Posts Tagged ‘People’

More Eyes

I notice the raincoat swaddled figure first. Thin, he climbed upon his bicycle at the kerb’s edge.

Face, difficult to see within a hood. But missing his pedal through eagerness to be seen by the woman across the road with a push chair.

He calls hello to her. I can hear it twice the distance, but she keeps her gaze ahead.

He calls again, still rich with the pleasure of being on his bicycle – Hello.

She does not look, or perhaps a flickered glance, but no response.

Once more he calls.

Less sure now.

Pleasure faltering.

She walks on and I draw close, seeing within the hood.

Pain on the face of a mind that did not grow up in a body that did.

Slump shouldered hurt in open closed eyes.

A man had died.
I was his son and had just been told.
Walking along the road to my home
In the dark evening I passed an empty house.
DEATH.
On my left as I walked
Was the undertaker’s
DEATH.
In the empty street
A cold wind blew fallen leaves.
DEATH.
Further along the way
A house was brightly lit from within,
And I could see people inside.
LIFE.
A girl child rode by on a bicycle.
LIFE
Nearer home I met my young son
And carried him in my arms,
Wrapped in my coat against the wind.
LIFE.
Always and everywhere,
Everything is living and dying.

Tony Crisp

Exhaustion

There’s nothing in the world as old as death.
And nothing keeps us from it ‘cept our breath.
And old Dave now lay breathing slow,
The hair upon his head as white as snow.

In all the days he’d seen, he’d toiled long.
His body, in his youth, was hard and strong.
But on his deathbed, now alone he lay,
He knew this truly was his final day.

And as he lay remembering his past,
He felt strength draining from him fast.
Each muscle ached from years of toil.
Bones gnarled from working with the heavy soil.

Dave’s hands were wondrous things to see.
Knotty strength like limbs of some old tree.
He felt them now upon the counterpane,
Remembering their days of toil again.

As if each day of work had left a mark,
As death stepped forward and Dave approached the dark,
He felt again the hammer blows and frost;
The effort of his hands, and what the cost.

Each hour’s exertion, on his body dwelt again,
Each injury received now relived its pain.
So death, Dave felt, was welcome here.
Escaping his exhausted body held no fear.

But as Dave yielded all his soul to death,
As arose the rattling of his breath,
A wonder came to Dave that lit his face,
Joy ran through him as if touched by Grace.

He saw as if through magic window high,
Each day of life stretched there before him nigh.
He saw his life as part of some great race,
In which, with others, he had run apace.

With wife and children, friends and foes, he’d jogged along,
Jostling, laughing, loving, with the throng.
The pains of that were nothing to the joy.
He’d taken part in Life, as man and boy.

Despite its pains, I’ve loved life, Dave cried out aloud.
He strode into deaths arms erect and proud.
And death clasped Dave with love and deep respect,
For Death’s dark face is only Life that we reject.

Erica

I saw you today
Standing in the middle of the stream.
You were trying to lift the pushchair
Out of the four-wheel-drive,
Balancing your baby
In your other arm.

The current was really strong.
I can’t always see it that clearly.
But today Erica,
It was apparent to me,
Swirling around your limbs,
Along your arms
And out of your breasts.

And I know you have already told me,
But some days I am blind.
Only today, as you held your baby,
Could I see
What you are doing with the torrent
You are standing in.

It’s what you told me
When I asked
How you are dealing with motherhood.
You know – giving birth –
On your feet fast – smiling –
Being the perfect sex goddess
For your man –
Renovating the house –
Being intelligent and witty —
The everything woman.

And there you are
In the middle of the stream,
As the water rushes
Out of the old Welsh mines.
And you – balance –
The pushchair and the baby,
Your husband,
The house –
Everything.

Bob

It’s up the muddy lane with lots of puddles,
Past the graves with bright green stones,
Into the field of pretty flowers –
That’s where Bob lives.

In a wooden shed like ours at home,
With a fire inside to cook his dinner on,
Burning great big trees that make my eyes cry –
That’s how Bob lives.
He doesn’t wash his hands like Mummy makes me,
And his face is black as well,
And he eats his breakfast with his fingers –
That’s what Bob does.

His bed is all old overcoats,
And I could see his toes come out his shoes,
And he never combs his hair like mine is –
That’s how Bob is.

But it must be lovely having blackbirds
Come to sit and talk to him at tea,
And not to have to do the things that I do,
That’s why I wish that it were me.

Bend in the Road

I had walked and talked with my friend, left them, and was nearing home. Only a gentle bend hid home from my view.

Then, on that stretch of road, by the bend of houses, I saw my son.

His freckle face with missing tooth looked from a roadside porch.

Seeing me he came, halted, went back and came again. A step nearer, a moments halt, a pace again, nearly a halt, now walking, becoming a run.

And I looked into that face wordlessly loving me.

And I too, losing all words, took him up into my arms.

Walking I tried to tell him, but the words were too big to come up out of my chest and through me.

But they came, haltingly, and I spoke them quietly lest they explode me there in the road, “Leon, I love you.”

We were home. It was a good place to be.

And my children, open, talking and secure in me.

Yes, I had helped to build this good place, this home.

And it was mealtime, and Leon was sitting on the floor with eyes darting to mine, face amove, showing and hiding that wonder that had led him to stand waiting an hour at a bend of houses for a man to walk that stretch of road.

He stood, and from some concealment took a tiny cake, part of a jam roll he had made, and gave it to me. “This is for you,” he said.

I took it and looked at his mouth, open with pleasure, and then his eyes –

Sunshine.

Adoring me.

Wonder.

Space

and love.

A whole world of love — shy, trembling, wanton love.

And it tore me.

Babs

I saw Bab’s body.
She was thin,
Wasting,
And not remembering.

Then at the funeral
I stood among the
Branches of the
Family tree –
Just me
Among the many
Who watched
The chipboard
Coffin carried by.

And I had
Touched Bab’s body
Before she died.
She was thin
And not remembering.

In the church
The priest had
Called her Barbara.
But she was Bab’s
So thin
Within the
Chipboard box.

A hymn was
Played
While I was
In the branches
Of the tree,
Above the heads
In liquid light.

I wept then
Quiet among the
Branches
As Bab’s rose to her
Wedding,

Light flaming from
The many single heads
All unknowing.

To think her
Funeral was her
Wedding.
And all remains
Were laid to rest.

All New

I was only four,
It was all so new to me
On that seashore.
To see what’s there
I turned the rock,
Like opening a magic door,
Uncovering creatures
With eyes or claw.

I looked at me
Through their own eyes,
Without the words
That speak such lies.
I loved them,
For I loved myself.
What will I find
What new, what wealth?
What will I see
What will I feel,
What will I know,
As there I kneel?

No plastic toy
With this compares.
No bow or gun
This mystery shares.
Just one more rock,
One more stone turned,
To see those eyes,
That with mine burned.
With life they shone,
And lit my own.

Without the words,
That tell the lies,
I knew what life was
In those eyes.

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