We had nothing but rags Bags of old costumes Piled in the corner Of a dusty room Discarded scraps Of forgotten dreams So I taught myself to sew Building a tapestry Of my patchwork life Knees folded on the Chilly bathroom floor Its cracked blue lino Like ocean waves The tattered curtain Tucked up over the rail Learning to navigate By feel and intuition As I frowned Squinting at my needle Trying to get the thread Through a tiny hole In the mushroom-coloured dusk At the awkward age Of thirteen years and one month I wore them out My colourful creations And people stared Admiring and mocking In equal amounts When I grew Good enough That you could see Design in my skilful Manipulation Of throw-away stuffs I sold some For coin, or bartered favours Tailors can be born And they can be made I took commissions If you could describe it The perfect dress I could draw it in my head Then threading your dream Through my careful fingers Seam by seam I could make it Come alive
Childhood
The girl I wanted to be
I envied you your freedom
To wear short hair
Pierce things
I had only seen
On TV
Fall off your motorino
Breaking a wrist
With such impunity
Unafraid of the
Consequences
Approaching exams
Short skirts
Body paint
Cool for days
I didn’t see
The things that
Frightened you
Kept you acting
The social butterfly
To avoid authority
Running from those
Who demanded things
You could not bear to give
How could I?
With my own demons
To manage
In my long skirts
Flat shoes, subtle
Silent screams
Haunting adolescence
Like a will-o-the-wisp
We are similar now
Grown treading different
Yet parallel paths
Outlasting our pursuers
Ignoring our denigrators
Fiercely seeking our own truth
In a sea of snake oil salesmen
We were never friends
Yet hardly enemies
Mere acquaintances
Each wrapped up in
Our own, private concerns
On nodding terms
Barely aware the other
Existed, but rivals
For all the wrong reasons
I wish you well
Perhaps one day
Our minds may form
A greeting longer
Than the casual nod
We spare one another
From across the room
At some ghastly
Virtual reunion
Organised by those
Who peaked in high school
And want to compare
Their declining ambitions
In a club house
After dark
Like giggling teens
While the next generation
Smokes round the back
Of the toilets
Hoping a mint
Will disguise the smell
As parents pretend
Not to recognise
Their own poor choices
In their offspring
Still single?
Deserted?
Divorced?
Half dead?
Any rugrats?
Really?
Same. Or nearly.
Deep scars from wounds
Old and new
Here’s to us
And all those like us
How about it, Fay?
We happy few
Still standing here
Upon this day
At bedtime
I lack the words to describe this feeling
My sense of oneness with you
Who grew out of my flesh
And into this world
Making room for yourself
In our lives as if
You had always been there
On the edge of existence
Just waiting to step out
Into the light
We hold you
Folded tightly in arms
That we now see
Decaying
Withering as those
Of our parents did
Limbs curving
From old embraces
Into a touchless existence
You grow as we shrink
Such is the way
Of the world
But for a moment
I may yet hold you
Suspended in the bliss
Of a mother’s love
You fall to sleep
In my arms
I can pretend
We are still one
Cocooned
In this microcosm
À trois ans et un peu
Elle est têtue, ma fille
Elle veut sa propre volonté
À chaque but et coin de rue
Et dans le soi-disant ‘super’ marché
Indépendante, cette jeune enfant
Qui casse le front-uni de nuit
En refusant de brosser les dents
Porter son pyjama, dormir?
C’est quoi ça, maman?
Que tu viens de me dire?
Insensible au désespoir de ses parents
Du jour en jour, elle s’amuse
Changer son avis de nourriture
Ce qu’elle va manger et sans pensée
Pour ses vielles âmes qui cuisinaient
Nourrir ses larmes grosses, de gosse
Exagérées l’heure confronté avec
Devant son plat d’entrée de
Végétaux croquants et sans gratin,
Les pâtes sans ni sauce, ni rosmarin
Les frîtes même, sauf le mayonnaise
Pas de cassoulet, pas d’hollandaise
Elle veut le monde à sa façon
Du poisson, un oeuf, du saucisson?
Et non, mais non! J’en veux pas, maman!
Les céréales, chaque matin, surtout
Quand on a oublié d’achéter du lait frais
Réemplir le frigo, Dimanche? Et ouais!
C’est qu’elle veut nous tous faire craquer
J’en suis convaincu. Ses absolues et chaque refus
Nous rendant tous debout, dès le début.
A l’admirer, cette jeune merveille
L’auteur de notre vie en famille entière.
Translation:
At three and a bit
She is headstrong, my girl
She wants her own way
At each goal and bend in the road
And in the so-called ‘super’ market
Independent, this young child
Who breaks through our united front each night
By refusing to brush her teeth
Wear her pyjamas, go to sleep?
What is that, mummy?
That you just said to me?
Deaf to the despair of her parents
From day to day she amuses herself
Changing her mind about the food
That she is prepared to eat, and without a thought
For the poor old souls who cooked
To feed the huge tears of a spoilt brat
Histrionics at the point she is face to face with
Her plate of appetisers, some
Crunchy veg without cheese sauce
Pasta with neither sauce nor seasoning
No sausage and bean casserole, no hollandaise sauce
Even French fries, minus the mayo
She wants the world done her own way
Some fish, an egg, some sausage?
And no, but no! I don’t want any, mum!
Just cereal, every morning, especially
When we have forgotten to buy fresh milk
Refill the fridge, on a Sunday? Hell, yeah!
She wants us all to lose our minds
I am convinced she does. Her harsh rules and each refusal
Make us stand and stare, since the beginning
To admire her, this young miracle
The artistic director of our entire family life.
Lock Stock and Blockbustered
That time I took you to the Ritzy
‘Cos all your friends were doing it
Trying to blag our way into a movie
Some unseen authority claimed
We were too young to see
And we got as far as the counter
With our carefully hoarded coins
Then you forgot your fake birthday
But they thought I was the one trying it on
To sneak in underage,
As if! Outrage shone on both our faces
For the three year plus gap
Yawned in the other direction
I wasn’t even that spotty
But your suave blonde dye job
Carried the can far more convincingly
At the age of twelve
Than my mousy brown timidity
At fifteen. Stymied by
Sensible shoes and conservative hemline
An embarrassment of youth
Despite the bus pass they swore
I must have found somewhere
For once the system worked
And we had to settle for ‘Grease’
Subtitles
Your much lamented dyslexia
Was the bone of contention
You used to beat me down
When choosing between early Almodovar
And the Nouvelle Vague.
We each spoke one language
But reading between the lines
Proved impossible.
Ice cream van
Dinosaur wellies
Stomping the park puddles
Familiar green shapes
Immortalised in
Rubberised plastic
Formed from crude oil
As if forged from the
Fossilized bones of
Long dead ancestors
Reincarnated
As protectors of
Juvenile feet
Roaming freely
Through marshy ground
Wild as once before
Roaring early displeasure
At competition for
Territory
A chance to slide
Through mud
Young pitted against young
Tooth and claw
Fighting to be first
To feed
Everyone’s A Critic
The loud purring
Of a sensitive soul
Rumbles across my lap
A gentleman-mouser
Whose claws are rarely
Sheathed in my flesh
Save for those few
Accidental motions.
He pauses in his
Hypnotic kneading
Of careful paws
Twitches a whisker
Opens a lazy eye
We are content
Devoted Familiar and
Current Provider of ear-scratches
Precious moments spent together
Do not last as long
As they once did
Those rare islands
Of near-silence
I try to spend
Writing.
Such a distraction
Is sadly unacceptable
In company
My failure to stroke
Soft furry egos
While fingers
Play over lettered keys
And coffee cools
At a careless elbow
Lead to gentle taps
Polite, then more insistent
I frown and mutter
Trying to shake loose
Some old ideas
From new forehead creases
Transmit them to my dusty screen
Before the next
Set of demands is issued
By the charming pout
Of the other House Tyrant
Whose three-year-reign
Continues to sway
The working lives
Of all her subjects.
It is not enough.
I cannot please all
Of my many masters
Not this day.
As gentle snores fade to yawns
I sift through the tired
Dog-eared card catalogue
Housed temporarily for safekeeping
Within my rapidly emptying skull
Brain cycling faster
The vocalisation
Begins in earnest
Close behind my ear
“Miaouw!”
He is starting to insist
“Pssst! Shush!”
It is a futile gesture
To try to silence
An old friend
The search continues
There are paws on my shoulder
Tapping, prodding
A hint of sharpness
A gentle shove
Hot breath on my neck
Can I find a verbal noun,
Subclause, or synonym
To convey my sense
Of panic at the first stirrings
Of any sleeping creature
Under four feet
But still a giant?
Too late.
“Mummy!”
I hiss my discomfort
At the sudden perforation
Of my thigh.
Time’s up once again.
Rediscovering myself
I am looking for the joy that sang in the world
When I wore out my hand-me-down shoes
Saving my fare and walking home
Through Portuguese neighbourhoods
Listening for conversations
Whose words tasted foreign on my tongue
I can almost remember
Watching the sky grow dark with cloud
Anticipating lightening playing
Across high Victorian windows
As voices droned at the edge of hearing
From my seat on the mat
I am sure it may be found somewhere
This sense of wonder, just out of sight
Perhaps around the next corner
If I can hold to optimism
Grit my teeth in a rictus grin
And let tired bones carry me onward
I may see myself reflected in memory
Surely I am stood there waiting
Perched on a doorstep, just out of sight
Down a dusk-dusted alley
Outside the daily grind-you-down
Of this commuter-belt world we inhabit
Where yesterday’s news is recycled, repurposed,
Shrunk to fit the typeface and house style
Even opinions can be retrofitted
For safety’s sake, toned down to win arguments
Bland, dulled to match our senses
Sleepwalking through middle age
While violence echoes around the chambers
Of our video games, our online escape
The falsehood in which we lurk, concealing our true faces
With old images, carefully posed
Retouched for personal vanity and public use
Long before fine lines trailed roadmaps across our skin
Meaningless arguments abound across the Twittersphere
While the atmosphere of the living room
Takes second place and we sit, heads in our screens
Commuting our sentence, communing with contemporaries
To the whine of an air conditioning unit
And the slow, but certain death of adulthood
Who are these selfie-prone, entitled shadows?
I bite down on their tales
Squaring the circle, trend-bucking
In this year’s Melancholy
Today I will be wearing blue once again
Practising mindlessness, in search of me
We three kings
What can I give you
But words from my lips
A breath for your lungs
The breadth of my hips
To feed you and clothe you
And shelter you there
Our hope for the future
Small star that we share
In misunderstandings
All foster more strife
Too coy for the joy
Of a conflict-free life
No formal pronouncements
Of greatness to be
We limit announcements
To those we can see
In feeble concealment
Until you are grown
We’d raise you for strength
A mind of your own
And watching your progress
Will whisper as one
The charms that may comfort
Your sorrows to come
With hands in my pockets
Concealing all pain
I’d walk through the desert
To find you again
