I Didn't Even Applaud

Coffined, I'm crammed in a seat
on the late bus, escaping the city, escaping
the jaunty liveliness hemming me in.
I have to hold far sight, doing
that trick with the eyes where they soften:
see, but look within. I'm tired, not right; can't see
how it's slipped again. Two psychiatrists, agreeing,
can authorise ECT on a sectioned patient.
I recite the litany of admissions.
The driver swerves too fast on the corners
and I watch a man with broken shoes standing
by the doors. I forget to ring the bell for my stop.


21 January 2012

Acceptance Speech

with a passing nod to Shirley Jackson's 'The Lottery'


Ladies and Gentlemen,

I have only ever wanted to serve this community.
From my place behind the counter of my store
I have attended to the daily household needs
of each and every one of you as you've bought
whatever it is you've required and filled me in
on the doings of the town.
'Jacobson'll have it,' you say; or, 'Jacobson'll know.'
And I will, and I do.
I stock everything. And people like to chat, don't they?

I wear my apron when I work - not just to protect
my clothing, but because it's the expected uniform.
You trust me in my apron: the friendly, avuncular shopkeeper
who can put his hand on what you want and lend an ear - always
lend an ear. I know more about you, ladies and gentlemen,
than you would be entirely comfortable with, were it not for the apron.
But now, of course, having played my part to the full,
having serviced your lives - always deferential, always with a smile -
I am called upon to make one last sacrifice.

None of you has stood in this place before me, of course, because,
as of ancient rite, no-one can ever stand in this place twice.
So, with some sadness in my heart, knowing that I will not,
any longer, be able to pass on what I have gleaned, nor
furnish you with any solid thing to grasp and take home;
and knowing, too, the weight of the revelation
that has been given us, and its sustaining power in our lives,
I stand before you, a proud member of our community,
and accept, with love and dignity, the stones that you will throw.

I am your servant.


6 November 2011

On Commas

Well, you just have to pause, think
breathing space, subordinate clause, emphasis
which, stopping the flow, reinforces the point,
or teases it out, further, like a looping ball
thrown casually, and drifting a little
before it lands. In the rush of our daily sentences
these tiny hooks give definition, artfully shape
meaning: lead, direct, regulate our pace and rhythm
like little policemen, or guides, who, knowing the terrain,
can lead us safely through contiguous words
thrown anyhow, and out the other side.

We are all grammarians, and in finding our way
use the surveyor's marks the language provides -

take pause, reflect, move on, and fly...


30 October 2011

Pilgrimage

It came to my notice the other day,
while looking at some old photographs
of you playing in the dirt, laughing,
holding your face up to the camera
with an impudent innocence piercing
the air with its clarity, that a man
fortunate enough to have a son engaged
with life, one who walks a path clear-eyed
(I see you running at the surf, when you
had overcome your fear, with a sharp
thrust of relish) has been given one of the simpler gifts:
a clear note played with a bow, and sustained daily.
Some would call it love. I found myself
thinking about the careful hands of one
working with wood, who finds in the grain and warp
of the tree the shape of the thing expressed:
the actual heft of an object carved.

I wanted to hold you then. Wanted what since ancient times
the sprinkling of water might signify: blessing, grace, arrival.

I thought all this while sitting on a noisy train of skylarking teenagers
and hearing the bass note of what, too, was their need for love.

Since I walked from that hospital by the river,
every moving sinew takes me home.



24 October 2011

Bird Watching

I showed the bird in my hand
to the young woman at the other end of the hall.
I wanted to kiss her, but my tongue
could not even shape a word. Songless, I left.

Holding the bird deep in my pocket
I mumbled excuses to the boys at the door
who were off to the school dance. I fled
to my room. I learnt how a shrike crushes.

The bird sat on my shoulder
as I performed my stories, taught my class:
displayed, conducted; practiced my craft
with lightness. A beak tore at my gut.

Hiding the bird in my throat
I knelt in some kind of prayer
till the tumult subsided and I fell
to the floor. Cradled in claws, I slept.

Where was the bird when I wrote?
Caged in my heart; free in my hand.
How is it no-one sees her, though she lives
with me still? You have to sit for a long time

for a sighting.



18 September 2011