window
——–~”o”~——–
bleach down the toilet
at night
in the clean blue bathroom
the lights of the
pharmaceutical factory
shone on the back wall
——–~”o”~——–
the mauve wind
blew against the window
as he shot
——–~”o”~——–
bamboo-smacking
the insect stopped
on the window
by the woven
string curtain
——–~”o”~——–
glass
his fingertips tapped on the midnight air
——–~”o”~——–
Dedication
If I were to die now –
someone else could collate my various writings into a whole
I would have seen these rain drops cascade occasionally down the
window
I would have driven enough miles to take my kids to work
I would have taught enough lessons to have touched someone softly
I would have made LOVE to C enough to find her again
I would have played with my children enough to give them space
I would have folded clothes enough to reach the Old Man of
Coniston
I would have cooked enough meals to feed a small town
I would have created enough powerpoints to see a point
I would have washed enough dishes to eat safely
I would have played enough games to smile
I would have listened to enough children to breathe
I would have read enough comics to wonder
I would have written enough poems to notice
I would have washed enough clothes to walk
I would have seen enough films to pause
I would have recycled enough to live a day
I would have welled tears enough to love
I would have exercised enough to hug
I would have listened enough to talk
I would have rubbed the back enough to sleep
I would have flavoured enough to move a town
I would have read enough to sympathise
I would have cleaned enough to see
I would have driven enough to rest
I would have smiled enough to understand
I would have written enough to create
I would have walked enough to breathe
I would have exercised enough to pull a lever
I would have done enough to have a family
I would have recited enough to cry
I would have read enough to have possibilities
I would have meditated enough to start
I would have drank enough to open…
and here I am, still not dead
——–~”o”~——–
curtains open
in the evening
not really
wanting to watch
the Eurovision Song Contest
with the family
a bolt of mist
hangs
just over the
housing estate
——–~”o”~——–
text
boxed
yellow fruit
skin and
crumpled silk
the moon on
a clear night
the trailing wire
and its shadow
awkward with
the lamp
outside the
passing wet cars:
red, blue, beige …
——–~”o”~——–
a mid-afternoon
storm cloud
is coming
in my room
a band of light across
the back wall
from
beyond the
cloud
cleans the
yellow paint
and highlights
the shelf of
rearranged books
on the street
an ochre car
passes
a hand held
out of the open window
in the rain
from the house
opposite stands
a woman drinking
a hot mug of tea
watching her brother
jump-start
his bike
——–~”o”~——–
Thomas
Street
glass and grey
bank windows
above the scatty
reflections of morning
sunlight like
messy papers
through the upper
finials and balustrades
of the office block
opposite
——–~”o”~——–
not to be a Published Poet whose lines flip a thousand perceptions
not to be the Father who talks into the veins of his children
not to be the Husband who is supported by the adoring wife for
Greatness
not to be the Teacher who was Right All Along
not to be the Son who sings the lives of long-dead parents
not to be parts of Allen Ginsberg David Bowie JD Salinger
ever so gradually – like mould – the realisation is coming
that all I have to do in life is be at this notebook
writing against the deep pink quilt cover
by the open window and the pigeon calls
——–~”o”~——–
my life as the teacher not listened to
as the child of unfortunate collateral
damage
I need to shed
I need to let the skin collapse
and dry and roll about the ground
I need to breathe
the fresh air again through
any open window
to have clear moon through the branches
and antennae again even while I remain
unheard and damaged
by breathing
while I look at the back of the chair
for the first time
by breathing while I quietly rage with revenge
by breathing when I don’t know what to do with myself
by breathing when I do something to the very limit of my skin
to assert a self to offer
by breathing when I am gracefully overlooked
by breathing when my self cannot be found
the moon just perched
on top of the lamp post
ridiculously but inexorably
as travelling planets
while I wrote this
——–~”o”~——–
looking for Lester
down the street
as the morning wafts
off the cornices
past the open doors
quatrains of lives
the upstairs windows
still vermillion-grey
neighbourhoods shrugged
their music rolled
off the rooftops
the radios start
their desperate pattle
past the welcome
of door-slams start-ups
banking overhead
not noticed
off somewhere
over the dormers
down past the park railings
and pigeon calls
lost
lost to the crust
of the tarmac
and the relief
of the wide
open
junction
green
my turn
downhill
as radios give weather reports
to a million dashboards
the uptown buildings
become grey and defined
and sink
with each step
——–~”o”~——–
the Bat-parent
during the entire fourth flight
Robin was silent, ‘but then
what if …’ bracing his knees against
the wall under the sill Batman, ‘still
you haven’t …’ hung out locked
by Robin’s arms and, ‘if that were …’
caught the toddler falling, ‘even’ –
whump! – ‘then it …’ from the eighth
floor transfixed by the, ‘so it isn’t …’
red roof of the church looking,
‘yes …’ like a floor
——–~”o”~——–
vision
the sunken garden
the earthy smell
of evening dirt on my hands
damp in my knees
out from the Old House
where voices chattered laughed
around the bulb-light comfy
but meaning nothing I like the comfy
but not the nothing
but I notice the buttress of the wall dark mossy
the foot of a viaduct three hundred feet tall
the arch broken reaching
but crumbling and still
a crane on its outreach yellow gleaming slightly
in the clear crepuscule
——–~”o”~——–
four people strolled quietly
through a whorl in the window
and a cat walked gently up
the broad red roof
——–~”o”~——–
the osteopath
working my spine
for forty minutes
while the grey sky
hung over the snow
and the neighbouring gardens
as my shoulder
released a stab of
sunlight hung
like a curtain
through the window
grass showing
under the fences
——–~”o”~——–
bath
as the water finishes
refilling the tank
the extractor fan
keeps going
the final car passes outside and
the snow
is melting
another car
——–~”o”~——–
the silent night
of the Batman
even while they carried
their gift-wrapped parcels
and looked to each other
with smiles of belief
the shop signs hummed
against the dark-marbled fronts
while above them the quiet floors
of stone-framed windows
looked east looked south
the same in an ink-black sky
enough to write a novel
in a single sitting
enough to hold a fleet of stars
above the skyline taxiing slowly
then the sky turns ink-green
the rooftop gathers ink-blue attention
and leaps without step
or swing through the glass
and cornice of city vistas and breeze
to shadow the guilt
to alley the share
to streetlight the fear
and river the rose
cast high and wide to the stars until
marzipan fingers reach
across the ink-purple sky
and marshmallow lights
go out
——–~”o”~——–
1967
in the 17th floor
apartment the
mauve wall the
white up-turned
bowl and the
not-yet-dressed
Christmas tree
standing over
the city
morning
lights
——–~”o”~——–
the walking stick
leant
against the phonogram
with the scratched record
in the middle of
the bare room.
Morning light.
The stick
stretched
its limb
——–~”o”~——–
the old chair rocked
on the floorboards
the petals in her lapel
shuffled and humphfed
the cucumbers in the patch
by the wall
as she winced through
the window
——–~”o”~——–
the Batman had kept
a roof-top vigil
for so long
staring into
the top-floor window
at the over-coated men
that the night sky had turned
red-vermillion red
and the Batman himself
was now eighty feet tall
face to face with the window
moonlight edged
his shoulder and forehead
and his cape flowed upwards
behind his unmoving cowl
——–~”o”~——–
staring through the glass
at the passing black roadside
a moth brushed my palm
——–~”o”~——–
glass
gazing at the night
as my eyes passed the jagged hole
my head disappeared
——–~”o”~——–
typewriting by the
open window, showering
heavily outside
——–~”o”~——–
grey sky
in the summer
through
the open window
a cool breeze
the ticking clock
passes one
in the distance
schoolchildren’s voices
——–~”o”~——–
passing
the wide smile
through the open window
and the old yellow sellotape
holding the rear lights
——–~”o”~——–
1967
clothes were squeezed
between two rollers –
don’t put them through
too bunched up –
and the still-soapy water poured
back into the drum while
through the window
London clanked and
greyed either side of
the Thames
——–~”o”~——–
To my Mum who breathed deep the day she got a good set of saucepans
in her pantry in 1974.
To my Mum who walked the long tunnel at Woolwich to and from work
every day for twenty five years.
To my Mum who smiled on Plumstead Common when the white clouds
were on the horizon and the grey cloud seamless in all the windows.
To my Mum who ate chops and beans every evening to hold off weight
but who always wore smart coats.
To my Mum who was never quite sure if it was OK to laugh and relax in
the seventies as the possibility suggested,
- yes, it was okay,
and every time she did,
there were plastic raincoats in the evening high street,
there was Dionne Warwick and Burt Bacharach,
there were floorboards and wooden stepladders and wallpaper,
there were empty milk bottles on the doorstep,
there was a thin of snow on the housing estate under the green grey sky,
there were bowls of crisps crackers and twiglets for the Cup Final,
there were high sash windows overlooking the Thames,
there were phone wires in front of the skies where she would never go
there were car journeys on wet roads by deep green fields,
there were yellow streetlights of new relationships of new-found friends,
there were bulbous patterns of brown and green to match the seasons.
My Mum cried when it all went wrong but went to work anyway.
——–~”o”~——–
Rue de Provence
the speckled pink
table top
by the wide-open window
between the passing vans
a “… pourquoi …”
and the sun
is suddenly
covered:
three bottles of water
a box of plasters
a disposable camera
C on the bed
stops reading
a minute
until a
loud scooter
has passed
“… pour moi,
c’est material.”
——–~”o”~——–
1968
child living at three months per hour
sat under a lilac viscous sky and watched the vermilion slicks form and pass
the Way Things Are through which I had come was no longer living with us
what I had felt – under my fingernails – might not be true (like the facades of towns erected for a holiday)
now had reference, I felt no feeling, all Absolutes were off, all interaction doubtful.
The child slept
for a week but is now stretching and
yawning, a new day ahead shining through
the curtains
——–~”o”~——–
could you throw me some paper
and a pen please
through the descending
piano chords
the smell –
through the window –
of the grey sky
in the silence
beyond the headphones
C
suddenly
started bopping
at the table
——–~”o”~——–
turning right
the moon
appeared from a window
above the supermarket
making for the flagpole
six o’clock
——–~”o”~——–
blue and red
various lengths of tubular bells hang from a cheap roof-pagoda over the sunny rooftops. There is a breeze, treetops sway but the bells never
quite
touch
——–~”o”~——–
through
the window
although
the shed
and tree
were still clear
the hill above town
in the grey air
had disappeared
——–~”o”~——–
texture
the night
parted ‘round
the radio’s
cloth-covered
speaker
then
the morning sun
STABBED
THROUGH
THE
VE-
NE-
TIAN
BLIND
——–~”o”~——–
open window
the smell of
bathroom enamel
and the singsong
voice of a child
in the grey air
——–~”o”~——–
snoring –
schlupp
‘is it still snowing?’ ‘no
but it will again
in a minute’ – while
the icicles dripped
from the gutters
——–~”o”~——–
the imperial buildings of Europe
wider than entrance
misty and solid behind flag
with tall windows seeing neither out nor in
dismantled each other
the sound was tectonic in everyone’s face
only the flags stood flapping needlessly
there was nothing left
men now wore their only suit slightly small and uncomfortable
and women wondered
——–~”o”~——–
the window
below, different tree
tops
above, iron clouds with
pink fringes
in the middle, clean
turquoise
far away
high mist
and two power lines
cutting slightly
diagonally and
diverging slightly
——–~”o”~——–
train
for many miles
the man
opposite
didn’t smile
then
someone spoke
——–~”o”~——–
writing again by
the falling net curtains and
the wet car tyres
——–~”o”~——–
washing lines and trees
in the morning
the thunderstorm
turned the
day to evening
the lamp shone on the
table
and the sky was
green
——–~”o”~——–
the echo of a
small box
through
drops down the
window
to one side
the grey cloud
to the other
the sunset
and the cold air
through the window
which won’t close
properly
——–~”o”~——–
loud music
flat yellow fields
flupping past
deep green trees
30 miles an hour
in the silence outside
the stone face
of a mother
and a child’s
crying face
——–~”o”~——–
Grizedale College
she came back with
a shy new lover
so he left her room
to browse
another day
the bed under
the open window
the breeze
the sheets
the rearranged
books under
the poster
and the old reggae record
she’d forgotten she had
that had been left
playing
quietly
respectfully
——–~”o”~——–
after the storm
the evening air wafted in
through the window
and a bus started up
——–~”o”~——–
mauve sky
the tree branch
shifts across the streetlamp
in the breeze
the top-floor window
light goes out
——–~”o”~——–
the darkening
sky in hotel windows -
the Last Day of Morecambe Illuminations
——–~”o”~——–
hotel room
guitar strings
through the window
she blinks
the respiring net curtains
——–~”o”~——–
up floated the printed words
lengthening shadows on the page
light rain fell
small mauve sparks
splashed from
the crack in
the bedroom window
charging my smiling brother
in yellow and blue
pyjamas laughing
in the morning sun
between thoughts
——–~”o”~——–
the moonlight
on the side of the building
through the frosted glass window
exploded
——–~”o”~——–
she smiled
like a child when the sheet from the clothesline
glided down on him
through the net curtains the sun
was shining like a star
——–~”o”~——–
too much wine
the light from the lamp
spilt across the wall
too quick to notice
Jackie’s smile
the boats on the river
the white mist wafted
through the back of her eyes
——–~”o”~——–
quiet machines
the launderette owner
walked over to the window
and peered out
——–~”o”~——–
