Marble Constant
He was my Anthony for most of my salad days, supporting my cause, to adore Eng. Lit., awarding A’s, the occasional disappointed Bs making me work harder to keep his support. His great soliloquy was announcing my candidacy for a scholarship to Oxford or Cambridge. Hardly the heroic general, this grey bearded, ruffle-haired, one eyed squinter who spoke with excited scuffs out of the side of his mouth, glass eye fixed forward, same tweed jacket. Rarely moved to anger or discipline. His love for the subject, for us, was his sword and eagle. Until one day, he turned Octavius, held up my essay on the play, and threw asps into my eyes in the form of stinging condemnation. My essay had Anthony spelt wrong. Three times. He spat out onion tears and stabbed: such stupid mistakes barred me from being an Oxford or Cambridge boy. Saw him when I was an usher at Epsom playhouse. He shambled down the aisle and mumbled recognition, unaware of my scars. I should have been in Oxford or Cambridge but instead I was helping this former demi-Atlas see Am Dram, a year away from being diagnosed dyslexic, marble-constant. Kaleidoscope I think I was four when I first picked up a kaleidoscope, carefully - it was a cheap one. Same family car for eighteen years. Like most children, I was awed numb by the cutting collision of colours, sliding, shattering, reforming with just a turn. It was more than colour. It was looking down the rabbit hole of the universe seconds after the Big Bang, everything rushing. It was the first hint that the life ahead of me was one to be filled with hues of light cut by the rotation of darkness. Published in January 2022 in Verbal Art vol.5 #1.
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Catalonia, 1931. Maria is four years old. Mother selling everything for train tickets out of Spain. One day to get it done. Pappa’s gone ahead. He and Granny accused of being spies by local police looking for promotion. Granny hiding. The whispered rumour: police coming, here by nightfall. Maria remembers frantic packing, rushing tears, green stares of neighbours, sighs of relief boarding the last train out of Spain before Civil War breaks every family. Chockerty-choo, chockerty-choo, lucky old you, lucky old you. ‘Where’s Granny gone?’ wonders Maria. Mother raises a finger to her lips, flicks her eyes to the bulging suitcase. Maria creeps close and spies tiny air holes on the top. Granny’s secret breathing gives Maria permission to start singing. Later on, Maria stares out of the window surprised by the jagged teeth of mountains, the open mouth of night. Train shudders to a halt. Faces fold in fear. Just a rock slide and a dead goat - symbols of good luck, says Mother, crossing herself, eroding rosary beads, all the way to the border. The police check papers but not luggage. Maria entrances them with a dance, thoughts about children gained, wished for. Later, they bow and bundle off the train. Maria wants her audience to come back. Chockerty-choo, chockerty-choo, lucky old you, lucky old you. Instead, she sings for her missing Pappa as the moon rises into a red sky, then plays hide-and-seek with the Pyrenees. Maria orders the snoring suitcase to be quiet! Granny isn’t heard but Maria is. Angelic singing travels down the whole train packed with tongueless immigrants. The quietest of all: the royal family rattling to exile. A maid requests Maria sings for Queen Eugenie. Mother shocked. No time to teach Maria to curtsy, smile nicely, act the proper Spanish lady. Maria can never recall the royal visage, just frilly clothing, new perfume, the train grinding over mountains, the Aficionados - the Queen’s official little lady dancers - lined up and smiling politely; peering crowds piled up at the doors. An avalanche of applause, and Eugenie’s royal gift: brushing Maria’s hair afterwards. Gasps when Maria extends her hand, demands payment. Luckily the Royal We is amused. She opens her purse. Maria leans forward. ‘Dinero real, gracias, Reina.’ Real money. Aficionadas duck behind smooth hands. Queen Victoria’s granddaughter laughs. ‘Spain is proud of her future women.’ Coins are passed. Maria clumsily curtsies and scuttles back to Mother who swoons. Later, scuttling laughter from the suitcase. Chockerty-choo, chockerty-choo, lucky old you, lucky old you. Memories accelerate. A brief taste of France until another war sends her packing. More travel, settling in England where she remains, and decades later sitting up in a hospital bed in Devon telling me this entire story. Not finished. She remembers being a young woman, war over, returning to the Pyrenees to find her still missing father. Singing his name, hoping he was still hiding, hermit or a goat keeper. No answer, just the wind. She spent all her savings. No news from the Spanish authorities. Best guess: caught by Francos’s police. the gun shot ricocheting down the valleys. He lays in one, hardly resting. She returned to England and spent the rest of her life singing only for him, and loving trains. Chockerty-choo, chockerty-choo, lucky old you, lucky old you. Published in The Journal, January 2022 We find Rilke facing south on the silent side
of the St Romanus castle church, away from the tended family graves of those who lived decades longer than him. His has a rose, yes, but also a dead stick, weeds rife. Perhaps that suits the poet wondering about his place in the world, sculpting words from clouds and whispers, the dynamics of near death. I think of those wild weeks in February, 1922, Orpheus singing in wildly strung winds, the ghost of Wera dancing in snowy whirls Eurydice’s frozen cliff face beside the Rhone, that constant glacial urging of his angels and the mountains above, parting seas of clouds, then sinking back into your questions. Where better to demand a definition of life. In the castle museum, the curator is keen to assure me that five francs is worth the visit, even with one room to you, all in German. I’m glad to visit, to see your face, those sad searching eyes that looked out of towers, seeing this valley as the art of light incarnate, finding spaces between being and not being, the angel and beast, the visible and invisible. Published in Panopylzine, January 2022 Editor's Choice in Panopylzine, February 2022 |
Poetry Biography:I have had over 70 poems published in the following worldwide magazines and literary journals: A Handful of Stones, Acta Victoriana (Canada), All the Sins (UK), The Amethyst Review (USA), Amsterdam Quarterly (NL) The Blue Nib (Ireland), Bolts of Silk, Borderless Journal, The Brasilia Review (Brazil), Bushfire Literature & Arts Review (US), Cadenza, Cake Magazine, Carillon, Cha: An Asian Literary Journal (Hong Kong), DASH (USA), Clackamas Literary Review (USA), Cooch Behar Anthology, Dawntreader, Dreamcatcher, The Dillydoun Review, Earth Love, The Ear (US), Eastlit (East Asia), Erbacce, Envoi, Finger Dance Festival, Ginosko, Gloom Cupboard, Hidden Channel, Inlandia Journal, IS&T (Ink, Sweat & Tears), Into the Void (Canada), The Journal, The Lakeview Journal (India), Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Lunch Ticket (USA) The New Writer, One Hand Clapping, Orbis, Oregon English Journal (USA), The Passage Between, Prole, Sentinel Literary Quarterly, Sonic Boom (India), Third Wednesday (USA), Of Nepalese Clay (Nepal), New Contrast (South Africa), One Hand Clapping, Opportunity Publishing, The Oregon English Journal (USA) Origami Poems Project (USA), Panoplyzine (USA), Paper Swan Press, The Passage Between, The Peacock Journal (USA), Pens on Fire, Poetry Salzburg (Austria), Potomac Review, (USA) Prole, Pulsar Poetry, Rear View Poetry, Queen Mob's Teahouse, Qutub Minar Review (India), Red Ink, Shiela-Na-Gig (USA), South Bank Poetry Magazine, Stand, Waterford Teachers Centre, (Ireland) We Are a Website New Literary Journal (Singapore), Weber - The Contemporary West Review (USA), Windfall (USA), Writing Magazine, Words for the Wild and Verbal Art (India). Archives
March 2024
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