Please, please, please, please, please
Don’t tag me in your posts that
Just don’t concern me.
Today’s poem was brought to you by some bloody film reviewer on Twitter. And yes, I’m still (vaguely) going. I’ll write a few tonight so that I at least tip past halfway.
Tuesday, 30 April 2019
Tuesday, 23 April 2019
2019.13 Memento Mori
It’s not every day you get to say that.
She looks at me with something like love
But something much more like pity.
“Close your eyes,” she says, “and wish.”
I start to argue now:
“Wishing never brought…”
But close my eyes
Anyway –
It’s too
Late.
Picked up the latest (hard copy) book I’d been reading, and used the first suitable line to kick off a Abracadabra poem. The book was Book One of Lucifer, a graphic novel written by Mike Carey (yes, inspiration for the TV series), and you get what you ask for, I guess…!
Incidentally, I found out recently that the better translation of Memento Mori is: remember that you are going to die.
Monday, 22 April 2019
2019.12 Ragnarok
These past few years have been a call to rage
As heroes topple, villains drag us down.
We’ve never known a more confusing age,
So it seems fit to watch as clowns are crowned.
We’ve learned that no-one’s absolutely pure
And balance is the key to keeping sane.
We know full well there’s worse we could endure
But we must forge ahead despite the pain.
The ones who came before us barely paid,
Their greed put older gods to outright shame,
And those who watch us know the ways we’ve failed;
The price for those to come won’t be the same.
So we must give them heed and join their fight,
And not go silent into that cold night.
As heroes topple, villains drag us down.
We’ve never known a more confusing age,
So it seems fit to watch as clowns are crowned.
We’ve learned that no-one’s absolutely pure
And balance is the key to keeping sane.
We know full well there’s worse we could endure
But we must forge ahead despite the pain.
The ones who came before us barely paid,
Their greed put older gods to outright shame,
And those who watch us know the ways we’ve failed;
The price for those to come won’t be the same.
So we must give them heed and join their fight,
And not go silent into that cold night.
2019.11 Dies Forte
Vent away, she says with a smile.
Eventually, I respond, it won’t be
Necessary. We ponder in silence.
Generally, she suggests,
Everyone needs some kind of release.
Anger isn’t always a weakness.
Nevertheless, I say. It’s firm, soothed with a tiny smile.
Carefully, we negotiate each shift of topic;
Echoing throughout: our shared agenda,
Itching to be heard, made real,
Surging tide beneath our keels.
Long silences are loqacious here and now.
I pause yet again, reach to touch her hand.
Victory is in the little things.
Impishly, she all-but grins,
Nods.
Gathering ourselves, we rise on cue,
Wander out into the sunshine,
Exiting a chapter that didn’t give us much to say.
Lost in the dazzle for a moment, she tips her head back,
Laughter arcing into free air.
Eventually, I respond, it won’t be
Necessary. We ponder in silence.
Generally, she suggests,
Everyone needs some kind of release.
Anger isn’t always a weakness.
Nevertheless, I say. It’s firm, soothed with a tiny smile.
Carefully, we negotiate each shift of topic;
Echoing throughout: our shared agenda,
Itching to be heard, made real,
Surging tide beneath our keels.
Long silences are loqacious here and now.
I pause yet again, reach to touch her hand.
Victory is in the little things.
Impishly, she all-but grins,
Nods.
Gathering ourselves, we rise on cue,
Wander out into the sunshine,
Exiting a chapter that didn’t give us much to say.
Lost in the dazzle for a moment, she tips her head back,
Laughter arcing into free air.
Saturday, 20 April 2019
2019.10 Clerihewn
Explanation at the beginning again, as you may need to brace yourself for the ridiculousness. I was a little desperate after the last one, so requested help from social media: give me some names, and I’ll give you clerihews to match. Probably. The result is a mixture of friends, friends of friends, famous (if occasionally obscure) people, and legends such as Washing Machine Trev...
Somhairle Kelly
Is obscenely fond of jelly.
Ask what their favourite flavour is
And they’ll tell you surprisingly sternly that it’s none of your biz.
Katherine Burr Blodgett
Had a most peculiar pet.
She’d explain that she’d simply made it invisible,
But the other physicists took pains to let her know that they considered this risible.
Kasha-Faye Pascoe
Is inordinately fond of eating snow.
When queried on the source of this compulsion
She informs her interlocutor that it’s the thing that fires her extraordinary propulsion
Elly Merry Hadaway
Likes to swim like a manta ray.
They owe this remarkable aquatic prowess
At least in part to their skilled fashioning of a fetching, neoprene, wingèd dress.
Margaret Oliphant Wilson Oliphant
Kept an enormous army ant
She liked to decorate it with feather boas and glitter,
But never trusted it with cash as she suspected that was something it would fritter.
Keir Thomas-Bryant
Is rather amazingly pliant
His displays of this quality sometimes cause the neighbours consternation
But they say nothing to the effect because he’s very generous with his libation.
Paul Darrow
Is the owner of a silver-plated harrow.
He says he doesn’t mind that it’s a tad impractical,
As it’s surprisingly helpful in matters parallactical.
Washing Machine Trev
Prices all his business transactions purely on the lev.
While this would be perfectly acceptable in Bulgaria,
It makes the prospect of his ongoing prosperity in south-east England that much hairier.
Alan Rickman
Would always end his handwritten notes with a stickman.
When asked why he would even do this at home he
Would generally mutter something about the venerable clan called Nakatomi
Toby Dylan
Is a master of the brass-cast quillon.
When queried about his choice of profession
He expounds upon his love of cross-guards with a remarkable quantity of self-possession.
Jorge Luis Borges
Liked to talk at parties about his latest fork case
It was said that if he ever started to wax lyrical on the subject of the spoon
That would be a sign that the Apocalypse was due soon.
Lee Nelson
He’s a man you’ll never quell, son.
You may think you’ve got some lustre, kids,
But when you go against him, you go against his fiercely loyal gang of mustelids.
Somhairle Kelly
Is obscenely fond of jelly.
Ask what their favourite flavour is
And they’ll tell you surprisingly sternly that it’s none of your biz.
Katherine Burr Blodgett
Had a most peculiar pet.
She’d explain that she’d simply made it invisible,
But the other physicists took pains to let her know that they considered this risible.
Kasha-Faye Pascoe
Is inordinately fond of eating snow.
When queried on the source of this compulsion
She informs her interlocutor that it’s the thing that fires her extraordinary propulsion
Elly Merry Hadaway
Likes to swim like a manta ray.
They owe this remarkable aquatic prowess
At least in part to their skilled fashioning of a fetching, neoprene, wingèd dress.
Margaret Oliphant Wilson Oliphant
Kept an enormous army ant
She liked to decorate it with feather boas and glitter,
But never trusted it with cash as she suspected that was something it would fritter.
Keir Thomas-Bryant
Is rather amazingly pliant
His displays of this quality sometimes cause the neighbours consternation
But they say nothing to the effect because he’s very generous with his libation.
Paul Darrow
Is the owner of a silver-plated harrow.
He says he doesn’t mind that it’s a tad impractical,
As it’s surprisingly helpful in matters parallactical.
Washing Machine Trev
Prices all his business transactions purely on the lev.
While this would be perfectly acceptable in Bulgaria,
It makes the prospect of his ongoing prosperity in south-east England that much hairier.
Alan Rickman
Would always end his handwritten notes with a stickman.
When asked why he would even do this at home he
Would generally mutter something about the venerable clan called Nakatomi
Toby Dylan
Is a master of the brass-cast quillon.
When queried about his choice of profession
He expounds upon his love of cross-guards with a remarkable quantity of self-possession.
Jorge Luis Borges
Liked to talk at parties about his latest fork case
It was said that if he ever started to wax lyrical on the subject of the spoon
That would be a sign that the Apocalypse was due soon.
Lee Nelson
He’s a man you’ll never quell, son.
You may think you’ve got some lustre, kids,
But when you go against him, you go against his fiercely loyal gang of mustelids.
2019.9 Imparted
Putting the explanation at the beginning this time as this one made me cry and might make you cry too. For trigger warnings, check the labels at the end, below the text (I should hopefully have set this up so you can’t see the end of the poem if you click on the link, but you may need to scroll down slightly for the tags).
There’s a hole in her heart,
Or maybe just her torso,
A phantom organ that
Squeezes and kicks,
Dances in frustration in the
Soft places between.
She apologises, sometimes,
Knowing it will never see the light.
She hopes it’ll shrink,
As time and hope slope by;
She knows it can’t be filled with
Other things, and busy-ness,
But maybe they can
Crowd it down,
Wear at its hard edges,
Muffle it somewhat.
It wriggles, digs in sharp fingertips,
It has a trigger for every season –
Presents unbought, traditions unshared,
Snowballs unthrown, slopes unsledded.
There is blossom not to fondle, soft and sweet and small,
Birdsong unidentified, wingflight not pointed.
There are beaches not to run on,
Shells not to clatter in sandy, seaweed pockets.
There are conkers uncollected, fireworks uncooed,
Sharp scents of brown leaf missed, and bonfires unlit.
She knows she could only be
Even more tired, even more broke.
She knows photos and friends and
Values and poems and families-of-choice
Can be legacy, can write her love
Into eternity.
She also knows that knowing
Does not soothe the kick and squirm,
Can’t sing it the lullaby she’ll never write,
Won’t rock it, rocks herself instead,
Sweet and bitter and utterly alone.
Just for a moment. A long, long moment.
While near, small voices pipe and skirl, contented,
Through the first warm sunset of the year.
Top
Trigger warnings: childlessness and regret
There’s a hole in her heart,
Or maybe just her torso,
A phantom organ that
Squeezes and kicks,
Dances in frustration in the
Soft places between.
She apologises, sometimes,
Knowing it will never see the light.
She hopes it’ll shrink,
As time and hope slope by;
She knows it can’t be filled with
Other things, and busy-ness,
But maybe they can
Crowd it down,
Wear at its hard edges,
Muffle it somewhat.
It wriggles, digs in sharp fingertips,
It has a trigger for every season –
Presents unbought, traditions unshared,
Snowballs unthrown, slopes unsledded.
There is blossom not to fondle, soft and sweet and small,
Birdsong unidentified, wingflight not pointed.
There are beaches not to run on,
Shells not to clatter in sandy, seaweed pockets.
There are conkers uncollected, fireworks uncooed,
Sharp scents of brown leaf missed, and bonfires unlit.
She knows she could only be
Even more tired, even more broke.
She knows photos and friends and
Values and poems and families-of-choice
Can be legacy, can write her love
Into eternity.
She also knows that knowing
Does not soothe the kick and squirm,
Can’t sing it the lullaby she’ll never write,
Won’t rock it, rocks herself instead,
Sweet and bitter and utterly alone.
Just for a moment. A long, long moment.
While near, small voices pipe and skirl, contented,
Through the first warm sunset of the year.
Top
Trigger warnings: childlessness and regret
2019.8 Glitch
If your body is a miracle
Then your brain is the next step up.
Combined, they dance through time,
Glory in the stretch of senses,
Caressed by music, soothed by scents,
Blessed with the fine detail in
This palimpsest of... everything –
Picking up the fine Baroque flourishes
Where some only get the broad swish of
Primary colours.
And then there’s the other end
When things only you can discern
Are pinscratch discords across the
Chorus of creation, discolouration
Staining paradise,
A dissonant stink that threatens safety,
And all this a myth to the majority.
Even those who choose to believe you
Wince only with embarrassment’s syncope,
Where others take offence at your
Fist-clench, flinch, rock, tic, and mimicry.
They are only eating,
Only breathing,
Only crackling,
Only drinking,
Only being.
And you, guest attempting to rest on
Fathoms-deep mattresses,
Have no choice but to suffer,
Or dig out the pea,
Or leave, fleeing back into the tempest.
And yet the world will continue
To test you, never call you Princess,
And if only you could sleep,
The details of this ever-present soundscape
Could be a gift again.
Rich and rare as silence.
I’ve here written before about having synaesthesia. Among my other fun neurodiversities (neuroadversities?) are hyperacusis and associated misophonia. Another poet with misophonia reached out today on Facebook while I was deep in Write All The Poems mode, and this, rather unsurprisingly, turned up. I vividly remember my grandmother reading me the story of the Princess and the Pea. I hated it, yet kept coming back to it. It felt wrong on so many levels. We can certainly level a lot of feminist criticism at it, and betrayal of the ancient code of hosting strangers, but the deliberate torture of someone of a sensitive nature in order that she prove her assertion always seemed wrong to me, even if I didn’t have the vocabulary for it at the time.
Then your brain is the next step up.
Combined, they dance through time,
Glory in the stretch of senses,
Caressed by music, soothed by scents,
Blessed with the fine detail in
This palimpsest of... everything –
Picking up the fine Baroque flourishes
Where some only get the broad swish of
Primary colours.
And then there’s the other end
When things only you can discern
Are pinscratch discords across the
Chorus of creation, discolouration
Staining paradise,
A dissonant stink that threatens safety,
And all this a myth to the majority.
Even those who choose to believe you
Wince only with embarrassment’s syncope,
Where others take offence at your
Fist-clench, flinch, rock, tic, and mimicry.
They are only eating,
Only breathing,
Only crackling,
Only drinking,
Only being.
And you, guest attempting to rest on
Fathoms-deep mattresses,
Have no choice but to suffer,
Or dig out the pea,
Or leave, fleeing back into the tempest.
And yet the world will continue
To test you, never call you Princess,
And if only you could sleep,
The details of this ever-present soundscape
Could be a gift again.
Rich and rare as silence.
I’ve here written before about having synaesthesia. Among my other fun neurodiversities (neuroadversities?) are hyperacusis and associated misophonia. Another poet with misophonia reached out today on Facebook while I was deep in Write All The Poems mode, and this, rather unsurprisingly, turned up. I vividly remember my grandmother reading me the story of the Princess and the Pea. I hated it, yet kept coming back to it. It felt wrong on so many levels. We can certainly level a lot of feminist criticism at it, and betrayal of the ancient code of hosting strangers, but the deliberate torture of someone of a sensitive nature in order that she prove her assertion always seemed wrong to me, even if I didn’t have the vocabulary for it at the time.
2019.7 Amphibious
We were looking for ourselves,
Flicking over pages
Bright with gold –
The certainty of the light,
The heritage of those born to
The winning lineage,
All straight lines and shining faces,
Sword-girt, sunlit,
Indomitable,
We sped, too, past the dark,
The depths of the woods,
The unlit caves,
The places where the cold
And dispossessed lure
Innocence to be consumed,
Transformed into dinner or symbol.
Nothing fit.
We saw only funhouse mirrors
Fracturing us further.
It took a while;
We didn’t see you,
Stepping between the rays of sun
At the forest’s edge;
Standing on a bridge
(or under it);
Inhabiting the banks
Of the pond.
We saw you transform –
Small to large, smooth to hairy,
Vulnerable to scaly.
We were taken in by the suggestion
That only one state was the
True one.
We watched them break the spell,
Return you to your
Rightful shape:
Goose to brother,
Mage to dragon,
Fox to wife.
And we, who loved the liminal,
Found our eyes drawn, repeatedly, to you
Who, settling, unsettled us.
And, decades on, we finally re-write,
Breathe easier,
Gift the selkie back her skin
The swan maiden her shift.
The faun runs again in dappled shade,
Chain about his slender neck,
And the frog settles into the
Churning cool of the Springtime lilypond,
Raising his voice in chorus for a while
(just for a while),
Astride the twilight margins,
Until the palace beckons once again.
I’ve already reached the point where I’m asking for prompts from anyone nearby. In this case, my partner, clearly casting an eye about the room, said
Flicking over pages
Bright with gold –
The certainty of the light,
The heritage of those born to
The winning lineage,
All straight lines and shining faces,
Sword-girt, sunlit,
Indomitable,
We sped, too, past the dark,
The depths of the woods,
The unlit caves,
The places where the cold
And dispossessed lure
Innocence to be consumed,
Transformed into dinner or symbol.
Nothing fit.
We saw only funhouse mirrors
Fracturing us further.
It took a while;
We didn’t see you,
Stepping between the rays of sun
At the forest’s edge;
Standing on a bridge
(or under it);
Inhabiting the banks
Of the pond.
We saw you transform –
Small to large, smooth to hairy,
Vulnerable to scaly.
We were taken in by the suggestion
That only one state was the
True one.
We watched them break the spell,
Return you to your
Rightful shape:
Goose to brother,
Mage to dragon,
Fox to wife.
And we, who loved the liminal,
Found our eyes drawn, repeatedly, to you
Who, settling, unsettled us.
And, decades on, we finally re-write,
Breathe easier,
Gift the selkie back her skin
The swan maiden her shift.
The faun runs again in dappled shade,
Chain about his slender neck,
And the frog settles into the
Churning cool of the Springtime lilypond,
Raising his voice in chorus for a while
(just for a while),
Astride the twilight margins,
Until the palace beckons once again.
I’ve already reached the point where I’m asking for prompts from anyone nearby. In this case, my partner, clearly casting an eye about the room, said
frog(
did you look at the stuffed frog on the bookcase?
Shh!). This is where my brain went.
Thursday, 18 April 2019
2019.6 A List of Things
Things That Bring Smiles
Things That Won’t Leave
Things You Don’t Remember
Things That Wake Me Up
Things That Send Me To Sleep
Things That Bring Tears
Things That Spark Poetry
Already falling behind my self-imposed target of two per day for the rest of the month, but I continue to strive with this Pillow Book-style poem (thanks for the prompt, NaPoWriMo), done as six senryū stanzas and one tanka, because that seemed appropriate for the original material.
You breeze through the door;
You rock sideways in your seat,
Bursting with rockets.
Things That Won’t Leave
That sparkly bath bomb;
Grand National 2010;
Hair dye fingerprints.
Things You Don’t Remember
How I take my tea;
Open crisps: invitation;
That Grand National.
Things That Wake Me Up
Slammed doors – car or house;
My name, a kind hand stroking;
You suppressing tears.
Things That Send Me To Sleep
A kind hand, stroking;
Your voice shares that well-loved book;
Crackling woodfire.
Things That Bring Tears
Too much compassion;
Sister Act: that one high note;
July’s final gasp.
Things That Spark Poetry
Injustice; work stress;
Family; love; eavesdropping;
Pivoting seasons;
Memories of home; the sea;
At the right time: anything.
Already falling behind my self-imposed target of two per day for the rest of the month, but I continue to strive with this Pillow Book-style poem (thanks for the prompt, NaPoWriMo), done as six senryū stanzas and one tanka, because that seemed appropriate for the original material.
Tuesday, 16 April 2019
2019.5 Flim-flam
We meet at lunch, and no-one’s pleased,
You call my question “good”.
If flattery, I’m not appeased.
We meet at lunch, and no-one’s pleased,
My work persona’s feeling squeezed,
Forgetting shouting’s not a “should”.
We meet at lunch, and no-one’s pleased,
You call my questions “good”.
One of my traditions for NaPoWriMo is to write a triolet. Here’s this month’s.
You call my question “good”.
If flattery, I’m not appeased.
We meet at lunch, and no-one’s pleased,
My work persona’s feeling squeezed,
Forgetting shouting’s not a “should”.
We meet at lunch, and no-one’s pleased,
You call my questions “good”.
One of my traditions for NaPoWriMo is to write a triolet. Here’s this month’s.
2019.4 Ghost Tour
“Will you cover for me?” I’m helpless, delving into a set of well-worn expressions, shunning the stutter he beckons, projecting: Yeah, I reckon. “Listen,” he says, “I owe you one.” At this point, more like twenty, a reckoning that’s chasing propriety into an early grave. A new voice: “Step lively,” says Greg, head a conspiracy tilt past the fire hatch and we scurry, him stubbing, me shrugging, Greg’s gaze a spinning speculation I nudge from him. “Madame’s on the march,” he confides. I sigh. “No closer to the prize?” My turn to roll my eyes, grab regulation headgear, unprop the door while trawling for witticisms. Zilch. “There’s always next time.” “Sure, love. Sure.” We watch as he darts ahead.
Tip-toeing upstage,
We are mismatched murderers
Longing for a break.
Over to our old friend the random line generator for inspiration for this not-very-strict haibun, Words generated were: cover, march, listen, tip, upstage, point, chase, ghosts.
Tip-toeing upstage,
We are mismatched murderers
Longing for a break.
Over to our old friend the random line generator for inspiration for this not-very-strict haibun, Words generated were: cover, march, listen, tip, upstage, point, chase, ghosts.
2019.3 Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrows
She’s been told, over and over:
It’s easier to regret something you have done
Than something you haven’t.
She’s thinking, in particular, today,
Of the near misses.
The declarations of affection a breath away,
The errant gust tucked behind her teeth.
Likewise the cutting insult,
The coup de grâce to a parasitic union,
Forever spiralling on staircases.
She thinks of the last-minute turns
Not taken.
Country lanes still ravelled.
The road that’s more than familiar,
The route engrained in synapses,
Waking and sleeping, unrested,
Until all she can do is visit and
Revisit – shopping list of the
Undone accompanying the miles.
The house unbought, the home unmade,
Its neighbourhood now a maze of gentrification and
Soaring investment potential.
The hand untaken, the
Toe-tucked farewell,
Breaths pluming, backlit for all time in
Green, amber, red, beep, beep, beep…
She is thinking of the monuments unvisited
Today. She should be thinking of
Everything else. Everyone else.
She is thinking, instead, of skin untouched,
Lips untasted, breath unshared,
Knows how Too Late feels in the
Monthly crossing-off, the floodplain tedium.
She is thinking about the
“Actually”s unsung, clutched in her gullet:
Actually, don’t touch that
Actually, that’s not his name
Actually, that’s racist
Actually, she wants you to leave her alone
Actually, I want you to leave me alone
Actually, I want you to leave
Actually, I want you
She is thinking how close
Habit is to fear,
How she inhabits a groove laid out
By so many – too many –
Before her.
Whether or not this is her path,
She’s knee deep in other people’s
Straight and narrow.
It will take a miracle.
It will take a more than careless conflagration.
She finds herself hoping, for once,
The words spilling fresh from her lips,
Hearing them for the first time in years
Of repetition, no longer smooth.
Ave Maria, gratia plena,
Mundus tecum.
Benedicta tua. Benedicta tua.
Benedicta tua.
Fragments of this haunted me all evening. It’s been a funny sort of day.
It’s easier to regret something you have done
Than something you haven’t.
She’s thinking, in particular, today,
Of the near misses.
The declarations of affection a breath away,
The errant gust tucked behind her teeth.
Likewise the cutting insult,
The coup de grâce to a parasitic union,
Forever spiralling on staircases.
She thinks of the last-minute turns
Not taken.
Country lanes still ravelled.
The road that’s more than familiar,
The route engrained in synapses,
Waking and sleeping, unrested,
Until all she can do is visit and
Revisit – shopping list of the
Undone accompanying the miles.
The house unbought, the home unmade,
Its neighbourhood now a maze of gentrification and
Soaring investment potential.
The hand untaken, the
Toe-tucked farewell,
Breaths pluming, backlit for all time in
Green, amber, red, beep, beep, beep…
She is thinking of the monuments unvisited
Today. She should be thinking of
Everything else. Everyone else.
She is thinking, instead, of skin untouched,
Lips untasted, breath unshared,
Knows how Too Late feels in the
Monthly crossing-off, the floodplain tedium.
She is thinking about the
“Actually”s unsung, clutched in her gullet:
Actually, don’t touch that
Actually, that’s not his name
Actually, that’s racist
Actually, she wants you to leave her alone
Actually, I want you to leave me alone
Actually, I want you to leave
Actually, I want you
She is thinking how close
Habit is to fear,
How she inhabits a groove laid out
By so many – too many –
Before her.
Whether or not this is her path,
She’s knee deep in other people’s
Straight and narrow.
It will take a miracle.
It will take a more than careless conflagration.
She finds herself hoping, for once,
The words spilling fresh from her lips,
Hearing them for the first time in years
Of repetition, no longer smooth.
Ave Maria, gratia plena,
Mundus tecum.
Benedicta tua. Benedicta tua.
Benedicta tua.
Fragments of this haunted me all evening. It’s been a funny sort of day.
Sunday, 14 April 2019
2019.2 Ishqbazi
They call it husbandry.
He watches the coterie tumble and
Dance, flirt with air-currents,
A smile on his lips,
Even as he trains them,
Directs their pairings,
With an eye for their offspring's fortune.
He exhorts them to lean into
The best of what their God gave them,
Discarding the careless practices
Of his fond but feckless forebears.
Each feather is a treasure,
Ribboned ankles a flash of pride
In the heart of his court.
Ringed with gold, fed only the best,
They test the Charkh and the Bazi,
Fling themselves into contention with
Gravity, pull praises from him,
Trust to the truth of his love.
And even after their brief twirls are done
They grace the zenana, pecking painted grains,
Perfect specimens forever.
Pigeons feeding near a golden pigeon cote on a hillside, Mughal, Kashmirmid – 17th Century © The Fitzwilliam Museum, University of Cambridge.
Ishqbazi means “love-play” and is what Emperor Akbar used to call pigeon-flying. This is either adorable or slightly creepy. Probably adorable.
Charkh means “a lusty movement ending with the pigeon throwing itself over in a full circle”
Bazi means “lying on the back with the feet upwards, and quickly turning round”
Zenana “contextually refers to the part of a house belonging to a Hindu or Muslim family in the Indian subcontinent which is reserved for the women of the household.”
He watches the coterie tumble and
Dance, flirt with air-currents,
A smile on his lips,
Even as he trains them,
Directs their pairings,
With an eye for their offspring's fortune.
He exhorts them to lean into
The best of what their God gave them,
Discarding the careless practices
Of his fond but feckless forebears.
Each feather is a treasure,
Ribboned ankles a flash of pride
In the heart of his court.
Ringed with gold, fed only the best,
They test the Charkh and the Bazi,
Fling themselves into contention with
Gravity, pull praises from him,
Trust to the truth of his love.
And even after their brief twirls are done
They grace the zenana, pecking painted grains,
Perfect specimens forever.
Pigeons feeding near a golden pigeon cote on a hillside, Mughal, Kashmirmid – 17th Century © The Fitzwilliam Museum, University of Cambridge.
Ishqbazi means “love-play” and is what Emperor Akbar used to call pigeon-flying. This is either adorable or slightly creepy. Probably adorable.
Charkh means “a lusty movement ending with the pigeon throwing itself over in a full circle”
Bazi means “lying on the back with the feet upwards, and quickly turning round”
Zenana “contextually refers to the part of a house belonging to a Hindu or Muslim family in the Indian subcontinent which is reserved for the women of the household.”
2019.1 Articles of Instruction
Step One: Start As You Mean To Go On
Pour all the pieces on the floor,
It is important to ensure that the ground is
Unprepared, uneven,
Littered with a palimpsest of
Previous attempts.
Step Two: Organisation
Sort the pieces into piles of what
Feels Right. Your intuition is more powerful
Than the prognostication of
Experts. They have no real passion;
They don’t know your life.
Step Three: Motivation
Talk loudly about how great it will be
Once you’ve built this…
Thing. Talk of the joy you’ll feel when
Those extraneous little… jiggledy wotsits
Are out of the way.
Step Four: Focus Your Energy
Do your best to fish out the little bits
By yourself. They don’t look like the rest.
They’re not strong and proud and straight
Like the rest. Too many complicated
Twirls and curves and fussy edges.
Step Five: Key Perspectives
Ignore your neighbours.
It’s at this phase that they will lean, smiling,
Over the hedge. Offer examples.
Gesture to their own grand structure. Yours will be better.
Fling the fiddly bits into their garden when you can.
Step Six: Critical Path
Your children are asking what you’re trying to do.
Tell them that kind of attitude
Wouldn’t have served their grandparents.
Your father comes around. Tells you you’re doing it wrong.
What does he know?
Step Seven: Safety First
The rains are coming. Cover the pieces
With tarpaulin. Your partner is asking when you’ll be done.
Ignore them – you are working on the
Important things. Like what to call… it.
More small, fiddly things are turning up.
Step Eight: Reviewing
Your other neighbour is complaining.
Says she won’t be able to step over the fence
For a cup of tea any more if you build… it there.
This kind of stirring won’t help anyone.
Your partner has that look again. Ignore them.
Step Nine: Requirements Gathering
Your children have written you an email,
Asking you to stop. They only want you when
They want you. Ungrateful brats. The image
On the top of the box is blurred with rain,
Bleached by sun. Take your time to get it right.
Step Ten: Resource Gathering
The neighbours are no longer smiling,
Say they’d quite like to talk about other things
Like subsidence, unruly pets, what you’re going to bring
To the barbecue next week. They’re getting fed up of gammon.
When you ask for help, they keep telling you the same damned thing.
Step Eleven: Prioritise
The garden need work.
The tarpaulin rattles in the breeze.
The pond is clogged, the fruit gone unpicked since
The kids stopped minding you. If you’d only
Got rid of all those “screws” and “bolts” you’d be done by now.
Step Twelve: Establish Timelines
Your partner shows you a diagram
They’ve come up with. Too little too late.
You ask the neighbours. They tell you the
Same damned thing. Talk about how six of
Your relatives don’t want… it. Don’t cry where they can see.
Step Thirteen: Review
People keep talking about recovery.
You’re fine. Stop fussing. If you can just build
It. Doesn’t need to be perfect.
Not any more…
Not any more.
Pour all the pieces on the floor,
It is important to ensure that the ground is
Unprepared, uneven,
Littered with a palimpsest of
Previous attempts.
Step Two: Organisation
Sort the pieces into piles of what
Feels Right. Your intuition is more powerful
Than the prognostication of
Experts. They have no real passion;
They don’t know your life.
Step Three: Motivation
Talk loudly about how great it will be
Once you’ve built this…
Thing. Talk of the joy you’ll feel when
Those extraneous little… jiggledy wotsits
Are out of the way.
Step Four: Focus Your Energy
Do your best to fish out the little bits
By yourself. They don’t look like the rest.
They’re not strong and proud and straight
Like the rest. Too many complicated
Twirls and curves and fussy edges.
Step Five: Key Perspectives
Ignore your neighbours.
It’s at this phase that they will lean, smiling,
Over the hedge. Offer examples.
Gesture to their own grand structure. Yours will be better.
Fling the fiddly bits into their garden when you can.
Step Six: Critical Path
Your children are asking what you’re trying to do.
Tell them that kind of attitude
Wouldn’t have served their grandparents.
Your father comes around. Tells you you’re doing it wrong.
What does he know?
Step Seven: Safety First
The rains are coming. Cover the pieces
With tarpaulin. Your partner is asking when you’ll be done.
Ignore them – you are working on the
Important things. Like what to call… it.
More small, fiddly things are turning up.
Step Eight: Reviewing
Your other neighbour is complaining.
Says she won’t be able to step over the fence
For a cup of tea any more if you build… it there.
This kind of stirring won’t help anyone.
Your partner has that look again. Ignore them.
Step Nine: Requirements Gathering
Your children have written you an email,
Asking you to stop. They only want you when
They want you. Ungrateful brats. The image
On the top of the box is blurred with rain,
Bleached by sun. Take your time to get it right.
Step Ten: Resource Gathering
The neighbours are no longer smiling,
Say they’d quite like to talk about other things
Like subsidence, unruly pets, what you’re going to bring
To the barbecue next week. They’re getting fed up of gammon.
When you ask for help, they keep telling you the same damned thing.
Step Eleven: Prioritise
The garden need work.
The tarpaulin rattles in the breeze.
The pond is clogged, the fruit gone unpicked since
The kids stopped minding you. If you’d only
Got rid of all those “screws” and “bolts” you’d be done by now.
Step Twelve: Establish Timelines
Your partner shows you a diagram
They’ve come up with. Too little too late.
You ask the neighbours. They tell you the
Same damned thing. Talk about how six of
Your relatives don’t want… it. Don’t cry where they can see.
Step Thirteen: Review
People keep talking about recovery.
You’re fine. Stop fussing. If you can just build
It. Doesn’t need to be perfect.
Not any more…
Not any more.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)