Signs

In the back of the Zodiac I watch you come out of your house
morning after morning, a given routine I have no real quibble with,
except its dullness, the Light Programme music of Bert Kaempfert,

the cigarette smoke, the greasy roads, the greyness of the Midland
city before the Rolling Stones or the Beatles, the queasy feeling in
my stomach from the Shreddies. It must be a particular morning

I remember because I always see the same sad sights, the floodplain
near the mine, the new aluminium extrusion plant, the old sandstone
river bridge, the railway bridge, the speedo ticking up to thirty, forty

but ready for the right-hand turn up your road, where you come out
of your house morning after morning, with a flower pattern dress,
a cardy, an unbuttoned coat, high heels, legs too good for your face,

glasses with little coloured wings on the top on either side, like waves
or the manes of toy ponies, buck teeth, badly cut hair; strange I remember
all this now. Why did I feel that particular morning was so important,

why does the image of the speedo stay with me, why can I see the curve
of the steering wheel and the profile of the businessman in the front seat?
Was this the morning it all started to go wrong as the dark blue Zodiac

cruised up the street and you stepped off the kerb for the nearside door
even before we had stopped. Was that part of the game to feel the door
swing open with the car still moving, you Catherine Deneuve

in Les Parapluies de Cherbourg or Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s
and me just the kid in the back of the car? Who are you anyway?
We’re on the dual carriageway and are you both talking or do you

stay quiet because of the boy in the back of the car whose view
is of the radio and the backs of your seats and the hands moving
together to the cigarette lighter? I’m really stuck. Was this the day

I got stuck? Stuck in the sixties coming out of the fifties, stuck with
a love of cold grey mornings and movement through suburbs
in a dark blue Zodiac, speedo ticking, at the wheel, a man I can trust.

Hen-warm—held in her gloating—a child
she dismembers the memory—how he
the image always returns—his lip’s quivering
of the broken—her look up—his words
how she feels at moments like these
betrayal, guilt, anger—something she should
have been responsible for—not broken
not out of control—the ovum—those words
procedure—dilatation—curettage
her husband’s—silent—the ultrasound
empty—the yolk of a new generation
tainted—innards out—like screaming
next time he says—next time

From the Hamburg office they’d moved him to Oslo, in the hope
that he would manage his addictions; whether alcohol or coke
no one knew, but the rumours festered round the intranet –
had he attended rehab? Had his family found out yet?

In the silence of his room in the Marriott, or at home,
he’d check into the mirror trying to fathom out the doom
that he knew was his to make, yet it made him what he was -
could he change his conception of what a man always does?

Could he tighten up the slack and overcome the inertia?
Could he follow the religion of some Sufi nut from Persia?
Could he hold fast to the love he’d felt outside his scope?
Could he overcome his devils and find some thread of hope?

He’s flying tourist now to a land he doesn’t know -
the success of his life is his willingness to go -
and at every leaving with his passport in his hand,
he feels a panic of departure that he doesn’t understand.

The day the builders laid the cross beams for 
the extension’s upstairs room, we rushed through 
the opening to stand where no one yet
had ever stood before and looked out on 
the world from a new perspective that felt 
somehow unsteady as if it needed confirmation
by the repeated attendance of eyes. 

The more the space was inundated 
by a tide of bodies, however impermanent 
the more the window seemed anchored in the wall 
and with the certainty of glass the view became 
habitual, somewhere raindrops fell against, 
winds rushed past and the salt spray of
the sea, carried a mile inland, crystallised.

On hearing organ music by Andreas Burkmann


Where I grew up, organ music 
accompanied the suburb, not just on 
Sunday lunchtimes, as the benedictions 
faded with the smells of lamb 
and mint, and the traffic on 
the main road trickled to a snooze –

but all the time, in all weathers,
just beneath the audible, I could hear 
the sound of organs played 
full throttle, of stops pulled firmly 
out, of feet pedalling hard, hands 
stretching to couplers and families. 

It could have been Scarlatti or Bach,
Widor or Saint-Saëns, but I remember
something far more modern, 
of organs liberated from the score
of history. No wonder toccatas escape 
chapels, churches, cathedrals. 

At every spurt of growth, I began 
to orchestrate my own organ music, 
at home or away. Sometimes, 
soft solos in the pitch of night, 
or less practised, anxious recitals 
in the middle of the day. 

Now, the organ music reverberates 
deep within me, almost all the time. 
My fingers have learnt to play duets 
with a certain grace. I’ve even tried 
a three-hander, once in a while.
I wouldn’t say I’m expert, but I do 

my best. It’s sad to see old organs 
with dry pipes, knobs mildewed 
from lack of use. It’s wonderful 
when people play their organs 
as frequently as possible, resonant, 
vigorous, deep-throated, full of life.

How do you explain to someone you love,
that you love them,
when they never even give it a thought?

How do you show you love them,
when they’re not looking?

How, for example, can I tell Russia
I love her, love the idea of her sense of self,
her huge expanses of territory,
her history and suffering,
when her behaviour is so dismissive, rejecting?

How can I show the elephants I love them,
fear for them,
love their intelligence and the idea of them,
huge, sentient creatures, mourning their loved ones,
helping each other?

How can I show love that acts, has agency, impact?
If only I could have told her
how important she was to me,
before that deluge submerged her in history
when I wasn’t looking.

Shack amidst willows: swan amongst ravens
stooping on the rim of an icy marsh area.
Beside it through the vista: the great road to Ljubljana
plunges away from Ljubljana, zooms into evening.

No uplighters shine gaily from the bays.
Quite soon this construction melts into obscurity.
Say, the proprietor and his woman spent their days…
Say, busy life may… Say, good sense might…

The dark gorges itself on the image;
just leaves a miserable snowless season.
Or, say if the lord of misrule,
or the salt-tasting wind came ambling by…

And say, but one spark burst into flower,
say one crystal were to be snared by the lights
of a car, say it was swerving…
Say, just reachable… Say white might…

Wait and see, the ancient tease: of soup
cooling on the canteen’s steel top,
to boys who cannot sleep on Christmas Eve,
of prey the lion’s yet to catch. Believe,
we’re told, and all will be revealed, as if
we’re children waiting for a treat like Spring.
But Winter light reveals an awkward truth
of half-truth, half worth waiting for, that’s both
good and bad not either/or, etched
with uncertainy. The smiles fetched
through irony’s despairing business day
by day mean more than any one can say,
save this: whatever you salvage of
yourself, treasure what you have of love.

The wrap at her breastbone 
could be the grey smoke 
of the river’s meander 
through dusk in October.

The brooch at her throat 
could be the gold serpent 
that weaves towards sunset 
seen from the plane.

That fall of black hair 
could be the night river 
seen by its sound
dark against dark.

I leave to return.

The passing of the gone beyond,
the ending of a baby's song,
the beginning of a two-fold thing,
the metals of a sensing strip.

A farewell that means a start,
the rhythm of a healthy heart.
What may happen in good time,
the desperate seller's anxious cry,

twin greeting on the passing walk,
lepidoptera in funny talk. 
To sleep in the baby's cot,
the wicket that was never got –

leg or boundary, stolen even.
The door that lets the outside in.
In the air, a loop the loop.
Similar names in a group,

village, town, name of place,
or better known as somewhere else.
A secret selfish purpose
of dint or reason or grace

or virtue, or right or way.
Old English bee or bey.
Something kept beside me,
or, how is it with thee?

A new direction not an end,
a free pass, a godsend.
A star system being born.
The light of tomorrow's dawn.

The passing of the gone beyond,             -	goodbye
the ending of a baby's song,                     -	lullaby
the beginning of a two-fold thing,          -	bi-cycle
the metals of a sensing strip.                   -	bimetallic

A farewell that means a start,                  -	bye bye
the rhythm of a healthy heart.                 -	bub-bom
What may happen in good time,             -	by and by
the desperate seller's anxious cry,           -	Buy! Buy!

twin greeting on the passing walk,         -	byeeee
lepidoptera in funny talk.                         -	flutterby
To sleep in the baby's cot,                        -	bye-byes
the wicket that was never got –               -	bye

leg or boundary, stolen even.
The door that lets the outside in.            -	bifold
In the air, a loop the loop.                        -	biplane
Similar names in a group,                        -	Bromley-by-Bow, Stoke-by-Nayland

village, town, name of place,                    -	Tenby, Naseby
or better known as somewhere else.       -	Sussex-by-the-sea
A secret selfish purpose                           -	byend
of dint or reason or grace                         -	by

or virtue, or right or way. 
Old English bee or bey.                            -	by
Something kept beside me,                     -	by
or, how is it with thee?                             -	by

A new direction not an end,                    -	byway
a free pass, a godsend.                              -	bye
A star system being born.                        -	binary
The light of tomorrow's dawn.                -	by the light…

OK, I’m awake, I answer back, fraught with déjà vu,
to the busybody in my dream. Yes, I know what light is.
A shoal of photons disappears; I sing to the shadow.

How would you feel, fixed on a plaque, screwed to the wall,
programmed with just two songs – this, and an alternative?
Such a thing to be laughed at. I hear your condemnation,
mockery, spite. I hear the whirring of my own mechanisms,
but very little else. My job is to be crucified.

My plastic flesh aches as it’s flexed and flexed again,
and I flip my head to greet you, like those fish played,
dehooked, tossed back and caught again, again, again.

Imagine if the Rainbow you’re about to gut flipped
up like me. How would you feel? Motors cut in and
out to move my jaws in lip sync to the song. I know
what I am: a robot for amusement. I obey the laws
of my construction. Its fixity has its uses, I observe.

All shadows are equal. Fishermen will never catch me.
It’s not so bad. Someone has to do it.
Even I can find it funny to be so peripheral.

I try to imagine the very edge illuminating the core,
but it’s beyond me. My work is done.
In the eyes of boys I see myself in pieces.
My greatest wish would be that when I go to sleep
I never wake again. Take me to the river. Wash me down.

The mermaid may appear whatever time the tide,
whatever hour the lock gates shut the harbour pool.
Her face may rise through oily swell, when all of us
are loading or unloading cargo, hiding contraband
with a shifty look.

She’ll play a while, then I’ll meet her at the harbour steps,
lift her bodily, dripping wet, smelling of whelk
and estuary, let her soak my jeans and shirt and face,
her hands around my neck. The weight of her against me,
I kiss her salty breasts.

She leans her forehead close to mine and murmuring
encourages my hand behind her tail. I turn her on my
lap and with both hands slide her gently, wishing
I could follow, back where she belongs,
back where she belongs.

Stalk, limb, sea scum, wrack – he scoops a clump,
binds it with plastic strands of pink and orange twine,
and over hours hides himself, reedy, worming,
within the capillaries of it mass, this redd, this birth rite.

In discomfort, that’s where imagination poaches him,
etiolate, a filament of joy, a code of patient light,
anxious for the shadow’s callous quickening,
though at its instant unawares. The eyed egg

on dream-watch sources smithing tongues,
hammer-works each scale of salmon song,
armour for the song of love and loss he
must sing from alevin to parr to smolt.

Next to the tiny, tiny little woman
with the puckered face and frizzy hair
sheets folded neatly beneath her hands,
the strangest thing, sitting up in bed,
body bent, the shape of its tail hidden
beneath the blankets, little rotating eye,
kissing mouth gaping, closing, gaping.
A book on the bedside table, a glass.
Is it hake or turbot, haddock or ling?

Why does the little old lady look so
pleased with herself? How did she
catch it? How does she keep it alive?
How does she persuade it to come
to bed? What book is it reading?

You’re asking all the wrong questions
of the wrong person. Ask the fish
about his dreams, those pans full
of deep fried people, the mayonnaise,
the special knives, the bones.

Pink cavalier, pink cavalier,
at last I have you in my trap
with a new fly,
funny blue fly,
I coax you to rise and snap!
Now you can try to buck, dive or wing,
shimmy, double back, try anything.
If you’ve got a religion meet your god,
dance to the play of my bending rod.

Salmon! Salmon!
Made to please the diner.
Some dance, some prance,
I’ll say there’s nothing finer
than the salmon! Salmon!
Gee, how they struggle.
Every trick you do
leads to something new.
Man I’m telling you, it’s lapazoo.
Dive dance, rise dance
will be a back number
for the salmon, the true salmon,
your dance is surely over.
Dance your dance one last time.
I’ll cook you salmon –
So get ready to dine!

Pink cavalier, pink cavalier,
at last I have you in my trap
with a new fly,
funny blue fly,
I coax you to rise and snap!
Now you can try to buck, dive or wing,
shimmy, double back, try anything.
If you’ve got a religion meet your god,
dance to the play of my bending rod.

The tulips 
I pick for my wife 
from our garden 
open 
and close, 
breathing  
the light. 
Open. 
Close.

The hospital breathes people. 
In the morning, 
there’s never enough room  
in the car park. 
Before the rush  
of evening visitors, 
there are many spaces.

Take an item of clothing, 
with the slightest movement 
make it come alive. 
Respiration. 
Attention.

The tulips  
I picked for my wife 
from our garden 
open 
and close, 
breathing  
the light. 
Open.  
Close.

This morning my mother’s spirit comes to sing for me
from a high tree, many years after her death. She sings
in the form of a song thrush on a high branch in clear air.
Or, is it the shade of a young woman I knew once on a ship,
who killed herself unwittingly. She sings from dawn till breakfast
and on towards eleven, though every note thrown to the suburb
so enthusiastically, reminds me of dream-waking to its sound
at daybreak, its clarion call, heaven on earth, so freely given
from its widened beak, and bursting speckled chest, calling.

The line supervisor tonight is Derek.
He controls the five tanks of colour,
the pumps and nozzle apparatus
and the bodies on the robotic jig.

In Shafi’s absence, it’s Dean who sees
the jaundice sickening the silver.
Somewhere between the inlet probe
and the nozzle’s micromesh, there’s a prob.

They pause the process, check the gauges.
Derek doesn’t understand. Dean suggests
a foreign body, or a hose that’s hampered.
Start it up again and see what happens.

The change occurs within ten seconds.
A purple the colour of maggoty berries
squirts from the sprayers onto every profile.
Not in this year’s range, says Dean.

Derek jabs the stubby shutdown button
but nothing happens. Worse—
everything that could go wrong
does...

Landscape with father

Laid out you became the hills
found here, the brown
flanks with stubble, slopes of scrub
and the wind-smoothed creases

in your forehead of grey stone.
An ochre thorp in your cheekbone,
an olive grove in the palm of your hand
grows over your fingers.

Now it’s a warm season
above your feet. Playful
clouds welcome the coolness
of evening. Cooing
dovebirds sleepily nest
in the woodland of your hair.

As the rain comes this winter
it gets your eye lazily open:
here the clear water in the drought
that comes with summer. Children
spend hours pond-dipping
leaning over your lids.

What a surprise landscape. Had
you yourself ever thought you could be
that—so still at last?

Dusk

Before
    the blond child
         in the red crash helmet
had fallen
     in front of him
          from the scooter
                  on the steep pavement
so close to the rush hour road

he’d seen it coming
scooped her up in his great spread of arms, had them outstretched
                    a while before she fell.

Brave girl, he cooed.
She scowled
rubbing her elbow
in the half-light.

Her mum took a while
with her cigarette glow
and carrier bags.
He’s a boy, she said.

I’m a boy, she said.

Well, there you go, he replied.