(Or, It takes all sorts to make a world)

About half the world is female, while the rest of us are male,
and some of us are rather young, while others are quite a bit older.
Some people are emotional, and wear their heart on their sleeve,
and others, from the outside, may appear to be rather colder.
Some writers are extremely careful to obey all the rules,
while others in their attitude are very much bolder.
Some may be quite tolerant and easy-going,
but others seem to have some kind of chip on their shoulder.
In fact, from what I have observed over the years,
in some cases it's not so much a chip as a boulder.

Oh yes. By the way, please write this down
and store it very carefully in your poetry folder —
It is most definitely not a definition of "well-balanced"
if you are carrying a chip on both the left and the right shoulder.

It was a day when the sun rose out of the sea
washed and polished, shining gold;

a day when the pigeons, in a black and white flock,
flew out from the cliff and back again in circles
because today - surely - was the day
when that nice Mr Escher was coming
to paint their picture;

a day when the haze over the sea hid the horizon
and a fishing boat chugged slowly
across the sky;

an evening when the mountains stood out
so clear and close and sharp-focussed,
and the village halfway up luminous in the sunset,
you could have cut it up and put it in a box
for a jig-saw puzzle;

a night when the full moon hung brilliant and silver,
drawing a pathway of ripples across the sea
you could have walked on, all the way to Africa;

a night when the waves hushed on the shore
like the slow soft breath of a sleeping giant,
soothing you to sleep in the still warm air;

another ordinary, extraordinary day
in my home in the sun.

You took yourself away from the crowd
to the dark sea's edge. Alone and silent
you stood watching the waves.
I could not know how big your thoughts were.
I only remember your eyes
and the night
and the sea.

[Please read the note at the bottom of the page. It should help.]*

That night
the beach was full of fires,
and the waves rolled in mysterious,
foam-laden,
from the ancient lands.
And on the beach
full of fires and magic
we burned our paper wishes,
for that night they might even come true.
Then, because we were unwilling to wait
the last few minutes, we ran
a little before midnight
into the mysterious, ancient, pagan sea
and submerged ourselves in the foam.
You rose up,
shouting amid the waves
with the joy of that night.
When fireworks shot into the sky,
and some, falling to the sea,
exploded there again
to shoot from the very waves,
you also leapt up, shouting
with the energy of that magic night.
And later, when we were almost
the last remaining in the sea,
we went up onto the beach
full of fires and love.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Aquella noche
la playa estaba llena de hogueras,
y las olas se sucedían misteriosas,
cargadas de espuma,
de las antiguas tierras.
Y en la playa
llena de hogueras y magia
quemamos los deseos de papel
que esa noche aun se podrían realisar.
Pues, poco dispuestos a esperar
los últimos minutos, corrimos
antes de que sonaran las doce
a la mar misteriosa, antigua, pagana,
hundiéndonos en la espuma.
Surgisteis vosotras
gritando en medio de las olas
con la alegría de esa noche.
Cuando subieron fuegos al cielo,
y cuando algunos, cayendo al mar,
estallaron allí mismo
para subir de nuevo de las olas,
saltasteis tambien, gritando
con la energía de esta noche mágica.
Y al final, cuando éramos casi
los últimos en quedarnos en el mar,
salimos a la playa
llena de hogueras y amor.

Called out of a staff meeting, I was  told
my mother was on the point of death.
Searching in the regulations,
the secretary told me
how many days I was allowed
for the death, and
(separately) for the funeral,
each allowance dependent
on the degree of relationship – mothers
are in the first category.

Arriving home, without realising
how I had driven there,
feeling the need to be clean for her,
I showered, dressed appropriately,
and drove on.

A hundred and fifty miles of motorway,
somewhere a stop for tea.
Why did I look in the service station bookshop?
There was a life of Eliot.
I should read it one day.

She died before I arrived.
It was not unexpected.  She had lived a year
after the stroke, longer
than we, or she, had thought possible.
How cold her cheek was.
Death was not new to me –
I had known pets in plenty go
from age, accident, or lethal injection,
been with some as they died – but mothers
are in a different category.

This is my husband, my mother said
to the nurse with pride,
only she meant me.
Everyone in the day-room knew
who it was she had been expecting all day,
waiting like a birthday child.
We all laughed and put her right,
and she laughed and continued
... and this is her husband
(only she should have said, This is his wife) .
So we all laughed again,
and my mother laughed as much as anybody.

Later, walking round the garden, she showed us the flowers
– roses, geraniums, poppies –
only she called them all lilies.
You can go home, the doctor had told her,
when you remember your name.
Who are you?
– Lily, she said, Lily.
Lilies out there – pointing at the roses.
Well, at least she knows lilies are flowers.

It isn't as if her mind has gone,
I keep telling myself,
it's only that the words won't come.
A week ago she knew her way
through the dictionary blindfold,
amazing at anagrams
scholarly at Scrabble,
and quicker than anyone she knew
to finish the daily crossword.
But now the thoughts that chase round
and round her puzzled brain
find no expression.
How can you say it's 'only' the words?

Having survived the first critical week
she is in no immediate danger.
She might last any time;
she might go any time.
All this, somehow, she realises,
and hasn't even the words to tell us
she knows and is not afraid.
Then after awkward silences
and awkwardly cheerful conversations
it's time to leave.
Will you help me on to the bus? she says
– meaning the bed –
and she laughs again.
After all, it's better than crying.

This one was originally written in Spanish.

volví al Kilómetro Cero
donde empiezan todos viajes
y en el mapa
en el centro
de la rotonda
debajo
donde estaba escrito
Usted Está Aquí
he añadido
Pero Tu No Estás

Then I translated it, with a small change to the last line.

i returned to Kilometre Zero
where all journeys begin
and on the map
in the centre
of the roundabout
underneath
where it was written
You Are Here
i added
But She Is Not

I had to alter the line, because "tu" also translates as "you", which would have been confusing, but I think it's less good in the English version.