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...premature requiem 7...
you me
light from your mothers room
yellow on black grass
and yellow on your hair
tomorrow you may be dead
therell be no comfort found
in the motion of white wheat fields
or the gull cries of the long handled pump
ive hated you before
i’ll hate you then
when your skin remains still at my touch
and your painted face makes me feel stupid
i wont look at you
i’ll see you in your mothers face
hear your voice in hers
see you old when she tilts a kettle
if i dont run i’ll sit with her
she’ll hand me stones dried grass
the corpse of a bee
she me sifting through your obsessions
these are the ribbons you wore
the hat you stole
these are your fingerprints on porcelain
i’ll be allright on my own
i can negotiate sliding doors
and commentaries
i’ll walk where you me walked
unable to remember conversations
i’ll think of flesh in flesh and that time in dieppe
when you remembered being born
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...requiem 15...
Ive seen you from a high place
walking through yellow
Ive heard you say
there are years for me to be free
give me chains and absolution
Ive heard you say perfect music
is upturned cans in rain
Ive watched you cut fish
put violets inside
Ive seen you walking through blue
your reflection sliding on chrome
Ive heard you say
have mercy on have pity for the alarming windows of
reykjavik
I’ve heard you breathe in a field
say why walk so quickly - there may be broken insects
Ive seen you in a river wrapped in red
Ive seen you ride across roofs on a stolen cow
you wrote this in chalk on the wall of a red barn:
the vitality of skin is the breath of a hen
these words in warm light became faint
you me and those who inhabited us
the only ones to read them
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...celia svenssons mother said...its possible to make
two small flutes from the bones of a fully grown mouse...(seduction
63)
that day your mother bought a fretful cow
and saw john the baptist climbing the water tower
and at night your father on a chair
near a lake playing a harmonium
the chair leaning in soft earth
in late afternoon you me on an embroidered cloth
saying this that
see a mandolin on the lake
rising falling moving towards the bridge
behind the mandolin a pig in the arms of
is that mary magdalene
minutes pass
you talk of grapefruits and celandines
mary magdelene says bring me quickly
fourteen dogs and a cantaloupe
a basket filled with violets and fish
the pig says
behind a white barn celia svensson
lifted your skirt while her mother counted mouse bones
you remained unconcerned
this was your home
the first faces you saw are here
the first skin you touched
this is whereyou made yourself come in august heat
on the handle of a yellow pump
this is whereyou pissed on dandelions
while a caravan burned
this is where you showed hairless skin
to a blind man who touched
too dark now to see the stream
walking to the red house near the lake
your father leaning hands moving
his back to the water hymns from his mouth
and songs concerning industry and amputation
your mother says
he writes five songs a day
the melodies borrowed from cattle and hornets
later you slept
i walked through juniper and fish scales
found your fathers harmonium near a horse
in early light i watched you wash
skin lit in a yellow room
i’ll remember these things when im dead
and the unworn shoes i gave to the stream
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...it may have been a magpie so early on a branch...as
if instructed...
i combed your hair
that night on a green ship
when the ship reached land
i carried your bag
rested a while on those mossy steps
in a yellow room i made tea in blue cups
you wondered were there folded prayers
beneath the straw mats and the curving boards
you saw your mothers face in the creases of your shoes
filled the shoes with celandines
denying any sense of ceremony
i watched you open shutters
lean on a sill legs crossed at the ankles
i watched you reach to touch bark
saw your hair move in air
watched you become porcelain
the room became cold
you closed the shutters
lay on a low bed said see how cold my skin
you talked of chinese ink
sticklebacks and white walls
i wanted to bring you a bird or a bowl
a folded prayer or incantation
instead i slept when you slept
waking before you deliberately
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...always after rain...
she’s walking
she’s taken a left turn off a street
to where a canal is
she’s walking on cut stone
where stone ends
wild flowers and other plants
industrial buildings a low light and seeds falling
figures walk each side of her
others pass her from behind
their shadows darkening her coat
the sound of shoes
and moving air
there she is lit and breathing beneath a tree
she looks back at where she’s walked
looks left to where she will walk
the canal is in the north of the town
her room in the south
she thinks of the distance between
begins walking
at a market she chooses a bowl
knowing she may not like it tomorrow
she remembers where she bought her coat
who was first to see it
the first thing she put into a pocket
had she not had to avoid a snail on the path
she would have remembered being born
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...leaves against glass to waken them...
you me in august pretending to love a snail
the spaces between stones
and that fly drowning in a goats eye
you me in october
standing too long on that famous bridge
the dead escaping your my mouth
an infant on a ferry showed her tongue
you me in december unrecognisable in frost
wrapped in wool and feathers
not searching for words
comfortable with creaking cupboard doors
your mother said sound the alarm
youre a pretty pretty pirate but my honour is gone
a priest said do you do you take
do you take take do you take take take until you die
a fisherman said buy my flesh and eat it
in memory of yesterdays sea
moving air between wires said
was it the widow who stole a pheasant
was it she asleep in that tree
you me in this house behind ivy
waking in a half light
breathing the history of every spider
come come come to the window
theres a prayer braided in wheat
its not the river repeating the prayer
its not your skin or mine
its not the roots of the walls or the windmill sails
come come come to the window
kneel with me in curling dust
its too late now to buy bread
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...requiem 2...
she was at ease in damp rooms
and in the company of plane trees
one time in an alley in amber light
she left a cup newly bought
amongst weeds
inside the cup a word on paper:
lost
she could be sanctimonious
comfortable with her mouth on the mouth of another
but was easy to forgive
her head inclined that way
if a bird flew across glass
its shadow on polished wood
she might say
see how the shadow of a bird leaves no scar
she said such things to seduce
to annoy
she was at ease beneath cotton
her skin against skin
she was at ease in frozen fields where earth curled
and broken birds hung from wires
this is the bracelet she lost seven times
blue and a lighter blue
a circle in dust on a sill to show
one time in an alley in amber light
she left a cup newly bought
amongst weeds
inside the cup a word on paper
mine
she placed the word in a cup
in an alley that leads to a red bridge
to a river where lights move in air
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17.06.1949 - 22.10.2005