It was just one of those moments
In combat, the soldier guessed,
One of those gritty times of war,

When who was who
Didn’t matter no more.
The girl he held

Was dying fast,
Her feeble breath
Ebbing away

Across his shoulder
Like a frail tide of being;
Someone’s bundle of joy;

A bloodied jumble
Of flesh and bone;
Which at home,

No doubt,
Would cause a stir,
If known, or seen;

But this was war,
The cruelty of war;
Taking no sides

Amongst such slaughter;
Someone’s child,
Someone’s daughter.

She wanted nothing touched,
Wanted the dark room left
Bereft of nothing not even dust,

All left as it was when baby died,
And the outer world caved
Inwards and crucified
Each muscle and bone

Each fibre of brain
That carried the pain
Of loss and tug

No more on **** or dug.
She wanted nothing moved
Or put aside for memory’s draw,
She wanted it all as it was before

The cot in place; the curtains drawn,
The chair to sit; a place to mourn.

If only he hadn’t phoned,
If only you could have
Remembered him as he was
And not the person who rang
And said those things.

If only you’d been out,
If only he’d been delayed
And missed you being home
And never the said the words,
Never got through, never
Even thought to ring and say
The awful things he said.

You wanted to keep
The special time with him,
Pack it away in that part
Of your mind for special
Things, for times
And people that made
You happy and fulfilled.

He’s spoilt that now,
Ruined it all with his
Clumsy lips and unthinking
Mind, spoilt the memories
With his crooked heart
And poison tongue, messed
Up the little tucked away
History of him and you,
The special nights, the kisses
And *******, the laughter
And smiles, the holding hand
Moments through parks and streets;
All undone, all so incomplete,
An utterly failed history.

Time to close the tome of him
And you and slam it shut, pushing
Out the memories like stake air
Between the pages of a musty book.

He had thought all girls the same
Different only in name,

The figure size,
Or the colour of their hair,

But she was different from the rest,
She drove him to despair

With her deep blues eyes
And gorgeous gaze

That stunned him
And haunted him for days.

I think I saw her once
Walking by the bridge

With her collar turned up
Against the wind

And her hands
Stuffed in the pockets

Of her coat
To keep them warm

And breath from her lips
Rose like incense

In the chill November air.

I passed Enid's father
on the stairs
of the flats
gave him an icy glare

he was ******
so didn't care
he went down
and I went up

he was whistling
some song
I knew he was a prat
but what was wrong?

later that day
I met Enid
in the greengrocer shop
in Meadow Row

getting potatoes
and greens
for my mother
not to forget carrots

which I almost did
she came in the shop
in her faded red dress
her hair in a mess

red marks on her arm
one eye closing
as if half dozing
what did you want

young girlie?
the greengrocer
asked her
she gave him a list

and he sorted it out
I carried my bag
to the door
I saw your old man earlier

I said
gave him an icy glare
she looked at me
then at the carrots

orange and raw
then at the door
didn’t say anything
did you?

she asked
no I kept shtum
would have done
if I didn't think

he'd take it out
on you
I said
is this 3 pounds

of spuds?
the greengrocer asked
can't make out
the figure writ

she gazed
at the piece of paper
and said
yes 3 I think

and off he went
shoulders stooping
head bent
what happened

this time?
I asked
what did he do?
he said I slept in

too late or spoke
out of turn
Enid replied
belted me

thumped me
then I cried
the greengrocer
filled the small bag

she held
in her small hands
and took her coins
and gave her change

deep inside
a child wept
near to me
but out of range.

I miss your smile,
your laughter,
the chuckle you had,
the way your whole body
colluded with the laugh.

I miss your step,
the way you walked,
the soft spoken talk,
the humour, the dry jokes,
that I miss deeply,
the memory chokes.

I miss your look,
that gaze,
the big eyed stare,
that look
that seemed to say:
I care.

I miss you
for not being here,
miss your presence
in a room,
the chair vacant
where you once sat,
the photographs of you
looking back,
saying nothing,
looking far away,
nothing more to say.

I miss the whole of you,
not just bits and pieces,
not just this or that,
not just your tee shirts
or black hat.

I miss you
and wait for answers
that may never come,
never find the real reason why
someone ****** up
or why you had to die.

The tall monk‭
with large blue eyes,‭
walked with his head‭

to one side‭
as if he spoke‭
with God‭

at an awkward angle.‭
I gazed at the grey‭
falling rain,‭

the church roof‭
from my cell window,‭
became a slightly‭

greyer grey.‭
The dark haired monk,‭
with the cissy girl hair,‭

moaned about‭
my apple picking,‭
in his posh boy‭

tone.‭
Down by the woods,‭
on a leaf strewn path,

the French‭
peasant monk‭
walked alone.

The hustle and bustle
of people everywhere
rushing by
in suits and skirts

and some in bowler hats
some in trilbys
and some hatless
running for a train

the steam engine
letting out steam
with a sudden gush
and me and Lydia

standing back a bit
to allow it all to happen
I kept her near me
protectively

the porters
pushing trolleys
with bags and suitcases
the smell

yes the smell
of the trains
and the crowds
the sun shining shyly

through the gaps
in walls and rooftop
and sky
we both looked there

watching the steam rise
the smoke ooze out
and Lydia said
so loud

can hardly hear
and I couldn't
for a moment
then the engine stopped

and it went quieter
for a moment
and I had just begun
to say

makes you feel DEAF
the last word echoed
around the nearby
part of the station

and she laughed
and people stared at us  
and one man
with a bowler hat

stared at us
and walked on with
brolley and case
and some woman

looked down
her nose at us
standing there
by the gates

waiting to get on
the platform
with our platform tickets
and the smell of the trains

seeping into our noses
and I loving it
wanting it more
the bite of it

and then
once the crowd
had gone in
the ticket collector

let us in
with a wave of his hand
and clipped our tickets
wish we could go

somewhere nice
on one of these trains
Lydia said
somewhere where

there's sunshine
and beaches and sand
and ice creams
and donkey rides

maybe one day
I said as we walked
along the platform
one day we will

you and I
and we followed
the big people
along the platform

and watched
as they got on
the train and closed
the carriage doors

and we sat on a seat
and waited
and watched
the steam rising upward

from the engine
the power
of the black engine
the driver looking out

at us
the stoker black faced
smiling
the guard waved

his green flag
and the train
huffed and puffed loudly
and he got on

and closed his door
and opened his window
on the train
and it moved

it chugged loudly
like some giant awaking
and we sat
and stared

and cheered it
on its way
that morning
that bright

sun
giving off
heat
day.

I woke from sleep
and found that you were here
for me to hold and keep

and not gone to death's hold
as I had thought before
and you would be coming

through that front door
and wander the rooms
to look for food

like some hungry bear
with that large eyed stare
and friendly smile

and gentle manner
to enquire what was to eat?
or what's for dinner?

but then I woke once more
and things were
as they were before

the dream had lied
you are gone
you have died.

I was laying
on my stomach
on the grass
reading a book

Netanya was laying
on her back
soaking up
the sun

as if owed her rent
her blouse open
at the neck
her arms bare

her grey skirt
drawn up
above the knees
to brown off

her legs
how can you read
on a day like this?
she said

I can read any time
I said
you should be soaking up
the sun

getting your lily white
body tanned
I like my body
as it is

she closed her eyes
face upwards
I remembered the time
my brother and I

went down to the beach
at Dubrovnik
in our suits
and conceding

to the sun
took off our jackets
and rolled up
our shirt sleeves

revealing our white arms
I smiled
and turned a page
I sensed the sun's heat

on my head
I’d turned my collar up
to protect my neck
from the burning heat

nearby birds sang
unsure which
far off
the hum of traffic

I smelt the after smell
of Sunday roast
and mint sauce
and tasted

the white wine
on my tongue
even with sunglasses
the glare of the sun

made reading
a chore
so I closed the book
and lay on my back

and stared at the sky
birds flew overhead
here and there
I thought of the girl

who served in the café
in Dubrovnik
whom my brother and I
chatted up

with no results
she with her broken English
and we with no clue
when she spoke

her native tongue
we drank wine then
too much some days
then Netanya came along

and that night
we made love
half a dozen times
and the world seemed

a different place
as if someone
had turned a light on
in a dark house

and it was seen
for the first time
then the light
had become dim

and the house
like a prison
a child cried
in the background

another child laughed
the neighbour's kids
no doubt
a dog barked

a woman called out
a man snored
the sun shone bright
I closed my eyes

the book remained closed
I dozed.

Janice wore
the lemony dress
her gran had bought her
for being good

at the dentist
it had a bow
at the back
and flower patterns

here and there
I never got a dress
when I went
to the dentist

I said
you're a boy
she said laughing
mind you

I was promised a trip
to the seaside
in the summer
but I think

we were going anyway
so it wasn't much
of a gift or bribe  
I said

we walked on
by the Duke of Wellington
(public house)
and under

the iron railway bridge
which made loud noises
when the trains
went across

especially the steam trains
Gran said
not to get
the dress *****

or I’ll be for it
Janice said
I never asked Janice
why she lived

with her gran
and not her parents
my mother said
best not to ask

so I didn't
where we going?
Janice asked
I thought maybe

Bedlam park
we can watch kids
playing football
or watch those

in the swimming pool
or the tennis players
Janice said
it was a good idea

and so we went
on our way
I can get us
some ices

I said
have you some
money then?
she asked

sure I have
never come out
without a least
a few coins

I said
have to do a few chores
but at least
I get a few coins

to spend  
Gran gives me money
now and then
if I've been good

Janice said
but have you money now?
I asked
no

she said
can't have been good then
can you?
I said smiling

I’m always good
she said
but Gran can't always
afford to give me coins  

we crossed over
by the traffic lights
and went on our way
into St George's Road

I told her about
maybe staying
with my aunt and uncle
in Wraxall

where's that?
she asked
near Bristol
in Somerset

I said
what will you do there?
last time I went scrumping
with my cousin

is it countryside?
she asked
yes
there are cows

and sheep
in the fields
and mushrooms grow
there too

Janice asked about
the place and who
lived there
and asked questions

upon questions
as girls tend to do
once they get going
and I thought

of the chickens
my uncle kept
at the bottom
of his garden

which he let me fed
when I stayed
and fed them worms
and other stuff

Uncle gave me
but I told Janice
about holding the worms
in between my fingers

she ******* up
her nose
and said
she'd never want

to hold
one of those
then we came
to Bedlam park

and went in
and was reminded by her
to keep her
lemony dress clean

so we avoided
the swings and slide
and just looked in
from the metal fence outside.

O
she said
life is such a bore
don’t you think?

I looked at the way
she’d done her hair
such hair
I could nestle

my nose
amongst those locks
and had done
quite often

but she would talk so
and I had those lips
pressed against mine
pressed soft as cherries

against them
like that summer
when we’d managed
to be alone

and were quite content
to lay
in the tall grass
and listen

to the birds sing
and buzz of bees
and she placing
cherries in my mouth

and I in hers
and o
she said
did you hear

about that
Mrs Broad’s daughter?
But the cherries
were in the mouth

firm and round
and the tongue
would move them
around and around

and it kind of
reminded me
of the time
when I mouthed

her teats
one by one
and she said
the daughter’s

in the family way
and the cherries
broke open
and the juices ran

and how that time
after making love
her juices ran
and I said

life is not a bore
at all
life is life
it is we

who are boring or not
and she said
open the window Benedict
I’m too hot.

And would that be it?
would that be how
it was with him?

And to think
it was as if
nothing was wrong

and that maybe
there would be
another day
to follow

and he'd
be there still
and rain would fall
and clear
and the sun
would come out
and shine
as it often did

and the people
on the ward
would be kinder
to each other
or not
as the case turned out

but I thought things
would be fine
and that he'd be
there all

sitting upright
and happy
and that I'd
bring him home

but it was not
that way at all
he sat there
kind of hunched over
catching his breath
puffed and bluey dark

and I asked
the questions
he said
and seemed so calm
and not uptight

as if it was
always like this
the hands and arms
the skin
the eyes looking
but not doing so

and looking back
there was lingering
unknown to us
over his shoulder maybe
pushing out
his breath
silently
that sinister
unseen
slippery death.

I saw this black
and white
photograph once
of a Deep South lynching

of two African Americans
(or black guys
as they were termed then)
hanging from a tree

by their necks
eyes closed
(as if they dozed)
dressed in rag clothes

one with his head
to one side
hands untied
a crowd looking on

one white guy pointing
the rest looking
with acute interest
what the two guys did

or why
they were lynched
I had no idea
or why the need

to photograph
a sense of justice?
or threat?
or for a laugh?

I had no clue
but looking at them
hanging there
surrounded by a crowd

I thought
of the Crucified
the Christ
and wondered

if He'd been hanged
by the neck
from some gallows
instead of being

nailed to a cross
and His followers
wore small gallows
instead of a cross

it was alter
His sacrifice
or lessen
the sense of loss?

I would have-
if I’d known,
if God had shown,

but I went home,
the last chance blown.
Often think

of that evening,
you-
you

as you
always were,
but ****** puffed,

breathing bad,
looking tired,
and I-

as you,
unaware,
death lingered there.

I would have stayed
had I known,
would not

have left you so.
Regrets are negative
and drag one down,

you'd probably say,
no one likes regrets,
let them go.

Knowing I couldn't take
my silver looking toy
6 shooter to school
I had to make

a pretend gun
out of fingers and thumb
Dennis went one better
and had this quite

imaginative machine gun
between his two
closed fists
and made a

hurthurthurt sound
as he pulled
the pretend trigger
or take from his jacket

a grenade and pulling out
the pin he'd throw it
and go BANG
loudly in the playground

luckily
he was on my side
and with Derek
who had a 6 shooter too

we managed
to continue
our version of WW2
accidentally

in the process
catching the teacher
Miss Ashdown
in the ****

a few times
but she never
seemed to notice
but on the way home

from school
in the late afternoon
Helen said
why do you boys

have to play war games?
why can't you play
skip rope or a catch game?
I looked at her

sideways on
taking in her
two brown plaits of hair
and thick lens glasses

and the grey skirt
and whitish blouse
and she looked at me
kind of serious

frowning
boys do that
they make war
they shoot

the bad guys
they are boys
she wasn't convinced
but the noise

you make too
the drrrrrrrrrrrrrrr sounds
or bang bang noise
we crossed under

the subway
her drrrrrr sound echoed
along the walls
can you imagine

us boys with skip ropes?
or playing catch games?  
yes
she said

why not?
we do other stuff
I said
we play card games

I won 13 film star cards
the other day
playing against
some kid

in the playground
and the Monroe one
I swapped
for 3 footballers

we came out along
the New Kent Road
and walked by the cinema
how about coming

to the cinema with me
Saturday
they've got
a good Western on?

she looked
the billboards
with small photographs
can't

haven't any money
she said
I’ll pay
my treat

I said
and where will you
get the money?
she asked

my old man
will cough up
he won't mind
I’ll have to ask my mum

she said
I gazed
at her brown hair
and ribbon

coloured a fading
dull red.

Dalya was sitting
with her brother
beside me
in the 9 seater

mini bus
the Yank girl
was at the front
with the driver/guide

and some other prat
who was a teacher
we'd passed into Germany
and were travelling along

to the next base camp
I was reading
Solzhenitsyn’s Gulag book
what's that about?

Dalya asked
Russian labour camps
between 1918 and 1958
I said

heavy
she said
haven't you
anything lighter?

no
I said
I only brought this
to fill in the time

between camps
looks boring
she said
the death of millions

can never be boring
I said
some of my relations
died in the **** camps

she said
her brother said
Auschwitz Uncle and Auntie
died in and our grandparents

so not boring then
I said
Dalya shrugged
her shoulders

guess not
she looked away
I read on for a while
I thought of Dalya

the evening before
at the first base camp
after putting up the tents
she said

that Yank *****
did nothing
to put our tent up
stood there yakking

to the driver/guide
she in her leathers
and tight pants
and I have to

share with her
and it's all about
what she's doing
and how the guys

are all over her
and she with the posh
sleeping bag
and Dalya went on

over drinks
at the base camp bar
you can always
share with me

I said
why would I?
she said
why wouldn't you?

I said
I’ve only just met you
the other day
she said

what do you
take me for?
a pretty girl
out for a good time

in a foreign land
I said
I can't anyway
she said

she's in my tent
and my brother
shares with you
she was right of course

but the thought
was there
even if
the opportunity wasn't

she glared
at the Yank girl's head
in front
I read about

the NKVD
or whatever
they were called
and sensed Dalya's body

next to mine
her thigh touching
against me
I closed the book

and looked out
at the passing view
at fields
and trees

and the sky
of washed out blue.

Sound me out with the hammer.
Hollowness may be in these bones
That gives structure to frame and flesh.

Sound me out with a tuning fork.
High notes sharp major or minor
Vibrate the strings of my nerves.

Sound me out with crashing cymbals.
Shattering the dreams built on sands
Rebuild the house of my hope and faith.

Sound me out in this silence.
Tune me to the orchestra of the universe
With stars moon sun and galaxies for an audience.

Sonya spoke
of Kierkegaard.
I sat enthralled,
not by the Danish philosopher

or his philosophy,
but by her,
the way she sat
outside the Parisian café,

her long blonde hair,
her blues eyes
like deep fires,
awaking

my ****** desires,
the way she waved
her slim hand.
She was eating

her second croissant.
I liked the way
she licked
her fingers after,

each one
at least twice,
as if they
were small penises

waiting in turn
to be done,
one by one.  
She sipped her coffee,

licked her lips.
I studied
her small ****,
firm and tight,

waiting to be touched
or ******.
She spoke
of Kierkgeaard's books,

of the leap of faith.
I thought of her
secret garden
waiting to be dug

and ******.
I sipped coffee,
held it on my tongue,
around my mouth,

savouring it all,
the taste,
the warmth,
the slight bitterness,

sweetness,
each in turn.
She spoke of
Fear and Trembling,

Either/Or,
The Sickness Unto Death,
and other books
he'd written,

that Kierkegaard guy,
while I sat there,
drinking her all in,
hair,

eyes,
**** and hands
and fingers
licking and *******,

while sat dreaming
of bed and her
and digging
and *******.

Myfanwy Price plopped in the armchair, sipped at her drink, gazed at the ceiling with a slight squint; spotted a drawing pin that broke up the off-white space like a boil on the buttocks. If Joshua Jones thinks he can drop me like a hot coal he can think again, she moaned to the room in her alto voice that clung to the air around her dark-haired head like a bad smell. Thinks he can do that to me, does he? I’ll show him, she mused darkly, holding the glass above her head, peering down at her slippered feet that lay there like sleeping puppies. After all I’ve done for him, the po-faced prat, she muttered, bringing the glass down to her lips, taking a sip as though it were poison. Just like her dad, dreary as dripping, chapel bred born and dead, at least in the head, she mused, crossing her legs disturbing the puppies, peering through the glass, imagining Dai Davies coming through the door of her bed-sit with an armful of flowers and chocolates, a cuddly kiss with a promise of more, as the evening sky grew dim as her brother Bryan, the kiss lingered in her mind and over her fantasy lips. Mum was right about men, she groaned, wondering if poison was too quick for Jones the Bones or whether she could smother him with a pillow as he laid sleeping in that squat flat of his, where she’d slept once in the single bed that smelt of onions and rotting flesh. She scratched her fleshy thigh, gave a sigh, pulled a face at her reflection in the darkening window, wanted more than wanton ***, the sight of Jones the Bones hanging from the window with his trousers round his skinny ankles, his buttocks bare for all of Cardiff to see and stare. She stood, poured herself another drink, placed a record on her gramophone. Buddy Holly’s Peggy Sue, a daydream of being in his manly arms, and being squeezed, and adding her alto groan to that of young Buddy’s baritone or tenor or whatever. She waltzed the room with her partnered glass gave it kiss and squeeze. Remembering her dad’s stern face; his sermon voice that rattled timbers, she kicked her leg like a dancer, spun it round and round until it got dizzy; plopped in the armchair with a fit of giggles; spilt drink on her dress that seeped to her drawers; sniffing and sighing she poured it all down in a drunken swallow; watched the evening sky darken like her mood and tangled hair. Jones the Bones would pay, she sighed. He’d not lay her aside like an empty glass; go off for another to kiss and cuddle in his dingy flat with its onions and flesh, rotting and foul, she mused sadly, rubbing her breast, pulling her bra that had slipped in her dancing. Mum was right about men, with their ***** thoughts, their wanton ways, wandering hands over hills and stays. She stared at the glass; with a deep dark sigh, she crossed her legs; let the sleeping slippered puppies lie.

That monk
in the refectory
of the abbey,

bespectacled
with dark curly hair
like a cissy girl,

gave me the stare
as if I shouldn't be there,
but maybe

he wasn't
looking at me at all,
perhaps at the opposite wall

or a monk behind me
who stared back at him
with equal stare

wishing maybe
he wasn't there.
I cleaned the bogs

on the second floor,
swept the cloister
as if some

holy street
or one of them
in Jerusalem

where He once walked
or strolled with others
before the Roman's

did Him in.
The old peasant monk
sharpened his scythe

on the narrow stone,
before continuing
to cut the tall grass,

lonesome looking,
humble, God blessed,
as if not alone.

The enormity
of the grief
pushing down

on the aged shoulders.
Words fail me
seemingly,

one word in front
of the other,
like one learning

to walk again;
word utterances,
seem so banal,

so ordinary,
do not do justice
to the feelings felt.

Your words,
last of which,
ok or don't know,  

are kept in mind
or memory or on
cell phone click.

You-
the best of-
to go

in such a way.
Dark ward,
lone bed,

at the far end.
What philosophy,
what faith,

what hopes
can make amend?  
We were there

at the final sail
of ship's departure,
my son,

hand holding,
arm stroking,
whispered hopes

sent to air's feel.
Your death,
untimely,

unbelievable,
in comprehensive,
still.

Can't get over
missing the first death;
we were there
for the second.

Who failed
and what failed?
What the last words?
What last thoughts
did you have
when you slipped away
that first time around?  

We were there,
but you were in coma;
eyes shut;
breathing shallow;
machines flashing
and making
their technical noise.

We were there waiting.
Waiting for you
to come around,
waiting for you
to open your eyes,
waiting for a recovery,
waiting holding
your hands and arms,
kissing your forehead,
kissing your cheek.

We waited for time to heal,
waiting to hear
your laughter,
to see your smile,
to hear your soft words
on your breath.

We waited in hope,
unknowing,
we waited for death.

Atara wants to listen
to the pianist
play some Chopin
in some place

in Dubrovnik
so we get dressed
in our best
have a shot

of ***** first
and a smoke
on the balcony
a look over the sea

and she says
I he'd wished play Mozart
I like Mozart
well he's playing Chopin

so that's it
I say
but he won't be playing
the piano concertos

of Chopin
she says
no he hasn't got
an orchestra with him

just him
playing alone
I say
she sits on the balcony

in her red dress
the one that I bought her
in Paris
the one she's grown out of

(not to mention it
to her of course)
she inhales
and looks

at the street below  
remember
when we made love
to Chopin's Piano Concerto

number 2​?
she asks
we didn't make love
to the concerto

we made love
with each other
I say
you know

what I mean
she says
you'd bought me
an LP

of the two concertos
and we made love
to the 2nd one
I looked at the red dress

it fitted tightly
her *******
were pushing it
to the limits

her plump knees
were showing
that red dress ok?
I ask

she looks at me
sure it is
it's my favourite
she replies

pulling at the hem
trying to pull it
over her knees
you bought it for me

in Paris
yes I did
back in 1970
is it that long ago?

two years?
yes two years
I say
gosh I don't usually

have a dress that long
she says
maybe you should
buy me a new one

she says
I bought a new one
last month
to go to that wedding

I say
O but that
was a wedding going dress
she says

I look away
look at the sea
the red dress is fine
I say

(despite what people might see)
there's a good looking dame
on the balcony over the way
I don't say.

The old monk
with Parkinson’s disease,
bug eyed

through thick lenses
spectacles,
his fingers

shaking the host,
is unable to find
the tongue

in sick monk’s
static mouth.
I weeded

the cloister Garth
flower bed,
back aching,

God
at my young
bent shoulder.

The youngest monk,
squat and black robed,
holds the ewer,

while the abbot
holds between
knobbly fingers,

the aspergillum,
to bless the monks
in the choir stalls,

after Compline,
before
the Angelus calls.

There was snow
and ECTs
and the locked doors
of the locked ward

and Yiska was sitting
by the window
looking at the sunrise
after an almost

sleepless night
looks deep
I said
looking out

at the snow
on the trees and fields
she gazed at me
can't you sleep either?

bits and pieces of sleep
snatches of dreams
or nightmares
I said

I heard you
with that night nurse
during the night
Yiska said

asking her about
going home
you were awake too?
yes I got up for a while

and stared at the snow
coming down
against the moon's light
it looked so peaceful

so surreal
being stuck in here
seems surreal
I said

we'll get out one day
she said
walk out
into the free air

and no quacks or nurses
snooping over you
and no more ECTs
no more **** headaches

and all because
that ******* left me
at the altar
on my wedding day

I looked at her
sitting there
her hair unbrushed
her eyes red

her dressing gown
loose and pulled over
her white legs
gives you time to think

of things you don't want
to think about
and the ECTs
don't help

despite
what they claim
I said
when I woke up that time

after one
of my ECT sessions
my head was heavy with pain
and I saw you

lying on the bed
next to mine
and thought momentarily
we were dead

and I’d woken
in some kind of Limbo
with that white light
coming through cracks

in the shutters
then you woke
and we stared at each other
and never spoke.

Shish kebabs
shish kebabs
that's all they have
Miriam said
as she sat
at the bar
of the base camp
in Morocco

I sat smoking
and drinking a Bacardi
they do salads
I said
in long French loaves
I have those
they’re healthier
and quite filling

she looked down
her nose
can't just have salad
she said
must have meat
of some kind

well don't look at me
I’m too skinny
for a decent meal

she laughed
and sat  
closer to me
at the bar
can you get me a drink?

sure what you having?

same as you

ok
Bacardi and coke it is
so I asked
the bar keep
for her drink  
and he went off
to get it
a cigarette hanging
from his lower lip
what did you think
of the belly dancer
last night?
I asked

not my thing
she said
but I see you liked it

yes it was a good experience
heard about them
but never
seen one before
last night
I said
the bar keep
brought her drink
and I paid him
he went off
and I said
how did you sleep?

not good
I had Moaning Minnie
with me
and she moaned
because I came in
the tent at 3am
what time
do you call this?
she moaned
some of us
are trying to sleep
she moaned on
for ages after
I think she was moaning still
in her dreams
I suppose you slept?
she said

yes I crept in my tent
and fell asleep over
my suitcase
I was too **** tired
to move it
and the ex-army guy
was zeroed

lucky you

not really
I would rather
have had you there
than him
snoring like some bear  

what makes you think
I’d sleep with you?

you did the other night
after the beach party

she sipped her drink
and looked
at the menu card
that was different
she said

yes it was
I said
we went in your tent
and Moaning Minnie
came in
and turfed me out

Miriam smiled
if she'd come
five minutes earlier
she'd have got
an eyeful

yes that
would have been
a bundle of laughs

Miriam ordered
a salad roll
and sipped
her Bacardi and coke  

I sipped mine
and enjoyed my smoke.

Saba sat there
and posed herself
all ready for what
she didn't say

part of my job
she said
this posing
this being seen
as such

I gazed
like a man dazed

haven't you seen
a woman like this
before?

yes
I said
sure I have

then why
the wide eye gaze?
she said

I sat down opposite
hands on my knees
looking at her hair
at her eyes
the pose
do you do this often?
I said

only if he wants me to
she said
he'll be back
he's just gone
for a bite to eat

don't you eat too?

not yet
if I get out of pose
I lose my focus
she said

does he pay well?
I asked

this is art
she said
I get enough
but it's not the pay
that counts
it's being part
of art
it'll be me
on the canvas
me outliving him

I wanted a smoke
but I’d left them
in my coat downstairs
got a ciggie?
I asked

he doesn't allow
smoking
in his studio
she said
fire risk
oils
and other
stuff around

when do you get done?
I asked

when he says
she replied
not a nine
to five job

I gazed at her
with more focus
putting out of mind
the image of her
sitting in the church pew
with her husband
he all prim and proper
and she innocent as cream

she uncrossed
her legs
revealing
a young man's dream.

Each finds
their own salvation
or not,
Nima said.

Birds fed
in her hair.

Her eyes ******
in black holes,
gave birth to dreams.

I sat beside her,
drank black coffee,
smoked menthol cigarettes,
heard Coltrane
on the HiFi.

How deep
does my soul go?
She asked,
what is *** after all?

I inhaled and looked
at the cavern
of her small
firm *******.

Cold turkey,
she said,
rather have
a cool fix.

I sat exhaling
menthol smoke;
the Coltrane runs
on saxophone
caught in my ears.

I think I’ve spiders
in my ******,
she said;
******* ones
with hairy legs.

I closed my eyes
supping on
the menthol smoke,
sensing Coltrane's sound
invade my soul.

Nima lay back down,
legs spread,
black beetles
and insects
inside
her drained out
head.

I had ridden back from work
that Saturday midday
with Milka's brothers
and we parked our bikes

in the farmyard
and Yaakov said
want to come in
for a coffee?

Sela said
and see Milka
while you're there
he laughed

and we all went in
the farm house
and their mother fussed
and asked me

what I would like
and treated me like a son  
and said
sit down Benny

and so I sat
and waited
for the boys
to change out

of their work clothes
I have made
a fruit cake Benny
would you like some?

their mother asked
that'd be nice
I said
and watched

as she moved
about in the kitchen
is Milka about?
I asked

she's out with her dad
they've gone to market
o ok
I said

they'll be back soon
she said
she handed me
some cake on a plate

and mug of coffee
Milka likes you
her mother said
but I told her

to take things steady
as she's only 16
and there's plenty
of time ahead of her

I looked at Milka's mother
as she fussed about
in the kitchen
putting a ***

on the stove
clearing away others
yes plenty of time
I said

trying not to think
how Milka and I
nearly got caught
in bed the other week

when I was alone
in the farmhouse
with her
she has all these fancies

about her how much
she wants children
where she wants to live
and so on

the mother said
I told her
Benny's only
a young man yet

he doesn't want
all that at his age
I ate the cake
nodded

and thought of Milka
rushing to get dressed
in her room
while her mother

talked with a farmhand
in the farmyard
or the time
at my place

one Friday
during my lunch hour
at my house
while all others

were out
she lying there
on my single bed
and I kissing her

from neck down
plenty of time
Milka's mother said
they've no sooner

left dolls behind
and they want real babies
she smiled
and I smiled

then ate the cake
and sipped the coffee
while Milka's mother
put some things away

trying to think
of other things
other than Milka lying there
completely bare.

Sleep on Yehudit,
yet before you go,
before you close
your bright blue eyes

to us all, tell me this:
do you remember
that first kiss?
That silver coin moon,

that boot black sky
of late evening?
Sleep,
my first lover,

but before you go,
before you rest
the deep rest,
tell me,

which day did you
love the best?
I recalled
and loved them all.

I remember...
do you love me?
You would ask.
Did not expect

your dying of big C...
Sleep the big sleep,
my Yehudit,  
rest your blue eyes,

give a final smile,
but before you do,
tell me softly,
did you really love me?

I stood next to Jeanette
on the sports field
it was sports day
and she was in

her gym skirt and top
and I was in
black sports shorts
and a white shirt

what are you in?
I asked  
she looked at me
100yards run

and a relay
she said quietly
are you any good?
I asked

I can run ok
her friend Angela
next to her
a blonde haired girl said

she's fast
is she now?
I said
yes

Angela said
she'll get us house points
that's for sure
what are you in then?

Jeanette asked
I’m down for the 100 yards
that's all
and that was a mistake

as I didn't mean to run
as fast in the trials
but the other kids
were so slow

she nodded her head
and said
but at least
you'll get your house

some points
I couldn't careless
about house points
I said

she looked away
a race was about to start
girls were lined up
at the lower end

it's being apart of a team
Jeanette said
doing one's best
if I was in your house

I'd run every race
I said
but you're not
she said

no that's why
I don't give a ****
the girls were off
down the track

a lean tall girl
was ahead of them
a lone tubby girl
brought up the rear

there was cheering ons
and shouts
of COME ON
RUN RUN

from the crowds
I looked at Jeanette
beside me
she was calling out softly

moving her hands
she was thin
and her legs were long
but more shapely

than I’d thought
she looked along
the other end
where the lean girl

came in first
come on
Angela said
and taking Jeanette

by the hand
they ran down
to the line
for the next race

I watched them go
the girl Angela
dumpy and blonde
and Jeanette

thin and tall
with a lovely sway
which I thought
capturing it

in my mind
with my camera eye
would stay with me
all day.

Elaine ate her sandwiches
in the lunch room
sitting on a stool
eyes lowered

trying not to listen
to others
in the room
not wanting

to draw attention
to herself
sitting there
the bread

was dried out
the luncheon meat
yucky and tasteless
the window looked out

on the playing field
sun was out
sky silky blue
she ate as much

as she wanted
and got off the stool
packed
her lunch box away

and left the room
and walked down
the passageway
and out onto the field

where she waited
by the fence
her satchel
over her shoulder

what you waiting for Frumpy?
a girl said
passing her by
she didn't reply

she looked
at the field
to see if the boy
named John

was out there
somewhere
she tightened her grip
on the satchel strap

boys passed by
a group of girls giggling
she felt self conscious
looked at her shoes

her laces
the way she tied them
I’m a bit late
John said

but here now
she looked up
and he was there
with his quiff of hair

and hazel eyes
been waiting long?
he said
no not long

she said
just come out
he nodded
and looked around him

she looked away
felt tense
felt her body shake
how about a walk?

he said
she moved with him
as he walked
from the fence

he spoke
of the lessons
of the morning
she listened

but didn't listen
the words seemed
odd to her floating
about her

she gazed at his hand
beside her
the fingers
the ink stains

on the tips
still he spoke on
and she moved her hand
close to his

so that
they almost brushed
against each other
her hand just inches away

he talked almost
non stop
his words spilling out
his eyes wide open

she felt strange
felt her stomach tighten
her legs shaky  
can we sit for a while?

she said
yes yes
he  said
and they sat

on the grass
near the upper fence
are you all right?
he asked

she nodded
folding her legs
under her
pulling her green skirt

over her knees
he went on
about the Jay he'd seen
about where it nested

and all she could think of
was his neck showing
where buttons were undone
the naked skin

his Adam's apple
rising and falling
and nearby in the woods
a bird was calling.

I wish we could be
alone more
Yiska said
we sat looking across

the playing field
school in the distance
modern building
glass and brick

and concrete
me too
I said
the sun allowed us this

if it had rained
we would not
have been here
sitting on the field

we'd be stuck inside
the hall
kicking our heels
or classrooms

doing puzzles
or games in boxes
boys kicked *****
girls sat talking

in groups
loud laughter
there are always eyes
out here

she said
tongues wag
gossip starts
I dreamed of you

last night
I said
I dreamed we were alone
in my room

side by side
in my bed
I wish I shared
that dream

she said
I dreamed
of my mother
and her low mood

and her moaning
about my room
and the untidiness
and she jabbing

my back
with each word
some boy scored a goal
between coats

on the field
and boys yelled
what did we do?
she asked

leaning closer
when?
I said
in your dream

she said
I don't know
I said
I woke up

and left the dream
in my head.

Come-
Yehudit,
let me see your eyes,
I’ve not seen them
since that far off sunrise.

Let me see
your brown hair,
let me feel it
between my fingers,
touch the strands
with finger and thumb.

Come-
Yehudit,
let us laugh once more,
let me see you walk
in the long grass,
by the pond,
sitting and watching
the ducks swim,
listening to the birds sing.

Let us watch
until the stars
become dim or die.

Listen-
Yehudit,
my long ago love,
I was sad to hear
of your cancerous death,
your too soon demise.

Come-
Yehudit,
let me see your smile,
let the sun sit
in your shade
for a while.

Remember that first kiss?
That embrace,
lips meeting,
us close,
face to face?

That summer
after school,
sitting in the tall grass,
us alone,
bright sky,
a steam train
going by
to some place,
us talking,
kissing,
blessed
by another's grace.

They must know why,
you said
in your quiet voice,

doubts beginning to knock;
knocked sideways.
Two days later,

my son,
you were dead.
That corridor,

the time ticking by,
you-
yes, you,

shadowy,
come to me still,
dreams, maybe.

Your touch
on your mother's shoulder
the other night?

I played the Led Zeppelin
once again,
recalling you saying:

always the rocker.
Dark waves,
light at the end

of no tunnel so far.
No other light
except a dying star.

Benedict looked over
the edge of the garden
looked down
at the sheer drop

Lizbeth looked over too
standing beside him
quite a drop
she said

are your two little sisters
safe when they stand here ?
she asked
we’re usually with them

or my mum
Benedict said
he looked
at the beautiful view

ahead of him
hills
fields
trees and bushes

birds in the sky
she looked sideways
on at him
his quiff of hair

the open neck shirt
the jeans
the rest of his family
were out picking blackberries

while he was here
alone with her
and all he talked of
was the garden

and the view
and how he helped up
at the farm
she looked back

at the cottage
thought of his room
the bed
the glass tank

of shells
and bones
and moss
the model Spitfire

hanging from the ceiling
she wouldn’t mind
the Spitfire
if she were laying there

looking up at it
while Benedict was on her
entering her
and the bed

was creaking
and she saying
(what the girl in class
said she did)

but no
instead she was standing
in his garden
on the edge

while he talked
of seeing
some butterfly
as if she cared

what he saw
except her
on his bed unclothed
sensing him

touching
feeling
gazing at the ceiling
can’t we go in?

she said
get to your bed?
have s.e.x.
before your mother

comes back?
Benedict thought he saw
a sparrow hawk
hovering in the bluey sky

beautiful in its skill
ready to dive and ****
I’m dying
to have *** with you

she said bluntly
tugging at his arm
not now
he said

he smelt the farm
over the way
sensed the cool
of county calm.

The tall
young monk
by the bell rope,

in the cloister,
by the refectory door,
off to Rome

the following day.
I tolled the bell
for Angelus,

rope between hands,
words between lips.
The peasant monk,

fading tonsure,
swept the cloister,
black habit dusty,

humble,
soft prayer,
inaudible mumble.

Anne,
one legged,

crutched herself
through passageway

and hall,
passed kitchen,

leg stump swaying,
green dress flowing,

out through
the French windows,

moving by me
in the doorway,

pushing by
the boss-eyed nun,

out into the garden,
shouting loudly:

WHERE’S
THE ****** SUN!

Where-
and the place
too familiar,

passageways,
dark, the bed
at the end

of the ward,
and you,
you there,

at the side,
bent over,
Stoic until the end.

Where in the realm of things
does sense
come of this?

I, how to see
sense in this?
The unfolding drama,

the end game,
the drawn out decider.
You-

how soon would
it have come,
my son?

Did you?
And how much?
Was it your hand

on my shoulder
months later
at the Carthusian mass?

The long passage way,
drawn out in dreams
to the same conclusion,

the same end:
What will be the comfort;
who will mend?

Two monks,
black robed,
picked fruit

in the abbey gardens,
tonsured,
crown of thorns.

I turned the pages
of the breviary,
Latin words,

red ended pages,
black cover,
heavy,

psalms,
prayers,
Gospel excerpts.

The old peasant monk,
smiled toothless at the camera,
a world away,

all things,
he said,
is to pray.

The hay barn was warm
and silent
and it was out
of the rain

and we could look out
and see the rain
falling heavily
on the land outside

just in time
Jane said
we would
have got drenched

I smelt the farm
from where we were
the cows
the dung

the air
birds outside calling
we came in here
once before

I said
she looked at me
then back
into the interior

of the barn
yes I know
but we weren’t
alone then

the other kids
made it seem
more a playground
than a place

we could be
on our own
I caught a glimpse
of her grey dress

the wellington boots
her dark hair damp
from the sudden downpour  
barns have their own

particular smell
I said
she looked at me
with her dark blue eyes

best not
let the cowmen
see us in here
or tongues will talk

she said
what about?
I said
seeing rooks take off

from the tops
of the tall trees
a boy and girl
in a hay barn

gives people
the wrong impression
of matters
I sensed an apple smell

freshly picked
what impression?
you know
that those two people

are doing things
I looked at the grey sky
the Downs were
greying green

kissing?
I said
that and other things
she said shyly

the cowman’s daughter
up the lane
is pregnant
and they came in here

I thought now
that the apple smell
came from her
fresh apple scent

I breathed her in secretly
I heard about that
my mother said something
to my father over dinner

in hushed talk
but I heard them
what’s that
got to do with us?

I said
taking the apples
in my mind
and holding them

in my hands
wanting to bite
into each
nothing as long

as we’re just being us
and not otherwise
my mother likes you
Jane said

she has a good eye
for people
I nodded
uncertain what to say

still it rained
and there was
the strong smell
of warm hay

That monk in the refectory
sitting there
reminded me

of old Jack:
same look,
same eyes,

that quiet presence.
The French peasant monk,
cutting back

the hedgerow
with a scythe,
black robed,

tonsured,
humble as cheese,
nods and bows.

I picked apples wrong
in the orchard,
the monk said,

he showed how,
his fine fingers
twisted just so,

feminine,
pinkish nails,
his dark tight curls

untonsured.
For whom the bells toll
down to the sea and beach?

I tossed stones
across the incoming tide,
further

than Brother Hugh
(moaning Myrtle)
could reach.

Abir and I
were told
by a prefect
to go and stand

in the assembly hall
after lunch
for running down
the wrong stairway

but we'll be late
for lessons the other way?
Abir said
I don't care

the prefect said
rules are rules
no running down stairs
and not down

the wrong stairway
so we stood
in the assembly hall
by the window

waiting
for the punishment teacher
to come for midday assembly
and hand out

corporal punishment
had to happen one day
I guess
I said

hang on
I have a plan
Abir said
come on

so I followed him
out of the hall
and along
to the prefect room

we spotted the prefect
coming out
of the room
do you smoke?

Abir asked
sure I do
the prefect said
well

if you let us off
you can have these
Abir said
the prefect looked

at the packet
of 20 Senior Service cigarettes
where'd you get these?
the prefect asked

my old lady
gave them to me
Abir said
the prefect

sniffed the packet
ok off you go
but don't
let me catch you again

he said
we went off
there you go
Abir said

bribery works
did your mother
give you the cigarettes?
I asked

no
I liberated them
from the shop
across the road

while other kids
were distracting him
Abir said
I said nothing

as we walked along
to the assembly hall
and took our place
in the lines of boys

Abir smiling
I with a cool face.

Why did you meet me
from school?
Fay asked
as we walked along

St George’s Road
I got the bus this way
after I left school
and thought I’d stay on

and meet you
nice of you
she said
that’s me

I said
nice guy
she laughed softly
I hate school

some days
she said
only some days
I hate school all days

I said
we walked on a bit
in silence
what happened today

to make you hate school?
I asked
Sister Bridget said
that there’s no salvation

outside the Church
she quoted St Augustine
and that’s a bad day?
I said

who’s this St Augustine guy?
sounds a happy guy
he was a saint
of the Church

she said
which by definition
means you are ******
sounds pretty much

what my teachers
tell me
I said
no I’m serious

she said
she was
her eyes were tearful
I pray for you

she said
I asked Sister Luke
to pray for you
she’s my favourite nun

we went down
the subway towards
the New Kent Road
her voice echoing

as she talked on
about  this nun said this
and what nun said what
I thought of the kiss

on the cheek
she gave me
the other day
the one I said

I’d not wash away
which I did accidently
the other morning
half awake

and thought
o God
I’ve washed
her kiss away  

maybe I thought
she’ll kiss me
another cheek kiss
but she was still talking

about damnation
and about some guy
called Dante
and some fire

her soft voice
moving along
the walls
of the subway

as if it were *******
along the walls
trying to find
a way out

into the afternoon sun
she stopped
and so did I
and she kissed me

on the cheek
another one.

Laid to rest,
stone in place,
legend chiselled
and name
and words
and such,
flowers
in place.

Laid to rest-
but not,
my son,
for us,
the memories too strong,
too recent ,
to put to sleep or rest.

Waves of it rush
against the shores of self,
digging in deep,
pushing heart
and sense aside,
raising the ghostly
images to sight.

Who spoke last?
Who conversed
in final hours?
How dark the ward.
I helped you
best I could.

Unknowing,
promised
of the morrow returning,
but then too late,
just the comatosed you
to greet, the last
drawn out day of demise.

Laid to rest,
stone in place,
words chiselled,
ashes encased,
buried, flowers,
prayers said.

You,
my son,
stoic by nature,
warrior to the core;
why does
the sun rise?
What was
it all for?

I’d just come back
from Somerset
the night before
after staying

with an aunt and uncle
and was walking down
from the Square
when Enid

was walking up
from the baker shop
off of Rockingham street
I’ve missed you

she said
got back last night
I said
her left eye

was bluey green skin
how’s your old man?
I asked
still thumping

his daughter happily?
she looked away
up at the flats
behind us

I walked into
a lamppost
she said
wasn’t looking

where I was going
I noticed four
finger size bruises
on her arm

but said nothing
about them
yes I know lampposts
kind jump out at you

when you pass by
she looked at me
I ought not
talk to you

she said
why?
my father said
he doesn’t like you

and I mustn’t
talk to you
but you are
I said

besides
I don’t like
your old man either
so that make us

kind of balanced
I better go
she said
but stayed

looking at me
if I see your old man
on the stairs
of the flats

I’ll trip him up ok?
no no
she said
her mouth

staying open
I was kidding Enid
relax
she gripped

the white paper
bag of rolls
in her hand
and looked up

at the flats
missed you
she whispered
glad you’re

back again
and I watched her
walk up the *****
to the flats

the sky was dark grey
promising rain.

You, Yiska, you-
eyes,
plums,

settled in cream,
soft,
gazed there,

new worlds,
and lips,
barely touching,

edge of Paradise,
skin on skin,
warm, wet,

pressed.
Yiska, you-
hands,

******* fingers,
you there,
your thighs,

dress raised,
summery,
birds searching

out the sky,
I,
seeking bird-like,

to fly high.
You, Yiska, you-
I dreamed of you,

night searching,
sky darkening,
moon's oil,

stars exploding
in eyes
from window's view,
you,
Yiska,
you.

Words-
yours, the last ones,
the ones I try to recapture,
illusive now, my son,
just out of reach
of memory's touch.

Words-
not famous ones,
not of depth or
philosophical
or world changing,
but yours,
last breath spoken,
before I left,
exchanging of words,
out there still
in the atmosphere
ghostly, haunting,
yours, my son,
the final words,
what the last one?

Words-
fragmented now,
my brain searches
through the corridor
of cells, seeking
in the drawers marked
forgotten, the last words,
yours, my son:
what was
the final one?