Christmas in May

A poem about veterans of all conflicts and their families.

Fridayam's Blog

Christmas was in May because

that’s when he came home, not

whole exactly but the

children didn’t care, so excited to have a

Father again that the moments when he was

somewhere else got lost in the

lovely mayhem of

unwrapping cheap presents and

carving a cheap bird and

carrying them to bed when it

all got too much, in the

silence peculiar to parents, then the

politeness of clearing up,

expressions of tiredness, his

silent sobs against my

bare warm back.

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Nostalgia

Nostalgia both

eats at the soul and

makes it survive,

memories being at best

sketchy but the

feeling of having been

somewhere important

lasts beyond lacunae into the

sense of the self in the

terrible torrent of time.

Drawers of Perception

Fridayam's Blog

Buried beneath underwear, or

piles of unpaid bills, in your

drawers of perception lies a box

labelled “self”, with (in the

opposite corner of the room)

Pandora tied to a chair, her

mouth taped, struggling,

exasperated.

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Necklace

Fridayam's Blog

Your neck, dear Lady,

deserves a poem but

can I find enough

fine words to

thread a necklace to

hold throughout the day and

not chafe? Or will

one word or another

prickle, my poem

tossed in a tray

with the rest of your

discarded finery?

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Decompression

After so long in hotels working with

images and actors my

home dreams are full of

half-shot scenes,

half-digested books,

half-read newspapers:

Scorpions and Hawks; ships

sighing as they turn turtle and

vent air; a tear down a

dusty face; someone calling my

name; strange shapes against a

purpling sky; the

unmistakeable sensation of a

mouth on mine, its

tongue alive; the

desperate wave of my hand

seeking solidity; being lost and

wanting to be found.

Makers

Fridayam's Blog

Some make things happen,

others merely attend:

some bring gifts or stories,

some just finish the dregs;

some offer help and are

politely refused, others

just can’t be stopped;

some quietly tidy,

some make a mess;

some say a prayer,

others mutter a curse; some

thank too much, some

sit silent while the

table is cleared.

Her eyes are the

curtain of calm

half-pulled over panic, the

twenty-year-dead desire to

walk out the door and

light a cigarette: the smoke

giving thanks for

solitude and stars.

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Hammer

You can hear it, the rain:

not the usual pattering but

each drop driven like a

nail, the sky a

dark hammer.

Feather

The tiny grey-brown feather—the

breast feather of a small

passerine bird, probably a

sparrow, of which many

roost in the neighbour roof—

seemed to float with no wind.

 

The fall of my foot

first brought it to my

attention, but now I was

unnaturally still, and still the

feather moved with no wind.

 

Perhaps it was my breath,

clenched though it was and

nearly six feet away, that

floated the feather?

 

I felt at once

powerful and

powerless, my soul

 

suddenly reduced to the

size and weight of a

 

feather with no wind.

Snatches

I only know snatches of you, like

snatches of music: a

triplet of Bach and a

sideways glance; some

furious Zappa solo, a

sharp, cutting kiss; a

tangled Monk song, a

mishmash of bodies; the

sickle prickle of a

folk song, nails up the back; a

chord of Stravinsky

dying away in your

unknowable breath.

Shadow Pleasures

Some sort of

ghost of me still

finds pleasures in

the shadows.