Poetry

Visiting Alan

Alan has a wall eye,
One ear missing, the other
Covered by the only hair

Now visible on his head.
 

"Did you ever marry, son?" he says,

Half eyeing me, half the TV,

"I never did, though they came sniffing, yes."

There are family tales

Of a young Alan,

Day off from the grave digging,

Hunch-backed, posy in hand,

Hair slick with Brylcreem,

Waiting under the clock

At Darlington station, too long,

The light fading round him

The lamps coming on.

He took the posy home to his mum

On whom he doted. She died

Not long after

The posy by her bedside,

The water in the vase turned green.

Alan has photos of her, pinned monochrome

Round the walls of his care-home room

And Christmas cards from two years back,

An invitation to a fiftieth.

He didn't turn up, too ashamed

Of his swollen legs.

I look down at the yellowed bandage,

The poking broken toenails

Of this broken man,

Talking of his father now,

Of Friday nights down the Crown,

Pints of stout or bitter, a pickled egg.

"I'd take fish and chips home after," he says,

"And me dad — never fail —

Was there with buttered bread,

Vinegar, and I'd tell a tale.

Happy days."

His head slumps forward,

But he strains his eye up toward me

Shows a row of little sharp teeth.

I want to cry,

I want to ask him, "Alan,

Did you ever feel lust,

Let alone love, for a woman

Not your mother?

Did soft arms embrace you

Soft lips drink your kisses

Between soft sheets fresh laundered,

Still smelling of the washing line,

The gentle sun of spring?

Did your laughter mingle with another's

As you sought that pleasure every one of us

Should feel some time?

Or was lust just

A one-way thing for you, God forbid?

Was your only constant lover

The succubus?

Did you feel her weight alone

Press hot against you in darker hours?"

But I could no more ask these things

Than he could skip

Along the street

Of an icy morning.

"I was married, yes," I say instead.

"And I would do it all again."

 

Beach (fragment)

Hands up to her face

She cups the world she wants

Framed in shades of blue, green, sun-yellow.

He lies there beached,

Some parts singeing, no doubt,

Others

Not what they were.

No matter

The ring is still fresh on her finger

The sky azure, not blue.

Sitting

Eyes are white ellipses

Flashing semaphore

Mixed messages.

It's not you she looks at

It's the light around

The shadow you will never see

Below, beneath you

And your own eyes

Turning now to the barlight

Across the shower-damp flags of the square

"Like that," she says. "Stay there."

Poem on a June Afternoon

And on lush cliff where flannel flower grew,

Along banks of Wear, or in that room

Where we lay beached first time

Swept up on other's shores

Calm may reign now, air still

Birds silent,

Song seemingly forgotten.

Here the wind streams unceasing

Up from the coast, still thick

With brine that dries the skin of me,

Streams on indifferent even

To the skylark song, his trilled cry

Ceaseless also it would seem

Seeking out his mate

On whichever dale or hill

Whichever lavender field

She may be.

But to that still or silent room,

Along that bank

And to those cliffs wind will return

With distant news of skylark's song

And it may fall on sleeping ears,

Or wrap the silky petals of a flower dead

Or be lost in willows of things unsaid.

Not everything is known.

A Place Unknown

I woke to find myself

Making love in a place unknown,

At least to me; to a local surely

It is just like home. And locals there

Must surely be. You can hear them, listen,

In the rooms next door, above, below

Making love also, or watching TV

In their own language, whatever it may be,

This foreign language to me. Perhaps

It is the Isle of Wight, Manila, Mexico City,

Which all are places I have been.

But no, this is not any of these; not now either,

Not me, someone who was me before, before me,

And I am making love in a bed

In another decade, with another body

That no longer exists as it is now,

Or was then either; neither is real,

As this is surely a dream,

As I wake up making love again

This time alone.

 

Happisburgh

Inexorable

Is a big word

That claws with salty wet fingers

At the soft underbelly of Norfolk.

That Floral Dress

I wander meadows

Of a sunny noon

Palm brushing new blooms

When really I should be working.

And here you come

Calves and arms still pale,

Toes fresh painted, pert

Blades poke between them.

That floral dress

Clings to you

Like a jealous lover,

Paying particular attention

To hips and breast

But is powerless against the breeze-lick

That flicks flowery hem from milky thigh

And delights the unsuspecting passerby.

A judicious safety pin

Will soon solve that

But I was glad to witness first outing

Of your new floral dress.

Heart Beat in a Gallery

For the most

The art lovers were not there

To watch you lean against me

As I rested my sciatic nerve,

Leg outstretched

Toward some beauty passed.

But it occurred to me

Now was the chance

To press the breast just

This time, to listen, and yes…

D-dum, d-dum

Oh, but it is the best pop song

I ever heard: first time

First drink, maybe,

First flutter of that first found heart

And you were looking so…

And heart said just d-dum, d-dum

Oh, how I didn't dance

Didn't get on with the other kids

Didn't know, this time on,

It would matter nought.

You press against me,

In the gallery

You whisper and I smile.

You press against me

In the gallery

And we're forty-something now.

But as I pull you in

It's like we're us again.

 

Song Thinking of You

I wrote this song
Thinking of you
When snow was falling
Flake after flake
Like it knew it was going
And I was watching
Having stopped somewhere
Shopping bags around me
Just watching.

They weren't making a fuss
These flakes, this snow,
No gathering winds
Just snowing, being.

Just being snow.

Now I like snow,
But complacent grates
I have to admit I kicked some
Fuck's sake
At least make a drift or something
Crush a roof.

I wrote this song
Thinking of you.

March Falls

March fell before spring
Could lavish hawthorn on hedgerows
As white almost as the whiskers on my chin.

I gave it to you once
That promise in my hands
Like down from some thistle
Drifting from my grip
'Cross meadows where young girls skipped
All life ahead, and caught
The whispered seed
Called fairies, strung daisies
Contemplating
Late summer breezing.

But March falls long before
And closes hope on another season
For this aging head,
Even as hand draws blade 'cross skin
And the hawthorn falls away
Forgotten.

One Slim Volume

The books I have found
Online, in-store, sometimes
Lifted from the shelves of others
Are silent in my room, unread

I like their spines
Like to run my fingers
Over their covers
Embossed or smooth

But it shames to say
I barely went beyond
The superficial, rarely took time
To read their lines.

There is one slim volume, though,
Of beautiful, poetic prose
I return to night and day
To drink each nuanced phrase

I'll never tire of those pages
I have known forever it seems sometimes,
Never fully understand those words
But never cease to try.

Yes, that slim volume always will
Be by my side,
If only in my mind.

Cello 

I would make your strings sing
Given the time
Fingers in all the right places
Bow stroking
Or pizzicato
With melodies often sweet
But then deep
Your lower ranges
Pulsing between my thighs

Not Forgetting

Not forgetting the time you sought me out
In the early hours, hot limbs
Like tendrils seeking light
Beneath sheets we had pummelled into mountainscapes
That would take years to chart.

You had been away,
In the far reaches of the bed,
Wanting sleep, I suppose,
Some time to recover,
Then coming back from your travels
Wrapped again my skin in yours,
With such vigour that
With anyone else, would have suffocated,
While you filled my body with purest oxygen,
Pumped me full of high.

I drifted into sleep on your sigh
That passed between us, as blood passes
From heart to lungs.

Not forgetting that.

Nimbostratus Days

I.
The river is a brown slug
Drawing its slime along a concrete road
Below a sky slung so low as to weigh on your shoulders
And make your neck ache.

You know enough
— of yourself, the real world —
To see that it is you that makes
These things
This way.

You are at least, you say,
Visiting a gallery,
Filling your eyes and parts of mind
With some kind of beauty.

Habit makes you turn sometimes
— Senses seeking comfort —
As a scented woman, alone, passes by,
Lifts perhaps an eyebrow,
The corner of a smile.

But you find yourself instead
In front of Chatterton,
Wondering if you could carry the style
Of breeches and fiery hair,
And why someone so destitute, so poor,
Was able to stretch out
On a chaise longue.

In the members' room you exchange
Knowing glances over limp coffee;
You are the cognoscenti, except
You have to look the spelling up, and know
No matter how many books you buy,
You will never truly understand.

Later, in the backstreets near Westminster,
The pavements are elitist,
Empty almost.
But you keep walking,
Find yourself
Once more peering
Through the window
At the place where you sat,
Hands curling about hers, a longing
In the pit of your stomach
That would never be quenched,
Comes back now. Her smile
That was for you then,
Done, wiped by separation,
Perceived wrong,
A failure to anticipate
The dream-loss you would wake with
Once she had gone.

II.
She stands beside you
Says a second time:
"Are you alright sir?"
Touches you, barely
On the sleeve of your coat.

Inside, one of the tables
Explodes in laughter,
Not at you, surely,
And the shockwave bulges the glass
From which your reflection stares back,
Wakes you.
"I'm fine" you say.

You walk away
Knowing she is watching you
Her pristine pinafore on supple hips,
Silky hair bunched up.
Probably she volunteers
For Help the Aged
Helps old gentlemen
To cross the street,
Should have helped you
At least to save the black cab
From stopping inches away,
The cabbie waving,
Fist-raising,
While his fare,
On all fours in the back,
Dirtied knees and palms,
Looks up with shame and fury
Straight into your eyes.
Chinese maybe
Impeccable, Chanel and Dior
In bags around her,
Bags that have spilled
Their tissue-wrapped contents.
You watch the cab pull away,
Her long thin neck through the back window
Disdainful,
Raise a hand in farewell.

III.
St. Paul's is different now
From that cold November day
You climbed to the Whispering Gallery,
Her going first, in case she fell.
Such chivalry!
You laughed, neither one
At odds then with happiness,
Or hope, so that
On the dome's stone bench,
You ached to touch her,
Not knowing when or if
You should,
Though there was no doubt at all
Thinking back
That you would.

Today the square is full
Of people with a greater purpose,
While you can only think
Of your own ruin,
Of the collapse of your life,
The destitution of your heart
And your impoverished sense of desire.

You march on to cross the river,
Decide against another tour
Of the turbine hall,
Seek out the backstreets of Southwark,
A small, dark pub with a small dark corner
Where you sit with a glass — large please —
Of passable Shiraz,
Something else you know little of
Just long for sometimes,
Much like you long for her
As you scroll through the contacts on your mobile phone
Just to see her name.

IV.
That same day
You had spent in the galleries
Whispering of art,
You stood with her, too close,
Beneath the vaults of Waterloo station.
After many hours, and quite some wine,
The lips that touched then
Brought decades of wilderness
To an end;
You had found each other again.
But now it seems it was
An oasis you had stumbled on
On your erratic, aimless journey.

You wait among the crowds
Anonymous now, as all around you
Lives are lived,
Some happily,
Some arm in arm
Though often in their eyes you see:
"This is not where I am meant to be."

You might think
That this would comfort you,
It does not;
Somehow it would be better
If all the world were right but you, so that
Your grief could be unique
Your suffering a thing of awe
For others to behold.

Shamed, you slink onto the train,
Slip into the furthest seat,
The most distant reach, not looking up
At time passing.

V.
What dismal light there was
Fades now. Darkness spills
Across the nation,
Swallowing you,
And throughout the land
Lights snap on, curtains close.
In valleys fires are stoked,
Animals brought in,
And in some country evening pubs
High up hills,
Taciturn men with thick hard hands,
Dogs and crooks,
Wellington boots and woolen socks,
Drink sweet draughts of local ale
And talk the topics of the day
With Bill, the recovering alcoholic landlord
And his ever-suffering partner, Gwen.

You want to be one of them,
Men whose days are filled
With beaten up Defender Rovers,
One eyed dogs and drystone walls,
Bleak windswept dales and not a moment
To think of the loneliness,
Of that crushing aloneness,
Of the commuting crowd at Clapham Junction.

And as you think this,
Reaching for your glass,
You hear her voice again, she says:
"Don't feel so sorry for yourself; move on".

She is right.
It's Saturday night.
You watch the cursor blink;
The television flickers silent,
A woman smiles beside
A map of sou'westerlies,
Somewhere over Dartmoor,
Stunting already embattled hawthorn,
Sending sheep for shelter
In the ruins of other people's dreams.
Fifty miles an hour —
You wonder: How long before that jagged front
Arrives to lift these clouds,
Blow away this stillness?
No matter, soon, tomorrow even;
The nimbostratus days will be done then
You will wake early,
Find your walking boots, tongues lolling,
Waiting for you,
And dressing with some sense of purpose
Packing food, water, money, compass
— All really that you need in life —
Step out the door, set off
Beneath big skies stripped clean by winds
That baffle gulls, make trees dance and shake their limbs
And walk that massive arc you'd planned
And think yourself no less than blessed,
For enough is known of life, yourself,
For clouds to be no more than rain
Unfulfilled, and love that cannot be
Is surely better
Than love that never was.

And you smile,
Let the smile waver,
Take out her battered picture,
Once more to savour.

Remember, Remember

She burst from something
That held her inert
So long by his side,
Flew up into the sky,
Screaming wild,
Arms flung in colourful joy,
And with a bang she was gone,
Left behind her duller clothes,
And scars that are the shape of her
In palms that once had smothered her.

Floating Down the Anaconda With Elizabeth Taylor

It was a dream you had
Lying in my arms on a May afternoon
Jetlagged and delirious.
Liz was young and beautiful
Unsure why she was there
But happy to be silent
As you watched me punting, rowing maybe,
Through tropical heat.

It was just the start of our journey
First stage in another leg
Of our voyage of discovery
Of the vast lands of us
That reveal as we open up,
One unto the other.
It was your dream,
But our life,
And I can feel it now inside,
As even the inscrutable actress 
Smiles at a greater love unfolding.
 

Hope Also Has a Heart

Hope also has a heart
Much like any other.
It should not be abused
With fatty foods, sugar, smoking,
Or sudden shocks of the kind
That take your breath in.
But there is more:
Some exercise, a little encouragement,
A kind word from time to time
Will keep hope’s heart a ticking
Happy in hope’s chest,
Until hope fades and leaves us first
And its heart, heartbroken,
Goes next.

Rock Pooling

You should not encounter silence at the beach, where sea is unceasing, gulls are taking shifts to shriek, seals slap their bellies unnecessarily.

It hadn't yet occurred to us, when we were maybe eight or nine, Rosie in her shorts and T, leaping barefoot rock to pool, me in sodden sagging trunks, a piece of kelp in one hand, a razor clam in the other, but life was noise from dawn through dreams then, playing on the beach.

We were hunkered in the safety of our best rock pool, poking an anemone, when silence made us pause. First those gulls, like they'd fallen from the sky without a thud, then seals ceased slapping round the lighthouse rocks, and the wind inhaled and closed its eyes, hiding from something, the sea itself sucked its belly in, held its breath.

They still talk of it today ― some say tidal wave, but more like freak — and I still wake of a night, not hearing that silence, looking up with Rosie at the darkening, feeling the weight of an ocean upon us.

Our bodies cling to each other now, and dance and tumble in the dark, and Rosie's wide eyes blink at mine, her hair a swirl about us.

I've never been back, not so much as touched a beach, but Rosie's made of stronger stuff. I'll sit in the car with a flask of tea, watching with anxiety, as Rosie seeks out shells and weeds, pokes the sea anemone.

Last Night

Last night I listened to the universe
Cutting through the insistent cicadas
Breeze on leaves of corn
And the slumbering souls nearby
Here on this hillside
Through till dawn
Seeking out the silence
That lies beyond stars
Where worlds collide without a sound
Here in this universe
Where you reside, slumbering also
Dreaming of better days
And the sun on your skin.

Filled with Blue

The bluebell woods are empty still
For spring came late and hot, panting
With apologies, trying her best to make up
For winter's protracted reign.
But bluebells won't be rushed
Into any kind of budding,
Take time to lift their heads and open up,
Still fearing that the warmth she offers
Is ephemeral, that come the morning they might find
Their shoulders frosted white,
Their fragile frames dissolving
In the ice of her absence.
But one day soon, sure enough,
As sure as happened years before,
As sure as I will come to you,
We will wake to find our eyes
Filled with blue.

Kestrel

Her head
Fixed against the sky
Her body
Wings and tail
Intuit the wind
Eyes bore into the ground,
The long grass, until
All other thoughts aside,
The wings fold back,
The body plummets,
Life unfolds
And impales desire.

Or does she,
All uncertainty now,
Let pass the glimpse
As twilight surrounds her
And darkness falls,
Till morning
And the empty pasture.

Deathbed Spread

Some damned bird sang right through
The closing of his eyes.
He didn't 'slip away' Father,
He died.

And that damned bird — I can hear it still
Its trill piercing sunshine and window sill
To settle in motes on the deathbed spread,
The one she bought for their 60th
The one she stares at now
With eyes as lifeless as his.

Do Not Wake Me Now

Do not wake me now

I don't want to know

What the weather's like

How the sun's glint fills

The air with shimmering promise

How distant shores from this height

Glimmer, beckoning still.

Do not wake me now

Even if the christ child

Waits for me, or for the gift

That somehow makes

All other gifts meaningless.

Keep your gold and myrrh,

Keep it all

And do not wake me now.

Leave me here where all is known

Where dream is dream and none can claim

Illusion other than sleight.

No do not wake me now

Let me lie, let me die here.

In these arms.

The Blue-Lipped Lake

Calm,

The blue-lipped lake 

Dips and licks

At the prow of a boat;

Take me out to stormy seas

Sink me in your arms.

(My epitaph.)



All titles (c) RE Hoskins