Mincy

 

Mincy

 

Mincy will be the next to go,

that much is some uncertain

for Mincy is as strong as net curtain

that’s been tacked up - blows

whichever is the way of warm winds

that melt a frosting of snow,

a smidgen, a light dusting, a suggestion,

a veneer of chocolate, an indigestion,

that fails to clutch vanilla tight

and falls before the last bite.

Mincy has been up all night,

every night, first light,

carousing until the crowing cock -

checks cell phone in shock,

it’s left-hand-down-a-bit-welded,

palm fused and melded

into sweaty flesh that liquids drip

but cannot shake a grubby grip –

as the screen is swiped and flicked.

Mincy scuttles something frantic,

tripping over light fantastic

to reach the boarding bus,

departs for work with a minimum fuss.

And on the very spoon’s tip

lifted so carefully to a sallow lip

yoghurt morsels, a mincing portion,

each supped with overcaution

for a pot must surely last a trek,

while surly bedfellows with rolling eyes,

must betray that they despise,

Mincy’s grunts and Mincy’s sighs.

Minny

 

Minny

 

You’d like to suppose,

as you were turning the pages

that once she beheld his black gaze,

the unquiet slumbering of brows,

his fury at being betrayed -

she’d outgrow Minny,

or at least question the name -

because the pony remains

stabled at Thrushcross Grange

of course – but with growing steel

its moniker revealed

as nothing but a snowflake’s fluff,

and any horse worth its salt

should be named for tougher stuff

and its given shoes should throw.

 

Oh, I’m resilient, she insisted

handing in her notice,

chucking in the towel -

and Heathcliff’s scowl

is a scudding cloud

of scorched charcoal

across her simpering glass plate,

solitary, refusing to ride

with those mackerel skies

because they name storms now.

 

You will hang no sign on me

or I will nothing be –

he might have sneered,

if he had a flair for drama,

but no. Listening patiently,

he refused some resignation letter

she might better

have read to mincing Minny,

claiming she’d considered

taking a course of hysterectomy,

all reasons, misgivings, excuses,

for which he had no earthly use

and in any case,

if it were opened

he’d have slammed it shut,

bid her luck, or some such

with a steel face.

 

Had he not the heart

to say they were to hang her anyway

from the hanging tree?

Consign her to history,

only a footnote in a seminal text,

a mistake to correct,

and when they bury him open coffined

next to one who truly left a mark,

he will toss, turn, burn,

tap at the window, 

knock at the door,

visit Cathy’s rose garden - hewn

from that unforgiving moor.

EmJay

 

EmJay

 

That’s one contemptuous toss

signalling a loss

of some sort – it’s wiser not to pry

but something in you wants to try

those blazing eyes.

Often, they leave them at home,

strike out alone

and their tuba suckling man-child

stays behind, doesn’t mind

some underneath the mango tree,

me honey, honey,

or a touch of boolooloop.

Which could be the beef,

come to think of it – bruxist teeth

which snarl at the thief

who threw shade at the shelter.

It’s hot, you swelter,

criss-cross from light into dark

keeping to the edges

walking brick, shunning whitewash,

with instructions.

Buy avocado, buy banana,

but let EmJay choose, you’re no use

when it comes to ripe fruits,

last week’s were rotting.

You find her squatting,

cleaning pancit off shelves

in a waterfall of black fringe

tumbling over dusky brushed shadows

and a smile that singes.

Hair is scraped back into a bun,

but no hijab here

and against the severe

cut of her shirt and apron,

they push, they push,

thirst for release

you imagine them on the tongue,

rolling. Where is ah-teh?,

she raps, picks small ones, bruised

from too much squeezing,

passes them in a murmur of teasing -

laughs: Ah! The monkey will eat,

when the monkey comes.

Hilton

 

Hilton

 

The last time he was here,

the Hilton had tasted of smoke.

And now, that sour dance on the tongue —

he pulls back on teeth, but some

remains to the strains of Temples,

Strange or Be Forgotten;

different, but still the same.

 

Likely this is an old, old playlist,

riffing on times he was kissed

by someone else entirely.

Was it once bliss? Ah, yes — risk,

to be sure. But after four stages

fell to earth in flaming circles,

against coronas black and purple,

and he didn’t die — or so it seemed —

she only imprinted herself in dreams.

 

And here, in hemispheres

that nightly tear themselves apart,

then, in coiled collision, return together

as if by magnets or by springs,

the one against the other sings —

she be the left, and he the right —

eternally they fight

over lyrics damnable, with words that burn,

in turns of phrase he long ago learned

and gladly lends them.

 

Let those two be a bickering purgative

while he straps on the black Yamaha,

or chestnut-and-white Aria;

runs up through the C major,

slips down into the relative minor —

for nothing could be finer

than where she will be waiting for him:

his small one, loud in voice,

who in one fell swoop

has scissors-cut, paper-wrapped, rock-looped

and destroyed old Möbius.

 

During the shortening days,

to find himself back

and taste all the smoke he lacks —

because she crushed, with fists,

his final pack.

Storming

 Storming

 

 

Dobson, stirring coffee with more vigor,

two sugars and creamer this week,

with little to speak,

less to think, frowns above the cup and drinks.

There’s a nest. Here’s Casper, climbing

for a fistful of feathers

a clutch of trembling warmth

and how he used to teach that.

Stimulating, you see? thinks Dobson,

mouthing s-t-i-m-i-l-a-t-n-g

and so did you, Casper, from under a stone,

we lit fires, these birds have flown,

there’s learning in that somewhere –

Jud’s losing bet and wringing necks.

Dobson, overtopping the nest

cops maybe three or four striplings,

one weaker than the rest,

being stabbed – beaked in the chest.

He’s often withstood the pricking blackthorns,

matted ivy, each handful a gore of spears,

wonders about Arrowroots;

if McVities are still proprietors, purveyors

of your Royal Scots,

and which college disgorged this lot.

But how soon is now and sitting at six desks,

his fledglings try their might,

breast the storm, put shoulders to and test

their strength against these woven twigs,

interlaced and jury rigged,

in balance, in scales, in all else fails,

not the tonics or subdominants,

but the weights, misplaced on brass pans,

the durability of crusts around custard flans,

and whether the omelette will stand

to be folded or flipped.

Still, Dobson rolls his eyes inward, grins,

fingers the agenda; circumscribing rings

listening to his meeting’s many things,

of snips, snails, stories, trysts,

claims, counterclaims,

reading of lists,

and if she doesn’t like to be addressed,

why, the other tears open her breast –

and lets fly.

Slip

 Slip

 

In one of his more lyrical rages

he once muttered about turning pages

and how ripples sail away, away,

never come back – but overlap in fade.

For as long as I can remember,

I know I won’t. Too far from the centre,

with little enough Pritt-Stick left,

no matter how resolutely you press,

you will flutter from my turning leaves,

in dandelion clocks dumb winds seize,

watch the days, the months, the years turn

with little given and nothing learned.

And I should have tried harder,

to fight inside the evils of the father

and how they streak, in thicking blood,

his face in your mirror looking up.

I would have lent you my time,

what little is left, helped you to find

strength that lies unbidden within,

and yet, by the same conceit,

I know your senseless wandering feet

will put distance between ponds

you summoned and the ponds to come,

nothing of me will be left to grow

as your ripples slip and your waters flow.

Expire

 

Expire

 

I could not draw the bane

from her heaving breast,

coax the adder from the nest,

the winding sloth from the tree,

hanging indolently at rest

until she expires a final breath.

and doused the fickle flame.

How I wish I’d let the blood -

a razor’s nick might be enough,

out, out, all will flood

in sluicing seas the venom wash

and bear her far and above;

she might spark winning fires

and all around her to inspire.

But, beside the mirrored lake,

sucking in all that she can take

in thirsts never to be slaked,

solitary how the sunflower spins,

reaching eager for her twin,

certain space around her twists

in whirlpools she cannot resist.

Rejoice

 

Rejoice

 

Rejoice, rejoice, rejoice.

Here’s a lady’s maid, with voice

and all the speed of a tortoise

alack, she lacks alacrity,

started well, but there’s the pity,

she flattered to deceive.

Oh, she cries out, special needs,

Attention deficits,

no OCD no chronic fatigue

and she smiles so prettily -

look, that’s me, unable to see,

hot flushes, cold flushes,

a rash of blushes,

gather rosebuds round me

making blissful fuss,

I’m doubled over in such pain,

I fear I will not be capable

to ever rise from my bed again,

bring me from here

to Thrushcross Grange

and me and me and me and me,

raising spiked drinks,

to my trembling lips,

but didn’t think, as my old father

was pleased to say

as he chewed upon bitter gourds.

But, my dear, we can scarce afford,

exorbitant fees for the petting zoo,

so, what can we do?

Your kids are some neglected,

your books are uncorrected,

your colleagues begin to mutter

that your bread and butter

is only fit for puddings.

Take this ticket that we give you,

take it honey hold it high,

here’s a plane - rejoice and fly,

wave hello, say goodbye.

Boiler

 

Boiler

 

Often you find you find yourself explaining

why here and there is not the same,

dissimilar in many similar respects

to bears of very little brain

who might find themselves stuck

and used as your convenient towel horse.

Deploy the legs - something seldom said

in my house – and you might abhor

her suggestion of a spreader bar

but Cheryl winked that time she was pissed,

and said it was on her bucket list.

And here – well, you need an Air Con,

disseminating something vaguely fresh,

somewhat cool while desert fills your chest,

you’re coughing up sand, which is wrong

and you know it, still you play along.

Over there? The boiler’s broken, last legs,

holds her hand out and begs,

you know you’re down to the very dregs,

but you keep pinning up towels with pegs.

Pearl

 

Pearl

 

Over the sea and far away enough,

there lies a yard upon a hill,

rising above your common swill,

of cloistered walls from fluffy stuff

and bounded by sweet dewberry moats,

where on she sails her paper boats.

And, one day, there came a time

he called to cast pearls before a swine.

Oh, but you are wasting breath,

coos she from within a pigeon breast

and coquette, for I am quite made up,

being but a diminutive of Margaret,

while she puzzled at an oyster, tight shut

and immune to her prizing thumbs.

So, she beckons to him - come, come,

gives him a quaint, entitled look,

of precious, precious, an oyster’s book

quite sealed, dear, and he does surmise

that contentment is too great a price

which he cannot afford and lacks.

No, cries she and happy, we must act,

this world’s is but my stage,

write for me my lines upon your page,

and let me seize the day.

The shell shut fast in mystery,

but she adorns herself among weeds

and something flowers. He leaves

quaysides built of paper on card

upon the hill; within bricked up yard,

cloying moats and algae sieves,

are ropes and ropes to hang her with.