I wasn’t there
but Kelly was
and Joan Baez, Leonard Cohen, Amy –
who may or may not have been off her face
and hit someone –
Winehouse.
Neil Diamond
in the tea-and-biscuits slot on Sunday
Cherry-ohed,
red red wined
sweet Carolined
and reminded
me
of kisses and melting. The whirr
of the washing machine. ‘Washing? Who washes
on Sundays?’
‘I do,’ I said. ‘I work all week.’
(Besides I have to teach
this afternoon, if I can stop myself shaking
and drive.
If I can start making myself make sense.)
There were eggs scrambled in butter. Grilled bacon.
Mushrooms
toast
champagne.
****
I shouted for Joe. Come
listen to this!
He dragged himself downstairs, said
oh god mother what now?
He stayed for a little while – after all
it was before he was born
and nothing whatsoever
to do with him.
****
Kelly was at Glastonbury. She went
on Wednesday, camped
I think. Spent
nights with drummers, fire
eaters, people with masks.
She’ll have joined in
stayed up late
found someone to sing with.
Kelly doesn’t do edges, watching.
****
I cleaned half of the kitchen,
the half near the stove. Shined
oil-bottles (ground nut and olive)
til they gleamed. Consigned
past-sell-by-date herbs
and spices and things in jars I’d bought
because I thought
they might be useful
to the
newly washed
bin.
****
Joe stacked the rubbish
in the back of the car: the bottles
and the cans.
****
Groove Armada shook their ass.
There was strobing
and flags waved.
****
I smoked far too many cigarettes
drank three bottles of wine
loved
Vampire Weekend. Joe made toast.
James sent a text. Aaron left
his wallet.
Annie rang from Guernsey, bored.
Her father gave her a diamond.
She strung it
on a chain, hung it
round her neck with the ring
I gave her.
The kettle broke.
Cats demanded attention.
Spain
won the football.
Monday, 30 June 2008
Monday, 9 June 2008
The morning after
They don’t get up til teatime, the girls.
They make beds out of sofas,
and duvet cocoons.
They cover the floor
with cushions
and the tables with empty glasses.
Someone knocks on the door.
He’s come all this way
with the knee he wrecked
(when he fell off his bike)
and his hopes.
‘Are you coming out?’ he wants
to know.
***
Last year’s Strawberry Fair was hot.
Boys who’d gone in jackets
(to look cool)
wished they’d left them,
ate Jamaican food,
reeled back
at the reggae tent’s entrance
and its sweet smoke barrier.
***
This year is wet.
Annie blames the bags she must watch
when some fit hot someone
wants her
(to dance, he says).
At nearly sixteen she is old enough –
almost
but not quite –
to say yes.
***
The morning after,
she is safely wrapped in feathers,
pronouncing on relationships.
***
Later she shuts the door on Dobba,
with his sore knee,
who is not fit (though he used to be),
hot, new
or exciting.
They make beds out of sofas,
and duvet cocoons.
They cover the floor
with cushions
and the tables with empty glasses.
Someone knocks on the door.
He’s come all this way
with the knee he wrecked
(when he fell off his bike)
and his hopes.
‘Are you coming out?’ he wants
to know.
***
Last year’s Strawberry Fair was hot.
Boys who’d gone in jackets
(to look cool)
wished they’d left them,
ate Jamaican food,
reeled back
at the reggae tent’s entrance
and its sweet smoke barrier.
***
This year is wet.
Annie blames the bags she must watch
when some fit hot someone
wants her
(to dance, he says).
At nearly sixteen she is old enough –
almost
but not quite –
to say yes.
***
The morning after,
she is safely wrapped in feathers,
pronouncing on relationships.
***
Later she shuts the door on Dobba,
with his sore knee,
who is not fit (though he used to be),
hot, new
or exciting.
Sunday, 8 June 2008
Clare wears
Red is what Clare wears:
a sassy hat
with what used to be a rose
tucked into its ribbon
tighter than skin
tight jeans
a low-cut flowery dress.
‘Bastard!’ she says to Aaron.
***
The echoing rose James wears
is wilting too, drying as we watch.
***
The night
air cools.
***
Clare wears
youth and beauty lightly.
She wants to go indoors,
where it’s warm.
a sassy hat
with what used to be a rose
tucked into its ribbon
tighter than skin
tight jeans
a low-cut flowery dress.
‘Bastard!’ she says to Aaron.
***
The echoing rose James wears
is wilting too, drying as we watch.
***
The night
air cools.
***
Clare wears
youth and beauty lightly.
She wants to go indoors,
where it’s warm.
When Naomi made a picture
Naomi made a picture. She found a flame
cupped in someone’s hands.
It looked like an orchid
growing in warm wetness,
glowing
through the dark.
She chose a black man, and words
suggesting violence.
When she saw what she’d made, she cried.
I touched her shoulder, told her
it was supposed to be fun.
‘My life is shit’, she said,
’I didn’t know how bad.’
But Naomi made her picture on bright
yellow paper and, though the right
top corner was dark,
by the time she got to the other side
sun was shining through Spring leaves
and dolphins – two of them –
leapt.
cupped in someone’s hands.
It looked like an orchid
growing in warm wetness,
glowing
through the dark.
She chose a black man, and words
suggesting violence.
When she saw what she’d made, she cried.
I touched her shoulder, told her
it was supposed to be fun.
‘My life is shit’, she said,
’I didn’t know how bad.’
But Naomi made her picture on bright
yellow paper and, though the right
top corner was dark,
by the time she got to the other side
sun was shining through Spring leaves
and dolphins – two of them –
leapt.
Saturday, 10 May 2008
How I feel (2)
My skin is soft, apparently
unexpectedly so
(was he expecting scales?)
His hand was on my neck
when he said that
(just before my legs
- quite of their own accord -
wrapped themselves
round his waist)
Oh
(he said)
and his eyes
and his face
did that thing
that men's eyes and faces do
when you know they're lost
and can't help themselves
and you know they'd do anything
say anything
if only . . .
unexpectedly so
(was he expecting scales?)
His hand was on my neck
when he said that
(just before my legs
- quite of their own accord -
wrapped themselves
round his waist)
Oh
(he said)
and his eyes
and his face
did that thing
that men's eyes and faces do
when you know they're lost
and can't help themselves
and you know they'd do anything
say anything
if only . . .
Tuesday, 6 May 2008
A post inspired by a thread on Facebook
Once upon a time, I lived in a house in the country with a substantial garden. When we (as in ex-husband and I) bought the house, it came with three chickens.
They were delightful. Pecking around the garden etc, laying eggs wherever they felt like it - hedgerows, mostly. In places you'd never think to look. When it was feeding time, they'd tuck up their skirts and hurtle towards you going 'tuk tuk tuk' and make you feel utterly indispensable.
(Then they got the hang of it and started waiting just outside the back door, cr*pping everywhere . . .)
They were so delightful, we bought six more from a farmer just up the road. Ex-husband made them all a henhouse, complete with private egg-laying spaces (he had his uses). He even constructed a run for them so they could be enclosed and not eat the vegetables he was about to plant. It was a very big run, surrounded by a fence about a metre high (made of chicken wire, obviously).
The book said that, in order to get new chickens used to said henhouse, they'd have to be shut in for a couple of days. Then we could let them out to roam until, at nightfall, they'd have to be shepherded back in order to roost. Roosting is important. They do it high up, so's to be safe from foxes.
Okay.
So we have fully fitted henhouse, in which we have shut six new chickens plus food and water. In due course, we let them out.
Come the newcomers' first evening of freedom, the old chickens tuck themselves into the new henhouse without even being invited. They tuk tuk contentedly to themselves and each other when we go and check them before we go out for a drink.
(It is summertime, so we reckon it's safe to go out for a while. We will be back by when it gets dark, in good time to make sure that the newcomers are safely rounded up and shut in.)
We get back. We check the henhouse. 'Tuk tuk' go the old chickens. There is no sign of the new ones.
Ex-husband and the friend we've gone out for the drink with and I comb the hedgerows for them. This takes quite a long time as the hedges are bushy and the garden amounts to about two acres.
I tire of this after a while and decide to go back to the house and put the kettle on. The chaps refuse to be beaten by six chickens and continue to search for them.
I put the kettle on, and the outside light, and have another glass of red.
I am sitting having this glass of red when I notice that the silhouette of the age-old apple tree about three metres away from the back door has changed.
It has acquired blobs where no blobs used to be.
I creep across the patio. I discover that the blobs are the new chickens, roosting. High up.
I call the chaps who, by this time, are quite a long way away. I point out the new chickens.
Ladders become involved. Limbs are risked.
Eventually the new chickens are reintroduced to their henhouse. Ooof.
The following morning, they have their wings clipped.
They were delightful. Pecking around the garden etc, laying eggs wherever they felt like it - hedgerows, mostly. In places you'd never think to look. When it was feeding time, they'd tuck up their skirts and hurtle towards you going 'tuk tuk tuk' and make you feel utterly indispensable.
(Then they got the hang of it and started waiting just outside the back door, cr*pping everywhere . . .)
They were so delightful, we bought six more from a farmer just up the road. Ex-husband made them all a henhouse, complete with private egg-laying spaces (he had his uses). He even constructed a run for them so they could be enclosed and not eat the vegetables he was about to plant. It was a very big run, surrounded by a fence about a metre high (made of chicken wire, obviously).
The book said that, in order to get new chickens used to said henhouse, they'd have to be shut in for a couple of days. Then we could let them out to roam until, at nightfall, they'd have to be shepherded back in order to roost. Roosting is important. They do it high up, so's to be safe from foxes.
Okay.
So we have fully fitted henhouse, in which we have shut six new chickens plus food and water. In due course, we let them out.
Come the newcomers' first evening of freedom, the old chickens tuck themselves into the new henhouse without even being invited. They tuk tuk contentedly to themselves and each other when we go and check them before we go out for a drink.
(It is summertime, so we reckon it's safe to go out for a while. We will be back by when it gets dark, in good time to make sure that the newcomers are safely rounded up and shut in.)
We get back. We check the henhouse. 'Tuk tuk' go the old chickens. There is no sign of the new ones.
Ex-husband and the friend we've gone out for the drink with and I comb the hedgerows for them. This takes quite a long time as the hedges are bushy and the garden amounts to about two acres.
I tire of this after a while and decide to go back to the house and put the kettle on. The chaps refuse to be beaten by six chickens and continue to search for them.
I put the kettle on, and the outside light, and have another glass of red.
I am sitting having this glass of red when I notice that the silhouette of the age-old apple tree about three metres away from the back door has changed.
It has acquired blobs where no blobs used to be.
I creep across the patio. I discover that the blobs are the new chickens, roosting. High up.
I call the chaps who, by this time, are quite a long way away. I point out the new chickens.
Ladders become involved. Limbs are risked.
Eventually the new chickens are reintroduced to their henhouse. Ooof.
The following morning, they have their wings clipped.
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