Today I was told, ‘turning to poetry is better than turning to drink’.
I have always turned to poetry, to the words out there, words I chase through the cosmos, words that might help me make sense of my new chaos.
Today I want to put my alphabet back in order. I stalk the sounds made by snow. Sounds out there, beyond this window.
Today I want to restore my faith in the Fibonacci sequence. I want to count for pleasure rather than be another statistic of Nature’s infinite and incalculable cruelty.
Today, and every day, I repeat what I know and still it doesn’t make sense.
My friend says, ‘listen to the songs of the humpbacked whales. And listen to the diapasons of cats and frogs.’
He says, ‘listen to the human songs, their cries and denials, between clinks of bottle caps flipped from too many cold leers, to ancient hissing nightmares, to dirty little secrets, to calliopes used to scare our inner children.’
And so I listen, today and every day. I listen and repeat what I know and still it doesn’t make sense.
I listen to the roar raging from my chest and rising to my throat.
But mostly, I take my friend’s advice. ‘Listen to the poets,’ he says. ‘Listen to the songs crying from the human heart.
Sunday reflection: fear
Fear is a four-letter word that is often unspoken because it isn’t the done thing to show vulnerability, to lose that stiff upper lift, to not ‘stay calm and carry on’.
My lip isn’t stiff; it is a trembling thing, as my body is a tremulous thing, private and yet out of my control.
Some prefer to use that other four-letter word, as though to spit out in anger hides the fear. Yet fear is mixed in with the verbal vomit that comes out of a cursory, throwaway word. I have used this F-word more than I’ve admitted to feeling fear.
Fear can seem self-explanatory, because we all feel it at some point or another, unless we are automaton, and perhaps even robots feel fear, they just haven’t been programmed to admit it.
Some don’t like to admit fear, don’t want to be seen as weak; instead, they become critical, judgemental, ‘what they would do if it were them’. I have done this too.
But it is ok to feel fear as a cry in the night, a panic attack, an inability to sleep, a churning in the pit of the stomach, a vomiting when the stomach is empty, a loss of control, a lack of concentration, a feeling of helplessness, a need for distraction…
To feel fear is to feel my humanity come to life when I need it most.
More from The Human Race: ‘In front of a shop window’
Do I like this girl? I’m not sure that I do. She is not a genie in a bottle. She can’t grant me three wishes. She cannot capture my thoughts on paper.
Don’t be fooled by the wide eyes, the bloodless smile or the cartoon head. Her slightly open mouth suggests she knows more than she should. As though she is asking: ‘Do you like butter?’
What rite of passage led to this pain of glass? A spell not a curse was cast.
She is cut-off, weighted down by paper. She is framed by thick, pink parchment. She is heavier than roses, softer than a Cath Kidston print. She is sweetened with saccharine.
Her big blued eyes melt into the shrill of sunlight. Her black hair moults over the window display.
Why should I write her life in this way and not some other?
What is reflected? What echoes of other stories in her smile and eyes?
Chapter 12: Solstice (for Ross)
Something crashed through my hair, though I could not think that a Martian had landed, not with slush and Osip snuffling at our feet, and your face as a folk song, so gold and delicious, and the branches so bare, so dappled in sunlight.
‘There’s no Martian here,’ I say, ‘though something crashed through my hair.’
A car sloshes passed. The sky swarms with new snow. I call him to heel and we make our way home, crackling through puddles, laughing at fairy lights in windows and the drop of needles we’ll get from a pine.
‘December,’ you say. ‘Are you up for a round of Auld Lang Syne?’
Like a rolling stone… (for J.B.)
She had a chameleon sense of self, a heart that gathered moss around its edges, a spirit rising freely with the damp and a global soul, at home in airports.
My Father’s house has many rooms, she read from a pamphlet handed out by a missionary.
‘He speaks Spanish and knows about water irrigation,’ she said. ‘We spoke of home and nation, history and tradition. And we had a similar take on Exodus.’
A lifeboat, anchored like an auxiliary verb, waited to ferry me to the other side of her sentence.
‘We spoke of anonymity and absence… And when I offered him a coin, he asked for smaller change.’
I showed her my jealous sense of self; the cavity in my chest that had once housed her heart.
So she packed a rucksack and went through the door.
‘I’ll send you a postcard,’ she called, not once looking back.
For hours I sat in the darkened room, telling myself she hadn’t truly left the building.
Old Wives’ Tales
It is said that she spat
into the native’s eye
into the strange brew she
stirred with her stranger tongue
and how I long to taste
that blend of sweat and saliva
It is said that she spurned her homeland
burnt the house she grew up in
turned her back on all she knew
and didn’t know
except for the copper kettle
and the milking cow
It is said that she sifted
through the embers of her life
drawing her thoughts in charcoal
long after the fire had died
I say she did the right thing
I say she knew what she was doing
when they told her to be silent in church
and she stopped attending
she could be silent anywhere
And her silence spread
quicker than gossip
across the seven seas
for this silence knew
how she’d refused to be
as mum as nature
Several years ago, in a writing class, we were assigned to write about ‘Yellow’. I decided to journey the Circle Line and record my thoughts & observations as I passed through 37 underground stations.
Embankment: Eastbound. 3 pm. Last carriage near the dirt-cream concertina connector. Please mind The Gap between the train and the platform. Temple: The Gap Line and what? Blackfriars: Don’t step over the yellow line lest you fall into the gap. All lettering on signs, whether warnings or instructions, are yellow. Mansion House: Two chatterboxes wearing church-going hats. A stout man chews in the way a cow chews cud. Items trapped in the doors causes delay. Cannon Street: Reflection in the dark, gritty windows: I’ve been beheaded. Monument: Obstructing the doors can be dangerous. Tower Hill: Support poles and railings are yellow. Kids go free. Aldgate: Oranges and Lemons said the bells of St Clements. Was that about child sacrifice or public executions? Liverpool Street: The lull of the carriage…rock-a-bye. Always has that effect. A sweaty man in a too-tight grey suit and green tie. I hope he doesn’t sit next to me. Moorgate: Two standing girls giggle in a kind of English that has no fixed abode. Barbican: Unbearable! I’m breathing him in! Farringdon: A bit of daylight. The chatterboxes get off. (The chewer got off at Liverpool Street.) A brunette with perfect pink toenails peeping out of strappy sandals. Sweaty man stares at her cleavage. Kings Cross St Pancreas: Sweaty man gets off. Euston Square: It would be easy to get off now, forget all about the yellow. Great Portland Street: The rear doors will not open at the next station. Please use the other doors. Baker Street: Swarm of bees buzzing in my head instead of thoughts…dozing off…Edgware Road: So much yellow on the map. Paddington: This is not a true circle. It’s the straight bit, the gap in my journey, which I have to mind. A little girl in a yellow dress is crying. Poor Alice in Underland. Royal Oak: Graffiti on wall shouts Go home wanker. Who is the wanker that has to go home? Westbourne Park: Yellow nose of train nudges into station. Ladbrooke Grove: Loud-mouthed man and female companion. What a lot of tattoos they have between them. Her skin looks jaundiced. He doesn’t want to go to Hammersmith, apparently. Latimer Road: It’s hard to think outside his voice. A hive of people on the platform. Wood Lane: What a great way to travel, if you’re a mole. Shepherds Bush Market: Loud man says to girl: ‘How dare you fucking tell me what to do’. I look away. Gold Hawk Road: Loud-mouthed man and ear-bashed companion get off still squabbling. A banana skin on the platform right now could prove fatal. Hammersmith: A stretch of the legs. Yellow is not my favourite colour!
(Here I have to return along the straight bit of the Circle Line to Paddington. Too much repetition to worth noting anything.)
Paddington: Last carriage again. Being held at a red signal, awaiting the yellow. ‘East of the sun and west of the moon.’ Love that song, never remember all the words. Got nothing to do with yellow. Bayswater: Concentrate: in yellow: 16:20:10. In yellow: Please keep your belongings and clothing clear of the doors. Notting Hill Gate: A man with one of those Marie Curie daffodils in his green lapel. Sheer coincidence. High Street Kensington: ‘yellow and green must never be seen/but green and yellow is truly mellow,’ a motherism I can’t get out of my head. Gloucester Road: I could say my favourite fruit is pineapple, but it wouldn’t be true. South Kensington: Mobile phones are like comfy blankets. How people cling to them. Sloane Square: Applying make-up would be easier than trying to write on here. Victoria: The chairs are new, a deep blue background with purples, greens and yellows shaped into oblongs. St James’s Park: Ode to lying in the grass and counting buttercups. Westminster: It’s taken one hour 45 minutes. That’s one hour 45 minutes I’ll never get back. Embankment: I’m definitely not a Dorothy. I’m just that wanker that needs to get home before I go round the yellow brick bend.