Poems by Geraldine McKenzie

MeDea
 
~~~
 
The  pot  upon  the  window  sill
The  way  the  light  enthralls  my  bench  and  all  the  jars,  bowls,  ladles  and instruments 
thereon
The  sulky  prow  settling  upon  his  dozy  head
 
listen
 
The  path  the  world  takes
 
I’m  not  an  alternative
I’m  that  desire  and  criminal
in  intent  and  deed  denied
denied
 
convenient 
foreigner
 
I  wasn’t  always  sure  what  I  was  meant  to  do
but  it  usually  seemed  appropriate
and  the  men  were  pleased  or  took
advantage  or  privately  sighed  relief
 
it  was  always  for  him
which  doesn’t  wear  well
 
salt  and  spicy
this  distrust 
rolling  his  head  between 
my  jaws,  my  thighs
 
so  briefly  girl
slant-eyed 
dark-skinned
baggage  down  below
 
while  the  dark  ships  slice
the  miles,  the  ties
his  hand  never  far
a  complete  story
 
and  even  when  I  cut  my  brother’s  throat  and  felt
most  free  in  the  net  or  night  or  never  this
 
was  most  theirs
 
dumb  bitch  and  damn  hard
to  shake  off
 
~~~
 
someone  walking  along  the  shore  line
 
birds  in  my  hair
 
he  turns  into  him
 
I  fetch,  flinch,  backward  turning
 
sun  on  my  shoulders
 
all  this  talk  of  knives
 
slow  oil  to  the  skin
 
(and  we  sat  and  watched  the  setting  sun 
 
shift  colours  overhead 
 
dizzy  with  insect  noise  and  the 
 
muzzy  heat  retiring)
 
~~~
 
what’s  a  man
any  pig  in  the  dark
 
what’s  woman
any  poke
 
what’s  in  the  line,  the  swell
his  glance  aslant
 
a  moment  between  glib  and  gristle
 
beyond  salvage
silence  the  beast  I  could  hope  for
slow  pad,  the  quiet  licks
rain  falling  on  a  solemn  shambles
 
barely  moving  morning  shadows
town  laid  open  after  victorious  arms
 
massy  metal  sun’s  at  the  gates  and
occupation
 
I  forget 
 
where  I  was
 
whose  I  was
 
come  freakish  awake  and 
crooked  in  the  bed
and  he  rolls  in
slick  as  a  baby
 
no  rest
 
let  the  blonde  bint  have  a  taste  of  it
fair  trade  fair  weather
electric  passage  over
squall  illuminate
and  nestle  spoon  to  spoon
 
queen  I  am
queen  unforgivable
a  thud  to  the  thighs  and  thick  between
 
whose  hands  these  flutes  in  the  evening  air
 
~~~
 
as  good  as
cut  the  old  man’s  throat and  pay
 
people  want  too  much
miracles  for  supper
portents  in  the  toppled  jug
wine  spreading  like  a  rumour
 
walking  in  with  nothing  to  say
drinking  redmouthed  and  gaping
cooking  up  a  storm  and  then
the  scouring  of  the  pans
 
why  does  success  always  seem  like  failure
glossy  with  spittle
each  step 
leading  on
 
~~~
 
my  kids  are  birds  now
they  know their  mum  and  pluck
each  baleful  day  the  song  out
 
I  live  forever  in  the  arrow  lodged
 
nothing  I  could  say  would  be  right

Manifest
 
nothing clever
or winsome
nothing premeditated, that itchy trigger finger
nothing lush (again with the finger)
nothing that offers comfort to the comfortable though I
am generally
comfortable
 
nothing that makes sense of it all but also nothing
that evades/denies/obscures what we might as well call truth
nothing that makes words badges, trumpets, cushions, doorways
nothing like the holy mountains, of which there are far too many
nothing like the sun
 
nothing that will last forever
nothing glib nor global
nothing that provides a good return on your investment
your piety
your warts ’n all insouciance
your unerring sense of the appropriate
 
no murderous glamour of celestial visions
no couched and ready pleasure boys
whips waiting
no drama of submission and ecstasy
of errant nights and turgid days behind the wheel
behind the desk
behind the smile
behind the news

Dear Reader

It was not so much that events had turned out as she expected, indeed they had exceeded expectations in increasingly specific ways, but that it should all matter so much.

~~~

Under the circumstances, nothing could have been further from her inclination than to accompany this jovial imposter in his rented suit and dull shoes (even the carnation in  his lapel seemed to wilt, as if unable to sustain another moment of this tedious imposture), yet it appeared she had no choice in the matter; those on whom she had once placed such reliance now stared back with a variety of permutations of the bland and the bemused.
“It’s out of my hands” one murmured, wringing those same hands with something very like relief.

~~~

If it were courageous thus to brave the widespread condemnation of others, disputing with a cocky flourish the daily contumely of priest and pagan alike, then certainly he showed all the marks of valour and doubtless hoped they would stand him in good stead with a citizenry more impressed by bravado than good sense, compassion, respect for law — in short, those tedious middle class virtues with which all sensible dictators dispense at the first opportunity.

~~~    

Growing weary of prescription, she retired to the countryside only to find that that, too, had been spoken for.

~~~

Even the best-intentioned were confused by a rendition of events which seemed to indicate that, despite the performance of a bad thing, ill-conceived, and with an undeniably sinister motive, some measure of good had ensued.

~~~

While it was clear to all who cared to inquire, that many items of significance and with a capacity to disturb further prosperity (not to mention complacency), still remained and were plainly likely to continue thus; few indeed cared to inquire and they were generally overborne in the generally universal mood of congratulation. Indeed, one among them was heard to remark “It is a miracle we have all come through.”

~~~

One could hardly deny that the conditions of which she complained were but recent in their falling out thus and yet the listeners were unanimous in their private agreement that she had exhibited the worst possible taste in bringing it to their attention.

“I do despise such affectations.” a certain lady was heard to remark.

~~~

This is not a life, she could have replied, but it clearly was.

~~~

She never visited her father at work; the one time she had gone with her mother to Wall Street, had so overwhelmed her with nausea, she had resolved never to repeat the experience. The moment she had looked up, she had been struck by a sense of vertigo but in reverse, as though she was about to plummet into a huge pit, its walls sleek and shear. The buildings were simply monstrous and she thought how misplaced confidence was when composing a building. Stone and marble are sufficiently aggressive without the builders’ blustering pride. How she detested it!
She remembered Paris, its sins in gilt, a grotesquerie of gold on florid sculptures. You had to go back to Notre-Dame, she thought, to find honesty. Many would say it was built in faith, and thus a sort of confidence, perhaps the only important sort; and she would not disagree but add this was not the whole story. Terror had its niches, and empty bellies and burning houses and the endlessness of the night peered out from buttress and column. This was built by people who had just clawed their way out of the abyss and, still panting a little, had said, “I believe” or “Let’s make something.” or “This is our town.”

~~~

How awkward, she thought, rummaging through his desk, if the maid were to walk in. Or Henry himself. She adjusted the letter opener, a rashly incisive salamander, and stood back, gazing around feverishly at the countless shelves, crammed with books and hiding places. It was useless.

~~~

It was astounding, quite simply the most remarkable event she had ever had the good fortune to witness, truly a unique moment and one she would never, indeed could scarcely ever, forget and yet, in retrospect, she was not quite sure, certainly not as convinced as she had first thought, that it was altogether to the good.

~~~

How she loathed those dinner parties, the subtle lamps, the ravaged blooms moaning in extravagant clusters as the guests took their places, as they took everything. Reluctant though she was to do so, she could never stop herself from inspecting their eyes, whilst being careful not to catch their gaze. Even she acknowledged the value of rules while reserving the right to make her own.
Could one be both frantic and complacent? she mused. The truth was they were all so unpleasant, and the nicest were the worst. Her spirits, and her gaze, sank. She watched, as she always seemed to do, their mouths.
This is a mistake, of all the features to which one might reduce a human being, the mouth is clearly the worst and, to be caught in the actual moment of eating, why, how more than metaphorically ugly. She sighed, and her mother shot her the usual annoyed glance.

~~~

They sat long over their tea that afternoon, polishing metaphors with a diligence born of boredom. And yet, how could they be bored, it didn’t make sense, and yet there was no mistaking the droop of their long fingers, the idle feathering of the throat, the tea sipped as though languor might confer its own reward

~~~

He inquired whether this was not better. So comfortable, indeed so pleasant, to wander thus from phrase to phrase, from clause to clause and the road always riding up, meeting the well shod foot, the neat boot pointing its way on. To which she replied that the best part was the not getting lost and she attributed this to the being already quite lost and so it didn’t matter if one was occasionally a little confused. Was she not bred to deal with such occasions, to rise above, move beyond, and with the reassuring conviction that at least something was being done.

~~~
 
Would it be better if she thought more? If she thought, or so she couched it, about what she wanted to say. The difficulty that arose from this, however, was that she didn’t want to say anything; her mind was both empty and full, her heart in abeyance and her body stammered and stuttered from work to work. In short, dear reader, she had not an idea in her head beyond a memory of pleasure gleaned from the placing of words.
This not wanting to speak may seem to introduce the wanting to scream, but she had distinct reservations about screaming. Or rather, silent screaming, for, bristle as it may on the page, the poem, pinned to its own black mark, is silent. This peacefulness the page confers and she did not find that an inappropriate word, for the page seemed to her now to induce a sort of calm, feverish at first, undoubtedly, but progressing till she could sleep easily as books do, already slumbering in companionable mood upon the shelves. Certainly, some of these silences are indeed a silent screaming and she reflected that this business of mute melancholy, or madness, or whatever other variation on a familiar theme one requires, carries an unseemly cultural weight. How middle class, she thought, shrugging off the awareness of how spongy such a term was in a society as amorphous as this remote outpost of the Empire to which she had been bound in later years. Time to go home, she sometimes said, as though this were an option.