Conditionality
Provoked by yet another hospital visit — this one more promising than most… — and therefore composed over a watchful, thoughtful night.
…but be sure
I will from henceforth rather be myself,
Mighty and to be fear’d, than my condition,
Which hath been smooth as oil, soft as young down…
— Shakespeare: Henry IV, Part I
Why are our bodies soft, and weak, and smooth,
Unapt to toil and trouble in the world,
But that our soft conditions, and our hearts,
Should well agree with our external parts?
— Shakespeare: The Taming of the Shrew
smooth is a soft word; soft is not — it speaks
of a lover’s leaving: the latch that drops,
catches and calls; a lapse of the caution
that pulled the stillness of the prior world closed
closed is not ever close — bodies touching
may hold unknowable souls, or stories
consciously untold; can cling to silence
fashioned from flints of fear, pointed with pain
pain is anything and everything we
wish it were not — the short sharpness of a
cat’s playful claw; the ceaseless cremation —
deep within its eye — of stars undying
undying is not living, nor is it
the phoenix’ echoed resurrection — mere
hope-filled fancy for a latch that never
lifts nor falls; for a blade pared soft and smooth
The ballad of Woodhouse Colliery
the siren blasts pre-dawn today
wakes the locals at five-thirty
it is time it screams for the chosen few
to get down deep and come up dirty
what we do is what our grandas did
it made some sense back then
when our father was nobbut a gangly kid
but (umm) have you seen the papers
our houses cost nearly nothing we’re told
too small too cramped so old and cold
yet there are some who fail to afford them
so they go and do what their grandas did
when their father was nobbut a kid
but not to power a nation this time
this time they’re making nowt
unless you consider the world’s biggest hole
the country’s nuclear dustbin
an achievement of sorts
rather than an act of futility
a great big hole of nothingness
devoid of all utility
they are scouring the planet’s intestines
not producing the value of old
as they know it’s only shit they shovel
not exhuming a dark form of gold
what we do is what our grandas did
it made some sense back then
when our father was nobbut a gangly kid
but (umm) have you seen the papers
dig it big enough they say
and all Sellafield will fit
but what will they do with the great big hole
where that festering factory used to sit
they’ll build a mountain of excrement
unneeded to the sky
and add another Wainwright
where the fulmars used to fly
Written in Dove Cottage…
…in the time it took me to climb the café stairs!
There once was a chap called Will,
who struggled to stay very still;
He wandered as only
He could… – very lonely:
Down dale, ’round lake, and uphill!
And so succeeded.
For Felix, with immense gratitude and love…
– we shall not look upon your like again.
Like Jesus, he came down to Earth
for just a few years, and just a few days:
his message unique – delivered in mirth –
that all you need is fluff. Oh! Let us praise
the wonder that was sent to us here:
a cat full of sympathy, caring, and fun;
a creature packed so full of love there was no fear:
just a healthy appetite for life and joy, for air and sun.
He shared his heart, though, far too intensely:
his lives thus counting down as each year passed.
He hid the hurt, of course, that burned immensely,
deep inside; the joy he brought unto the last
so very much more than anyone could ever bring again.
Like Jesus, he came down to us to take away our pain.
before the dawn
with thanks… to Barbara Aves (13 March 1936 to 21 December 2020)
the daws drive dark before the dawn;
gather for the final roost
before the sun has chance to rise… –
no light today; just shadow… –
mere shadow without end;
sad margins robbed of symmetry.
the daws I see
from nowhere –
out of nowhere –
rise:
solemn airs
gnarled within the gloom;
carefree graces
wrenched without the light.
so many vanquished stars;
so many stolen nightfalls;
from nowhere –
out of nowhere –
the clouds I see
astray, mislaid;
minor keys unturned.
the silences, eclipses,
the nothings and the nowheres,
the shadows we are made of,
the dark we are afraid of… –
all shaped the same
but never visible… –
as
the daws drive dark before the final dawn.
Seven tsunamis of grief
The land is dry
And yet the waves come
Silenced as sun
And high as pain
Soundless to hide
Their beginning
The land is clear
And yet the waves come
Unmade as breath
And torn as faith
Formless to hide
Their fashioning
The land is deep
And yet the waves come
Ever as air
And light as flame
Weightless to hide
Their strengthening
The land is hard
And yet the waves come
Stoppered as wind
And brave as tree
Placeless to hide
Their happening
The land is high
And yet the waves come
Darkened as moon
And bright as night
Guiltless to hide
Their mastering
The land is walled
And yet the waves come
Driven as time
And forced as rain
Ceaseless to fault
Their bettering
The land is dust
And yet the waves come
Ravished as death
And barbed as life
Hopeless to hide
Their ending
Peacefully, joint in sleep
To Eric Ward (10 March 1929 to 19 May 2020)
I know what it is to die
But not to know that you are dying –
As the breeze clears the hollow sky
Holding your faint, fading soul and fingers
Brushing my face as gently; as gently as
Odours of sage, marjoram and rosemary
Make hands of deep, supportful, lifelong love –
The draught yet unable to fill the emptiness
quarried sharp within my chest.
I know what it is to mourn
But not quite yet to be mourned –
Eight months of pain between our passings:
Mine resolved and out of mind; yours too soon:
Too soon a hand of sharp chalk shelling the blue –
So I take to bed to be with you: too early,
But peacefully, joint in sleep; mine too early:
Yours eternal; mine all too quick, all too quick;
and much too false, except in others’ hearts.
Such endings then should be writ loudly
Each letter screamed so ever deep and ragged –
New scars fresh pathways free forever to explore
Hard into your new hills as they forever grow:
Smoothing under the boots that took so many
To their better futures: taught so well; so well
That your remembrances now merge with theirs.
Proficiscere anima Christiana.
Proficiscere patrem meum.
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