. He stood there waiting every week sometimes standing close to her, drinking her in her smell never wholly masked by the fresh smell of soap. Other times he stood apart, admiring her from a distance creating an imagined life for them, together, in his head each detail mulled over and lived repeatedly. But he never spoke.
[ 2 ]
Stone She was methodical in her search, timing her arrival as the tide turned at its lowest point. Even as winter approached, her feet were bare. She seemed unaware of the cold, and of the pain of sharp shingle under foot. She was searching, but never once stooped or knelt to examine more closely, just walked, head bent, eyes darting from stone to stone. Her search ended with a stone; a dull grey stone, the size of her fist. The walks continued, up and down the beach, their purpose lost, the stone held fast in her hand. Only the boy witnessed the switch, but none questioned the truth of his words. Standing still, close to the angry breakers, she ripped her heart from her chest, pushing the stone firmly into its place.
[ 3 ]
Riptide It is usually the strongest swimmers who drown puffed up with their prowess they skitter across the sand and launch Her husband was not a strong swimmer just arrogant with little concern for those he may leave behind She understood very quickly that he had gone knew that she would never again have that moment of relief from her vantage point on the rug a baby asleep on her lap the others cross and hot flinging sand impatient for him to come back and take them to the cool sea She had always recognised him first by his walk from far far down the beach It would be three days before his swollen body washed up two miles south.
[ 4 ]
Bulowayo to Durban That was before my father bought us our red bikinis and I nearly drowned in Durban. It began with the map, spread on the kitchen table dirty crockery pushed aside my eyes, level with the table’s edge, watched beer bottles collect as the men planned our route. We set off early and headed south and south and further south. The men, my father and grandfather, alone in their car. My mother and grandmother following behind with us three girls thrown in the back. We sang, my grandmother insisting we sounded better than the Osmonds and I believed her. The men kept the map, decided when and where to stop. My grandfather, I later learned, taking a hidden slug of whisky at every stop. Our drinks came in lurid colours and clear plastic containers shaped as cars or robots or rockets (my favourite was a dog). At the game reserve, I pretended to see the monkeys swinging in the trees unwilling to admit I only saw the trees. But I did see the sea first knowing that it heralded the end of our drive as there could be no more south. I nearly drowned in Durban that day my father confused by the red and yellow flags. I knew, even then, not to tell my mother leaving the words, for once, unsaid Len, you are a fool. [ 5 ]
First Kiss Last night I was fifteen again as we stood in that Soho doorway, ostensibly to escape the rain, baby sitters momentarily forgotten. I smoked one of your cigarettes, more for companionship than any real need for nicotine, the taste mingling with the lingering flavour of soft shell crab. We kissed; your mouth welcomed mine, your hands exactly where I felt they should be. I laughed for the sheer joy of it, and you had a gun in your pocket.
[ 6 ]
Conversation 1
2
She sighed I missed you in my bed last night he said the sky is very blue today she said I thought about you all morning he said just bought a paper she said can’t wait to see you next week he said looks good that film with thingy she said I love you he sighed.
He sighed I love you she said that film with thingy looks good he said next week can’t wait to see you she said just bought a paper he said all morning I thought about you she said today the sky is very blue he said in my bed last night I missed you she sighed.
[ 7 ]
In bed with the Fat Man Our post coital limbs thrown like jackstraws on the bed Carefree, I made you laugh. ‘You are funnier than me’ you stated your laughter giving way to silent tears. This realisation hung between us signalling the end.
[ 8 ]
Passion Fruit Already he knew her well enough to have had no expectation of receiving a card. But don’t think that there was no Valentine greeting that day. A week before (knowing he would be sharing her bed that night) she carefully chose him a passion fruit. She put it in a bowl in her kitchen. Several times that week she saw it there, watched it shrivel, anticipated the secret sweetness she would share with him. At its wrinkled, unpromising best she broke it apart and squeezed its fragrant seeds onto his breakfast.
[ 9 ]
Highgate Cemetery East Departed this life gone to a better place passed on passed over passed away passed into the light gone to a higher place called to rest called home called too soon in the arms of Jesus borne away from sin and sorrow left this world not lost but gone before kicked the bucket brown bread dead
[ 10 ]
The Pavane I imagine us in a formal dance, you, dandified, me, smiling serenely, despite the complexity of the steps. We meet, bow, palms almost touch; then part, weave ourselves into the rest of the room. The invisible thread connecting us tightens and slackens as you retreat and reappear. I can never be certain that the slow, graceful movements will deliver you to me again but I remain upright and dignified in whalebone.
[ 11 ]
Note to Self He has gone. The pillows, though left as he positioned them the better to eat the breakfast you had prepared, do not denote his return. He has gone.
[ 12 ]
The Future They were the king and queen of the future time was theirs stretching before them They stood hand in hand, shoulders touching equal, open, honest together yet separate She took their beautiful, fragile kingdom he let her hold it trusted her to cherish it She held it aloft, above his outstretched hands smashed it carelessly down as he looked on He had no time to shield himself the shards pierced him left their scars
[ 13 ]
Bakerloo A crowded tube train, early evening a woman, sitting squarely opposite me, defiantly catches my eye, challenges me her gaze steady watching me for signs of a reaction as she slowly, provocatively, lifts her many layers of skirts revealing her nakedness below; red and full as a rose so overblown one gentle touch would cause every petal to fall to the ground.
I glance, look away, glance again, look away. She, seeing my discomfort, points directly at me looks around to gain support from fellow passengers shouts, distinctly and with certainty ‘You. Stop looking. Stop looking at my cunt’ I leave the train.
[ 14 ]
Tracey Emin’s Tent Forget Tracey’s embroidered tent I would have a marquee a full blown, intimate gathering of two hundred of my closest friends, wedding marquee and the letters needn’t be six feet high to fill the space names would crowd the interior some would be accessible only in the darkest reaches of my brain some known, briefly, and then forgotten some etched in permanent ink insignificant, loved, the result of a dull afternoon once only, two occasions separated by years, a few times, too many to count knee tremblers, over before I had begun, loving, empty, lustful, with sorrow, are we nearly there yet? And you
[ 15 ]
Sixteen Ice skating I spot you, James Behind the glass I approach, and wave a greeting You smile, breathe your hot teenage breath onto the glass It forms a mist On which you write your message The first letter reveals your sentiment F Transfixed, I watch the remaining letters appear Formed by your purposeful right index finger Fuck off ! Stung, I glide away.
[ 16 ]
Karen Rydings is especially interested in the performance aspect of poetry, and she can frequently be found in small rooms above pubs in NW London. It is the spur of a performance deadline that most inspires her to write. She came to writing poetry via teaching, motherhood, acting and the NHS. This heady combination has given her a variety of rich experience to draw from in her writing.
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