STANDING NAKED BESIDE ITS SKIN - SEQUENCE

(1)

A CHAIR SITS IN AN EMPTY ROOM

the woman unhooks
her shadow
drapes it over a chair

she plucks her reflection
out from the mirror
stashes it away

she looks into
the mirror's
nothingness

she strips off
her skin leaves it
on top of the chair

she
switches off
the light

the chair just
sits there
absorbing the darkness

the woman
becomes
her footsteps

light from the bathroom
throws itself into the room
falls just short of the chair's legs

the razor blade
slashes
through flesh

the bites
the tip off
her tongue

she watches her blood
whirlpool down the sink
(she does not stop to think)

washing away
the pain
washing away

this self
a chair sits
in an empty room

(2)

THE MOON REFUSES TO SHOW ITS FACE

an owl is the darkness
only its voice is visible
to the naked ear

it gives voice
to the darkness
the darkness says nothing

it lets
the owl
speak for it

the darkness transforms itself
into the owl
owl becomes darkness

the moon
refuses
to show her face

silence seeps back
the owl
says nothing

the darkness
says nothing
a human cries

(3)

MANY MOONS

she remembers an apple
standing naked
beside its skin

apple cut and cut and cut
like little slices of moon
fallen on the ground

the apple no longer a thing
to be eaten
now only a thing of fascination

the many scattered slices of moon
the earth a black sky
ants walking on the moons

she picks up one of the moons
licks it clean of ants and dirt
places it upon her tongue like a wafer

soon she remembers
nothing
nothing at all

her life the empty space
where she had cut herself
out of her photographs

"SPEAK MEMORY!"

"Mów!"
commands the cat

in Polish
seeing that

it is
a Polish cat.

"Je. . . ne. . .ige!"
chants the snow

falling in French
seeing that it is

snowing
in France.

"Sneachta...sneacthta..sneachta!"
the child cries

watching her first snow
falling 50 years ago

in her Irish childhood
that is always happening.

This moment is like
a moment in a movie

with subtitles
underneath

so the cat the snow
and the child

can all understand
what each is saying.

The words "Speak!" "I. . . sn. . .ow!"
"Snow...snow....snow!"

blown away now
by a gust of the past.

Only the language of memory
sees them as they were.

*

She was Irish living in France and had got her cat in Poland hence the mix of languages that go to make up the matrix of her world. She would always command her cat to speak( "Mów!" in Polish )and the cat would answer her in what she could only assume in cat Polish! Sneachta of course is the Irish for snow and I don;t know if there is a French verb for " snow!" but I thought...ahhh well...there ya go!

She was reading Montaigne and fell asleep and entered her Irish childhood. She had been telling me abut Montaigne and his cat and his essay on...thumbs! In her youth she had touched the toes of his statue for luck thus contributing to their shininess.

“When I play with my cat,” wrote French philosopher and essayist, Michel de Montaigne, “Who knows whether she is not amusing herself with me more than I with her.*”

KILLER INSTINCT

The killer
was the type

of nice guy you
know the kind

you could bring home
to Mum and

even she would
fancy him too.

The nice boy who
could whistle all of "Oliver!"

Carry a tune
if called upon

crazy at Karaoke.

He adored apple pie
never refused second helpings.

Ate his greens
even as a kid.

Always cleaned
his plate.

Thought everything was
"Great...just...great!"

He cried at
"Chick" flics.

Always watched Christmas  re -runs
of "It's a Wonderful Life"/ "The Wizard of Oz."

He loved dogs
but was more of a cat guy.

And his victims
were always amazed

to meet their deaths
at the hands of

"...such a nice
nice man!"

*

A friend of mine almost got "strangled by the nicest of nice boyfriends" who just "glazed over with jealousy...just went into one." She left him and left the town...it frightened the life out of her. She said that one could not even begin to believe that this 'perfect person' could change...just like that. She always claimed she knew what it would be like to be murdered.

LEAVING THE CHURCH

Ahhhhh...I think I see
what has happened.

There's been
a terrible mistake.

And so I go
to talk to

talk it out with
Him.

You know
boy to God.

I tell him to
rewind time

surely not such
a big thing for a God

to do
. . .yes?

And where my sister's death is
put her back here...& me. . .there.

A straight
no nonsense swap.

A life for a life.

And if there has to be
a death: then. . .

( I explain as best I can
as if God's a little child )

I'll die
in her
place.

It all seems so
simple.

Deal?

I can't see a problem.
The problem is...

God acts as if -
He's not there.

And although I've dealt with Him
fairly and squarely

He doesn't even deign
to reply.

And, just leaves things
as they are

as if He doesn't
care.

This is not
how I want it.

I curse Him
to Hell

incandescent with rage
white hot anger.

"Call your self a God
( a good God )!"

I spit the words
at Him.

Then I turn
my 9 year old self

away from
HIm.

We don't speak
ever ever again.

I leave
the church.

Dónall has left
the building.

COME VIENE...VIENE! (WHAT COMES...COMES!) - for Paolo Sandulli

The sun is
preaching her sermon

to the town
of Praiano

that clings to the cliffs
in wonder.

Here in her hand
of light & water

she tells the parables
of pebbles.

One wave waves to another
as she walks upon the water.

Bells undress Time
disrobe her of her hours.

Lemons grow
big-bellied on branches

pregnant
with yellow.

The juice
of the Future

praying in a church
of trees.

Here, a congregation
of butterflies & bees.

Grapes dream of being
turned into wine.

Figs ripen
with pleasure.

The gods of pagan times
survive

disguised as statues.

I only believing
in the religion of

a woman’s
laughter.

And even now
as darkness

grows
upon the rose

it’s as if
the sunlight never leaves

only changes
colour

and the sunlight darkens
only to blossom

into the next morning
in love with Time.

*

This was written for the Italian artist/cramic sculptor Paolo Sandulli who has a studio in an old Saracen tower overlooking Praiano called Torre a Mare. His work and his workplace are magical and deliciously fantastic making the mind smile and the soul laugh as he creates a NUOVE MITOLOGIE MEDITERRANEE with his love of place and people. Delightful and enthralling.

Check out Paolo's creations at p.sandulli@alice.it

The title in the English version comes from the Italian menu which is the chief's surprise...eh...what comes...comes..ok? The title like Paolo's work amused me so much that it became the poem's name. The dish itself was a pizza with a midrash of everything and anything.

PER ARDUA AD ASTRA...THROUGH STRUGGLES TO THE STARS.

the worse thing I
did in the war
was...to survive

when others...didn't
always
the "Why me..?"

others...
better men than I
deserved better

every day
is bitter
a life lost

I breathe the air
that they would never....
for them there was

no tomorrow
I survived
the war

find it harder
to survive
my self

the dead crowd
'round me
wanting to taste

today's sunlight
with their eyes
that accuse

"Macte nova virtute,..."
they mock me
with schoolboy Latin

"...sic itur ad astra!
they say and say.
the Virgil falling

from my hand
from my hand
from my hand

*

Macte nova virtute, sic itur ad astra.

( Blessings on your young courage, boy; that's the way to the stars.)

Virgil - Aeneid Book 9.

"Men die as if a God had blown a dandelion clock...it's seeds scattering like souls lost in time."

Per ardua ad astra is a Latin phrase meaning "through adversity to the stars"or "through struggle to the stars" that is the official motto of the Royal Air Force and other Commonwealth air forces such as the Royal Australian Air Force and Royal New Zealand Air Force, as well as the Royal Indian Air Force until 1947. The Royal Canadian Air Force used it until 1968, when it adopted the motto sic itur ad astra, a similar phrase meaning "such is the pathway to the stars." It dates from 1912, when it was adopted by the newly formed Royal Flying Corps.

IT WAS THAT KIND OF MONDAY

I entered
the house
through the back wall

easier than
messing around
with locks and keys

careful not to
get stuck
halfway through

the cat
sat
on the mat

with a scrap
of sunlight
trapped beneath a paw

"Help!" yelped
the sunlight
fading away with fright

and so
with a snap
of my fingers

the cat sat
in mid-air
still asleep

allowing me
to dust
underneath

and time
for the sunlight
to make good its escape

another snap
of my fingers
and the dog

was walking
in mid-
air

so much easier
than taking him
for a walk in the park

another snap
and the kettle
boiled itself

made the tea
even if only
a bit strongly

the dishes were busy
washing themselves
stacking themselves away

the self-cleaning clothes
were asleep in the wardrobe
waiting for the next role

and wondering who
they would have to be
in the days to come

it was now I
wished I
had paid more

attention
in Magic 101
in Magic 103

as I had run out of
finger clicks and
emergency spells

this time I left
by the back door
as I couldn't

face another
wall to save
my life

I left
leaving
the cat and dog

up in the air
as I hadn't enough magic
to put them in their place

being a trainee wizard
isn't all
it's cracked up to be