From Marginalia
A Table in the Sun
A table framed by willows,
flecks of sunlight on a pale blue cloth.
Three empty cups and saucers
perch beside a dark green teapot;
three vacant chairs stand round,
hovering like servants in attendance.
Across the back of one, a scarf is draped.
It hangs casually, seemingly at ease
in the warmth of this August afternoon.
Beyond the lawn, the shuttered house
stands in shade, alone. Whatever guests
there might have been, have gone.
Soon, their tea party will fade
to a faint trace locked in memory,
lost forever, or recalled perhaps,
years hence, as a time of idle chatter,
an hour lazing in the shallow surfaces
that pass for life; or maybe something
deeper will remain, a sense of what
was missed, something that stirred
in the silences between their words
as they leaned back in their chairs
with sunlight flickering on the willows,
and shadows lengthening on the grass.
Montmartre
after Utrillo’s ‘Place Saint-Pierre et le Sacré-Coeur de Montmartre’
There’s a thin layer of snow.
The street is flecked with early footprints from the boots
of artisans and grocers, hawkers of flour or bakers of dough –
the traders who for years have quietly made their way at dawn,
trudging up the slope to all the backstreet shops and flower stalls,
eking out a living from the things they’ve made or grown.
A few blurred figures stroll in pairs –
two women linking arms, a couple with a dog,
an elderly father with his daughter. They take the morning air
in their expensive hats, the image of content and calm,
as if they come here every day to reassure themselves, confirm
the world remains exactly as it was and means no harm.
Behind them is the Sacré Coeur,
its tall twin domes pure white against a sky of grey.
The church commands the hill. Inside its walls, two priests confer,
preparing for Mass, while from the campanile a bell is tolled.
Rows of candles stand round every statue, ready to be lit
by worshippers or strangers seeking refuge from the cold.
Time has always ambled here.
Undisturbed by passing wars, the place preserves
a sense of sanctuary. Turn any corner and you’re near
a host of well-kept secrets, a multitude of ghosts. They cast
long shadows, inviting you to wander through a maze of alleyways
and squares. Walk beside us, they whisper. Breathe the dust of the past.
Margins
(after Emily Dickinson)
Sunlight breaks and flickers on the margin
of my book. Don’t read any more, it whispers.
At the far edge of the page, something is stirring.
It rises like the soft chanting of vespers,
tugs gently on my sleeve and waits.
Although I try to focus on the print,
I’m drawn to what’s unseen, unknown. It rests
on the air like louvred light, oblique and slant.
Always show your workings in the margin,
the teacher used to say. Mine seems blank,
and yet reflects an intricate dance. I begin
to wonder if the solid world we think
so real is the distraction. Perhaps it’s there,
in the margins, where the meanings are.
From Dark Italics
The Resident
I’ll never now race bareback in the snow
or probe the ancient mysteries of caves,
never glide the heavens or ride the waves
or plant my flag on peaks where none dare go.
I’ll never watch a salmon leap the falls
or plumb the ocean’s hidden blues and greens
except, perhaps, vicariously, through screens
or third rate art on institution walls.
My shrunken world is framed by leaded lights
and sliding patio doors and frosted glass,
its hours told by cups of tea and meals.
Yet, sometimes, on warm lingering summer nights,
I catch the smell of pine leaves, new mown grass,
faint remnants clinging round a trolley’s wheels.
What Survives Of Us
He roams the streets, reliving old campaigns,
an endless stretch of railroad in his head
that winds beyond Dunkirk and monsoon rains
of Burma to boyhood smells of gasworks, soot,
the mysteries of a dried-up river bed,
the chunter of its pebbles underfoot.
He passes bars and restaurant windows where
the candles burn in lovers’ eyes, his pace
slowing as early wallflowers scent the air.
The sudden flicker of a street lamp taunts –
gaslight glimmers on her upturned face,
a waltz from a deserted ballroom haunts.
He shuffles on, probes bins for butt-ends, beer
at the bottom of cans. A busker scrapes a tune
and he’s back in uniform, a silver sphere
scattering light around her hair and great
uplifted space glistening above. Blue Moon
fades as he walks. It’s cold and getting late.
The city owns him now, wraps its scraps
around him, offers coins or lets him doze
in doorways thinking him drunk, half-crazed perhaps,
unaware that love has left its trace
of fire, how still, in dreams, he sees her close
the kissing-gate, her dress a cloud of lace.
The Magic Touch
Mam never took to cooking,
was constantly frustrated
by the vagaries of flour
the way it frosted the floor,
collected in the cracks
of the old wooden table,
blanched the flowers on her pinny
or strayed into the wayward curls
of her home-permed hair,
sometimes even coating
in a fine white dust
the great cast iron range
in which all manner of her dishes
disappeared and disappointed,
lacking the magic touch.
Undaunted, every Friday
she’d close the door to the bar
and hoist me on the dresser,
inviting me to watch
her weekly tussle
with the mysteries of dough.
She always donned
her forage cap to roll the pastry,
still reliving the war.
Run Rabbit Run
she hummed as she trimmed
the overhanging mass
and thumbed it round the plate,
her clumsy prints stamped
on the crust of every soggy pie.
I’d beg to wear her hat,
pretend to be a wounded Tommy
home from the front.
Her eyes wide open in amazement,
she’d whirl me round and round,
singing of bluebirds, nightingales,
the dough from her face shimmying
through my fingers, the spinning air
a blur of firelight and flour.
From Substantial Ghosts
The Art of Getting Lost
Practise the art of getting lost
in the deepest forest, not knowing where
it ends, like the leaf of an oak tossed
on a sudden wind, unaware
of anything except the flight
in dappled sun, the ripples of air,
conscious only of slanting light
through branches, of being borne and held,
indifferent to left or right
to future or to past, propelled
into the heart of now by powers
unfathomed, unseen, deep in the meld
and mould of earth, in its tiny flowers
(bluer than bluebells, whiter than frost)
that lie beyond the counting of hours
and the counting of the cost.
Beyond Kyoto
The long note of a temple bell
strikes the August heat, vibrates
and carries down the spine of the valley.
Stirring from sleep on the lip of a pot,
a silk-red butterfly flaps his wings
and heads for the shade of distant pines.
Sound waves cease. A pin-drop stillness
settles on the wooded hills and slopes.
Leaves hold their breath in windless air.
Through the haze of an amber dusk,
a host of scents meander – Japanese lily,
sweet osmanthus, noble orchid, lotus flower.
The moon unveils above the mountains.
It spreads a silver balm across the fields,
erasing all the scars of ancient lives.
Philip Larkin in the Launderette
The moment I walk in I am aware
that this is not my element. I pause
then pick my way through bras and women’s drawers.
I’m reeling, breathing unfamiliar air.
Piped music in the background – Perry Como –
mingles with smells of wet sheets, steam and Omo.
It isn’t like the library in Hull,
I’m used to musty fragrances, old books,
dry air, the dust that lingers in the nooks
and crannies, reverent hushed tones that lull,
not this cacophony of whirr and clatter
attendants’ cries and endless inane chatter.
Yet launderettes are great levellers. I’m lost
for words in here, you might say all at sea,
don’t know if I need programme two or three,
which knobs to turn or how much it will cost,
exactly how much powder to put in
or if quick rinse is different from fast spin.
I finally place my clothes inside the drum
then look around for clues, but with no text,
it’s hard to work out what I should do next.
I press a switch, a reassuring hum
informs me there’s no mystery left to solve.
Taking a seat, I watch my clothes revolve.
I flick through Woman, try to look amused
but let my eyes roam freely round the room.
They rest on cracked uneven lino, foam,
a row of plastic laundry baskets (bruised
from years of kicking) that have lost the art
of carrying and begun to fall apart,
like us, perhaps, who sit here in a row,
each wondering how to wash away the stain,
wash out the deep immeasurable pain
the years bequeath, though secretly we know
all hope is futile, every dream in vain,
our arrows long ago turned into rain.
Doreen Hinchliffe 