Fridayam's BlogI’ve read your palm so many times:
holding your hand on that first date and
now walking London streets; after
sex when touch seems so much more
intimate; even now when
intimacy has gone but your
slender hand seeks mine in the
silence of sleep but despite
knowing it so well I still
cannot read your future, nor
mine.
The search for the lost thing turns the
house upside down: drawers are
tipped out, bins rifled to their
mucky depths, papers
stupidly shaken; every step taken
retaken, reconsidered, was it
lost then? was it there when
that happened? Then, usually, the
lost thing turns up where it
always was and we laugh at our
forgetfulness, ignoring the
upside-down house and all the other
lost things within it.
Past, present, future commingle in this
uncertain weather, dull at dawn,
spats of rain like chaffinches in the bush,
there one moment, gone the next, wind
waking dead weeds, the
threat of snow without the
glee of children, late and
unexpected sunset, startling stars,
silence, approaching midnight, as the
dryer switches off,
static making sheets
dance like spectres.
The planes come in like morse code
(dot, dash, dot, what are you
telling me?) resolving into
gaudy crucifixes passing overhead,
tubes full of happiness and stress, just like
life really–are there good deals,
marriages, love, hope, new
life on board? But, breaking air, they
vanish over the horizon—
dash, dot, dash—their
message undecrypted.
I hear him playing in the night
through the floorboards
as I try to (but cannot) sleep.
My husband who complains all through his
daily lessons always sleeps soundly
amidst these nightly private shows.
Daytime is bedlam here and the plinking of
incompetent pupils jostles with the
incessant squall of infants
and the sulky bulk of my husband,
sorry for himself because he has no work
and I, in consequence, too much.
I mend my musician’s clothes, probably,
but which is his of all I do?
which his wife’s? and which is mine?
I know I should worry about the price of
bread or whether Berthe’s cough might
catch and kill her
but a tune he plays is tickling me,
makes me want to dance again
as I did once, red and laughing,
until I fell into bed alone
uncaring, adrift on
whole Californias of dreams.
A moment’s silence, then…
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Death came on to you as abruptly as
you came on to me in that
club, with Christmas coming.
I didn’t perform well–sorry. Too much
alcohol, and I was probably
star-struck, as
scruffy little Runners are not often
chased down in clubs by
leading ladies, but you were
young and alive and
perpetually horny, and I
really don’t mind that I was just
another notch on your bedpost because
however brief, my notch is
deeper to me than Death’s.
The shaft of late afternoon sun
cut her body aslant from
shoulder to hip, picking out the
faint albino hairs, the riot of
priapic milk-glands about her
tumescent nipple, the shadowed
underhang of her breast, the
heave of her stomach after such
unaccustomed exercise, the
drops of sweat trickling to her navel
and the dark hair below now
bright as a bush full of raindrops.
As I lay back her hand sought me,
hoping for more, and the sun
caught the motes—some no doubt
her skin, some mine—slowly
settling through slashed air
to make one flesh.
Jane said no, but then we were
so young, though she taught me
how to kiss; and Viv said no,
sadly, as she was experienced
beyond her years; then Rita said yes
but we were never really alone;
another Jane said yes, but
didn’t mean it, never let me get beyond her
beautiful breasts; and the boyish
Canadian girl said yes, but
wanted her boyfriend involved and I got
cold feet, stupidly; but then
Sarah said yes and suddenly
yes was in fashion, “yes I will Yes” ,
everyone glanding the
Molly Bloom on all our bookshelves.
There might have been more yeses
had I been able to read the
maybe in women’s eyes, but you
unexpectedly said yes, and yes
suddenly became the most
complicated, portentous,
mysterious word in the Universe,
much more troublesome than no.
A fluster of feathers resolves into robin
cocking its head, curious,
emitting a rare
convoluted trill that
summons another fluster, just
feet apart on the fence,
tilting its head to sing a
silent orgasm of air.
In England, what is up is Down
–land that is, hills of chalk that
snake across the South and West in
great green cumuli come to ground,
quintillions of cretaceous creatures
compressed and billowed
in a deep blanket over
dark dinosaur bones,
ripples of the great crash of
Africa into Europe,
aftershocks of Alps and Apennines but
big to us and sacred,
enfolding first temples,
holy hills and megaliths,
dead monuments to those
who live here still
like me, driving through winter gale
with leaves aping absent birds,
driven rain leeching through dead mouths
to the distant Channel.
two people, one soul, reunited at long last
Alla ricerca della scatola magica...
Fine Art Photography & Poetry.
Poetry, haiku, tanka, and micropoetry
Random musings inside my head no matter how hard I try to shut the damn lights off
Adventures of an Southern Bunny everything from dating, sex, life and shake your head moments.
Secret Dates Diary of Anne Regina
Writing, extracts, pleas to buy my books, the odd essay.
Poetry, History, Mythology
Milly Schmidt
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