VERSE JOURNAL
Listening To Schubert
‘Only the
desolate can know my sorrow.’
You who only have
to worry about tomorrow
are fortunate.
Despair and hope can be deferred.
I have to accept
what was due has occurred.
When things get
too much for me I turn off the music, and listen to the sounds outside.
The
young buy six-packs of beer and, evenings, sit on the steps by my
house,
talking louder and louder. Sometimes contentiously (‘et
alors!’). Still
they laugh a lot even when they’re shouting. Around midnight
all goes silent,
and I go out to pick up the broken glass, and cigarette
packets. I hope
they have their own key.
in the shadow of artificial light.
Candles are kinder than electricity.
A match struck is less harsh on the sight.
Squinting to see in the dark is de trop.
Or feeling your way, blindfolded against doubt.
Each step is a dance that only you know
the music. The light fantastic is out.
Better to close your eyes and imagine
I’ve tried it, and another day begins
in brightness. It will be the same for you.
Le Bavard Fou
Today I lost it, and revealed depths of myself to someone who was clearly mortified. The more shocked she looked, the further I went. When I apologised as usual, her response was very proper. ‘I myself am a rather private person. I prefer to keep myself to myself.’
‘I respect that’, I say and take myself off.
Next time we cross paths she avoids my eye. ‘I know you’, I shout. She keeps walking.
Chez Nous
But it’s where we live.
Know Your Rival
I’m happy to meet my designated rival,
that old cake DuLevant, when all is going well.
I pick him out from the godforsaken foresook
at the quiet time in SuperU. His second look
is surreptitious, the donkey jacket buckled
at the waist too tight. Like me, the buffer has struggled
with the complexities of getting his clothes on
the right way round, zips to the front, and avoiding
conspicuous slops at breakfast. Putting your teeth in
restores the jowls, and bite, and you can keep smiling,
but the dribble has to be sucked away. We rise
to the occasion, facing the world and the wife’s eyes.
Still today he’s off his trolley, picking his nose,
and eating the harvest, while fumbling groceries
about to fall from the shelf. I would like to shake
his hand, only my skin is beginning to flake
(after an emergency I forgot to dry mine).
Instead, I cross my fingers, and say, ‘You’re doing fine’.
Midnight
Action In Bras de Venus
Down the staircase from the train station soldiers in camouflage, guns cocked, foot it, single file. They are paced by a drummer at the tail. I count them into the barracks. Forty-nine. Is one of them missing? The church bell tolls midnight. We won’t be hearing from it until seven-fifteen. The fat men are sitting side by side on a bench facing the sea. They have pizza cartons on their laps and are licking their fingers. It’s time for me to go to bed.
States Of Mind
1. Sometimes I
feel so filled with hate
I’d be happy to
evaporate.
But love is not
so volatile.
It comes and goes
with a sad smile.
2. Other times
I’m in such a sad state
I’d be happy to
disappear
into the planet’s
atmosphere.
And come down
again as a tear.
Keep close
to
people and you can live in the warmth of the well meant. Not all
people. But
you know what I mean. My bones can’t stand water below twenty
degrees. Lower
than body temperature. So where does that leave me? A cold or
hot-blooded animal?
I sit in the
café
reading my book while all those around me are eating ice-creams as
large as
their heads. How they fit the peach melbas into themselves is no
mystery. Once
the sugar burns off, water dissolves into water. One of them is talking
all the
time. And nobody is listening, bar me.
Their
bill is
paid by a rug-headed old cake with a George Hamilton Jr tan, and a
stoic smile.
Everybody waves me bonsoir. My
cognac has been included.
The
Wind Down
Then in a
quayside café I have a cognac with a lump of sugar and read Some
Sort of Joy,
by John Taylor, while half listening to the late diners. A table of
Dublin
people oblivious of others shout personal remarks at one another and
laugh a
lot. I return home to empty the dishwasher, and prepare the kitchen for
breakfast. Sleep will come in the small hours after a bath and a few
rums while
deciphering a French poem. Tonight Paul Valéry makes it
easy. ‘Calme,
calme, reste, calme.’
Before I
turn in
I like to curse fate a little and that makes me feel better. I linger a
minute
or two to watch the windows opposite. Lights are coming on. My
neighbour is
setting up his telescope and looking at the sky. I look up. I
can’t say it
isn’t a nice night. There is a blood-red half-moon. Pollution
from Barcelona,
it’s said. The stars, though, aren’t worth a second
look. The light has gone
out. John Taylor’s book tells me that if you keep your eyes
open, reality is
better than a dream. You sleep better.
Mooring My Boat
You stop yourself in neutral gear.
Recycling
The
Dregs
between the
window of the ground floor and the street.
The woman returning
from the market offers
her basket to the
old person, who takes her pick.
This in my view
is the root of civilisation.
Some radishes and
a turnip go a long way.
Position Statement
I suppose I’d be
dead
as a memorial
to some dubious
cause.
So I prefer
to be
nowhere in
particular.
I’m propping up
the bar
some call
eternity.
Happy
Ending
Now
I’ve grown
too old to dream
I can get a good
night’s sleep.
Barking
Mad
Dean
Swift found
that running up and down the steps of Dublin Cathedral drowned out the
noise in
his head. The balance of his mind was restored.