#1969
After his wife died
and his stroke
George sold up
and moved to the Lodge.
He shared a room
with a Cornish old ******
whose language
delved into four letter words.
The young carer
made George's day to day
better and was there
early morning
to help wash and shave
and dress him
and on call
if he needed him
for toilet visits.
But once in the lounge
by the washroom
he sat and smoked
and mused on his life.
He survived the Great War
unlike some of his friends
and married the girl
who waited for him.
His son visited
every week from afar
and it brought him joy.
But where
with moments
had the time gone?
he mused.
All those years gone
and just memories
flowing back and forth
and back again
of happiness
and loss and pain.
Jun 8, 2025
Jun 8, 2025 at 11:50 AM UTC
l'uomo non può salvarsi
the Italian monk said
-man cannot
save himself-
we were in
the monastery garden
digging potatoes
for midday lunch,
seul Dieu peut
nous sauver
Dom Blaise uttered
-only God can save us-
and I listened to him
taking in his greying
tonsure and beard,
I opened the book
heavy and aged
smelling of time
and Christ on His cross
-Christi in crucem eius-
fingered and page worn
worn by fingers and eyes,
absque omni
condicione electionis
Calvin said
-unconditional election-
He does not elect us
because of our merits
but by His sovereign choice,
but Dom Joseph said
that is not Church teaching
we are saved by our freedom
to choose and accept
God's grace
and we sat by
the monastery beach
face to face.
Oct 20, 2019
Oct 20, 2019 at 9:05 AM UTC
Sonia watched her parents
drive off in the car.
They never waved,
nor did she,
just watched them go
out of sight
to some dinner dance
for Polish veterans.
An evening to herself.
Benny couldn't come:
he was going to an opera
in London with his mum.
She went to her parents' room,
opened drawers,
scanned through
the wardrobe.
She selected a few
of her mother's dresses
and laid them
on the bed.
She liked the red one
without sleeves.
She took off her jeans
and blouse and tried
on the red dress.
It seemed
to fit her well.
She hadn't seen
her mother wear it.
Her mother must
have been slimmer then.
It zipped up
at the back.
She zipped it up
and did a twirl.
It made her look
like some actress.
She smoothed it down
with her palms.
Put her hands
on her hips.
Wiggled her hips.
She wished Benny
was there.
An evening
without Him.
She took off
the red dress
and put it back
in the wardrobe
with other dresses.
Just as it was.
She closed the door.
She put on her jeans
and blouse
and went to her own room.
She imagined Benny
was there with her.
She undressed slowly,
pretending Benny
was removing
her jeans and blouse.
She lay on her bed
and hugged her pillow,
pretending it was him,
kissing him slow
and long.
But it wasn't the same,
something was wrong.
Jun 27, 2018
Jun 27, 2018 at 3:08 PM UTC
What'd think
she said
we could go back
to my place
and if the parents are out
we could get down
to some *** stuff.
I doubted it
her old man
was like a Mafia boss
kind of guy
who spoke broken English
from his Polish tongue
and her mother eyed me
as if I'd spat
on her mat.
What are the chances
they'll be out?
I said.
She looked at me:
sort of good chance
she said.
We'd been to the flicks
and seen a war film
about General Patton
which I saw
intermittently
between kisses
and her fiddling
with my buttons.
How good a chance?
I asked.
Let's go see
she said.
So we did.
Her old man
opened the door.
Why you late?
He said.
Film was longer
than I thought
she said.
He gazed at me
his dark eyes
almost touching.
You go now
he said to me
and you go in
he said to her.
He closed the door
and I walked
down the drive
moonlight above me
glad to be alive.
May 30, 2018
May 30, 2018 at 3:18 PM UTC
There was a large
crucifix above your bed.
Your father's idea
to keep you pure
and virginal as a nun.
Dust gathered
on the head and shoulders
of the plaster Christ
and along the plastic crossbeam
wood-like brown.
I gazed out the window
looking across
the cricket field
and tennis courts nearby.
"They've gone out"
you said from the bed.
"What if they return?"
I said
watching a couple
in the tennis court
prepare to play.
"They'be gone to London
to see an opera"
you informed.
I looked at you
lying on your bed
expectantly.
"Don't you feel
like being watched?"
I said nodding
at the crucifix.
You smiled
"Make it more exciting"
you suggested.
I listened out
in case your parents
returned unexpectantly
and your Mafia- looking father
caught us at it
on the very bed
beneath the Crucified.
"You are wasting time"
you moaned
"not often
they are out for the day."
I gazed out the window.
The couple
in the tennis court
had begun to play.
May 16, 2018
May 16, 2018 at 2:45 PM UTC
He pushed an old wooden
wheelbarrow, the monk who
passed me by on the path
to the woods. On the way,
I stopped at the monk's
cemetery on the right. Huge
stone tombstones marked
out in Latin who they had
been in the monastic life
and when they died. I had
known none of them, but
God did in His timeless zone.
There was a feeling of peace
there; no rush or clamour
for recognition or status
other than that beyond the
world to give. I stood in silence
reading the names. Birds
sang or called to each other
from nearby trees. Sunlight
shone down like a blessed kiss.
I moved on towards the wood
and passed on through to
the private beach and stood
and stared at the sea. I pushed
away thoughts of Sophia lying
on Mr H's bed trying to ******
her eyes blue, her blouse loose.
Mar 16, 2018
Mar 16, 2018 at 3:56 AM UTC
The bell tolled.
The priest/ monk
entered from the right.
He knelt
and kissed the altar.
I sat on the other side
of the grille, black painted,
decorated
with twists and turns.
He bowed to us,
then turned away
to face the altar.
He began
the Latin Mass.
All knelt as he began.
One muttered to my right
a secret prayer;
to my left
one fingered
a wooden rosary,
mouthing Aves
and Glory bes.
He Latinized
his back to us.
I mused on Sophia
trying to ****** me
on the dead man's bed.
Her Polish/ English language
softly spoken
in my ear.
He read the Epistle
of St James.
The rosary pusher
paused her *********
The prayer mutterer
silenced her words.
Sophia, I mused,
lay out on the bed,
hands behind her head,
legs spread wide.
The priest/monk
read the Gospel
of St Mark.
I closed my eyes.
I pictured the Crucified
in my dark.
Mar 3, 2018
Mar 3, 2018 at 1:41 PM UTC
The door closed behind us,
your father had given you
the layout of what
you were permitted to do
and what not.
As we walked along the path
into town, you said:
after the film if my parents
are out, maybe we can.
Can what?
I said.
Can do things,
you replied.
The evening air
was sharp as a blade,
the moon hung above us
like a bright coin.
Bit risky,
I said,
what if they come back
while we are doing things.
You worry too much,
you said.
If your father came back
and caught you doing things
you'd be scared
and worried,
I said.
But that makes it exciting,
you said.
We walked past
the parish church
lit up by lights,
walked past old gravestones
the names and dates
almost gone.
We'll be like that
one day,
you said,
be out of it,
be nothing,
be dead.
We walked up the street
looking at street lights
lit up all ahead.
Feb 17, 2018
Feb 17, 2018 at 3:53 AM UTC
I was working in a factory
which made camping stuff;
I was busy in different departments,
when a young student started
(a little bit younger than I was )
on the Monday.
After a week or so
he stopped me and said:
I understand you like
classical music?
Yes, I do, I said, why?
Have you heard any
of Mahler's symphonies?
He said.
No, I haven't heard
his stuff,
I replied.
You want to get
his 7th symphony,
he said,
it's very good.
I'll try and get it,
I said.
A few days later
he slit his wrists
with one of the knives
they used for cutting twine;
medics came
and took him off.
He never returned.
I bought Mahler's 1st symphony;
I gave the 7th a miss
just in case it had
an infectious kiss.
Sep 5, 2017
Sep 5, 2017 at 11:48 AM UTC
Gillian came into
the laundry room
of the old folks home.
She leaned
against the door
and looked at you.
Why are they
talking about us
having an affair?
she said.
Are they?
you said.
Yes I heard
a rumour
and one
of the old dears
said she'd heard
from one of the carers
Gillian said
with an angry tone.
You emptied
the tumble-dry
of some of
the old men's clothes
and folded them up neat.
Why would
they say that?
she said.
No idea
you said.
She gazed at you.
You looked at her
tall slim frame
and dark long hair
tied in a ponytail.
If my husband
found out
it could
mean trouble
she said.
Well it is nothing
to do with me
you said.
But it is
Gillian said
moving towards you
it is you and me
they are talking about
us having an affair.
It's a lie
you said.
I know that
you know that
but my husband
will think there is
and he will be moody
thinking it true
and he'll say
there is no smoke
without fire.
She fiddled
with her
thin fingers.
What are we
going to do?
You looked at her
do?
what can we do?
you said.
Well you tell them
there is nothing
going on
she said.
You sighed
will they
believe me?
you said.
They have to
she said.
The door opened
and Winnie came in
she smiled.
Busy?
she said.
A bit
you said
George wants a bath
and I have to bath
Sidney too.
I can help
with Sidney
if you want
Winnie said.
They'd be good
you said.
Winnie looked at Gillian
who was emptying
the washing machine.
You all right Gillian?
Winnie said.
Yes I suppose so
Gillian said
and went red.
She took
the basket of washing
out the back door
to the washing line.
What's up with her?
Winnie said.
No idea
must be
a woman thing
you said
wondering
what Gillian
would be like
in bed.
Jun 21, 2017
Jun 21, 2017 at 5:54 AM UTC
Busy day at the home
I bathed Sidney and George.
Sophia wanted me
to have ***
in the empty room
on the 1st floor
but I never had time.
She sulked
like a spoilt child
who wanted her
*** smacking.
Maybe another day
*** that is).
Wrote a letter
to the monk
saying I'll be visiting
in April.
Played Wagner's
Tannhäuser opera
musing on Sophia
her blonde hair
her icy blue eyes.
Mused on that time
we had it off
in the late
Mr Cutt's bed
she moaning
as if
she were drowning
and I listening out
in case
someone heard
and came in.
My mother
made cocoa for bed
asked
about work
and my day.
I said it was ok
but about Sophia
and ***
I didn't say.
Jun 2, 2017
Jun 2, 2017 at 3:11 AM UTC
Sophia's mother
brings in
the dinner plates
and lays them
on the table
where containers
with an assortment
of vegetables
and meat are set.
Sophia looks at me
I look at her.
Her father sits
at the top end
eyeing the table cloth.
Her mother sits down
and the father says grace
he closes his eyes
as does his wife
and Sophia
closes hers.
I close mine
but allow
a slit of space
to see when Sophia
opens hers again.
This dinner invitation
is an uneasy event
like having a meal
at Stalin's table
or Al Capone's.
The grace ends
with a gruff amen.
All eyes are open
the mother speaks
in Polish in chilly tones.
The father looks at her
then at me
unsmiling he looks
at Sophia.
He says something
to her in Polish
she replies.
I sit and watch
the lips move
wishing there were
English dialogue lines
above their heads
to inform me
of the scene.
The father nods his head
and his plump hands
indicate for me
to partake
and put food
upon my plate.
The others take food
with tongs or spoons.
I timidly venture out
and take a little
of this and that
until my plate
is set out
like a small
child's meal.
I sense an uneasiness
at first hot then cold
like one who's ill.
Apr 21, 2017
Apr 21, 2017 at 1:11 PM UTC
Sophia lies
on the late
Mr Cutt's bed
naked from
the waist down.
Benny puts on
his trousers
listening out for voices
from the passage.
He thinks he heard
someone call him
a few moments ago.
Shame you
have to go
Sophia says.
I am sure I heard
someone call me
he says.
Really?
she says.
Yes may have
been Matron
he says.
Sophia gets off
the bed and looks
for her underwear.
He having dressed
opens the doors gingerly
and peers out.
No one is there
just the TV sounds
coming from
the lounge up
the corridor.
Is it ok?
she says
getting dressed.
Yes no one about
he says
I'm going along
to see how
the old folks are.
He closes the door
on her and walks
along the corridor
to the lounge
and enters.
Two old men sit there
one asleep
the other watching
the TV.
How are you?
Benny says.
The old man
looks at him
I'm ok
what time is dinner?
he says.
Benny looks
at his wristwatch
an hour yet
Benny says.
Ok
the old man says
and turns to watch
the TV again.
Benny walks out
and back along
the corridor
and opens the door
of the late Mr Cutt's room.
She's gone
leaving the bed tidy
as it was before
or so it seems
from the bedroom door.
Apr 2, 2017
Apr 2, 2017 at 4:09 AM UTC
Old boy Charman
stopped me outside
the upstairs lounge
where the old folks
were having their
morning slumber.
Could you put
a bet on for me?
he said.
Sure
I said.
He gave me
a piece of paper
with horse names
times
and how much
each way.
I gazed at it
he gave me
some money.
I'll do it later
I said.
He nodded
he was a fragile
framed men of 96
who'd fought
in the Boer War.
His wife
who was asleep
in the lounge was 94
and had dementia.
He went back in
the lounge and I
went down the stairs
to carry on
with other tasks.
I recalled him
asking me once
do you gamble?
Only on life
I had replied.
Life's a gamble
with no real winners
he had said
and named
and number
old friends
who were dead.
Mar 23, 2017
Mar 23, 2017 at 10:36 AM UTC
Your father short and squat
like some mafia boss
tells Benny to sit
got a joke to tell you
he says.
Benny sits on the sofa
looks at you
then at your father
who sits in his armchair.
Your mother is in the kitchen
preparing lunch
muttering Polish noises.
A couple who died
before they could marry
go to the gates of Heaven
your father begins.
Benny stares at your father
deciphering the Polish
tinged English words.
They see St Peter there
we wanted to marry
the young man says
but we died
before we could
can we marry now?
St Peter said
wait here
I will go into Heaven
to find a priest
so he goes off
and the couple wait
your father pauses
warming to his theme.
Benny looks at you
wondering what
the punchline will be.
They waited for years
then St Peter came back
with a priest and said
sorry about the wait
but I had a job
to find a priest
your father grins.
Benny laughs softly
unsure if it is a trick
your father maybe playing
to catch him out.
Your father titters
and you join in
imagining the couple
standing for all that time.
Your mother enters
into the room and mutters
lunch is ready
in her Polish tongue
giving Benny a stare
wishing probably
he wasn't there.
Feb 28, 2017
Feb 28, 2017 at 7:26 AM UTC
The French peasant monk
scythed the tall grass
with a slow
motivated motion,
nunc et in hora
mortis nostrae
or each moment
of our time in life
temptations come and go
Dom Thomas said
even in the life here
in the abbey,
dans l'abbaye
that first time
late evening
bell tolling for Compline
moon glow
sprinkled stars
entering the church
in semi darkness,
nel buio semi
red altar light
incense aroma
silence about me
shadowy figures of monks
entering the choir stalls,
gli stalli del coro
well polished wood
dim light from high windows
out there the world's night life
has begun here
the monks chant the office
Santa Maria
the statue above the altar,
la mente è il proprio posto
e di per sé può fare un cielo
di inferno un inferno del cielo
John Milton said I read,
Dom Joe met me
after Compline
and led me
to the refectory
for supper alone
just him and me
and the evening wind's moan.
Feb 14, 2017
Feb 14, 2017 at 6:45 AM UTC
Cowled and sitting
in the large church
the monks chanted Matins
matutinus officium,
I felt the chill
in my bones
as I watched
overcoat tight
about my throat,
un bacio sulla gola
the Italian girl said to me
I recalled as I listened
to the chants proceed,
auto-déni
the French monk
had said to me
the evening before
before Compline
la croix symbolise
un vide de soi,
Bro Andrew in the bookshop
bookbinding
snow on the outer window ledge
smiling
spreading his huge beard
come see he said
and handed me
a huge book
bound by him
evangelio de San Juan,
bells tolling
vibrating in the cloisters
disturbing the butterfly
on the window
seeking the sun
flapped away
before me watching,
the cross symbolizes
the denial of self
the self crossed out
the monk said
as I sat in the guest room
late one evening
his tonsured head shining
where the light
from the bulb shone,
I mused
on the girl's kiss
now lost and gone.
Jan 27, 2017
Jan 27, 2017 at 1:43 PM UTC
The old monk
almost slipped on the snow
on the path from
garden to abbey
he balanced unsteady
like a tightrope walker
on a windy day,
Dios oye así que
debemos también
the Spanish monk
said to me in
the cloister garth
as we weeded
the flower beds
that spring,
God listens so
ought we too
Dom Peter had said
I remembered
removing a huge ****
with a trowel,
la science de l'amour
oui c'est le seul genre
de science que je veux
Therese of Lisieux said
some place I read,
I held the bell rope
rough between hands
pulled with George
for the office of Terce
holding on with a tight grip
then letting go
at the right time,
Hugh talked of his father
and how proud he was
having a monk
as a son or near enough
still a novice,
mε το πάτημα της αγάπης
ο καθένας γίνεται ποιητής
Gareth said quoting Plato
love turns all to poets
or something like
I assumed,
moonlight made shadows
in the cloister as I walked
in and out of light
then in darkness
so was my soul,
mounds in the monk's graveyard
where I mowed
that creature of God
the mole.
Jan 22, 2017
Jan 22, 2017 at 12:07 PM UTC
Snow in the garth
hanging on the branches
of the tree
like fingers of white
dea candidis,
the old monk shuffled
through ankle deep snow
cowled head bowed
hands hidden
in his black habit
wind moving about him,
Dei qui tollit
peccatum humilis
confessionis facit
Dom George said
quoting St Bernard
humble confessions
is the key he added,
white snow
on the window ledge
unspoilt untouched
et quasi virgo pura,
bell tolled heavy
bell disturbing snow
on the bell tower
rooks took flight
into the white sky,
parlare con Dio
the Italian monk said
lui ascolta,
I watched
the French monk
sweep snow from the path
long snow shovels
he moved,
un ange à votre coude
Dom François said
I gazed at my elbow
but saw no angel,
snow drifted across
the abbey like fleeing ghosts
twirling and twirling
round and round,
I read in the common room
a book on prayer
worn edges
aged sleeve
smell of damp and time,
Gott ist gut
the Austrian monk said
eyeing me
a small smile lingering
on his lips
I said nothing
but nodded slow,
after office of Sext
and lunch
I told the Prior
I would have to
pack my bag and go.
Jan 8, 2017
Jan 8, 2017 at 9:56 AM UTC
The cloister garth exploded
in afternoon sunlight,
post meridiem solis
the lone mulberry tree
the only shelter or shade
where monks gathered
for tea and cake,
luce disperde
le tenebre
an Italian monk said
as I sipped tea
he eyeing me,
light dispersing darkness
I mused seeing
Dom James pass by
he smiling
carrying his cup
and saucer to Dom Bede,
l'obscurité empiète
où la foi échoue
the French monk muttered
next to the other
I said nothing
but mused on his words
where faith fails
darkness encroaches,
cloister bell tolled
conversations ceased
the monks went their way
to task or prayer
or contemplation
I helped push the trolley
with the large teapot
and cups and such
to the abbey kitchen
Dom Patrick worked in silence,
in silentio est
verbum Dei,
God's word in silence
an old monk had
told me once
white bearded
tonsured of head
God speaks in silence
he said.
Dec 31, 2016
Dec 31, 2016 at 11:17 AM UTC
Mama buzzes
about the kuchnia
like a bad tempered bee,
Ojciec sits in the lounge
staring at you
then back at his newspaper
then at you again,
you look at him
sitting there
as if he wished to know
each aspect of your mind
your thoughts,
a radio pushes out
Polish music,
you try to keep
thoughts of Benny
from your mind
in case your father
reads your mind,
does he go to Mass
this boy?
Your father asks in Polish
I do not see him there,
you gaze at your father
trying to wash your mind
of hints of Benny,
he goes to the late Mass
on Saturday you reply in Polish,
he looks at you
his eyes peering
dark eyes
as if they could
drink you in,
you push the image
of you and Benny
having *** on Mr Cutt's bed
out of your mind
but it lingers there stubbornly
the single bed
moving beneath you
the springs tingling
the curtains drawn
allowing only a slit
of light to enter
Father(Ojciec)
flicks the newspaper
and shuts you out,
Mama in the kuchnia still
her voice mumbling in Polish,
Benny lay
between your thighs
avoiding
your father's eyes.
Dec 23, 2016
Dec 23, 2016 at 4:04 AM UTC
What do you want
for it? You asked.
He looked at you
then at the box of
old 78s of Beethoven's
violin concerto then
looked at you: what
you got? He asked.
I have an old Bible
some old family thing,
got names in the front,
you said. He raised
eyebrows. Guess I
could swap these 78s
aren't my cup of tea.
Ok I'll bring it tomorrow,
you said. Deal done.
78s for a Bible. It felt
heavy in his thin hands,
and he opened it and
saw the names written
in that faded black ink.
You played the old 78s,
pouring over the sound
emitted from the record
player, wondering what
he made of the Bible,
the ancient print, those
old names scribed there.
Beethoven hung in the air.
Nov 25, 2016
Nov 25, 2016 at 11:55 AM UTC
Sophia lies beside me
on Mr Cutt's bed.
Mr Cutt died
some weeks before
and his room's still empty
waiting to be filled.
I watch her lying there,
her blue uniform
pulled down now,
her underwear tossed
across the room somewhere.
It hadn't been the best ***
having to keep quiet
in case others
in the corridor
heard us at it;
she having to quieten
her grunts and woos and ahs
that she usually did.
I lay there now dressed,
slightly out of breath,
taking in her quietness,
her Polishness now silent.
She raises a hand,
fingers thin,
nails painted
a pale red.
Is that someone
calling you?
She whispers.
I listen,
straining for sounds,
staring at the door,
wondering who it maybe
calling me?
I rise from the bed,
zipping up my zip,
going to the door,
noticing her underwear
lying on the floor.
I stand behind the door,
ear to the wood,
wishing I'd become
invisible if I could.
Sophia gets off the bed
and stands by the sink,
just out of sight.
I open the door
and go outside
and peer along
the corridor.
O there you are,
Matron says,
could you meet me
in the entrance:
we have a new resident
coming today,
a man,
a Mr Gent.
Of course,
I say,
closing the door,
wondering if Sophia
will pick up
her underwear
from the polish floor.
I follow Matron
down the stairs,
a stickiness reminding me
of the deed just done,
an adventure Sophia
would say
for another day.
Nov 20, 2016
Nov 20, 2016 at 9:55 AM UTC
Sophia sat
at the dining table
at her parents' home,
her mother
was in the kitchen
finishing off the meals;
her father sat
at the table
eyeing her,
his eyes focusing
on her movements.
You have ended
your relationship
with the boy Benedict?
He said in Polish.
She looked at him,
preparing herself
to lie convincingly.
Yes, we have ended it,
she murmured in Polish.
He sat back
in his chair,
his eyes searching
her features,
how she sat,
trying to discern
any falsehood
in her words.
I told him
the other day
at work,
she said.
He sat there,
she thought,
like a Mafia boss,
short and stocky,
his eyes firm and dark.
What did he say?
The father said.
He was upset
about it,
but understood,
she said,
trying to avoid his eyes,
looking at the white
table cloth,
the flowered pattern
around the edge
and in the center.
I hope you are not
lying to me,
the father said,
his eyes wanting
to gaze into her eyes,
but she looked away.
Yes,
she said,
I tell you the truth,
pushing from her mind
how she and Benedict
kissed and petted heavy
on the late Mr Cutt's bed
that afternoon,
she listening out
in case someone
came along
and found them.
The mother came in
with the plates
for them both,
laden with meat
and vegetables,
then she went back
to get her own.
The father gazed at Sophia,
wanting to gaze
into her mind,
but seeing only
her features
and her blank stare.
Her mother returned
and sat down,
and Sophia imagined
Benedict was there.
Oct 16, 2016
Oct 16, 2016 at 2:54 AM UTC