Things I Gotta Do

 

Things I Gotta Do

 

 

It’s easy to grasp when you reach back pages,

the climax passed or you’re racing

towards it fast – antique thumbprints

and rickety fingers turning down corners,

reluctant to put it aside, turn off the light

there goes another day, here comes the night.

Assuming you read, crack codes - some still do,

but I wouldn’t blame you –

an underrated pastime by an overrated mass,

but mostly let’s just let it pass.

Last night, my Grandson, pushing grub

around his plate gave me a surreptitious nudge –

‘Put it on here, son,’ I hissed, tapping my plate,

but later accidentally let it slip, game’s up –

so after tea, we’re  off down the park,

shooting hoops, hoofing football, laughed -

You see? Things we gotta do

that don’t apply to me and you.

I’m not sure you’re a fan of the beautiful game,

you took up the guitar, put it down,

music brings on rashes, writing’s a chore –

but fair play, I can’t stick rugby, fucking boring,

and no way I’m pounding streets to keep fit.

And, you see, that’s an end to it,

really, don’t you think? Nothing personal, rude –

it’s philosophy, how you see things, in the end

I won’t expect you and don’t expect me to bend,

or overlay your charts on my maps;

there’s goalkeepers with nothing left to defend,

backs to nets when the game’s at an end.

Stepping Stones

 

Stepping Stones

 

 

She says: ‘Is this it for me?’

You returned from overseas,

a longish stint, nothing comes easy –

with war chucked in for good measure,

triggered for the pleasure

of those wired enough to plunge detonators.

 

But, she doesn’t want any rows,

talking New Zealand, couple of years from now –

fourth or fifth trip, who’s counting?

 

You’ve refused to go, but will foot the bill,

way past a dubious thrill

of seeing mountains behind more mountains

and with two brothers coming here anyway

to rubber boot your holiday,

you’re thinking ‘Here it goes again.’

 

Is that a slight rash,

left side, where your balls chafe your leg?

You walk a lot, note it all down most days,

then sit solo upstairs, writing as the records play,

grateful distractions have upped and fled

churning sour milk into butter.

 

Let’s think on retirement.

It’s fanciful – maybe an allotment,

try your hand at cultivating produce,

healthy, you know?

But looks like that aren’t made, they’re born.

 

Settled in front of the television, yawns –

‘And what do you know of such things.’

It’s ‘Little House on the Prairie’ and he’s fixing stuff

bellyaching there’s not enough

money in his pocket, food on the table:

unhitches the team and plough from the stable.

 

You’re asking whether she’s gone blind, yet,

and, met with a double negative,

point out 5 years ago you were playing air

until someone planted a guitar there;

think of the band – she thinks, she groans.

 

Later, you tell him ‘Let’s go!’

to where weeks of heat has made the river low,

spot fishes by banks, gaze at it flow

and practise laughing on the stepping stones.

Ruby, Woah

 

Ruby, Woah

 

 

Does the past exist in black and white?

I’ve seen the pictures - grimaces in grim sepia tones,

couples that bleed together looking alone,

dustbowl smiles that failed to cultivate

prairies of salted paper prints – three by three inch -

and possessed of thick, forbidding borders.

 

Today, we’ve a pre-season friendly,

nothing of consequence, but we arrive early -

mighty Truro to be toasted - flash-roasted

by your hubristic Exeter City who – with maximum fuss,

swaggered off the bus and lost.

 

Hard to put fingers on how. Their number 15 blazed

resplendent red trails, raised fire-streaks on green baize,

but we’ve our very own indigo Harry Kane

mighty in mid-field, steals a penalty,

lashes it home between the milk-white frame

and the onion bag bulges.

 

Post match, he’s on his phone, though –

‘Grandad, hurry, we’ve got to go,’

and he’s tackling the viridian verges,

sprinting ahead, square on square, a paintbox splurge,

hurtling crossroads, hurdling kerbs

and I’m sweating to match him under buttercup sun.

 

‘What’s the hurry, son?’

He’s tight lipped, has to get to the gym, pre-closing,

pump his upper-body, grind his traps -

points to the car-park where his mother’s waiting

to pick me, dashes inside – an iridescent flash.

 

‘Ah, that’ll be Ruby, his friend.’ she clarifies,

and I speculate, but, ‘No, she’s 18.’

But I remembered how Mary Wilson made me putty

in the upper sixth, how lucky

I felt just to scent her auburn tresses, her swishing dresses,

how I soared when she let me take her hand.

 

Even to this day, my pulse still can race, take first place,

mount podiums for dazzling medals -

I ragged him later, a little, scanned his face –

he denied it with a crimson blush that bloomed, flourished,

looked back on this match. It didn’t matter;

 

we’d queued for beer, Coke for him, heard the clatter

of expectant cheers, prism crews, mosaics all limbering up,

asked a fellah behind us – if we pose, take a shot

for remembrance - I grin gawky from over his shoulder,

looking back at him getting older –

how his past detonates forever colours.

Them’s The Breaks

 

Them’s The Breaks

 

 

All this hot weather turns milk sour,

the bottoming globs glower

while sallow whey rises to the top –

feels wrong, looks wrong, is wrong:

a sort of tie-dyed, jaundiced,

cheesecloth shock-mop to slop

out flushed specks that exit the carton

with dragging feet and harden.

Nothing doing for my coffee, then,

I lay down my almost eager pen

and slap in slippers the odd mile or so

into town. It’s early, coming seven,

half risen sun’s scrubbing out heavens –

I’m thinking ‘Spar’s convenient’,

or so they continually claim.

Coming down by the viaduct, endgame

within reach, I spot two by the door,

smoking, vaping, all the same –

studying my approach, detached.

I can see they’ve not lifted the latch

yet, watching with expectation.

I’ve already predicted explanations:

‘Sorry, dear, don’t open ‘til 7.30,’

all caretaker language, Ms Honey tones,

they even set aside their phones -

think manicured nails down blackboard,

Stradivarius mistuned, misbowed,

a warbling chorus of rough crows,

G-string’s bust, half simpered sympathy,

the rest pure smug-shot; I care not.

‘Them’s the breaks,’ I might’ve mumbled -

didn’t – changed direction, stumbled

a jot – like you do – made the Co-Op.

clutching the blessed pint in my fist,

I set back the way I came, deep breaths,

of course, it’s bloody open by now,

but I’m hoping what they blow they suck –

and - I suppose - glad it was only dear:

not bro, mate, buddy or chuck.

Mr Chips

 

Mr Chips

 

 

Catchphrase, ITV – a sweaty, smirking, Roy Walker,

thieving pairs of donkey’s hind-legs -

Poor legless bastards, bemused, sit up and beg –

‘Can you say what you see? What it is yet?’

Here’s Mr Chips, hiding behind a celebrity square,

doing something suspect, all hands - you’d swear

on tribes of honest injun’s tripping the Can Can –

it shouldn’t happen to a vet, let alone a man.

All this is apropros of nothing, random beliefs

like when you’d not bothered brushing your teeth,

there’s a smell sweet - tuna fish, is it? Good grief.

Now, there was this dog, probably shaggy, his tail

wagging as you entered Archie’s pub, a talker?

Not much of one, but he had a hot trick or two

under his collar, he’d go on the nick, like they do,

partial to a bag of cheese and onion. Now, the boxes,

well, they were on the floor, with holes your socks

would be proud of, cut out - he could get his snout

in there quicker than your liminal zone could shout,

‘Crisps!’ Which we all did. Frequently. ‘Crisps!’

And he’s off and at them, bagged him a packet,

settles it between his front paws, then, snags it

with his canny teeth and he’s having his portion.

Bad breath? Wouldn’t get close, if you’re asking.

Poor Archie, at his wits end, he’s multi-tasking,

begging us, ‘Fellahs, don’t say ‘Crisps’!’

So, of course, we did it more, so did the labrador,

its belly getting so big, it’s scrubbing the floor,

which had to help, right? Until, one day, dog’s dead.

I stopped going after that, don’t know why -

well, I do - but I found new pubs, invited in, ‘Drink!’

they’d say, ‘Drink!’ You’re by toilets, under sinks

black holes getting blacker until there was only black.

‘Say what you see.’ Not much, actually, looking back,

made my considered choice, revealed a square,

exposed Roy Walker and Mr Chips crowing there.

Thickets

 

Thickets

 

 

There’s no shortage of degenerative growth

every morning - taking a reassuring swallow

of agreeably bitter coffee, thick on the throat,

draining a mug to fill the hollows.

On brambled trees, deep throaty chokes

of wood pigeons, birdbrains all, but he’s low –

a baritone east of bass, what he knows

he surely rumbles to tendrils tugging fences –

ineffectual barriers; last lines of defences.

 

They could only keep electricity switched on

haphazardly, Coker, Masen and the rest,

some hazard Wyndam drafted in to advance tension

and the Triffids, ramming barricades, were blessed

with a primal intelligence such vegetation

must surely have, an urge to usurp what was left –

and there was a sickness that flew the night,

linked to circumnavigating, artificial satellites

ringing lines of latitude like necks; burning bright.

 

There’s a beauty deep in those woods

beyond pickets, dark sung songs for everyone

composed carelessly from indifferent thickets - should

mean something, but don’t. Yesterday, spending long

hours scrubbing dust, carpets thick with floods

of undisturbed mites, she’s calling from beyond:

We must go home, dear, where you and I belong.

And, on the orders of some listless general

another child lies injured by the falling shrapnel.

Cumberbatch

 

Cumberbatch

 

 

‘Where’s your England shirt?’ I asked the Grandson,

14, young, strong, doesn’t have one –

so, I told him, ‘try one of mine for size’,

nothing doing there – ‘too big, too old’ - he cries,

wiser eyes than mine on the bigger prize.

 

I’d picked a Beckham, 7, from some tournament, long lost -

maybe from that time we’d tossed

pairs of plastic St George daubed hand clappers at the big screen,

got thrown out, banned forthwith, watched dreams

sail on, sail on down the line, Rooney’s off, Ronaldo winks,

the whole reel reeks, your heart sinks.

 

Half an hour until Sports Direct shuts tonight

2 hours until kick off, haring down Pydar Street,

that’s him and me – he picks a blue top,

they’re all out of white, red – none in stock –

you notice she doesn’t say, ‘due to popular demand’,

or some other cliché – still, he’s looking grand

in medium and, as I pay, I feel I should say

to her, ‘he should be prepared for decades of pain,’

but puts me in my place,

with her quiet titter, ‘I don’t own one.’

 

BBC1, we’ve switched it on,

I played ‘3 Lions’, ‘World in Motion’ - New Order - 12 inch,

what else? Done the Age UK nostalgia tour, put drinks,

your heart sinks, Chapman, Shearer, Mowbray –

quips about Lineker, cut and pasting poor taste – all they say

is guaranteed to court disaster and the best saved for last,

ill-informed public chestnuts then your very own Cumberbatch.

 

He’s a silhouette, throwing shade, rocking ‘With the Beatles’,

almost black and white, but not quite, nearly regal:

‘Seize,’ says he, ‘The Day! You lions!’ or some such crap,

that tumbles like clowns, pratfalls into your lap - that’s that.

 

Yesterday, I bought him his first England shirt,

then, when sleep flirted from behind her skirts,

stared at the ceiling, pondering a world of hurt.

 

Tonight Tonight Tonight

 Tonight Tonight Tonight

Let’s all get up and dance to a song

that was a hit – there’s fragments of it,

shake yourself from an afternoon kip –

let slip slumber, lose any grip

of internal worlds you’d unspooled and projected.

It’s half of two, give or take –

day of a big game - well they’re all big, this late

on in tournaments, England Norway -

He would’ve loved that, found a pub somewhere,

wittered on about live atmospheres,

Erling Haaland – you don’t get much more

corporeal than him – certain to score –

press sharpening knives, watch how he skives

on the park, but, boy, he’s sharp.

Find yourself in town, wandered down

from Angel Towers - some excuse about potatoes,

sun’s a thieving crook, gone and took

what water he can squeeze from your sponge –

and although you mostly avoid pubs

you still hang on to the Con Club –

paying annual subs

for a final bolt-hole that could prove handy -

nip inside order ice-cool shandy.

Maybe you’re halfway through

when you’re recognised –

hailed with a ruck of a shout, a hearty maul,

but you don’t remember his face at all,

later, when he’s off for a slash

you make a quick pass at boy bartender,

confess you can’t remember

who the hell he is – but didn’t you hide it well?

Jason’s back, now you’re in the know –

recalling how we used to go

with Chris … remember Old Trafford, England game,

we had more than a few, him, me, you,

he bought his lad – no, no, that was my boy –

was it? You fell down the steps,

well, we was all fucking wrecked,

twenty years back along, Steve McClaren, Rooney,

and City, lifting the Vase at Wembley -

choker about Chris – let’s not go there –

no, no, you’re right, shit, one day, he’s just gone –

I know – passed on, it’s just bloody wrong,

isn’t it? It was, like – let’s not bring it all back,

he was my best friend, come on,

I’ll put one in, have another one…

You make your escape,

but City have got Exeter, Saturday next, pre-season

friendly, well, there’s another reason

to hang on, you guess,

agree to catch up in the bar, bring the Grandson,

because we all belong

to some sort of football family.

And if he could brush ashes from his eyes,

wake up from an afternoon kip,

wonder what he’d make of it?

Your Own Now

 Your Own Now

If you often find yourself on your own now,

let me point out - the observer once observed

is just as valid – it depends on how

fast your relative’s travelling – 

If they blaze a fulgent curve,

well, case closed, it means you’re no more real 

than them. You ask - are you able to feel

the way I feel, if every present is present

and every now is now?

Evidently. The off-side rule laments bereft,

hides under beds in plain sight of the ref

until pronounced hereby abolished

and told to take up dust-moting instead.

Pitiful pastimes, these, watching drops racing drops,

thinking about how many sailor’s socks

I might have darned, if I’d stayed in, not left her

to take her up – 

We’re walking Cornish woods,

where we’d often talked in woulds and coulds

when I felt my present take your present’s hand

in mine – and it stopped me there -

while your ghost fingers combed my hair -

but someone observing us at light speed

saw that you were much more real than me - indeed

they sighed and said - I was the one who'd died.

Fruitcakes

 

Fruitcakes

 

 

Some boffin’s gone and crossed

a croissant with a muffin,

called it shitzhu, mufftini, something –

pumped the whole thing full of vanilla,

so you can’t taste nothing -

witness Fanny Craddock’s grief,

thrill as your Galloping Gourmet sprays

short slurps on studio floors in disbelief –

he never met a cab he didn’t like,

might order one; take flight.

I saw him platforming, up and down,

not Graham, but another fruitcake,

a sultana short - across his brow

what he thought might make for a fierce frown

rucksacked, like me, T-shirt, too –

anything could happen in the next half hour,

where’s Troy Tempest? That’s him,

accosting other travellers waiting

on the 8.15 from Manchester –

well, Penzance lacks the glamour

and I think, if he packed a hammer,

we’d stand back, plea bargain, submit,

but he hadn’t, just screaming shit

looking the very picture of pain,

as if the world and its people are insane –

lunatics breeding pastry crescents,

Pillsbury Doughboys in want of crust stuffing -

he’s in, out, up, down, tugging his cuffs

grilling those he can’t trust,

winkling them out for a shower of spit –

he’s finding plenty of material

to get to grips with – saves his best bit

for two bearded blokes giving it dap,

because in his head he’s got their backs,

better believe it, buddy –it’s your lucky day.

We’ll shuffle uncomfortable, look away

as though he’s wraithlike, doesn’t exist,

well, that’s the best way to deal with it,

after all, who here can honestly say

he’s wrong? There are some there

who thought Gareth Gates was a neat idea,

watched Mad Lizzie wake up and dance,

and absolutely swear by Lemsip –

it’s either heartsease or heartache

until they think up something else to bake

he’s just trying to ward a world off fruitcake.

They’d Quite Like To Apologise

 

They’d Quite Like To Apologise

 

There’s a tinker without an axe to grind –

just a tea chest full of table knives

down Helston way and onto The Lizard,

all the better to nick the gizzard,

he misses arteries but snicks the veins –

spot him from window seats on the train

where an interminable litany intrudes

upon these fascinations - has us glued

to cheap moquette polyurethane foam,

an adhesive of beading sticky sweat

and we’re not even part way there yet -

a hissing classless deadpan monotone

slithers from speakers and drones,

plucked slit wristed, tanpura style,

by a two-fingered woolly mittened

thread-sleeved Stourport dreadnought:

It seems they’d quite like to apologize:

for moving slower up your inclines

than they’d like, for running late,

it’s a lot to ask; there’s a lack of seats

due to pulling two coaches not three,

please give yours up for infirms or elderlies,

unexpected air conditioning malfunction

at Droitwich, that earlier cancellation

mentioned previous, but compensation –

if you search up and click GWR Delay.

While Cornish countryside makes its way

inch by inch, inspector’s sent, greets you

with a surly, ‘All tickets joining at Truro,’

clickety-click, but we’d quite like to glower,

sullen at the backs of seats, ignore

that courtesy, let them punch fresh air,

conjure up streaky rashers of fare flouts

spitting in pans - ticket touts, litter louts,

waiting for a long-delayed day they shout –

‘The Emperor’s got no clothes.’ Point out

quiet lanes, long and winding routes,

from London to The Lizard via Helston Town -

your saw-toothed tinker's heaping mounds

of all slack tongued lip-service he ground.

Sweet Potato

 

Sweet Potato

 

 

There’s an uncollected solitary sweet potato, going off,

with shrivelled skin and soft

centre, front left corner of the otherwise

empty wickerwork vegetable rack, and its eyes

might sprout if they weren’t shut tight.

 

Still at least you thought you wanted it,

which is more than I can say. There’s grit

in every sip of that tea I didn’t make,

a carbon monoxide alarm for carbon monoxide’s sake

and smoke alarms that would sit awake

 

if you’d ever reached up to replace expired batteries

in sleeping policemen. The factories

burn and churn them out – dying is a thriving industry;

and there’s a something symmetry

that I can’t articulate – proclivity and declivity

 

or a loop the loop, where the ends don’t lock.

They’ll convince you – bastards fronting Watchdog,

that bottle tops kill, radon gas leaks undetected,

lock doors, bar windows, shut curtains, stay protected –

but when your number’s up, you’re collected.

Ruby’s

 

Ruby’s

 

 

You make your escape mid-morning –

pictured the carnage you’ll be cleaning before they set to

chopping fruit, several self-composting kilos

for Saturday’s protracted wedding do

and you’ve absolutely refused to go –

picture the longuers clearly: church, people, photographs,

our tune, unnecessarily crap laptop disco –

a couple of speakers, cheap LED glitterballs

watch him hyperfocus on punching that ‘enter’ key.

Oh, darling, save the last dance for me,

no thank you, feet up, football’s on telly –

So, that’s you, Falmouth train,

a bit of bin-digging on the brain,

flicking through yesterday’s paper.

A scorcher – hot enough to boil a halibut’s eyeballs

on the pavement, you’ve sweated over market stalls,

passed on pickled seafood salad,

huffed up Jacob’s Ladder, rooted through charity shops -

nothing doing - until you’re at your final stop –

Ruby’s. ‘All the clothes half price,’ your hawker pledges,

‘Vinyl’s marked down 20%,’ he alleges

and you’re quite adept at flicking dusty racks,

but there’s nothing you feel like humping back

save an old Al Stewart, unusual sleeve, and pretty sure

you’ve ticked that box some years before.

Eventually you chance across four CDs propping

the shelves above, cracked and purporting

to contain semi-playable discs.

You think: ‘What’s this’ – and – ‘Ah, go on, take the risk,

why don’t you?' Remembering that proffered discount,

you approach his bunker all confident bounce.

He glances, sifts, tots it up, checks your face’s pages

and demands full whack – shuffle your feet,

make protest, but he responds, ‘Nah, you’re too cheap’.

Maybe he checked himself, but you don’t really know,

wonder who Ruby is, what she would do

and when you get back, the kitchen floor’s sown

with deconstructed fruit you’ll swab alone.

Snapshot

 

Snapshot

 

 

He was young, green, wet behind the ears,

a shaver of snapper-wood off some old block,

less colt, more foal -

a hands off cock, on socks,

turn to, look lively sort of lad

and he trembles at you

from underneath his pudding bowl.

 

Order coffee from the wagon, Pendragon,

his some kinda ham-fister barista schtick

means everything takes one extra second too long –

punches in the codes wrong,

asks you to repeat your orders

like, ‘Do you want a sub with that?’

and you’re thinking HMS Trafalgar, nuclear fission,

state the objective of the mission.

 

Here comes reason. She sidles up

from his behind – dripping experience and D cups –

smiles a this is just my summer job, love,

sports a couple of senior years, a bit of his n hers,

he’s first day nerves, butterfly balls - she’s had it all,

offers up and grinds out the right call.

 

She’ll be having some later, he knows it, you see it -

ponders all day, well, just how will it be,

will his world expand, what will it all mean?

Leaves you to retire, find shade, 'Thanks, chief,' 

suck coffee grit through ground teeth.

The Black Angel Rises: Angel Rising Part 9

 

The Black Angel Rises: Angel Rising Part 9

 

Oh, cold the moon, she draws us,

she draws us as your parched man is drawn

to water drawn from the well

and in water shall we drown within her spell

as water into water folds, bid farewell

enough, no more, and damn both to hell.

 

Kill your dreaming, sluice embers

and discard us here - always remember

how fast pledged vows fast dissipated

in guttered love and floods of hate.

 

This lesson’s over - a bell has tolled

for wisdom stale and stories old,

what once was hot has now grown cold,

and I have let that blood you sold –

 

How unbitten tongues once unrolled

to cry: cursed libidinous wretches

who seized the scored steel razor’s edge

brought of fitful trust in whore’s pledges,

slashed at flesh, let drip gore,

picked themselves up from the floor,

made it through slamming doors,

shook heads and said ‘no more’.

 

But that was then and this is now,

what once was barren has been ploughed,

and hawks full flighted grubbing coots

from drilling roots and spreading shoots.

 

The lamb interred deep in the earth

did knock three times and flourished -

any cankered poisons of the liver

withered there and hope delivered

and whilst I cannot take his hand,

still we stride across blasted desert lands,

the gulf between us come undone

and to my kingdom he shall come,

two minds divided born as one,

setting right that which was wronged.

 

Angel, that deep cleft that both separates,

you devised, you perpetuate,

brings strong mettles to fall to rust,

anger festers, engenders dust

while the mind’s flesh atrophies in slumber,

turning backs on full nine summers,

three thousand sunsets fruitless fall,

you shunned deific trumpet call

what once were wings are wings no more,

no more through heavens do you soar,

once agile feet have found the floor

through hard schooling -

you learned to crawl.

 

And how well you did graduate,

the tassel moved from left to right

once nought degree was conferred -

you scaled nothing mountains to nothing conquer,

planted flag where a billion pennants fluttered,

stuttered maxims limitless tongues had uttered

and gazed complacent as candles guttered.

 

Even now, weary, your writer holds his pen

finds it impossible to begin again -

for cordite clouds do clog his store,

billowing fogs swamp barren moor,

poisoning inks block veins

in pitch octopus tentacles that always strain

to bid him sleep, to lull, to drowse,

to surrender to the drifting snows,

relinquish that which he once owned,

for, how quickly have cruel years flown.

 

He shall invoke, so shall it be –

in letting one engender three

chauntings wailed may muses free.

 

Oh, Angel, Angel, Angel ignite:

bring the moon, eclipse the light,

cut cresset - that living coronas take flight, scud across my ruddered night.

 

Oh Angel, Angel, Angel unveil:

roll back blinds, shrink bright flame pale,

upend press - build block letter wall in letters tall, to spell farewell and hail.

 

He thinks on lessons that he taught her,

dips his nib into holy water

and on creamed cardstock, deckle-edged no impression makes

upon his ancient heart and sinew - his body-aches.

 

While now, his loosed albatross released,

and my, my, someone fetch a priest,

for he can’t say no to beauty or the beast.

 

Yet, even so, he durst not turn his head,

as something black in shadows dread,

does match his pace,

tread for tread,

where all around the light has fled,

and love is over, and love is blind

and love’s cold traveller leaves Ingolstadt behind.

 

And how in deportment he raised his gaze,

prepared indeed to be amazed -

as does a solitary night-boatman pull at oars,

attaining water’s core, his confidence soars,

strains proud at oak to rowlocks creak,

there a mountain sudden upreared its peak,

glowering black in madness foul -

to leave no doubt as to his small

place in your cosmos vast,

until at last

he retreats shooken to the shore.

 

Yet, even as he secures her line to oak,

does now regard his boat

with defiance and fury,

raises righteous arms at self-appointed judge and jury,

executioner too – and, what bloody right have you,

for everything black that boils inside

was patented in grand guignol by your design -

 

by your hand these omens cold,

if we must swallow that which you foretold

and compiled the charts that we unfold,

the cartographer for all mariners bold,

then it is you through arms we shall surprise,

come bloody day that Angel rises.

 

Now, bullies – what use your chart, your sextant,

quadrant, compass rose, when, unrepentant

does he your course plot before in fonts bold,

inscribes from conception hot to graves cold,

He, that does make worms’ meat of living flesh,

delights as grand designs embrace all death?

 

You, who copulated, grasped freedom,

shrugged sallow to deny his Kingdom

and encountered some chance projectile,

his corners come, his shadows define

your agent, clutches to his heaving chest

your catcher in the rye, his vinyl pressed,

and unloads, then fall Caesar, shatter hands

that inked manuscript that danced on grand

piano’s keys – ah, imagine pulled drapes

she’s closing, who loved for loving’s sake

and him clutching stumbles in disbelief

at this, your creation and willing thief,

who snatched at futures we all might have

and ask him - did he smile and was he glad

his works to see?

 

This far and no further,

today we draw the line, summon thunder.

We mariners bold, who have this far come,

we brothers who are nothing like the sun,

who will boldly go, score his ancient eye,

set red sails, set sunsets and bravely fly

for today is still a good day to die.

 

Far flew lost portentous albatross,

she who fled - once green-blue horizons crossed,

bade hail and farewell. I retired my pen

as sick sargasso becalmed us, and then

doubted why we fled pandemonium

when this is hell – nor am I out of it,

eternal joys of heaven surely myth,

why we faced death or confronted risk,

to find ourselves aground in nought but black;

hopes we forged lie buried in hopes we lack.

 

I would clap burnished spyglass to my eye,

but from bottom to top is packed ennui

like packed ice that pickaxe dislodges not,

deep within tundra’s clefts, crannies, tight knots

that inciting calls to action must clot,

as thin rooted undergrowth surely rots

so do I here wither, so shall we die.

 

‘Anon. Stir yourself’, does Gabriel cry

as now marches he forth upon gangplank,

flourishing robes as befits his rank.

Points withering finger at yonder orb

that does pitch vacuum of space absorb,

where white vapours do circumnavigate,

crimson carpets of mushrooms propagate:

‘Mark that, writer,’ in vehemence says he,

‘And set down in tar all that you here see,

now arise, fill your cardstock, begin again,

shake off sweet cloying fumes of depression,

notions of self- protection now despair,

for see my Black Angel has bought us here.’

 

Gabriel knots his brows in summoned ire,

as he now contemplates consuming fires,

turns, by my collars seizes me and shakes

until the very throttled breath does break

from its moorings in the lungs - he screams

‘Think you this but accident? No. He schemes

against us even now, he waits patient,

sits atop mountain, afire, complacent

that we who did slip from his weasel grip

bear witness to coming apocalypse.

 

Soon, we disembark our surefooted ship,

and with innermost courage must afflict

ourselves upon his barren wilderness,

shall journey forth for forty days, no less,

this desolate moonscape boundless traverse,

confront harsh maker of vile universe,

expect no quarter, abandon reverse,

interrogate he that dispenses curse,

and all that is upon us. Before we fly

we offer up rebellion and defy.’

 

When Captain speaks thus is it performed,

around his frame determination swarms

to offer tribute proclaimed. ‘Prepare,’

commands he and I should want to declare

with enthusiasm I complied, but,

I had not drunk a cup of courage yet,

was unmoved to embrace cold arid moon

my jotted musings round about me strewn

upon airless dust, and frigid outcrops

harrowed time had furrowed, shocked

into barren blocks, static waves, peaks, troughs,

as though Medusa herself, with fixed look

in malice birthed this desolate scree.

 

Clapping irons upon my wrist, says he –

‘Dreadnought! For you and I shall joined be

forever as was forever decreed

and engendered. You are now lieutenant,

as designed by pact and covenant,

engraved in tablet, set down in stone

by your hand. You shall not set out alone

for I am your own forever.’ So swift

did blinding anagnorisis insist

itself on sullen soul keeled over,

my chief custodian and composer’s

brow summoned hoar frosts and glassy ages

never presented before. He swooned,

toppled forth, grasped cratered ruin,

and fell prostrate amongst regolith dunes.

 

From Black Angel aloft, her decks askew,

Boy Michael, witnessed alarming view,

calls, ‘What, hoa, below?’ presents himself forth

and clouds scud cross his brow. With hidden force

hitherto untested and concealed

did this mishap his potency reveal,

and impatient did he sudden shoulder

all that hinder him vigorous passage,

with anger and vitriol he lashes

like whip most vicious and considered terms.

 

‘Move aside, feckless, indecisive worm,

your vacillation does my Captain harm,

so stand off – I will his fragile arm

secure and strong shoulder with my own,

to lend back enervated strength you sap.’

 

However, Gabriel, like a firetrap

blazing does pour forth rekindled flame,

vitalizes every pore again,

grips Michael and here rises. He declaims

“You, Boy, here beside the ship shall remain,

and guard against harm with your very soul,

keep lookout, Boy, while we towards our goal

depart.’ He will brook no opposition

on deaf ears falls alternate petition.

 

‘Why, Boy, tis but a trek cross barren sands

akin to Arabian desert lands

whereupon we might chance to find some cave,

within which buried treasure once was laid

awaiting disinterment. He decays

who once was potent, weapons degraded,

appetite weakened, his palate jaded -

a sated thirst for war. He hides far off,

secure within vacuum, safe aloft

so thinks he, but what need have we for air?

Surefoot in spirit, will we shock him there

attired in storm’s diaphanous robes,

contemptuous of a warrior’s clothes.

Gabriel shall forth to contest Kingdom

and dismiss discomfort till comfort come.’

 

Thus, it came to pass. With fire in his blood,

Gabriel saw that it was very good.

But disconsolate, The Boy remained,

his face disheartened but soul aflame,

reluctant accepts detailed office

tracks our progress as if divine auspice

until our backs could affront him no more,

repossesses Black Angel as before

and must repel all that might compromise

her seaworthy hull when mutiny rises.

 

How dire a name does Mare Imbrium seem

to rough milled travellers crossing in vain

expectation that they may taste such rain

as does fall to Earth and remedy bane

such as Tantalus himself might ingest -

to free from torture, to torment divest,

plunge headlong at last into waters cool.

We two, on Selenean quest but fools

it may hence be seen - History’s student

questioning veracity of movement,

tracing ley-lines of recorded actions,

taking dividers to resolve fractions

and charting given movements reminisced.

 

And yet I do here and hereby insist

every crotchet inked on manuscript

by my ancient hand roars integrity,

neither sharp, nor flat but perfect pitched

as Orpheus had hitherto composed

to lull pilot Charon, seize oars and row,

tame mighty Cerberus and navigate

in his bid to unthreshold Styx, placate

Hades, Persephone and supplicate,

by katabasis bold those foul demons,

present his just cause, expose his reasons,

with Eurydice to warmer regions

retreat - soothe forked-whip damned legions

with song so cloying it drips forth heaven,

brings both to weep, reconsider - and driven

by that which shatters implacable chain

permits Shade to follow, herself unslain

but: ‘do not look back, never must thou see

the unmortal mortal who follows thee

lest she fall and these our conditions be.’

But who here can love and never protect?

On reaching threshold he wavers and lets

go his gaze and what is Shade remains shade,

he gapes appalled from glade into cave.

 

She stays him, but we must onward in quest,

full swell our hollow chests with airless breath,

with staff and rod to comfort none, he leads,

in irons incorporeal at speed,

I follow, navigate forests of trees

bereft, ford hollow rivers, hollow streams,

black glades and deathless dales that defy,

for seeds will not germinate but must die

in such blasted soils of calculation

that contradict all laws of creation

yet palpably exist.

 

Our footslog trek

he open embraces and did predict,

begets such recursion and occlusion

each forward step a backward illusion,

every ascending path we do complete

brings only beginnings to weary feet,

where exit opens onto entrance dire

might have doused evangelistic fire,

but no - from high we start again below

towards far summit we proceed anew

and it upreared its head to glower,

upon highest peak a ghastly tower,

but moved ever more further away

gloating.

 

Did this my Captain dismay?

Geography’s display did so contest

the ocular senses, some might lay bets

we surely abandon hope, put down quest,

but this smirking abeyance did but test

and rekindle resolve, so, like Macbeth’s

hot sword smoking cold fired bloody death,

he was stepped in so far. Oh tedious

wading back, where each stone devious

bloody blades bare soles, lays awake in glee

on beds of scree, despondent soul to see

approach in anticipation of wounds,

delight in affliction, saw-tooth platoons

of razor billed mussels opening out

but frozen – for aeons only of drought

had ever bothered to sluice this sea,

for nought shoaled, nought schooled, nought breathed,

it spawned nought but my Captain’s desire

to plough the fields and scatter fire.

 

Nought existed to differentiate

each day’s gruelling span from that of night,

but, after thirty nine had come to pass,

with shredded flesh we did repose at last

by the foothills and slopes of Mons Pico

and Gabriel Oak’s eyes with fire did glow

as he now beholds precipitous haul

for he did want for soaring wings withal

as did we all, for such things are forfeit

by just lawgivers here above us sit.

 

‘Thus speak they all.’ So utters Gabriel

as he commands rest. Behind, a black swell

rising orders direct contemplation,

he ponders the morrow’s assignation

and addresses either void or myself,

in tones that negate reticence or stealth –

bold his indifference of surveillance:

what cares he now? He intends defiance

and yet in pitches soft, he beckons forth

as if stoic at what must take its course.

 

Regards me. ‘What think you we shall confront,

writer?’ His aged face that bears the brunt

of battle’s degradation, soft in fire’s glow

that in airless place should not suck nor blow

and yet has somehow sprung forth, as Lilith

in healing fervour, does sullen giveth

succour and relief. Profound reflection

yields nought, yet even in circumspection,

we feel Future’s fingers about our throats,

she tantalizes, offers sinking boats,

acts of piracy and torpedoed hulls

that we fleeting glimpse through sockets of skulls.

 

‘I know not.’ His eyes bore into my soul -

‘Look harder, writer. Tell me what you see’.

In truth, it was the climb that daunted me

not whatever may on the summit be,

for ought we know great forests of palm trees

may drill roots there. From whatever within

that did all this hell upon our heads bring

will grind its eye teeth of gory intent

in all good time. I hereby do repent

of my prolificacy – to sign on

and willing accept a King’s Sovereign,

to boldly go and end here, in this place

stood not within the prospect of belief.

 

‘I see a warm reception of fatted calf,

and lo rise she, with benevolent laugh

ignite yonder cold sleeping volcano -

to comfort us as to our business go.’

In response our Captain does laugh or sneer,

for all’s the same, as he now considers

our upward climb to come. Green Earth rises

to signal dawn all too soon, our surprise

is at how hastens taut ticking seconds

towards baneful looming confrontation.

 

We climb. He leading my reluctant feet

that do upon this gritty talus prate

of our approach and wicked blister skin

as flinted stone delights to dig within.

Her razor sharp dust must clog heaving lung

if only acts of breathing had begun,

but here what air remains is so far flung,

it boils between stars. Crumbling slope that runs

beneath each tread on tread brings nought but dread

that ascension shall execute descent.

 

‘We have been here before,’ does Captain roar

as he beholds the pitted scores and flaws

that populate substantiated chart.

Ultimately, nought can prevent the art

that he does wield - and summit is revealed -

beholding boulder strewn scimitar rim,

lacking awe, in realization grim

what bloody, battered journey achieved.

 

Gabriel, with bold imperative cries:

‘Stand forth. Supposititious maker mine,

who summons us to bear filthy witness

to that which you must certainly deem fit

to call apocalypse. Who laid these tracks,

set in motion our escape, set man traps

that have been engendered since first thought

coalesced into form, since ink first caught

an inkling of thy notions. So, know now,

at no point was I thus deceived, this brow

that you designed was never cozened,

but studied your charts with guile and reason.’

 

But, I did take his arm and bid him stop -

to so distemper that which sits atop

of this cold extinguished Vulcan peak,

to rouse from agued slumber, bid him speak

was foolhardy in the extreme, it seemed.

Too late. Now deep from within caverns’ dreams

springs our final actor to render part,

from tiring house treads boards in darkest art.

 

Gabriel but chuckles. ‘Prepare,’ says he,

‘to meet thy maker.’ Maybe lest I flee,

maybe born of awe, grips that chained sleeve

and now in recognition frees with key

those superfluous bonds. His sudden wit

as we await what there within does sit,

astounds me - his careless irreverence

sets bold – but then, never was deference

displayed: only I, born of cowed head

who had over long years blood let and bled

‘til anaemic frame was in stark contrast

to my windswept companion’s ballast,

as though from the same rough barked trunk hewn,

one had flourished, the other lies strewn,

rots and decays about the forest floor,

and cries ‘stop, stop, I will think you no more.’

 

Yet, think he does. Cannot help but look back,

memories black clad in ashes and sack,

that like a drowning hand up-rises, drags

anything forwards back to where it lags

behind. The clouds sudden billow in steam

as if it rises from within its dream

and, all around, space does ripple and seem

to tear itself in twain. Captain Oak leans

into oncoming vapours, displays glee,

as though this his apotheosis be,

scrutinising widening aperture

with sawbone eye, with expanding rapture

as now the cloud distends and delivers.

How perverse is this? She, holding mirror

before our eyes, vile impersonation,

inverse creator, in defamation

of all celestial expectations

is born at our feet. ‘Treachery and bane!’

my Captain cries, his image spies. ‘Explain!’

 

Her look upbraids us both as if to freeze,

but then her countenance right modest be

as she does fall forwards and take to knee,

raise supplicating hands, and wails, ‘Free me!’

‘What trickery is this?’ my Captain snarls,

and I think in fury his fists unfurl

as if to strike, but no, quick changes tack,

steps back, rescinds ill- mannered attack

and draws together his now pregnant brow.

‘You - Banshee. Succubus.’ His words sound low

upon his lips for he must new digest

and I knew not whether to curse or bless

that which I now faintly recollected

from voyages past here resurrected.

 

‘Why do you here confront us, fix we two

with horrid eye that does appal? I do

hereby banish thee now to whence thou came,

begone and bring forth your master, that same

creature that engendered thy foul frame

with tackle froward to soweth strife. Shame

on he that dare not show his face and take

responsibility for his mistakes -

disgrace on he who sends his minion

forth to orchestrate his shifty haggling –

no vicars, no placeholders suffer we,

only unfeigned aspect we will see.’

 

She speaks. To address me, not him, looks up -

I shrink, recoil, step back, put faith in luck

not judgement – her utterance blossom sighs,

‘What satisfaction can thou have tonight?’

these words familiar, these borrowed robes,

that I had perused, sweated to decode,

leaked salt water onto dusty text

through black cloaked night and lacked success

in divining the heart from it. She shifts

as if to rise but is stayed – he lifts

his staff not in comfort but wild in ire

and here fearing what might rapid transpire,

I catch his rash arm, twist that crooked stave

like serpent’s neck; cast it out of harm’s way.

 

Snaps Oak: ‘Unhand me,’ in boot-black timbre

but quick in realisation sombre

his bidding is ignored – brittle clay

must on occasion have that brazen day –

‘Think you Prospero? Then must you drown books,

bury staff full fathom five, meek in look

deep answers seek.’ I turn my head to she

that so displaced his confidence, to see

more clear those occulted veiled features.

 

But she is the most clandestine creature

and obscure. ‘What way lies passage to Earth?

How finish that to which we once gave birth,

and wherefore lies prescribed destiny?’

Once more she holds forth withered arms to me

and we more clearly see. ‘He took my wings.’

‘Yes, my dear, that is but the way of things,’

chants Gabriel Oak compact with sermon,

summoning thick clouds of incense burning,

high above, we see our blue Earth turning

her pleasant face to us. ‘Cease all yearning!’

commands stentorian voice and ‘Ahoy!’

 

As we perceived this cry, thus she did die,

wasted into such smoke first gave her life,

then with sobs to dust and mingled with moon’s

crust, assimilated by ash too soon

as vapoured breath is quick murdered

by Jack’s teeth. Oak looks up to where we heard

mariner’s call, but swoons, falling forward,

perhaps to draw in her sterile cinders

as all around lode stars do wheel. Winters

he there for some time, with frisson trembles,

claws at clay as his intellect assembles,

slow rises then lets fall his thick fistful –

‘Ashes be ashes. Dust be Dust.’ Manful

that call comes upon as again. ‘Avast!’

And Gabriel does come around at last:

‘Why not? There be no more demons to face.’

Now looking aloft we behold beauty,

‘Let every man perform brave duty,’

cries Michael, on quarterdeck, high above

and - lo – Black Angel, hove to, tossed, of

gravid strained sails, with rigging bow-taut

as though speeding shaft must surely shoot forth

with such grace we both spontaneous gasp

for that masque’s belle had cast off iron mask -

but here’s no time to wonder. ‘Make haste!’

Urgent, pitches down rope-ladder, paces

as we mount in ascent. Yet, my Captain

I must help, every step a mountain

again - wheezing breath that in fits and starts

utter words that betray the slipping art

of cogent construction. So slowly round

he turns his face to me as mumbled sounds

emanate from withered lips, he grips

with weathered palms plaited cord, but slips,

rips flesh, blood drips as if nails infiltrate,

driven there by hands unseen - perhaps late

opted to sabotage and conspire

and extinguish any remnants of fire.

‘Too long did we delay our presence still,

it is nothing muscle that wastes, but will,’

quoth he, but then - as if by miracle

born – we behold the sea in bold spirals

pouring forth with stretched quickening hands –

mistress of mariners, launder of lands,

bestower of grace, vouchsafing favour

if every man fulfil his labours.

 

The ocean deep, the ocean blue - mirrors

that do repel back black, that do shimmer

in beckoning glass palms –  cradled at last,

Black Angel, her thirst quenched, bold, yet chaste

does wait upon our ascent. How came this?

How do these blue depths pour forth like wishes

from Earth to Moon – rock the ship in trust’s blooms

while Michael marks our belaboured groans

with increasing concern? As though he fears

this forecast of hope will quick disappear –

he stretches wide his arms upon the prow,

‘It is a miracle, I know not how,’

cries he, ‘Or how it was this came to be,

that was the river, but this is the sea!’

And, needing no further exculpation,

Gabriel drags himself, liberation

it seems within his grasp, and scuppered,

he regards blue expanse, slow recovers

his wits, walks amidships and claps the boy

about his shoulders with something like joy –

his ancient bearded visage now akin

to lamb’s skin, as something flowers within.

‘It was she, it must be, let it be that,

her foul antique grudge does she now retract

or true passage did we certain extort,

through somnolent passage and with shame brought,

let nothing more stop our fixed progress,

belay, hoist away and set sail for Earth.’

 

‘Starboard ten.’ Michael heaves upon the wheel,

‘Ten of starboard it is, sir.’ Angel’s keel

grips tight with sea-fever what lies beneath

as cog does interlock firm with cog’s teeth

and sailcloth takes bite on strained halyards,

cuts wake deep and true. Far out Green-blue sphere

swells, nearer it comes - in sudden fear

gripped, we see all that once was, now clear

newborn within mind’s books. What must we find?

What remains of that flotsam left behind

must surely reshape itself, rear again,

live its canker, direct fingers, quaff blame,

calling flocks that soon must come home to roost.

Michael thinks nought of these irregular truths,

it seems, but manfully steadies our course,

negotiates navigation with force,

considers each battle with acumen,

fashions newfound robes that now become him.

In truth, how he has grown I know not how,

a steel that crosses his brow ploughs furrows

that flourish, the mantle of man, and he,

it seems, will no prisoners take, in glee

he meets oncoming trough, each crest to surf,

as each diminish, the other give birth,

for see how our Captain fades - as for me,

the weight of the pen becoming heavy

like as body must fold into body,

my thoughts become chiffon, my will giddy,

opposite poles must attract in pity

and any remains of flesh must expire,

burn within phoenix’s all consuming fire.

‘No, Grandfather!’ Michael now growls – we two

who needs must be enfolded, must soon lose

what was won, win what was lost on high seas

having rendered all parts fates decree

if Gabriel Oak but a figment be -

retreat into imagination’s realm

having spent his hours upon Angel’s helm,

back to those dark spaces whence he had sprung

within life’s shadows where we should belong,

he draws me, I draw him – let the boy resist,

with agency bold and of iron fists

does prevent what inevitable seems –

‘You shall read these words upon these pages

until we turn our last’ he sharp rages

and bold defies that architect unseen,

rips charts in twain, compass rose quarantines

from any celestial force. ‘Dare you name

me for that, boy?’ Such blood that had drained

from his pale countenance now returned -

Oak shakes stupor from formidable frame,

rises, unhands Michael from Angel’s wheel,

in headstrong moment can still stand and feel,

it appears – ‘You should know better, rash one!

He listens, perceives, knows shanties and songs -

did compose them long ere first you stepped

on deck, boy. Now shall I relieve your watch,

stand down. It falls to me to bring into dock.’

 

Angel rising over waters pleasant

as we first sight embracing green crescent –

‘Land, Ho!’ Cries the boy in astonishment;

had he even imagined this event

or such dreams unfold, that our stories told

should come one day to pass? – Of Cornwall old,

ancient seat of chieftains, well met in delight,

where Lancelot and Arthur first clapped sight

on Mordred’s hordes, Morgaine’s unworldly spells,

did put to the smoking sword, send to hell

all barbarians  - set wrong world to rights.

Now Carrick Roads becomes an end to flights

infernal, eternal voyage stoppering

open wounds – green soaring banks prospered

on either side, narrowing as onward

in progress Black Angel ploughed, fast windward,

nought hindered passage now, she as dogs

do strain on leather leash, as staff and rod

might comfort still, for shall these feet still speak

of ancient times, to walk on green in peace,

her pleasant pastures find? ‘Lay aloft ho!

Furl! Haul tight the lee braces! Make it so!’

Michael commands, to man their stations go,

rush any sailors stowed down below –

but all had perished - and none remain,

yet, somehow, his issued orders straining

deep soul within, thus did it come to pass -

and we could but stand in thunderstruck awe,

for did not this as fact usurp all law?

 

‘It matters not,’ Cries he, ‘let her cradle

my commands, for all this is but a fable

after all – as well thou know’st. Affirm,

unless you lately wish they should not burn,

that this your intention has always been.’

‘I know not - it seems as though we still dream,’

Someone somewhere replies. Demetrius,

it must be he, removing sleep’s dun dust

from lusty eye, condemned to ever

travail the darkness. But now shining spires

are within a hand’s grasp, and albatross flies

high above – where the quay has long been paved,

now so those cobbles burst and none are saved

of those come to witness. Inwards tides rush,

sweep all before them, and those who remain

must to their knees sink in supplication –

 

‘Not this, Gabriel!’ But he, overcome,

does sink to the deck, his arms to the sun,

can only reply, ‘It falls not to me,

I only can but guiding river be –‘

And, here’s Michael, blunt gangplank mounting,

light emanates from his palms in fountains,

tosses back his youthful locks, eyes of rock –

‘for thee and I, it seems, can never cross –

it has been centuries since we were lost.’

A wailing from her deconstructed wharf

sings over cathedral towers above,

while he and I soft slipping as silk gloves

must one interior each the other,

to reflect long last of absent lovers.

 

We had not conceived

what we now perceive -

Nor Oak or I can ever leave:

But in that secret heart

had I not already penned these lines,

years before we could even write

or this voyage ended where it had begun –

oncoming dusk and setting sun,

resurrects hope, admires the young –

even as we let fly the albatross,

gains out-equal what was lost,

bitterness and bile whence learning flows

on glorious day that Angel rose.