Category Archives: Aren’t words curious?

Presents

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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Dimensia

Since childhood I’ve felt

objects approaching me

unbeckoned but

indisputably on a

collision course I somehow

cannot avert.

 

So many spillages,

so many apologies,

so many blushed replies because

this is England after all and

spillages are assumed to be the

fault of both parties.

 

Oh and I also trip over cables so

don’t let me anywhere near a

studio despite it being my

place of work.

Inside/Outside

External splendours

Am I inside or

outside? Should I

attend to the meal I

carefully prepared or

gawp at the clouds and that

further beyond that

beckons with a

crooked finger that

never points to anything

definite but

merely implies?

 

Tempo de Amor

“Tempo de Amor” (Vinicius de Moraes/Baden-Powell 1966)

 

You have a lot to record, so

many songs, but no

studio time so you get

wives, girlfriends, mistresses

(who knows?) singing a

complicated chorus so

beautifully out of

key you can hear

Vinicius loving it,

propelling it and

Baden-Powell aching to

remake it to its

detriment.

Pilgrim

I could, of course, still walk the

Pilgrims Way, just up the

hill from me, but I have

lost the will to go on

pilgrimage, or perhaps

hope, that intangible

something to pray for.

 

But then the bushes about me

blossom as always

come what may.

Frayed

Frayed Richard Potter

I’m frayed but

unafraid of being

battered by elements

as long as one

strand will bear my

bare footprints

long enough to be

seen before the

high tide comes.

 

(Photo with the kind permission of Richard B. Potter aka The Subtle Penguin on Twitter, and go see his lovely work)

A Tree Grows in Manchester

It’s raining again so it must be

Manchester and it’s late and my

tram also so I am

leaning against this tree in

St. Peter’s Square watching

late trams pass, their

cargoes tired (though

that girl is pretty even as

she yawns), when the

tree’s sap seeps through my

sodden shoulder making one

vein of brotherhood, one

lone tree bearing me,

lonesome and needing someone to

lean on, something

alive.

 

Your roots are tight-bound in an

iron grid bespeckled with butts

but you seem to thrive so

perhaps you like all this

noise and bustle, and maybe the

sap from shoulders seeping into your

tough veins, some

symbiosis of the city.

 

My tram hoots up from

Piccadilly, my cold bed calls.

Bud well, buddy, and thanks for

your support.

A Saint for our Troubled Times?

Wilgefortis wouldn’t wed,

would rather marry Christ so

willed herself a beard and

bearded was crucified.

 

“Liberata” in Italy,

“Librada” in Spain—liberated,

though in France she was “Débarras”,

riddance, which is two-edged.

 

“Kümmernis” in German—anxious

perhaps, and “Ontkommer” in Dutch but

I prefer the English

Uncumber as that

 

exactly expresses what she wanted,

what women prayed to her for–

a life uncumbered by the

wrong sort of men.

The Great Heard

Can a small voice compete with the
Great Heard? Or will it always be
trampled beneath the hooves of
heavier beasts? Can it
squiggle out from the scrum and
bleat at least one
word of love?

Chiromancer

I’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.

N A L I N D A

P H O T O G

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