CIRCA 1922

touching
almost but not
quite

they lie together
exactly
6 centimetres apart

if one were to
measure
such a distance

but a universe apart
in terms of
the heart

they have just
made love
or rather - had ***

now he snores
she unable
to sleep

she stays awake to see
the dawn enter
the tiny room

gild ordinary objects
with a sunlight
so golden

even a comb,
a brush
a chair

become as wondrous
as objects
in a Pharaoh's tomb

and only then does sleep
finally takes her
prisoner

standing on
the threshold
of a dream

she sees some
future archaeologist
unearth the golden comb

brush...chair...
the thoughts in her
head

her feelings
behind glass
in some museum

of the mind
"Despair"
circa 1922

MORE SCARECROWS THAN YOU COULD SHAKE A STICK AT

a scatter of scarecrows
having a chat outside the door
in the cabbage patch

I'd never seen more
than one at a time
seven stunned the senses

gentlemen scarecrows
lady scarecrows
discussing "...whether the weather'll 'old!"

a crowd of scarecrows
catching up on
what's new...what's not

scarecrows sitting silently
in the back of the green lorry
lost in thought

we deposit all our scarecrows
each to their own fields
let them get on with their work


*


They were all scattered about the place...some lying on the ground senseless to the world....others propped up against a wail as if they had imbibed whatever it is that scarecrows imbibe. There was a distinct whiff of hops and barely off of them and they all had silly grins on their faces.
One gentleman scarecrow was actually lying on top of a lady scarecrow( I know I know not very gentlemanly )and both of them smiling their faces off.

Because of this scattering of their persons I decided that the collective noun for them( I know not what it is?)would be a scatter of scarecrows. But you may be more up on the ways and naming of scarecrows and so may be able to render a solution as to what we may call them when a group of them are gathered together...thus. It was a French field and the farmer was the maker of scarecrows for the other farmers. They all wore distinguished clothing and no two were alike and all had personalities of their own.

So maybe it should be a French word that binds them together?
...une dispersion des épouvantails...
...un embrayage d'épouvantails...
....un lambeau d'épouvantails...

Despite this when I demanded that they talk( and as their poet representative on this earth )I had them talk in a West Country accent.
Maybe they were English scarecrows on a busman's holiday so to speak!

A CLOCK TICKS

A clock
...ticks.

A vase
reflects upon itself

in an enormous ornate
gilt mirror

admires
her own flowers

& how they are
arranged.

A fire
spits sparks

sending shadows
scuttling up walls.

A coal scuttle
is either half empty/half full.

A clock
strikes nine
&... chimes

slightly ahead of
the real time.

.A picture
quaint & antique

hangs slightly askew
against the horrid

wall paper
& its unattractive roses.

A record
(an old shellac 78)    

has found a scratch
&  keeps returning to it

picking at the musical phrase
like a scab.

Caruso’s... got...  got... hiccups.

One mirror
gazes into the face
of another mirror.

Both enamoured
of the other

seeing only
themselves.

An un-drunk cup of tea
cools steadily

leaving a thin skin
on top.

A sugar lump
has come to rest

on a small
Turkish carpet

depicting
the delights of Paradise.

A moth falls madly in love
with an old flame

but it soon fizzles
out.

The only thing living
in this room

is an old tattered tortoiseshell
cat asleep

by her master’s
stockinged feet

so deep
she hasn’t even heard

Death
enter
&
leave.

A clock
...ticks.

MY FAVOURITE STAR TREK EPISODE

Here
in this constellation

of a kitchen
that exists

only in its own
long ago

I create
worlds

bravely going
where every boy

has gone before

the clothes horse
becoming my Starship Enterprise

clothes turn into
Klingons

the roar of the range
my engines

that "canna take it Capn'!"

the whistle of a kettle
enemy fire on my starboard bow

whilst in the other dimension
of an attic

my mother misses her step
as first one leg and

then another
crashes through

the ceiling
Warp Factor 9

plaster and debris
attacking my clothes horse Enterprise

as her yelp
of help

opens on
all channels

and me Da
quick as Mr. Spock

rescues her
just as

Star Trek
begins

on our little
black & white

T.V.
How...

...illogical?

O FORTUNA!
("You Will Become Yourself")

She's three.
A distinct reek of Old Spice!

"And who's been splashing on
my aftershave!"

I growl in my best
Daddy Bear voice.

"Me...me!"
she answers in her best George Washington.

"Mummy's perfume
smells yucky sweet!"

She a good judge of smell
this little girl.

What is...what isn't nice
sides with the Old Spice.

"So. Are we right then?"
I ask.

We go for a walk.
The cat on the leash.

Because.
We haven't got a dog.

And so we head off.
Dad, cat and little girl.

The cat none too pleased
at "What's that meow smell!"

Old Spice
not for cats.

Only for
Dads and daughters.

*

Old Spice is the smell of my Dad...it is forever him.... deeply ingrained in the olfactory memory of many generations...the essence of childhood thus becoming an archetypal perfume that stands for all things that he meant...safety, warmth, and security.
It was what I always gave him as a birthday and Christmas present....saving up all my pennies to be able to do so and foregoing chocolate and sweeties all during the year. My mum on the other hand
was always the equally iconic 4711. I still have both in my bathroom even now...how Proust like!
So it was odd to pass it on to...my daughter.
Her mum said it always reminded her of a Mexican drink called Horchata de arroz which is flavoured with the Aztec Marigold. and made her feel drunk even if she hadn't imbibed.
Darling daughter said it smelt of mummy's potpourri on the coffee table.
Oh and of... Daddy.
Old Spice was founded in New York by William Lightfoot Schultz in 1934. He was a soap and toiletries maker, and his first fragrance was, ironically, a woman’s scent: Early American Old Spice.
It is said that Shultz was inspired by his mother’s rose jar when creating this early version of Old Spice. A rose jar usually held a moist potpourri of rose petals, spices and herbs in a base of salt to preserve them. Those notes can still be detected in Old Spice’s products to this day. This perfume was released in 1938 to great acclaim, and he followed it with some men’s products in time for Christmas sales at the end of the year.
Although the original scent of classic Old Spice has most likely changed with time and reformulation (as a number of fragrances do), it still retains its primary scent profile, and it could be argued that it represents its own classification. Unlike many other men’s scents that fall easily into labels like fougère, leather or musk, Old Spice brought carnation, pimento, nutmeg and cinnamon to the forefront, omitting some of the classic men’s notes of pine, vetiver and lavender. This iconic mixture summoned up images of seafaring explorers and adventure, but the image and reality were often the same: Old Spice found its way wherever American G.I.’s were stationed during and after the war, and this helped to influence its proliferation around the globe.

As James the first of Aragon was supposed to have said in his best Valencian: "Açò és or, xata!" ("That's gold, pretty girl!")

DEATH IS A MIRROR LEAKING LIGHTNING

Death is
a mirror
leaking lightning

Time alters
to fit
around the fact

the sunlight
empties itself
of warmth

merely picks out
the world
as if the effort hurt

Time unpicks
stitch by stitch
Life’s rich embroidery

a constellation
comes
to comfort m

it hovers
awkwardly
above my pain

unable
to comprehend
its tiny immensity

I have become
the rabbit
staring at me from a trap

watching the world
erase itself
second by second

two crows
perch upon
your tombstone

gossiping
about how
the world comes and goes

I throw angry words
at them and they caw
off intoan empty sky

a marble
angel & I
standing sentinel

the marble angel
trying not to
cry

*

That last long long telephone conversation...three hours then my phone ran out and he called me back for another three hours. One of the topics was...what lightning is, and what it can do and the superstitions that grow up about it.

People covered all the mirrors in their house when a person died or because they can “catch and reflect” lightning.  "Mirrors leak lightning." it was believed.  It was thought that lightning can behave like light and be reflected. Lightning of course is not light, but a raw, electrical charge.

The phrase "leak lightning" really struck me and I hadn't heard it before.

As a electrician he was able to tell me in detail what lightning was and does!  All the technical stuff I can no longer remember but everything said in that last telephone conversation has now taken on life of its own..

OF ALL THE KISSES IN ALL THE WORLD, SHE HAS TO WALK INTO MINE!

I kissed you in
Islip & Liss
then once again in

Syathling
Shipton
& Pershore

where ever I kissed you
I only ever wanted to
kiss you more

I kissed you in
Amberly
& Arundel

once I kissed you in
Swale
& Sway

I kissed you all over
in many various places
that I cannot remember today

I only remember
the kisses
scattered

all over England
refusing
to fade away

*

These are all the beautiful names of little towns and villages in southern England. To my English Jan they were just names but to an Irishman unacquainted with them...they were magical sounds that opened the portals to worlds and love unknown. As we toured the area I did indeed kiss her in all these various places...indeed I cannot conceive of a time or a place in which we were not engaged in the art and craft of kissing. The magic of the kisses and the magic of the names cross pollinated and bloomed into the world of this poem. I still love saying this poem as it allows my lips to kiss once again those beautiful sounds and to kiss the lips that I loved to kiss. They refuse to...fade away. My heart held in Swale and Sway...as if it were today.