when the visitors departed
the pen rests were broken
and the ink had been spilled
when the visitors departed
loss
Clara and the painter
When Clara opened the door five years ago and let me in, a man was singing opera in another room. It’s the painter, she said, and said no more.
We sipped coffee from delicate white cups and I wondered what sort of artist would sing as he created. Clara flushed and called me bourgeois, incapable of understanding that even workers could appreciate fine things. He was painting the walls.
My cup tipped in its saucer as I lowered it towards the fine lace mat. I righted it and Clara flushed again. Her grandmother had had the sight and saw the future in the grounds.
You should leave, she said.
I did not see her again until a moment ago outside the pavement café. She was pushing a pram and I raised my cup to salute her. She did not respond. Perhaps she did not see me. I did not stand.
she left his life
she left his life
like a song floating skyward
last notes in the distance
fading to birdsong
avoiding
the woman standing at the bus stop
with two empty cat-carrier cases
is not making eye contact with the world
Then the awakening
Anger, thick old-blood red anger,
the fury that drives you to drink
to drink till the black velvet settles
soft feathers that smother your breath
And so sleep. The sleep of dreams
of people and horses and places once known
their lives continue when you are no longer
their lives continue though you are now gone
Perhaps some calm sleep
Perhaps some deep sleep with no nightmares
no eyelids fluttering or moths in the night
but the calm of the sea when the wind has forgotten
when the wind has forgotten its nature and calling
cracking no cheeks for children are silent
the storms of grey seabirds have spiralled and landed
the sea oil smooth, angered colours of sunset
Then the awakening and the bed is still empty
empty the bed and the room and the world
head slopping with sorrow and hope that is absent
you are gone you are gone you are gone you are gone
never my life the blinding injustice
I hold tight to my belly and smile
Your words burned
Your words burned.
“We need to talk” scorched,
“It’s not you” set my blood to seethe
and
all those words about finding yourself
were fiery nails through my heart.
One day I hope
a “maybe”, “perhaps another try”
will extinguish flames and salve again the steaming wounds.
Goodbye
I’m an easy crier, I’m not ashamed –
films, memories, cheap music, you name it.
I thought I would sit,
dignified tears down my cheeks,
but I sobbed like a lost man,
all consuming, muscles and gripping and heart,
because I have felt this – this – before
and know and so dread it’s coming again.
March 19th
Between the clouds pales the sun’s snow-washed face
J turns to catch his shadow but it’s gone
His father left the village on St. Joseph’s Day
Across the mountains he walked and the sea held him close
Goodbye to my father, goodbye as the days grow
One day I will follow, go with you to the sea
Though you are not here
Though you are not here
the breeze which once you breathed
ruffles my hair
and stirs my blood
Fog hides frost
fog hides frost underfoot
the fog into which you disappeared
my balance is lost
simonsalento 