Monthly Archives: May 2020

Memory IV

What do we recall of

past loves? Are there

letters? Gifts?

Mementoes? Something

bought together that has

somehow stayed in your hands?

A book recommended? A

piece of music? A

particular place? A

view? Or maybe it’s a

scent or a way you were

touched, a crooked morning smile, a

way of speaking, words

said, or words you wished

hadn’t been said? Or

more recently was there an

email or a gif or a

post on Twitter or

Instagram? A secret

message on any one of a

hundred sites? Will you

remember what all that

meant? What you felt, what you

thought was so

important and is so

irrelevant now but

lingers on in your

memory?

Memory III

Life picks a way through

thorns, which some feel

sharply while others

brush past but each

thorn retains something

torn off, a shred, a

tatter, sometimes a whole

skein of memory which

hangs there forever

beyond recall.

A Minuet for Company

Sometimes I dance a Bourrée

or an Allemande, a Gigue

when happy, a Sarabande

when sad, a Courante to

cheer myself up, a

Minuet for company for

even when company is in

short supply, the

air moves as though there were

skirts whirling

somewhere nearby.

Memory II

In the shivered mirror of

memory one sliver

slides down to

touch another

creating something that

never happened.

Nightdress

Her sage-green nightdress
sways on the washing-line
as though she were within it,
dancing in that “I
don’t care” attitude, that
subtle bump of rhythm that says
Come Hither,
Go Yon.
Want me?
Find me.

Braced for Love

He remembered the first girl he’d kissed at school,
how their braces had clashed, how they’d
laughed, then got that serious look and
got on with the business of kissing determinedly.
Well, his teeth didn’t need bracing now but his
body did, as did this woman’s, and after so many
kiss-less years, the yearning was
palpable as mouth leant towards mouth and their
chair-wheels clashed with the same sound as
brace on brace, and for a moment they
stared into each other’s eyes, then laughed and
got on with the determined business of kissing seriously

Memory 1

It’s strange how memory

rearranges things like

walls in a studio set so that

certainties become

uncertain and

faces blur so even your

own face in

old photos seems to have a

querulousness as though

wondering whether to

remember or forget.

Murmuration

Is there sadness in the

silence of the night or

is there hope?

 

We can’t be quiet,

us people: we are like a

murmuration of starlings,

noisy, chattering, nosy,

changing direction in the

blink of an eye and

changing again a

moment later,

noise being our nature, and

agglomeration.

 

Sometimes my stomach aches

as though I wanted to

give birth, but its just

emotion congealed with

apathy, the sad desire for

things that have changed to

stay unchanged.

 

But then the

murmuration

calls me to its

hectic ruckus

and my wings

open of their

own accord.

Presents

Fridayam's Blog

When I have given you enough

perfumes (though you always smell wonderful),

scarves (though you are always beautifully dressed),

books (though you are so well-read),

watches (though you are never punctual),

what then?

Wine? but you rarely drink;

Clothes? you find bargains where I would never look;

Jewellery? I haven’t the means to

do you justice and

Lingerie is a presumption and anyway

men are crap at sizes.

Perhaps all that is left is

presence.

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A New Way of Working?

We have to make drama where

no one can come near,

no one can touch,

shake hands, hit or even

kiss: Shakespeare, his

playhouse stricken by plague, went

home to Stratford and

wrote sonnets but

somehow we have to

make this work in the

here and now.

 

Wish us luck.

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