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I have written The Blue Book

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I use this thread for making notes, and for readings.

Oop Ont' Moor

Violet misplaced her innocence
parked in bluebells
on the backseat of a Chrysler
Sunbeam. Clive, was his name.

Just as gypsy Petulengro read,
they walked out in March,
found the road to love
in April and, when she said

he may, they went bar t'at.
A passing duck laced his boots
sensing worms. As the blossom
of passion steamed her glasses

she smelt of the spring.

The Rabbit God
The sun sits high past the noontime,
the flat land, new mown,
ambles away to the river.
And, in the last field before the railway lines
I lean against the stake of the barbed wire fence
and watch rabbits.

He is two months younger than I;
taller, more willing to fight,
though maybe my equal in strength.
We have just had a wheelie competition,
in the dust of the abandoned road,
which runs arrow straight over the crossing.
Our brown-berry legs,
in short trousers,
carry the scars of play,
in these dying days of the summer holiday.

He tells me to wait outside:
I kick stones:
he re-appears with the gun.
I am nervous.
He tells me it is fine,
that his parents won't mind.
And, anyway, they are both at work.
The gun is nearly as tall as me.
And as he pulls the trigger,
it nearly knocks him backwards:
though he says it is only a 410,
and he's fired bigger.

The rabbit looks shocked.
One moment it is chasing its friend's tail
the next it is moving sideways,
then backwards
then looping into the air.
The field which moments earlier
had been dotted with grey dancing,
lies fallow and still
a sea of watching eyes.

It is larger than I imagine.
'A female,' he tells me, laughing,
squeezing the guts,
gushing out a yellow stream.
I tell him to stop,
sensing desecration,
but he says you have to do it.
He breaks the gun, and casually carries it at the hip
holding the now cleaned doe
by the ears.

The last time I was in this garden,
we used a catapult
to test the parachute of his Action Man.
And, I think of this
as he slits the rabbit from pelvis to neck.
The torn flesh and purple innards
force me to retreat to the corner of the house.
When I peer around the wall,
in response to his urging,
I see his fingers enter the cut,
hook the skin,
pull the hind legs back:
with a deft cracking of bones.
It comes off in one piece:
the skin from the meat,
like the sound of a wet sandcastle being turned out.

Love

Ice : ansus mannez :
Sowelu ewaz largo feyu largo ewaz sowelu sowelu
northaz ewaz sowelu sowelu :
wunju hagalaz ewaz northaz:
ansus largo largo :
raido ewaz teewahz ur raido northaz sowelu :
teewahz othillo :
mannez ewaz ::

Be still : know yourself :
Move to the light and grow fat : grow with life :
For the light of the double sun is your guide :
Find joy in adversity and your need for truth :
Let talk flow : for wisdom is achieved in defeating weakness :
Vanquish loneliness and stay true to your quest :

Ice : ansus mannez :
Ken othillo northaz sowelu teewahz ansus northaz ken yerah :
Othillo feyu : largo ice geebu hagalaz teewahz sowelu :
Ewaz wunju
Ewaz raido :
Ken hagalaz ansus northaz geebu ice ing ::

Be still : know yourself :
In loneliness we understand the need for others :
The need to converse and find new insight :
Only stunted riches lie within : as winter
turns to bring the growth of spring :
The path of happiness and knowledge
is beset with hardship and doubt :

Ice : ansus mannez :
Ansus largo largo :
Ansus northaz dagu :
Northaz othillo thuraz ice ing ::

Be still : know yourself :
Let words flow as water : transform with words
your inner needs : you are but one : together
we become the wings of the butterfly :

The whores shoe above the door
was lucky for him but not for her,
wet, limp, stocking home,
slanket snug, a bite of flake.

Bolly pink, to light the way,
roses red, candy, grasps the stay
held up for atom blasted dish,
cellophane, well sauced neck.

Their cells re-connect: with coloured fangs,
nice chicken, pings, as love songs
carry plates to knees,
Ikea rug, rice drops fly.

Unshooed haw frost spores the door.
Yays to the right, into her
life of Hartley's jam, headland spread,
diet days, two bars on.

Miss Coventry
Unkindest raven watching yonder horse
chocolate sweet is nakedness, missed,
when later whispered by that beak of yours
unkindest raven watching yonder horse.
Just Tom and you tax the scene; jaws
agape, as defiant breast raised as fist.
Unkindest raven watching yonder horse
chocolate sweet is nakedness, missed.

Mary Berry, pulled in tight,
knees together, face alight
to the tablet in her hand. Gears
grind, commuting daily, she fears
the woman to her right
demurely dressed, may catch sight
of the word Can Upset Nursing Team.

Robin Buffchest, alpha male,
sets his points to grease the rail,
enter through the female arts
of parts, unconnected to the heart;
which pulse, quail, and never fail
to excite, when coaxed under the assail
of manicured fingers.

Mary Berry, alights the train,
collects coffee, joins the trail
of business minded folk.
Finds her chair, hangs her coat,
assigns post its to the bin. Jane
relates another tale, this time the drains
overflowed and blocked.

Numbers come, and numbers go, feet
walk miles, round, beneath the seat
shoes on, shoes off, page after page.
Daydreams snap from looks exchanged
familiar faces, backs of heads. Meet
mid morning through the glass, cheek
held up by helpful fist.

Sushi time, crisps; orange juice without the bits,
Jane's behind, a book or more, Robin's tricks
she wants to know, when uninvited down sits
Damian from claims. Buttons checked. He insists
to know, the way to go, on Donovan and Hicks
and have they heard the cooler talk, about Peter Briggs?
Six months they say.

The afternoon slips away, toilet break
telephone calls, wriggled toes, time to make
solid supper plans. Visualize what's in the fridge;
bagged salad, pork chops, half a cabbage,
celery sticks. Decisions still to make, in the wake
of the numbers on the screen. At last it's time to take
her coat and leave.

Mary Berry, rejects the call, to join them all,
in the pub for Paul's birthday. Spoiled
for choice, she window shops, as she walks,
lost in thought, to catch the train. The seat she sought
by the window is free. Tucked in small
knees together, tablet out, she allows herself to fall
once more into the little game.

*emoticon* *sad face* death.
Blackness (cliche) *emote*.
*repeat emoticon* wind's breath,
(cliche) (hearsay) life is smote.
Futility, all is, futility.

I worry that the school will ring,
to complain, the ambulance crew
were shocked
by the state of his underpants.

Coalescing, inside my brain
this tune, it will not let me shake,
the tin foil hat, upon my head,
no difference does it seem to make

It's CIA, it's mind control
The MI5 and the KGB;
Am I born, to shoot it out
with the cops on the live TV?

Oh fudge,
Oh fudge,
Oh fudge,
Oh fudge.

The tin foil hat draws many stares
as I shop for a tin of beans.
Pirate Perv is shouted out
as well as other things, more, obscene.

etc

The Christmas Gift

Unkin, rejected,
steel
to the rock sky.

Tribute, collected,
club
eleven dead suns.

Ascending repented
stairs,
culverine comet

hobbles, unlamented:
taxes
one thousand stars.

There is no moor,
There is no sun,
no end of street:
Only 40 denier fog.

Carry. My legs hurt.
Look, a leaf.
That's a stick.
On the end of the branch.


----------------------------------------

Yellow crocus
purple crocus
Lambert and Butler
white crocus.

The crocus
colours
the shadow of it's bulb.

Come Leaves Burst
Trait o'er sun breaks the dale.
Frost's house glows, cream egg
polished tooth, candle mass, whey

over trees. The stamen daisy
windows direct, connect, stripe
the barwaken sky dripping

rainbow strait watercolour
melting snow blue. Cold, rapt,
enwrapped cold, old night pulls

the Queen, who names the vale,
to heave all winter's rain,
hooked, eyed, crochet quavered

gown; frock coated vain veil
virgin rolling, rolling, retreating
up and aft, to the river.

The Farming Forecast
South southeast, veering wet,
poor, Whigfield tufted sheep
craw chewed, styled to taste

last year's chic. Yellow green
sods, wind blown, too big boots,
head swollen, thistled through.

Crow puddled islands, apple
beaked, nasal juice, laps up
the scaled legs. Trips unwary

sea grey, oven ready, mitten
warm, gamboling lamb, good.

Bossy

She finds I more entrapped
in amber, on her shelf among her novels.
Trophy books of sappy learning,
enforce, preserve, her want of faith.

Smooth to the touch
each spine unbroken
relents it's place
upon her shelf.

Rests for coffee
upon the table,
unread,
unknown, it listens,

to committee exchanges, reportage,
repartee, lapsang souchong,
agree with me, brittle built

petty needs

Polish them bloody, validate,
menstruate, incorporate, repatriate,
but don't piss take.

The dictionary laughs to learn
that henceforth, clipped speech
shall be known as Clition.

After Satie
wholping - misking
wholping
misking
now/softly postles the wangsle of spring
now/misking - spraiting
wholping
misking
now/surely frurtles in echo will sing
- now - yon -

gone/misking
misk;ing
mis:king
mis/soon sunlight will fagret on field
gon/wholping/
in field in the daylight fuldargret will yield
yon spraiting
the day
comes
lonely for someone who called in the night - night

night

wholping - misking
wholping
misking
now/softly postles the wangsle of spring
now/misking - spraiting
wholping
misking
now/surely frurtles in echo will sing
- now - yon -

gone
gone
misking - misking
welcome this bolgram to bless all our trees
spraiting
trees spread misvulgam and sweeten the breeze

soft

warm.

Come Leaves, Burst Winter's Grip

traitor sun breaks sharp the dale frost
house glows cream egg yolk polished tooth

candle mass among bared tree smog
daisy stamen windows reflects

sprays heavy lidded sky barwaken
dripping crust watercolour streak

melting snow rapt cold blue enwrapped
old cold night pulls the river Queen

heaves all winter's rain into air
hooked eyed crochet quavered

coated frock vain virgin veiled hills
rolling rolling retreating up and

aft to the river

Bracked moon fusted season ginnel
legged ferret man oozles ghinwetched
fur claws popping eyes Midnight Children

fight for sweets loin twacted parated the fly
damn thou blarting saith the ferry mimling
tell for as point

After Satie No 2
hoping - waiting
hoping
waiting
softly opens the promise of spring

waiting - sighing
hoping
waiting
surely blackbirds in echo will sing

- now - yon -

gone

waiting
waiting
sighing
soon sunlight will flourish on field
hoping
field in the daylight earth treasure will yield
yon - sighing -
day

comes
lonely for someone who called in the night - night

night

hoping - waiting
hoping
waiting
softly opens the promise of spring

waiting - sighing
hoping
waiting
surely blackbirds in echo will sing

- now - yon -

gone
gone

waiting - waiting
welcome this west wind to bless all our trees
sighing
trees spread in blossom and sweeten the breeze

soft

warm.

Cowt Leaves

dreak sun breke shap
yon dale frost
yolk hird whit wurn

plunt t'gin map
blit spar cowt
t'out fire

heft sky barwake
an' sigh
drip t'aft nowt on

snow ript hird
blue nikt
yon Queen bayns

all winter rain
'tin t'air
hooked eyen shut

dreak frock
bayn virgin hills
nost an' nost an' rast

t'river

Dusk

out beyond the samphire beds
muddied shoes muddied legs
hang expectant over bridge’s edge
dangling for crabs

saltmarsh ditch with water lapping
seagulls hang with wings unflapping
sunset pink with all the trappings
frame this gilded scene

beneath serene North Sea sky
big brother emits triumphant cry
for mother with her net to try
coordinate the catch

whilst over off a little way
dad and little brother play
amid the mud and oozing clay
throwing sticks and stones

the bucket fills at quite a pace
as gentle sport becomes a race
with other families neatly spaced
along the bridges' span

dad calls out in ballyhoo
little brother’s lost his shoe
his foot is stuck in stinking goo
right up to his knee

the can of tuna almost gone
shadows match the sinking sun
its time to get our jim-jams on
and into sleeping bags

from the tilted bucket pours
two dozen crabs maybe more
scamper sidewards ‘cross the shore
into the pitch dark dike

salt air breath conveys the talk
of crabs and wormcasts as they walk
with tiredness not conceived or thought
for custard creams and cocoa

The Portrait of the Artist as a Young Mange

in drafty garrets up winding stair
tousled poems show pubic hair
wilting quivering under the glare
of the earnest poetry buff

doused in blood ennui sigh
absent of confessional sign
sly of pen no unread prize
drown'd hand waving stuff

twelve point tippy tapping type
the blank revenge hoves into sight
one eyed pirate takes the fight
to Emily Dickinson's ghost

sparse dense and bold stanzas run
strangled words throttled of fun
misquote Keats odes for a pun
on angelic hosts

some lines three some lines run as far as ten
up pops that clever girl again
always hanging round John Donne
in studied discord

alas at last the poem finished
all hope expressed lies diminished
to crabbed critics joyless critiqued
who only see the words

She comes a sparrow in the morning, smelling of his cigarettes
sips the tea of early warning, pats his hand, hes not done yet.


--------------------------------------------------
No more on the hill the Middleton clan,
now resting apart in municipal plot.
He to the left with the Romans and Catholics
She to the right among Protestant stock.

He passes his time among sisters and Irish
she spends her days with the cream of the mill,
Were they to rise, cross over the pathway,
they could look through the Ash to the pile on the hill.

---------------------------
No more on the hill the Middleton clan, now resting apart in municipal plot.
He to the left with the Romans and Catholics, she to the right among Protestant stock.

He passes his time among sisters and Irish, she spends her days with the cream of the mill.
And were they to rise, cross over the pathway, they could look through the Ash to the pile on the hill.

Walking once more, hands crossed behind me, the A plots, the B plots and C's tucked behind
reading the stones, somber and solid, eaten by moss and losing their shine.

Now here's a baby resting with mother, daffodils, and brambles over their head.
Laying untended, their family departed, 'gone safe to the Lord' the legend there says.

A squirrel picks crisps from littered green packet, vinegar, bites and claws at its tongue.
Skirting the line of war fallen heroes, into conformists I gladly move on.

Past teachers and doctors, inventors and shepherds, he was a pal of George Bernard Shaw,
her flag she raised with Garbaldi, his soul he saved buildings homes for the poor.

At last I complete my ambling circuit, back once again beside Middleton sun.
Surely despite religious contention, husband and wife might lay there as one.

Musing In Ilkley Cemetery
No more on the hill the Middleton clan,
now resting apart in municipal plot.
He to the left with the Romans and Catholics,
she to the right among Protestant stock.

He passes his time amongst sisters and Irish,
she spends her days with the cream of the mill.
And were they to rise, and meet on the pathway,
they could look through the Ash to the pile on the hill.

Walking once more, hands crossed behind me,
the A plots, the B plots and C's tucked behind
reading the stones, somber and solid,
eaten by moss and losing their shine.

Now here's a baby resting with mother,
daffodils, and brambles over their head.
Laying untended, their family departed,
'gone safe to the Lord' the legend there says.

A squirrel picks crisps from littered green packet,
vinegar, bites and claws at its tongue.
Skirting the line of war fallen heroes
into conformists I gladly move on.

Past teachers and doctors, inventors and shepherds,
he was a pal of George Bernard Shaw,
her flag she raised with Garbaldi,
his soul he saved building homes for the poor.

At last, I complete my ambling circuit,
back once again beside Middleton sun.
Surely despite religious contention,
husband and wife might lay here as one.

Addingham
Sheep throughout the dales disappear,
during gales, throughout the year,
the police are baffled, or dare not say,
as swift as farmers reflock
Addingham takes 'em away.

-------------------------

'fucking facist pigs', the bar till slams shut.
Mr Abrahams coughs,

-------------------------

the years expand through candled cakes, park swings, broken arms, weekend trips;
through puckered lips, we exchange goodbyes, calling, cajoling, in the grip
of the school run. And, sometimes filtered in moonlight we say hello, slipping
out of character and into role.

In a joy of Vivaldi I pour tea
Bergamot glistens

when my head turns to listen
caught be pleading

wail of a child the night
looks like rain

and again childish pain

bloody cats,,,,

Oh childish delight at candle bright do not pass or flee
make your wish make it big root your hope like mighty oak
spread your cheeks and blow oh childish delight in candle bright
do not let if go

In the bandstand plays without regard for the children rushing round
the local amateur jazz quintette raising money for the drowned.

A passing cloud, black, distracts the sheep at grass;
in unison, forty seven brown marble eyes watch it pass,
weigh the darkness, sniff the rain, keep at the task
of lambing.

The one eyed farmer stands astride the stile, dry stone wall,
he notes, in need of repair. Counting the string of moles
turning coins in his pocket, his dog he calls
by whistling.

The sheep know the dog has teeth, on cue they bleat.
Tracing the path of the pipeline, the farmer leads
his dog, moles on a string, to the next field
for lambing.

A Moment of Tension
Amidst the bracken, ferns, the spreading birch,
we find a red brick, half buried. Not much
of a find. Digging it with your toe perched
on point, I trace the faded denim track
of your knee length skirt, to a dead nettle.
This morning, spreading toast with marmalade
we talked of little, preferring kettle's
song to accompany the rustling crack
of nylon jackets, rucksacks, boot tying.
The brick tumbles out, half split, with a ring
of grey sand about it's middle. Turning,
with that smile, you half skip along the track.

A Moment of Tension

Amidst the bracken, ferns, the spreading birch,
we find a red brick, half buried. Not much
of a find. Digging it with your toe perched
on point, I trace a faded denim stitch
of your knee length skirt, to a dead nettle.

This morning, spreading toast with marmalade
we talked of little, preferring kettle's
song to accompany the rustling crack
of nylon jackets, rucksacks, boot tying.

The brick tumbles out, half split, with a ring
of grey loam about its middle. Turning,
with that smile, you half skip along the track.

The years expand by candled cakes, park swings,
kissed scrapes, weekend trips. The rota of meals
negotiated, shouts, hard bargaining
tears over peas, sausage, chocolate deals
broken, The chair takes on our silhouette
pressed down by monster cuddles and stories.

Pecked tokens of goodbye, without regret,
outweigh moonlit greeting; when closed eyes
remind us, that tea and kindness, are not
all we share. No ring was ever stronger
than your embrace. Ten hands entwined, knotted,
around the single vision to conquer
those sunny uplands, seen in a baby's thumb,
which showed what was not, and what was to come.

She went toward the village green dancing
the jigs of may. When she espied laid on
the verge, basking bright in a fairy ring,
the silver pin, the one she gave to John

in troth. 'How come you there?' the maiden asked.
Bending down to pick it up, her finger
caught the point so sharp; her blood unmasked
magic. The wise girl chose not linger

dropped the pin upon the grass. Full speed
she ran along the lane, a blur of skirt
and bobbing curls. The drop of blood now freed,
grew into a little seed. From that petty hurt

finger, pricked, in summer flowers a rose
warm as May, bright as June, red as fire glows.

I follow the crowd pulled by curiosity.
The day is hot, even for morning it's hot.
The Jordon shimmers through the reeds, cold green,
licking the foot prints at the water's edge
into flatness. He waits for us, glowing,
on the far bank, hand in welcome to cross.
The new sun dazzles, but some, bright blinded,
enter the water. The splashing of feet dulls
as they reach midstream, their clothes drag them back.
Waist deep, women toss their girdle aside,
rend their simlah, and bare breasted proceed
to receive his welcome. I sit on a dune
as others go across. Some with clothes, folded,
held above their head, naked men, boys, women
sailing infants over in fig baskets.
I do not go. Nor does the carpenter.
He takes stale bread from his bag, breaks it,
gives it to me. I nod. A cheer goes up
over the river as blessings begin.
People dance, sing, hands clap, laughter rings
as one by one these simple folk immerse
themselves, to emerge joyful and saved.
My tongue fishes an unmilled grain from the crust.
Curiosity satisfied, we leave.

Fingers stained saffron red

--------------------------------------

The tax collector's beadling stare pins me,
holds me. His sharp, hooked nose sniffs for coins.
He leans across the narrow slatted stall,
eyes twisting, as a bird, or a lizard
eager for more; fearing the prey will fly.
Six meager coins lay before him, his hand
gathers them up as he slides back from me.
His beard stinks of onions, and avarice.
He moves on. I swat a fly from a fish eye,
and smile engagingly at a soldier
who pauses to examine the paltry fish
left unsold, Their glass glazed expression,
milking inward, speaks of the rot begun.
The breeze carries the scent of evening bread.
I keep the best fish, throw rest to the dogs
in the innkeepers yard, pull three bronze coins
from the chink in the wall, pay for the stall,
and prepare for home when I see a crowd
stood around the door of the doctor's.
The carpenter is there, sitting aloof,
as the people jostle, and push, to see
through the doorway, into the courtyard.
In his hand, he holds a stave, that he smooths
with a piece of glass, turning constantly
the wood, back and forward, thumb and fingers;
running the glass steadily up and down.
At his feet the stave's foot hollows a bowl
in the dust. From the courtyard drifts a voice.
A clear voice, baritone, lemon scented.
I have heard it before. The carpenter
lays the stave aside, stretches his left leg
and rises from the wall. It is then I see
the tax collector perched like an eagle
in the lower branches of a cedar;
spying into the courtyard down below.
My mother's neck is speckled with flour
as she takes fish, lops the head, and fries it.

"Dog dong. You, Sardine, two. Talapia, six.
Hands off. Six, Six." Creaking wicker baskets
spill their guts, glistening bloodied, dark fin,
sliding, slipping, gills gasping, mouth agape.
Clattering coins smack down, elbows jab, "Six,
six, not five, six. Dog dong." Rigging rings tap,
loose furled sails waft sunlight on buyer's backs;
light to dark, shout and trade, profit then eat.
I secure my basket, careful to cloth mask
that one twig that hates me, seeks my kidney.
"Dog dong, Dog dong, sardine two, pay up."
Damp morning still hangs wet upon the air.
Horizon haze lengthens earth's rim skyward,
pulling trees into ghosts. Sun washed houses
open shutters to bleach them fresh of night.
Sleepy caught morning bread burnt odour fades
in the ferment and grind of women's work.
I stop to shift my burden at the spot
on the river, where yesterday crowds came.
Abandoned shoes, snaking girdles, belts,
lie on the near shore. Whilst on the far bank
nothing remains, except a single wreath
of thistles, purple bright among the reeds.
Cresting the brow, I see a crow fly straight
to the inauspicious tree, on which hangs
a slave. The patient crow lands, struts, listens
to the four dark figures, impervious,
waiting beneath its meal. As I draw near
I hear the tax collector and doctor
engaged in heated wrangle for the nail.
The carpenter hands the soldier his stave.
As the wood splits her groin, she sags, exhales,
her white eyes look up to heaven in joy,
as the candle of her arms gutters, dims
the burning blood trapped within her head.
Unmoved, the taxing Samaritan claws
at the deal, for the nail tearing again
at the young girl's flesh as the soldier turns
back to the carpenter releasing the shaft.
I pass by, half turning to shield my load
from the tax collector's calculating eye.

First Meeting
I follow the crowd pulled by curiosity.
The day is hot, even for morning it's hot.
The Jordon shimmers through the reeds, cold green,
licking the foot prints at the water's edge
into flatness. He waits for us, glowing,
on the far bank, hand in welcome to cross.
The new sun dazzles, but some, bright blinded,
enter the water. The splashing of feet dulls
as they reach midstream, their clothes drag them back.
Waist deep, women toss their girdle aside,
rend their simlah, and bare breasted proceed
to receive his welcome. I sit on a dune
as others go across. Some with clothes, folded,
held above their head, naked men, boys, women
sailing infants over in fig baskets.
I do not go. Nor does the carpenter.
He takes stale bread from his bag, breaks it,
gives it to me. I nod. A cheer goes up
over the river as blessings begin.
People dance, sing, hands clap, laughter rings
as one by one these simple folk immerse
themselves, to emerge joyful and saved.
My tongue fishes an unmilled grain from the crust.
Curiosity satisfied, we leave.

In The Market
The tax collector's beadling stare pins me,
holds me. His sharp, hooked nose sniffs for coins.
He leans across the narrow slatted stall,
eyes twisting, as a bird, or a lizard
eager for more; fearing the prey will fly.
Six meager coins lay before him, his hand
gathers them up as he slides back from me.
His beard stinks of onions, and avarice.
He moves on. I swat a fly from a fish eye,
and smile engagingly at a soldier
who pauses to examine the paltry fish
left unsold, Their glass glazed expression,
milking inward, speaks of the rot begun.
The breeze carries the scent of evening bread.
I keep the best fish, throw the rest to dogs
in the innkeepers yard, pull eight bronze coins
from the chink in the wall, pay for the stall,
and prepare for home when I see a crowd
stood around the door of the doctor's.
The carpenter is there, sitting aloof,
as the people jostle, and push, to see
through the doorway, into the courtyard.
In his hand, he holds a stave, that he smooths
with a piece of glass, turning constantly
the wood, back and forward, thumb and fingers;
running the glass steadily up and down.
At his feet the stave's foot hollows a bowl
in the dust. From the courtyard drifts a voice.
A clear voice, baritone, lemon scented.
I have heard it before. The carpenter
lays the stave aside, stretches his left leg
and rises from the wall. It is then I see
the tax collector perched like an eagle
in the lower branches of a cedar;
spying into the courtyard down below.
My mother's neck is speckled with flour
as she takes the fish, lops the head, fries it.

Business
"Dog dong. You, Sardine, two. Talapia, six.
Hands off. Six, Six." Creaking wicker baskets
spill their guts, glistening bloodied, dark fin,
sliding, slipping, gills gasping, mouth agape.
Clattering coins smack down, elbows jab, "Six,
six, not five, six. Dog dong." Rigging rings tap,
loose furled sails waft sunlight on buyer's backs;
light to dark, shout and trade, profit then eat.
I secure my basket, careful to cloth mask
that one twig that hates me, seeks my kidney.
"Dog dong, Dog dong, sardine two, pay up."
Damp morning still hangs wet upon the air.
Horizon haze lengthens earth's rim skyward,
pulling trees into ghosts. Sun washed houses
open shutters to bleach them fresh of night.
Sleepy caught morning bread burnt odour fades
in the ferment and grind of women's work.
I stop to shift my burden at the spot
on the river, where yesterday crowds came.
Abandoned shoes, snaking girdles, belts,
lie on the near shore. Whilst on the far bank
nothing remains, except a single wreath
of thistles, purple bright among the reeds.
Cresting the brow, I see a crow fly straight
to the inauspicious tree, on which hangs
a slave. The patient crow lands, struts, listens
to the four dark figures, impervious,
standing beneath its meal. As I draw near
I hear the tax collector and doctor
engaged in heated wrangle for the nail.
The carpenter hands the soldier his stave.
As the wood splits her groin, she sags, exhales,
her white eyes look up to heaven in joy,
as the candle of her arms gutters, dims
the burning blood trapped within her head.
Unmoved, the taxing Samaritan claws
at the deal, for the nail tearing again
at the young girl's flesh as the soldier turns
back to the carpenter releasing the shaft.
I pass by, half turning to shield my load
from the tax collector's calculating eye.

Triptych - The Lamb

Birth
I follow the crowd down to the river.
It is cold, even for morning it's cold.
The Jordan shimmers through the reeds, green silk,
licking the foot prints at the water's edge
into flatness. He waits for us, glowing,
on the far bank, hand in welcome to cross.
The new sun dazzles, some stagger bright blinded
into the water, the splash of feet dulls
as they reach midstream their clothes drag.
Waist deep, women toss their girdle aside,
rend their simlah, and bare breasted proceed
to receive favour. I sit on a dune
as others go. Some with clothes, folded,
held above their heads, slaves and masters, dogs
fathers, children, while maternal women
sail swaddled infants safe in fig baskets.
I do not move. Nor does the carpenter.
He takes new bread from his bag and breaks it,
gives me one half. I nod. A cheer goes up,
over the river, the blessing begins.
People dance, sing, hands clap, laughter pealing
as one by one these simple folk immerse
themselves, emerging ecstatic, absolved.
My tongue fishes unmilled grain from the bread.
Curiosity satisfied, we leave.

Business
The tax collector's beadling stare pins me,
his sharp hooked nose, holds me, sniffing for coins
leaning across the narrow slatted stall,
eyes twisting, as a bird, or a lizard
eager for more; fearing its prey will flit.
Three meagre coins lay between us. His hand
gathers them up as he slithers from me,
beard stinking of onions, and avarice,
he moves on. I swat a fly from an eye,
and engagingly smile at a soldier
who stops to examine the paltry wares
left unsold, The glassy glazed expression,
milking inward, speak of the rot begun.

An evening breeze carries the scent of bread.
I keep the best fish, throw the rest to dogs
in the innkeepers yard, pull eight farthings
from a chink in the wall, settle my pitch;
and prepare for home, when I see a crowd
gathering around the doctor's side door.
The carpenter is there, sitting aloof,
as the people jostle, and push, to see
through the narrow door into the courtyard.
In his hand, he holds a stave, that he smooths
with a piece of glass, turning constantly
the wood, back and forward, thumb and fingers;
running the glass steadily up and down:
the stave's heel hollows a bowl in the dust.
at his feet From the courtyard drifts a voice;
a clear voice, baritone, lemon scented.
I have heard it before. The carpenter
lays the stave aside, stretches his left leg.
rises from the wall. It is then I see
the tax collector perched like an eagle,
in the lower branches of a cedar
spying into the courtyard down below.

My mother's neck is speckled with flour dust
when I arrive home. She takes the Barbel,
guts it, lops the head, boils it with sweet herbs.

Betrayal
"Dog dong. You, Sardine, two. Talapia.
Hands off. Six, Six." Creaking wicker baskets
spill their guts, glistening bloodied, dark fin,
sliding, slipping, gills gasping, mouth agape.
Clattering coins smack down, elbows jab, "Six,
six, not five, six. Dog dong." Rigging rings tap.
I secure my basket, mindful to pad
the twig, which when laden, vexes my back.
"Dog dong, Dog dong, sardine two, pay up now."

Damp morning still hangs wet upon the air,
horizon haze lengthens earth's rim skyward,
pulling trees into ghosts. Sun washed houses
open shuttered to bleach them fresh of night,
sleepy caught, burnt morning bread odour fades
in the ferment and grind of women's work.

I stop to shift my burden at the spot
on the river, where yesterday crowds came.
Abandoned sandals, snaking girdles, shawls,
lie on the near shore. Whilst on the far bank
nothing remains, except a single wreath
of thistles, purple patch in the rushes.

Cresting the rise, I follow a crow straight
to the inauspicious tree on which hangs
a slave. The patient bird struts and listens,
to the four squat figures, impervious,
standing beneath the cross. Drawing closer
I hear the tax collector and doctor
engaged in heated wrangle for the nails.
The carpenter hands the soldier his stave.
As the wood splits her groin, she sags, exhales,
her white eyes gaze up to heaven, released;
unmoved, the taxing Samaritan claws
at a deal for the nails tearing again
at the woman's palms as the soldier turns
back to the carpenter, dropping the shaft.
Passing, I move my cloak to hide my load
from the tax collector's carrion gaze.

poetry

It's a filthy habit,
you can smell it their clothes.

You have to open the window
when they leave, the curtains stink.

Their breath reaks
of similes of adverbs

I keep my children away
I don't want them exposed to it.

In the four seconds it takes for the tea
to ascend the white walled cup, her smile
departs like a yacht. The mist falls again,
and again we are strangers at a table,
framed by the window of a cafe, on show.

She asks, half asks; doesn't ask: clearly sees
perceptions as truths on which to rely.
If only the joke refused to remain,
but it sits there...

Ascending star of evening light
above the moor so dark and true
guides drunken feet towards a fight
leads drunken feet to you

Reading Marx
by the bandstand

the amateur jazz quintet
gave a capital performance

reading Marx
by the bandstand
my foot taps

birds syncopate
passing clouds

the amateur jazz quintet
gives a capital performance

Rememberance
the doctor says, 'your baby is not alive'
yeah I know
but it's the missus I'm worried about now

the Simpsons play on the TV in the side room
but you don't laugh
instead the missus lets out a wail
that no actress can reproduce
no cliche ridden bullshit will let you hear
no poetic crap about darkness
or pretendy metaphor nonsense

the fact is
that it's not what you think
losing a child

yeah you hang onto each other
and
yeah there's anger
but there's more fear

fear that
not being kicked by that ball of hope
when you spoon in bed
will cut the thread
the umbilical of kindness
that makes cups tea
shares jokes
holds hands in the street

And no
you are not the same
when later you lay in bed
hand on her belly
wishing that fart
was a moving finger
a flickering eye
a thought

and you do despise the sympathy
the well meaning advice
the imposition of grief
the morons who say 'oh how dreadful'
'I can't imagine'
'you have to keep talking'

fuck off

and then there's the coffin
in the chapel of rest
and the instruction not to open it
because the veins are too small
for the formaldehyde
and you won't like to remember
what you see

which will not be that child
who was born dead
and lay in perfect stillness
on the blanket your missus crocheted
with the rattle you bought
in an idle moment of expectation

it will not be the child
with pink fingers
the scratch mark under the eye
that you imagine was done
when waking from sleep in the womb
and not when dying
those bowed rose lips
thinning and darkening
from which no sound ever came
in the few hours you spend together

that child who you dressed
in a white Sunday dress
with white tights
and white shoes
and tended
with all respect
and all duty
in death
because you couldn't in life

so you do what you are told
the coffin stays shut
and you kiss it
and embrace the sharp edges

and then a day or so later
tears rolling down your face
you lift it from
the hearse
it don't even cover the spare wheel
and carry it into the chapel
in front of your family and friends
and cry
and cry
and hold onto each other

and then the little white box
slides through the curtain
and you get ashes in a plastic pot

they're the anti-political
political fringe
of the anti-political front
they're the anti-critical
critical falange
of the anti-critical

yeah but carbon dioxide has increased
nine per cent
and the temperature has remained stable

the kafiyah gasps
the nuclear power nej tak medals
rattle like dying polar bears
the free trade unbleached sugar pours into
the free trade grown by women coffee
with free trade trampled by autistic kids soya milk

I sip my bog standard red label

we take a detour
around syria palestine banking
the exploitation of women
none of which makes much sense
but then I'm not political

and neither is she really

I got an email today from a coral
wanting to know why I don't have a car
I replied it is none of your business
blooming nosy crustacean

but corals aren't the type to let things lie
three phone calls, two texts
and registered delivered letter
later
I received a cheque from his mates
on the barrier reef
so I can buy an SUV

but I'm not that sort of bloke
I sponsored a rhino instead
and spent the rest on wine and cigars
and lego for the kids

now the coral have hired a dolphin
to do me in
when it has fulfilled the contract
the coral took out
on Julia Gilard