Naaman takes note
Of the woman Sarah
as she passes him by.

Her blonde hair
and blue eyes
have him enthralled.

His cappuccino is too hot
to drink as yet, so
sits and watches
as she walks by.  

She is tall,
her figure upright,
her sway is
as a fine ship
about to set sail
across calm seas.

He thinks of her often,
imagines her stopping
to talk, not just
walking by unaware
he watches.

He spoons the top
off the coffee.
Wipes cream
from his moustache
with a napkin provided.

Sunlight comes through
the glass roof, he feels
like some tender plant.

She pauses by a shop window,
stares at dresses and tops
and the dummies wearing
them, perfectly figured.

His eyes drink her in,
sup up her beauty.

There is bare flesh
upon her neck
where the top
of the dress ends.

Her hair touches it,
sweeps it
as she moves away.

Naaman closes his eyes
to file his images.
He opens his eyes
and she's gone,
only space
where she'd been.

The space is empty now,
but holds what he's seen.

Ezra in a tent
typing out Pisan Cantos
madness saved his ****.

So what others may say
and she can hear them
thinking that or maybe

inside her head hear their
voices say as such as she
sits on the stone steps of

her apartment thinking of
him and his thoughtlessness
and sure it’s what most

people think is the norm
guys being guys thing but
she can’t help being saddened

by his forgetting it being their
fifth anniversary since the
first day they met at the gallery

looking at the modern art the
Mondrian’s and Rothko’s and
her favourite Lichtenstein’s

and how he had been all over
her that day being all knowledge
and kindness and fussing over

the smallest detail and taking
her to that restaurant he knew
and the music he put on in his

classy apartment and how he’d
been quite the gentleman that
night not pressuring for *** no

expectation of anything except
her happiness and now sitting
watching the early morning slow

ride by of Sunday traffic and the
odd passing person and their
usual rest day greetings she feels

depressed that he has forgotten
that he has not called and breathing
in the morning air she wonders

now if he really ever did care or
maybe he’s grown sick of her and
her wants and ways or has found

some other woman to love and
caress and kiss and take out and
maybe he’s in some other woman’s

place lying asleep lying body next
to body face to face and she hopes
maybe he’ll ring or text or better

still come round with chocs and wine
and suggest they go and dine but
she’ll not text or ring him to remind

or find out where he’s gone or
whereabouts he slept the night
before no sir she mutters I’ll not

lower myself to do as such full of
cares sitting on her apartment stairs.

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.

Time at the moment is pretty fluid it wraps itself about you like a warm fur coat and snuggles close to you the minutes ticking ever so slowly the seconds taking their pace like wrinkly old folks crossing roads and the cigarette lit and you drawing in the smoke the inhalation a big thrill a big relief after the kids are off to school and Buck’s out on the road with his job and all and you just wanting the moment to be prolonged beyond the usual process of time wanting to be able to stretch out and just take in the moment now the scent from your skin the cigarette smell the nicotine the smoke the sounds of the birds outside the window the sounds of the traffic along the back road the ability at that moment to just lounge there and feel the chair beneath your *** the hardness of it the smoothness of it as you move your *** back and forth and taking another drag on the cigarette you want to heave it back into your lungs and let it settle there let the smoke filter into your head  and heart and soul and if Buck was there with you and not on the road trying to sell those **** brushes and brooms and washing junk you and he could make out up in the bedroom and not have to worry if the kids came in or overheard or you could be on the floor in the front room and making as much sounds as you **** well liked and not having to think of the kids saying what’s up Mommy Daddy hurting you again? Thinking of that time when you and Buck were going strong and you guess the noise was getting kind of loud and little Pips comes into the semi dark and says Mommy are you ok? What’s happening? And you had to hush her and read her a story until she had gone to sleep again and Buck had gone to sleep by the time you got back and you were left heated and wanting and him asleep and you burning for it but now you are alone with the smoke and the scent and hard chair supporting your **** and remembering the day a few weeks back when that salesman came to the porch selling hardware and giving it the hard sell and you the eye and looking beyond you wondering if there was anyone at home apart from you and you looking at him thinking what would he be like if he and you made it on the sofa the flower patterned sofa that you bought with Buck’s mother’s money she left us and wondering if he had it in him after giving you the big sell and the usual yak but you pushed the though out of your mind as pips was home from school that day having the ***** and if she hadn’t maybe you might have but that was that and you didn’t and he didn’t and you didn’t even buy a single *** from him not so much as small knife and coming back to the moment to the cigarette between fingers the smoke being blown into the air the smell the scent the feeling of being alive the sensation of being free yet not free of being at ease yet uneasy and thinking if only Buck was here if only he’d taken the day off and wondering what to do for the rest of the day apart from the chores apart from the usual day to day things and wishing that the salesman would ome by today wishing that he’d call in and maybe you say to yourself just maybe that **** sofa that sickly flowered sofa could be could be soft against your naked **** and he making it out with you and him yakking about pots and pans and the hard sell and you not caring a fig’s skin as long as you had company and he was pretty good but he never did and you never did and the smoke touches the ceiling like grey fingers reaching for the sky and you sitting there smoking waiting for the why.

Fay managed to get out
while her father worked
and she came

and knocked at your door
and said
You want to go out?

Sure
you replied
and you both went down

the stairs of the apartment block
across the Square
and down the *****

up Meadow Road
crossing over
the bombsite

behind the coal wharf
and on to the main road
where you walked along

side by side
Let’s see what’s on
at the movies

you said
and you stopped outside
the movie house

and peered at the programmes
Fay said
My daddy doesn’t think

movies are right for children
he says they’re sinful
and full of lust

and ***
and greed
and she stopped

and stared along the road
at the people passing
and the cars and lorries

going by
on the main road
and the evening air

choked up with fumes
and the street lights
giving a false perspective

It isn’t all like that
you said
Some movies are about love

and laughter
and people enjoy going
it takes them out

of their dreary lives
Fay said
I’ve never been

inside a movie house
never seen a movie
Well why don’t you come with me

to the matinee on Saturday
I can squeeze some money
from my dad for the two of us

Fay looked at you
and seemed interested
but then said

No I can’t
if my father caught me
there’d be hell to pay

and apart from the lecture
on the immorality
of the arts and such

he’d belt me some
and not let me out again
for some time

and  you said
Ok but some day
you’re going to find out

things aren’t always
as the parents say
then you’re going to

have to find your own road
and walk your own way
and she looked sad

and walked away
from the movie house
along to the subway

and down the steps
into the bright lights
and noise of traffic

over head
and you touched her hand
and she gripped yours

and you walked down
through the subway tunnel
she in her flowered dress

and brown shoes
slightly scuffed
and you

in your tee shirt and jeans
and you pretended
not to notice

the bruise on her thigh
which caught your eye
as she skipped along

her dress rising high
as she went holding tight
your hand

her fingers wrapped
about yours
and up and out

on the other side
of the subway
with its bright lights

and evening sky
and too many questions
and not an answer why.

The two catholic priests sat
in the Breakfast Room
off the refectory
in the abbey.

They looked up
when you entered
then continued
their conversation
about Dante
and you poured
yourself a coffee
and a small bowl
of Cornflakes
with a little milk
and sugar.

You sat down
and sipped the coffee.

There were prints
of Michelangelo
on the walls
and a crucifix above
and between
the two doors
that led to the
refectory
where the monks ate
three times a day.

The priests conversed
but said nothing to you.

Their words were uttered
in posh well bred voices.

One said
Few believe in Hell these days
and even fewer in Paradise
and those that do
have vague ideas
gathered from odd books
you find on airport
bookshop shelves.

You listened half heartedly
as they talked.  

You wanted to ask
about the place.

Wanted one of them
to hear confession.

Maybe one
to give absolution
and perhaps offer a solution.  

You could hear
the footsteps of monks
in the other room
getting their breakfast
of bread and jam
and black French coffee.

One priest laughed.

You never heard the joke.

The other guffawed loudly
in a girlish voice.

And the woman was seen
leaving by the back door
semi dressed and in great distress
the priest continued
And Father Denton
was never the same.

Then they were silent
and stood and smiled
and went their way.

You sat alone in the room.

The Michelangelo prints
reflected the single bulb
hanging above the table.

The Crucified seemed
above it all.

You would find some other
to hear confession.

To give absolution
from your fall.

I found
your Jimi Hendrix
tee shirt, Ole,

while sorting tee shirts
on the hangers
in my wardrobe,

there underneath
them all
it was found at last.

I remember
you wearing it,
remember your body

filling it out,
the Jimi Hendrix image
almost coming to life.  

What tee shirt
you were wearing
that night your heart

stopped the first time around,
I cannot think,
other matters occupy

my mind,
other images fill
my night induced sleep

when sleep comes
finally if at all.
How long

had your heart stopped
before they got it
going again?

Who found you?
3 hours or more or less
after I left

the hospital ward?
I am glad I found
your Hendrix tee shirt;

I hugged it tight,
chocked up a bit,
imagined you

were there inside,
pretended momentarily
you had not died.

Elaine feels
as if she's the center
of the world,
as if

she was
standing there
in all her frumpish ******
for all the world to see.

She stands
against the fence
in the girls' playground
as the boys stream by

to theirs.
She knows John
was on the school bus;
he was across the aisle,

but she hadn't looked,
she gazed out the window
the whole way.
She had stood

by the the steps
of the bus
after she'd got off
hoping he would

speak to her
or touch her arm
or ...or what?
her inner voice asks

kiss you again?
his lips on yours
in view of all?
Silly fool.

She stands there,
hands in the pockets
of her dark green coat,
eyes lowered,

*******
a boiled sweet.
Morning Frumpy,
two passing girls say,

have *** last night?
They walk on
giggling.
What is ***?

she'd asked
her mother
some months back
***** things,

don’t' indulge
or talk about it
came the reply.
She stuffed

the words in a box
in her head
marked: *****,
do not open.

Have ***? she muses,
was it a kind of gift
given wrapped?
She looks at the two girls

walking away,
arms linked,
giggling together,
dark green coats,

white socks,
blacks shoes,
shoulder to shoulder.
John had kissed her

the day before.
What was it for?
For real? A joke?
The impression

of his lips
presses still
on her lip’s skin.
She licks to see

if he's still there,
lingering
in some spittle
somewhere.  

She can't get him
or his kiss
from her mind,
he resides there

like a secret tenant,
being,
moving about,
not heeding her,

not paying rent.
She feels the ends
of her black shoes
pressing on the tips

of her toes,
too tight, not right.
He presses against
the tips

of her soul
and heart,
slowly ripping
each apart.

Nima stares at the ward.
Nima wants to cause a scene.
She wants to raise hell.

The few nurses on duty
are not busy.
They're stuck in

an office yakking.
If she'd been sick
in the body and not

in the head or wasn't
a druggie they'd
be all over her

like sick of a baby.
Since she's backslided
and got a hit

from some idiot
she's on watch now
and not allowed out

except in the grounds.
She ***** on a cigarette
and inhales on it.

Watches the laughing nurses
in the office.
If she was able

she'd lock
the ******* in.
She walks along

the small area of grass
outside peering in.
She's no one to talk to.

The other patients
**** her off.
Talk nonsense.

She's one of the few
druggies on the ward
the others are mental cases.

Jewel's ok.
She's a manic depressive.
Gives her cigarettes.

Talks to her
in a deepness
she can almost drown in.

On a bad day
Jewel'll not talk at all
but sit staring at a wall

or lay in bed
with a blanket
over her head.

Jewel talks of ECTs.
She sees them take her off
sometimes and then

she's gone sometime
and comes back
dreary eyed and moody.

Nima wants a hit or ***
or something to break
the monotony.

Benedict said he'd come.
She waits for him.
She watches for him

at visitors time.
The few visitors that come
could fill a telephone box.

She wants him to come.
Wants him.
They had a quickie once

in a small room off
the side corridor.
Uncomfortable but good.

She peers in the ward.
A few visitors arrive
and stroll in

and some bring flowers
or chocs or nothing.
Benedict arrives

and sees her outside
and comes out to her.
Wasn't sure if you'd come

she says.
Said I would
he says.

He hands her a packet
of cigarettes
and a Mars bar.

She stuffs them
in the pocket
of her dressing gown.

They talk.
Walk on and around
the small area.

The nurses watch them.
She knows they're
being watched.

It makes her feel
wanted in an odd way.
She kisses him.

They kiss.
Her hand around
his waist her

the other hand
holding a cigarette.
He hugs her close

one hand
touching her behind.
They kiss again.

Clouds darken. Sky fills.
Looks miserable.
Looks like rain.

I'll hold the window
in place
you ***** it
to the wall
my father said

he had the seriousness
of a professional
his dark hair and eyes
firm
rock like

I took a *****
and proceeded
to ***** the window frame
to the wall

my father
was engaged
in the work

I was thinking of Marion
the blonde
who sang
with a band sometimes
who I met some nights
over a drink

and she talked
about music
and how she
had a good relationship
with her father
and how she'd say
Daddy can I go
out dancing?
and he'd say
yes my crazy daughter
and she laughed

I sat there
just listening
seeing her
blue eyes shine
and her body pause
with life

and I asked
what about me
and you and bed?  

you mean ***?
she said

well yes
I said  

O my
I can't sleep
with anyone
not until I marry them
she said
that's like opening
a Christmas present
before Christmas
can't be done

so I put that idea away
and we just talked
and drank
and she sang
a few of the songs
she sang with the band
doing that wiggly dance
she did

her blonde hair sprayed
like a huge bouquet
of flowers

is it firmly in?
my father asked
you need a good *****
to hold it in place

yes that's what I
was thinking
I said
pushing the thought
of Marion
out of
my 17 year old head.

Lizbeth dreams
of Benny

having him
in her bed

just for kicks
her parents

down the stairs
in the lounge

unaware
she's upstairs

with Benny
having ***

in her bed
the first time

at long last
so she dreams

inside her
13 year

old young head
Benny dreams

of Spitfires
in dogfights

or finding
in hedgerows

a blackbird's
nest and eggs

all untouched
or holding

in his palms
a Peacock
butterfly

wings unspoilt
settled there

he dreams not
of Lizbeth

or of ***
anywhere

not in church
or her bed

and knows not
what's inside

his 13
year old head.

The summer sun
warmed you and Jane

as you made your way
up the dried up

muddy track
towards the Downs

the sunlight
pouring through

the branches of trees
overhead

you thinking
of your work

on the farm below
the day before

the weighing of the milk
the clearing out

of cowsheds
and the cowman saying

what do you want to do
when you leave school?

to be a cowman
you replied

you want to get yourself
a proper job

you don’t want to do this
for a living

and Jane said
breaking you

from your thoughts
I want to show you

where I used to sit on the Downs
and where I used to collect

bones and skeletons of rabbits
and moles and birds

and you turned
and looked at her

as she walked beside you
her hands swinging

as she walked
her black hair tied

in a small bun
at the back

and her yellowy flowered dress
capturing your eyes

my father works in the woods
further along

you said
he works in the ditches

and hedgerows too
she bent down

and plucked a flower
that’s Squinancywort

she said
showing you the flower

as she twirled it
between fingers

she offered it to you to smell
lovely isn’t it?

you nodded
and carried the scent

with you as you both
moved on up the track

she turned to you and said
your dad does well

at his work for a townie
and you smiled

and so did she
and you captured

her lips parting
and her bright white teeth

and her eyes
moving over you

like a soft caress
and she whispered

turning her head away
do you love me?

and you whispered
yes.

You sat with Jane
in her father’s church
the bright morning sun

piercing high windows
pushing colours on flagstone floors
the silence caressed you

her nearness warmed
her ankle socks and sandals
had an innocence of strawberries

her flowered summer dress
rode up to her thighs as she sat
her hands resting on her knees

can you feel that breeze?
she said
cooling isn’t it

you sensed it as she spoke
yes I can
you replied

your eyes moved along her thighs
then lifted to her face
as partial sunlight

seemed to show
grace there on skin
and dark black hair

and you watched her lips move
as she spoke and said
I was christened here

and maybe I’ll be wed here too
to whom?
you asked

and she looked at you
a thirteen year old boy
then looked away

some birdsong from outside
had caught her ear
and she turned her head

and you gazed
at her neck and jaw
and saw her beauty

in a way you had not before
sunlight catching her
as it had coloured patterns

on flagstone floor
you wanted to reach
and touch her arm

her skin and sense
her pulse of life
that pumped within.

Hi come in I’ve just put on
the Mahler the 3rd Ok? she says
and before you can reply she

ushers you into the lounge where
you remove your coat and hear
the Mahlerian sounds from the hifi

and the smell of her scent and two
glasses of scotch on the small table
by the sofa take a seat she says taking

your coat off to the other room and
you look at the Picasso print on the
wall and think how long before she

tries to undress you and you sit and
she’s back and sits beside you and says
drink up and take in the Mahler and

guess who I saw today and she had
the cheek to ask how I was when she
knew she’d been gossiping about me

to the **** neighbours and you sip
the scotch and look at her plump face
and her deep blue eyes and the red

dress she has on and the overbearing
perfume and how her ******* try and
push their way out of the dress and you

try and get a word in something about
the 3rd symphony or how you like the
Picasso print but she talks on and over

you like a tank her words hard biting with
their Gaelic tones and then she puts her
hand on your thigh and rubs it up and down

all the time her words unfaltering stretching
through the air and I told the old crab to
go smell her husband’s crotch and that was

it how was your day? she asks looking into
your eyes her hand still rubbing and your
pecker rising and you say a real downer of

a day but whatever now let’s just get into
the 3rd and sip our scotch and she smiles
and makes a grab for your hidden crotch.

I wonder if
the Moroccan sun
going down
into the Mediterranean
sea(or seemingly so),
noticed us
kissing on the beach
by the tufts of grass?

We cared not,
but went about
our business
as lovers do.

Loud music
from the base camp,
some one sang,
guitar, voices,
silly laughter.

It was quite
some time
ago now;
age has set in,
bones
have become stiff
and ache,
but it was
a good session,
as I recall,
for time-sake.

As you rode through Paris
in the packed coach

the radio played
Beethoven’s Piano Concerto #5

and Mamie
sat beside you

her head to one side
sleeping

her mouth open
like some fish

out of water
her hands tucked

between her thighs
her blue skirt

riding high
and the slow movement

of the Beethoven piece
began

the piano playing softy
as the bright lights

of Paris
lit up

the dull space
inside the coach

and you closed your eyes
laying a hand

surreptiously
over hers

hearing the piano
and orchestra

as if in a dream
and Mamie

never minded
your hand

on hers
or so you thought then

and as now
it would seem.

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.

You and Fay got off the bus
and walked towards Waterloo train station

and you said
I often come here

just to see and smell
and hear the steam trains

and she looked about her
at the sights and sounds

and smell of steam off the trains
at the platforms

and she said
I haven’t been here

since my parents took us
to the seaside once

and my father was in a cross mood
all day because we wanted to play

on the beach and he wanted to go
to the pubs and my mother sat there

most of the day watching us
in a solemn silence

and she jump back a little
when a stream engine

blew out loudly nearby
and she laughed

and so did you
and as you stood there

in your faded jeans
and off white tee shirt

and she in her pink
summery dress

she took your hand
in her small hand

and you watched her
out of the corner of your eye

and she seemed to be so alive
and happy and all the dark times

of her father and his moods
and stern punishments

seemed momentarily
to have fled

and a glint of sunshine
and happiness came

and rested there
instead.

Christina
undresses
before bed

views herself
in the tall
wide mirror

narrow waist
small fleshy
mounds of *******

she turns round
and gazes
at her hams

smiles thinking
what he'd say
if he viewed

what she views
looking back
over her

thin shoulders
she turns round
to the front

***** hairs
narrow hips
he would say

you're too thin
need more meat
0n your ****

but your ***
is ok
time for sleep

to put on
her nightdress
brush her teeth

comb her hair
get in bed
close her eyes

think of him
making love
in her head.

Looking back
it seemed
the child

was not to be
always there,
not through lack

of love or care,
but something
that came to her

in dreams of dread
at night asleep in bed.
She tries to retake

in dreams
the child back,
to pretend

that through
wishful thinking
she can make up

the lack.
Arms fold
into cradle

as once they had
when child lay
in arm’s hold,

snuggled
and warm,
alive and moving,

seeking out with
eyes and fingers
her mother’s dug.

Rock-abye-baby
no more,
the arms

and hands
redundant,
the last time

she recalls
the dead child
in arms,

rocking
back and forth,
as if this might cure

and bring back
to life,
might stir open

eyes, jog open
lips and mouth
to ****.

Not to be
just the memory,
ill luck.

Shlomit remembers
the slaps at the back

of the legs by Mother’s
wet hand. Sins must

be punished, Father said,
lounging in the armchair

by the fire. She had
asked for more pudding,

milky, white, warm to
fill her small stomach,

the stinging hot flesh,
Mother’s hand striking

slaps one, two and three.
Straight to bed, none of

the stories, no supper,
no tea. She recalls that

dark room, the cold bed,
the smell of nightclothes

over worn, infrequently
washed, the aching head.

She remembers that more
than once, always that

hand wet, flesh exposed,
the slaps thrice, painfully

given, not nice. She recalls
the hand marks left behind,

red on white, carves or
thighs, the stinging sensation,

the shame of it all and them
arguing down the darken hall.

Jane fainted in the town
by the coach
on Saturday morning
and her mother

and other women
were around her
and you stood
a little way away

wondering what
had happened to her
I think it must be
that time of the month

you heard one woman say
maybe
her mother said
but she’s not usually

like this
she added
will she be all right?
you asked

bending down
next to one
of the women
who had gathered

her mother looked at you
and said
yes it happens
at certain times

of the month
oh right
you said
none the wiser

gazing at Jane
at her dark hair
her eyes closed
her features

white and sweaty
best give her some air
her mother said
and you all stood up

and her mother
fanned her
with her hat
then after a minute or so

Jane opened her eyes
and said
what happened?
I went all funny

and everything went white
you fainted
her mother said
waving the hat

in front of Jane’s face
I want to get up
Jane said
and so you

and her mother
helped her
to her feet
and she leaned

against the wall
of the bank
and looked around
she’ll be all right now

a woman said
it happens
another said
after a few minutes

they went off
to the shops
leaving you
and your mother

and Jane
and her mother
standing by the coach
I’ll be all right now

Jane said
ok
her mother said
and you all walked

along the street
to the shops
Jane walking behind
with you

her hand stealthily
reaching down
for yours and giving it
a little squeeze

then releasing it again
looking up at the sky
which had become dark
threatening rain.

Janice was
by the pram
sheds when I

came along
she was flushed
and upset

what is up?
I asked her
I've just seen

a man in
Jail park who
showed me his

whatsit-called
as I walked
along by

the flower
bed and I
didn't know

what to do
Janice said
is he still

there? I asked
I don't know
she replied

let's go see
I told her
I'm not sure

I  want to
go back there
she replied

I'm with you
otherwise
you'll never

go back there
I replied
she was pale

and frightened
don't worry
I've seen his

type before
he'll soon run
when I come

and tell him
I'll cut off
his **** ****

Janice blushed
Benny that's
swearing

what would Gran
say if she
heard those words

Janice said
I won't tell
your grandma

if you don't
I tell her
now let's go

so she comes
with me though
the Square and

across Bath
Terrace and
into the Park

but the man
wasn't there
but he was

inside the
head of poor
Janice and

often dreamed
of him in
nightmares she

used to have
afterwards
she told me.

He spoke of love
And dead men’s ease,
Of those Degas paintings
And young dame’s knees,
He thought of logic

And Wittgenstein,
French food and Spanish wine,
Smoked cigars
And bedded ******
He spoke with girls

And college bores,
He kissed and laughed,
And occasionally bathed
With those he loved
And thought of much

Like him and her
And such and such
And others whose names
He’s quite forgotten
Whom he treated well

Or treated rotten
Or never treated at all
But let them fall
From grace of God
To whom he seldom prayed

And rarely trod.
He spoke of hate
And dead men’s grief
And waited death
And death’s relief.

Milka and I
played
my Elvis Presley discs
in my room

on the old
blue record player
on the floor
she sat

on my bed
while I sat
on the floor
changing the discs

as I went along
she held up
one of the LP sleeves
Fun in Acapulco

she said
I like the cover
isn't he cute?
not sure

I’d say cute
I said
I like him
but not in a

cute sense
she read the blurb
at the back
can you play this?

sure
I said
so she handed me
the LP

and I put it on
the player
come sit next to me
she said

so I went
sat next to her
on the bed
and she leaned

against me
her head
on my shoulder
and I put my arm

about her
while Elvis sang
I can tell
you like Elvis

she said
you even comb
your hair like him
and smile like him

I smelt her scent
(borrowed
from her mother
no doubt)

felt the soft cloth
on her flesh
my fingers touching
her arm

where'd you get
the red stockings?
I asked
seeing them clearly

for the first time
they went well
with the green skirt
I thought

Mum got them for me
the other week
do they look ****?
she asked

you're already ****
I  said
she kissed me
and Elvis sang

a Mexican
sounding song
as she did so
I sensed the wetness

of her lips
her tongue poking
between my lips
tongues meeting

her arms
about my waist
my spare hand
on her thigh

Elvis singing
guitars playing
a trumpet blowing
we lay back

on the bed
the blue lampshade overhead
she closed her eyes
lips met

tongues engaged
hands moved
in the background
Elvis grooved.

There’s a sadness to our being,
Lola thinks, now swaying to the
Movement of the train, studying
People nearby, their faces in the
Morning light, their gestures,
Their inner thoughts unknowable,
Carrying their grief, their broken
Dreams, their unfulfilled appetites.

She senses the muscles in her bottom
Tense and untense as the train sways,
Her thighs stiffening to give balance,
Her hands folded on her handbag,
Ladylike, as Mother taught, some
Time ago, among other more important
Things, how to behave, how not to behave,
What to say in public and what not.

The train stops at a station, people
Get off and some get on, different
Faces to study, others lost, possibly
To sight for life, passing ships in a dull
Night, gone now never to be known
By her, never to be dreamed of or missed
Or grieved over some future death.

The train moves on, she sways again,
Her body moving to the motion as others
Do, and watching them, the way they sway,
The dying embers in their eyes, their words
Not said, the thoughts coming and going
Inside each head, sadness or some private
Joy, not shared, least not yet, not with her.

Sit still and be quiet, Mother would say,
Children ought (she always said ought) to
Be observed not heard, and as she sways
Now, thinking of her mother and her mother’s
Words and ways, she feels she wants to shout
And jump about, to flout her mother’s rules and
Words and sayings and laws, but she just sits and
Stares, silently, thinks rebellion, but never dares.

And I suppose
she just happened
to be looking this way?
Netanya said

just happened
to be catching
your eyes
and she just happened

to be wearing
that **** skimpy bikini
so that you
could see nigh on

her backside
and what she had
for dinner?
I sat outside

the five berth caravan
on the camping site
a book in my hand
(Sartre most probably)

trying to focus
on the words
I was just sitting here
and she came out

of her van
and stood there  
sunning herself
nothing to me

what she does
I said
O so the sight
of a *****

nigh on undressed
does nothing for you?
O now isn't that
a new thing

maybe I just ring
the newspapers
and tell them
the news

Benedict has lost
his eyes for **** *******
semi-undressed
huh? huh?

I looked over
at the sun coming
over the hedge
bright and brave  

tried to let her words
float over me
like a bad smell
but still she went on

bet if truth were known
you've been praying
for her to get her ****
out here so you can gawk

nothing would
surprise me
she said
with a shake

of her brunette head
do you want to go
for a swim?
I asked

putting down
the book
Where's the kids?
Down at the beach

doing what kids do
**** swim
or make sandcastles
or look for dead

fish or *****
she replied
or we could go in
and make love

on the bed
I said
she looked
at the woman

over the way
in her bikini
bright yellow
and quite skimpy

sitting in a deckchair
with her dyed
blonde hair
bit risky

she said
what if the kids return
and we're at it
lock the door

I said
she smiled
never thought
of that before

so we went
into the caravan
and I gave
one last look

at the blonde dame
in the bright
yellow bikini
whatever her name.

Nima looked bored
as we walked
the art gallery
she was only allowed out

of the hospital
for a few hours
promising no drug fixes
or *****

can't we go elsewhere?
she asked
bored here
I felt her boredom

it seeped into my bones
let's go for a coffee
I said
so we went for a coffee

in a coffee bar
across the road
and had a smoke
you were late

she said
I only have a few hours
out of that mad house
sorry I popped

into the jazz record shop
and left me waiting
in Trafalgar Square
she said

what did you buy?
nothing yet
I said
I'll go back later

saw a Coltrane LP I liked
I said
***** that jazz stuff
she said

we drained our coffees
and walked back
to the train station
and I saw her

on her train
and kissed her
at the window
and the train went off

and I watched
until she was out of sight
then back tracked
to the jazz record shop

to buy the Coltrane LP
thinking of Nima
and the time
we had a ***

in that cheap hotel
by Charing Cross
and the bed creaking
and the odd

hot and cold water taps
and she and I
laying there
I walked back

to the gallery
for a last look around
thinking of the Coltrane
and the Coltrane sound.

He sweeps the cloister,
the old monk,
with a wide broom,

shuffling, pushing.
I feel the morning breeze
hit me as I walk

from stairs to church
along the same cloister;
she had whispered

in my ears
****** suggestions
unfulfilled.

A cobweb hangs
in the church's
high gallery

like a thread
of a seamstresses' hair,
hanging there.

Do you remember
The water lilies
On Henderson's pond?

Were there lilies there,
I cannot recall?
Sure, you remember,

We came with the boys
To fish and gaze. Boys?
What boys were they?

My mind's just a haze.
Our boys, young Jacob
And John, remember

Them? John and Jacob?
We had two sons? Sure,
We did, way back then,

Years before. Where are
They now? Are they here
About? No, don't you

Remember? They died
In the War. You cried
For days and for years.

Poor dears; don't recall
Them, my mind's a haze.
You must remember,

How can you forget?
Who are you, then, dear?
Have we ever met?

I sit in a bar
with Miss Pinkie;
her son, who is a copper,
is getting the drinks.

She looks at me
and says:
we are just friends
if he asks
(as if I was going
to tell him
I was rogering his mother)
and don't talk politics
or say you write poetry.

I will be
the perfect gentleman,
I reply.

Her son comes
with the drinks:
a whiskey for his mother,
a beer for me
and a lemonade
for himself;
he sits down
and gazes at me.

So, Benedict,
what do you do
for a living?

I'm a nurse,
I work with your mum.

He looks at Miss Pinkie,
then at me.

What do you do?
I ask,
giving him
the Mr Innocence stare.

I'm a police officer;
aiming for C.I.D.

He sits upright
in the chair,
brushing a hand
over his dark hair.

What do you think
of the IRA?

Miss Pinkie stares at me
as if I'd let wind go in public.

They're a murderous lot,
he says;
you don't
support them
do you?

No, I don't support them;
I agree with their objectives,
but not their methods
of achieving
those objectives.

He looks at Miss Pinkie
and she looks at us both
as if she didn't know
who we were.

Both their objectives
and methods
are objectionable.

He takes a sip
of his lemonade
as if the very words
were distasteful
in his mouth;
I sip my beer;
his mother gulps
her whiskey.

What do you do
when you're not
being a nurse
and involved in
“leftist” politics?

I listen to music:
Wagner, Delius and Mahler,
and that crowd.

High-Brow stuff;
I like Johnny Mathis myself.

He wears a smug expression
and looks at his mother;
she looks at her glass.

What else do you do
apart from listening to music?
he asks.

I write poems
and read books.

You're not a queer
are you?

He stares at me
suspiciously,
then looks
at his mother.

Would I be
with your mum
if I were?

Miss Pinkie looks at me;
her blue eyes
are large as a cow's.

What do you mean?
he says.

Another drink?
I say,
another lemonade?

He means,
Miss Pinkie says,
we're good friends,
and he's not
that way inclined.

He stares at me
with a hard glare,
but I don't mind.

Janice( wearing a lime
flowered dress
and white socks)

met me by the iron bridge
to go to chapel
I didn't often

go to chapel
sometimes
I went to the other church

or the tabernacle
or not at all
but she wanted to go

so I said
I’d go along
and sing a few hymns

and see the old dame
plonking on the piano
out of tune

and some old guy
singing
like a bullfrog

out of water
Gran said
I’m not to get

my new dress *****
and not to go
on the bomb sites

or play in the park
or I’m for it
just chapel

and home again
she sounded disappointed
I thought of going

to the bomb site
off Meadow Row
to get small stones

for my catapult
but I didn’t want
to get her

into trouble
ok let's get
to chapel

and have a sing-along
I like your blazer
is it new?

yes my Mum
bought it for me
for Sundays

and special occasions
I also have these
new grey flannel trousers

and white shirt
and tie
we walked on

by the public house
and along
to the small chapel

she was thinking
of her new lime
flowered dress

and what the chapel goers
might think and say
I was thinking

of how many cans
I could hit
with my new catapult

tucked inside
my blazer pocket
touching it lightly

with my fingers
as we walked along
hearing

as we entered
the chapel
a dreary song.

I sense the touch
of boy's eyes upon
me, said Jeanette,
the touch inches

beneath my skin,
moves along my
veins, ****** at my
heart. I sit and see

the other girls remote,
untouched as I, their
voices gathered like
hens at feed, pecking

their order of who
and must; I hear the
words giggled: kiss
and tell, and touch

and feel, and who did
what to whom, echoing
around the room in
whispers spoken, hid

by hands, eyes betraying
what their voices are saying.
A girl talks of ******
climes, of ***** deeds,

with him, but who is he
for no one tells, just a
lover of girls. I wash
each night to cleanse me

from their touch of words,
their deeds half buried
in my mind's hold; I bathe
and sit and scrub, sensing

the day's grime wash clear
away, hair,arms, hands,
neck and *******, where
they say(and laugh) their

*** boys play. I hear their
words as I sit in class,
whispering, whispering,
who did what to whom

and where and were you
there?  I wonder at their
lives, their way of walk
and do and deeds, the want

of love or need of keeping
something back, virginity
not saved not cared for such
as seems when they speak

and sprout it all comes out.
I bathe in water warm and
soapy, scrub my skin to
cleanse them off, the night

spread before me like a dark
gown, the stars blinking eyes,
the moon a ghostly ship on a
dreary sea. I don't think boys

will want of me. I dress as
neat and tight and show no
part that should not be be
seen, I am as yet untouched,

unfingered, unkissed, a
flower in a gloomy meadow,
a blossom in a city site, a
gem(says mother) in a heap

of *****. I sense the touch of
boy's eyes upon my skin, it
bites at me, ****** at nerves
and heart, I want to be undone,
not left alone and torn apart.

Atara loved the sun
and laying on the beach
in a deckchair
in her bikini
and sunglasses

I preferred the shade
a cool beer
and reading a book

she came in
the hotel room
tanned and cooked

I sat on the chair
by the open window
white and cool

you're like a snow man
she said
sitting all white
open necked shirt
white trousers
why don't you come out
to the beach
and get some sun
get those arms
and features brown?

prefer my whiteness
and being cool
and a good cold beer
I said

she stood by the shower door
and pouted her lip
why come
all the way out here
to sit in the shade
and read a **** book?

I like sight seeing
not sun worshipping
I like museums
and art galleries
not seeing other people’s
sweating bodies

you are such a bore
she said

you didn't say that night

she looked at me
wrinkled up her nose
that was different
she said

you didn't mind
my white body then
I said

I couldn't see it
in the dark

and I couldn't see
your tan either

what's wrong
with the beach though?
she said

too hot and smells
of sun oil and stinking flesh
I said

they have men on the beach
with big brown bodies
and muscles
she said

they also have dames
who look over cooked
and big busted
I said

I’m going for a shower
she said

don't wash off the tan
I said

why don't you
shower with me?
she said

I prefer to shower alone

don't you want
my body any more?
she said sexily

not in the shower

you are so square
she said
walking off
for a shower
so fecking SQUARE
she yelled
and slammed the door

a cool breeze
came through the window
I sipped my beer
and turned another page
of the book
I could hear
the shower going
but didn't go and look.

I remember Herr Ackerman being a rather stern man with neatly trimmed whiskers, dark eyes that seemed like olives stuck in large bowls. His wife was an unhappy woman who appeared always in his shadow, never said anything she didn’t think he would agree with. They were the parents of my school friend, Greta Ackerman, with whom I stayed that summer in their large house in the countryside. Rosa, Herr Ackerman said to me, where are your parents living? When I told him, he pulled a face, sniffed the air as if he could smell them. I am not sure that you may come and stay again after this summer, Rosa; he said stiffly, times are changing; there are people about now who take a dim view of being too associated with Jews. I nodded and was glad at least that summer I could stay with Greta and be with her in that fine house. She was very sad when I told her what her father had said. We must make the most of our time together, she said, and forget about next summer. I had only arrived that day, so she took me to the upper landing of the house where along a corridor she showed me the bedroom where I was to sleep. It was cosy, far better than my own at home which I shared with my sister Rachel. Where do you sleep? I asked. Come and see, Greta said, and taking me by the hand pulled me along the corridor to a door at the end. Here, she said excitedly, I sleep here. Come in, close the door, she whispered as if someone might hear. I entered; she pushed the door shut behind us. What do you think? She said. It’s beautiful, I said. It was the best room I had seen as far as bedrooms go. She took me by the hand, ran to the window, which looked out on the fields beyond and the hills in the distance. I wanted us to share a room like we do at school, but father said, no, Greta said, but you must visit me at night, she added softly. I said I would and she leaned forward and kissed me. It was not the first time she had kissed me; we had kissed at school, but it had been only on the odd moment when we could ****** time to be alone. Here we could be alone when we liked most of the time. Greta knew this and this made her happy. Doesn’t your father like Jews? I asked as we parted from the kiss. He has his worries with his friends and associates who have their own prejudices, he thinks it might harm the friendship if he is seen to take a different view on Jews from them, Greta said, holding me close, not wanting to let me go. We spent time going around the house and grounds, talking and laughing, running across the fields, into the small woods nearby. At mealtimes Herr Ackerman would sit stern, talk about the news, discuss things with his wife, and occasionally look at me as if there was something he wanted to say, but didn’t quite know how to say it. That night as I lay in the bed in the bedroom, looking out at the night sky thinking of home, my parents and my sister, there was a tap at the door. The handle turned, Greta stood in the gap of light from the passage behind her. Are you asleep? she asked. No, I replied. She came in, closed the door behind her, tiptoed across the room to the bed, and climbed in beside me. Her feet were cold and her hands, which touched my warm body, were cold, too. I waited for you, she whispered. I forgot the way, I replied softly. She laughed and kissed my cheek. Not to worry, she said, I am here with you. Her cold feet touched mine, her arms sought out my warm body, she sighed. What’s the matter? I asked. I am so happy to be here with you, yet I know that tomorrow Father says you must return home. I was shocked.Why? I asked. He said it is best, Greta muttered. How best? I said. He told Mother that he has no choice. If his friends found out you are staying here, it could be awkward for him, Greta said. I felt tears on her cheeks as she held me close to her. How shall I get home? I said. Father will arrange transport for you, Greta said. I felt frightened; I sensed danger. I don’t want you to go, Greta said, I want you always to be here with me. I kissed her. Father said that I am to go to a different school next term, Greta muttered. After tomorrow, I may not see you again. I felt as if someone had stabbed me, someone had opened up my brain and exposed it to a bright light that blocked out all thoughts and feelings other than that Greta and I were to be parted. We were silent. We lay in each other’s arms, feelings each other’s arms, bodies and sensing the moments passing by, the clock on the small bedside table was ticking away the minutes we had left together. Talking seemed senseless, we spoke with our bodies, our hands, and our lips, we explored each other in such depth that I remember each part of her body even all these years later. That was my first night of love, our night of love. Two fourteen-year-old girls; one German, one Jew. A year later, my parents fled Germany with my sister and me; went to America, and stayed with relatives of my father until he found employment and a place for us to live.
Herr Ackerman and his wife prospered for a while, but they were killed in an air raid in Dresden. Greta committed suicide the week before she was to begin her new school. I shall always remember Greta; remember the love we shared and the love we lost.

You remember that dame
who didn’t want to talk to
you and then later she did

by which time you had met
some other chick who really
turned you on? Joey said well

she’s like that with most guys
she thinks it gives her a kind
of power you know the type

was probably kept under her
old man’s thumb or maybe her
brothers kept her in her place

and she wants to break out or
in whatever the case may be
so I shouldn’t take it to heart

Bud don’t let it get to you
anyway if you see her again
give her the cold shoulder or

spin her some yarn that you
only go out with good looking
dames and Bud looked over at

Joey who was smoking a cigar
and holding a glass of beer and
said I know dames I was born

from one and I had four sisters
all of whom were nice chicks
and really made my youth one

hell of a heaven if that ain’t a
contradiction so I don’t need
no lessons on dames see I know

them and so Joey shrugged his
shoulders and sipped his beer
and drew heavy on his cigar

and said so be it next thing
you’ll be telling me is you’ve
slept with your **** ma.

Image is everything,
Clyde tells you. Give
Folks what they want

To see and want to believe,
Bonnie, they don’t want
The **** truth, they want

High heroes, vile villains,
Want them pretty bad. You
Pose, the gun, the cigar,

Even put the left foot
On the bumper of the car.
He prepares to shoot you,

Prepares to take the shot,
Shyly smiles, suggests you
Stare hard into the old box

Camera. You want to laugh,
Run over to him and kiss
His mouth and toss the

Cigar and give him back
The gun and get on with
Life, with being, with the

Hard won fun. Hold it just
There, he says, hold the
Head just so, that’s it, got

You just as they’ll want
To see. You stand and stare,
Sense dark danger in the air.

My bridegroom lifts me up
from the world’s dark, said
Sister Clare, He holds me fast
against the world’s clutches,
His touch heals my deepest
wounds, my many failures.

His eyes search me and see
me as I am; there is no pretence
in His presence, no maybe
in His words. He lifts away
from the false prophets and
lying religions, He shows me
His love in a thousand ways,
His love has no conditions, no
limitations, no world’s whims.

He calls me out of darkness
with the slightest word, none
is worthy of Him, none seek
Him as they ought. He seeks
me when I am lost, finds me
when I cannot see beyond
the narrowness of the me,
am blind to the reality of being,
too lost at times to the world's
sad ways. He will lift me up in
the Last Days; will save from
drowning in my deep depressions,
my eyes open to the brightness
of His face. I bathe in His love
and grace, hear His call even
when the noise of the world is
at its loudest beat, I shall know
His love, feel His tender touch,
even when I am sunk in darkness
and the wild world’s too much.

That's it now
the whole show

of his love
all spent out

those bruises
like medals

after war
remind you

he's been there
his call card

the bruising
of both eyes

the split lip
his bouquet

of flowers
red and blue


wrapped in fists
just for you.

The mourners come,
Each one set out
Along the way
From chapel door

To where the small
White coffin lies
And preacher stands.
One small red rose

Upon the lid,
To tell of love
And show the grief
Of baby dead

Which lies beneath
The coffin’s wood
Which was a tree
And proudly stood

But now it holds
Like vessel womb
A baby child
Within its tomb.

Did your da ask you
For the ciggies? Kennedy
Asks, his nose holding
Onto a piece of snot, his
Lemony eyes giving you
The big stare, the chin

Stubbly and grey, the
Mouth, a deserted
Cemetery of broken
Tomb-like teeth. He
Did so, you reply, looking
Away from the eyes,

Taking in the cigarettes
Behind the counter of the
Small tobacconist shop,
Feeling the sweat on your
Collar, smelling Kennedy’s
Breath, the stink of tobacco

And ale, and Mrs Fitzsimmons
Behind you, scratching her
****, tut-tutting impatiently,
Jabbing you in the back with
The bony finger of her other
Hand, saying in her baritone

Voice: Are you going to give
The boy the ciggies or not
As my shitearse of an
Husband’s waiting for his
Tea and I need his old ****
Before he leaves for work.

Kennedy hands you the
Ciggies with the big sigh
And stern stare and you
Hand him the coins sweaty
And damp and smell the
Scent of fear and anxiety
Lingering in the evening air.

Farewell my lovely,
Henderson had said,
Pushing his hat to
The back of his head,
Breaking a smile a

Mile wide, giving Jess
A touching lips kiss,
A small salute, thinking
Of war, the shedding
Of blood, a medal

Or two, all in one
Piece, if he got through,
Which he didn't, caught
His dying end in
42 and his

Drawled words lingered in
The air wherever
She went, on the porch
Sitting and looking
Out at the sky or

In bed gazing at
His photo on
The side, wishing he
Had lived long and loved,
Not fought fierce and died.

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.

You’re ill in bed.
You think you’re
Dying, but no one

Will affirm or deny,
They just come and

Go with smiles and
Kind words and only
Molly comes to wash

And change you and
Feed what little will

Stay down. The bed
Creaks when you move,
The phone beside the

Bed never rings, the
Curtains let in little

Light, the clutter of
Years of living hang
On walls or sit idle on

Shelves gathering dust
Despite Molly doing her

Best and being quite
The one for work and
Bustle. You miss her

When she doesn’t come,
You miss her gentleness,

Her soft touch to brow
And body. But when he
Comes with his beady eyes

And gruff words you feel
The closeness of death

Breathing in your *****.
He’s gone now, business
In the city, meeting to be

Arranged, money to make,
Life to be lived. The house

Is silent now, except for
The far away sounds of
Passing traffic in the street,

The hushing voices down
In the hall or on the corridor

Outside your door. Your body
Aches; the memory of love
And embraces and kissing are

Fading into gloom of day after
Dayness. The children are kept

Away to prevent the spread,
You hear their voices, their
Running feet, soft, soft, soft,

Gone. The time must be getting
Late, you feel the need to urinate,

You wish the curtains were open,
Wish the light would invade.
He comes and stands by your

Bed looking to see if you’re still
Living, he’ll come to the room

Smiling once he hears that you’re
Dead. Molly comes just in time,
Her gentle hands, her soft voice,

Wipes your brow, pumps the pillows
Beneath your head. Just a nursemaid
Now, no more the lover in your bed.

I was in a red phone booth
in Rockingham Street
looking for coins left behind
in the little cups
in the phone machine

my old man knocked
on the glass window
of the booth

I looked at him standing there
his deep set eyes
his Errol Flynn moustache
I came out of the booth
and let the door shut
behind me

what are you
doing in there?
he asked

looking for coins
left behind
I said

were there any?

no none at all

he nodded
and looked in the booth
shame
sometimes punters do
he said

I looked at him
he had a hollow look
about him
sunken cheeks

just as well
it was me
and not your mother
who saw you in there
he said

yes guess so
I said

well got to go to work
he said
how about
going to see a film
this weekend?

sure be good
I said

John Wayne film

cowboy film?

no war movie
Pork Chop Hill
I think it's called
he said

ok be good
I said

he nodded and left
I watched him go
and out of sight

I opened my hand
and looked at the coins
I found in the cup
of the phone machine

I pocketed them
and walked to Baldy's shop
and bought
some bubblegum
and a drink of pop
and walked back to the flat

I ought to have shown
my old man the coins
but I didn't
and that was that.

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.

You managed to ***
enough money
out of your old man
to take Janice

to the cinema
in Camberwell Green
didn’t your father mind?
Janice asked

no
you said
but he had queried
why the old biddy

couldn’t afford
to give her
granddaughter money
when he was strapped

for cash himself
but you had given him
your lost puppy eyes look
and he gave you

the money and got on
his bus to work
no he didn’t mind at all
you said

as you both waited
for the bus
on the New Kent Road
she wore her green

patterned dress
and red beret
her brown sandals
and white socks

you were in jeans
and white tee shirt
Gran said to be near you
all the time

because there are
some strange men
out and about
Janice said

like that one
who touched you
in the cinema
the other week

she added
yes the creep
you said
I told the female usher

and she soon rooted
him out of there
with a flea in his ear
then the bus came

and you both got on
and sat on
the side seats
and you paid

the bus conductor
the fares
and the bus went off
and you swayed

side to side
with the motion
of the bus
and some middle aged guy

opposite you
gave Janice the eye
through his thick
lens spectacles

lowering his gaze
to her knees
the tip of his tongue
sliding across

his lower lip
Janice looked away
you stared
at the guy

giving him
your Robert Mitchum glare
and he lowered his eyes
then looked away

mumbling
under his breath
then got off
at the next stop

and you fingered him
on his way
at Camberwell Green
you both got off the bus

but she never spoke
about the guy
and his creepy gaze
but took your hand

and you both walked
to the fleapit cinema
where you paid
and went in

to the big screen
and noise
and coloured film
blazing out

at you both
as you took
your seats
her hand

still holding yours
her eyes gazing
at the screen
as if the guy on the bus

and his stare
had never been.

Christina sat
on the playing field
with a small group of friends
their laughter

giggling over
towards you
as you made your way
to see her after lunch

in recess
when she saw you coming
she got up
brushed down

her green skirt
and white blouse
open at the neck
revealing a hint

of small *******
and walked towards you
leaving a chatter
of voices behind her

she swaying her hips
as she’d seen
in some black
and white movie

some dame do
and when she got to you
she stood gazing at you
her eyes feeding

on what she saw
how’s it going?
you asked
all right

she replied
her fingers fidgeting
in front of her
let’s go over

by the fence
you said
away from ears
and eyes

sure
she said
and walked beside you
as you walked

her hand
hanging loose beside her
near touching yours
the skin brushing

against each
as you walked
she talked
of the boring maths lesson

and old Parrot
giving it all that
she gestured
a beak

with the fingers
of her hand
her other hand
taking hold of yours

you sensing her hand
warming into yours
sensual
radiating feelings

old and new
down your spine
and nerves
she laughed

when you told
of how Parrot
threw chalk at you
in class for talking

and how you caught
the chalk
and handed it back to him
and all the time

you took in
her face
her eyes
the line

of her jaw
her lips
like small bubbles
of flesh waiting

to be pressed
into service
and at the back
of your mind

Reynard’s words
about her back
in class during science
when the teacher

showed a picture
of some erupting volcano
and Reynard said
she’d like that inside her

that bit you see
at recess
but there beside her
all you wanted

was to place the kiss
the lips waiting
your heart racing
and she

by the fence leaning
gazing at you
the bright eyes
still feeding

her lips opening
and closing
as words came
and left

and you leaned in close
and sealed them
with yours
and all seemed silent

about you
in that great
wild
out of doors.

Jeanette sits
in the class
music's played

Beethoven
sonata
Miss Graham

the teacher
at a grand
piano

thin wire framed
spectacles
her grey hair

in a bun
aged fingers
touching keys

many kids
in the class
sit bemused

others bored
out of brains
smile or smirk

but to her
sitting there
beside blonde

Angela
is transfixed
a new world

opens up
pretty much
like that kiss

stolen quick
by that boy
Benedict

on the field
after lunch
as she sat

all alone
Angela
had gone to

the crapper
(the wrong week
to sort out)

no reasons
were given
just that kiss

on her cheek
soft and damp
then he'd gone

leaving her
as one stung
by a bee

and she watched
as he went
towards school

and she sat
between worlds
old and new

balancing
her hormones
steering clear

of all those
dangerous
hidden rocks

Jeanette moves
to music
around her

her fingers
on the desk
like keyboard

pushing thoughts
of the kiss
from her mind

closing eyes
matching up
Benedict

inwardly
with passion
like one blind.