Poems by Jim Ferguson

Excerpt from “Ms Mati becomes a mother”

Drought and its opposite

where it is dead-dry
without
water and blood
oil and lava
without the flow
 
                                               the flow
 
that lets things move,
live, breathe, be themselves
in themselves and of themselves
being as a storm; a storm is only
half itself without the rushing rains,
destroying and remaking life anew
 
with dryness comes death,
desert crawling over the corpse
corrupt, sterile, stifling quartz,
its arid momentum letting nothing
                                                                            nothing new
flourish, grow, as itself
                                                in itself
                                                                 of itself
 
                            free
 
Drought is the opposite of freedom     — it grates
against life in its ugliness and horror,
against life’s beauty and despair
 
Drought is the opposite of freedom
— homophobic, fascist torturer
of all that might flower
 
so essential
                               water of hope
 
                               blood of optimism
 
                               all fluid things
 
                               spiralling on
 
                               between the moment
 
                               second of birth
 
                               instant of death
so essential
                                              so wet
                                                                                         so filling the void
 
“so fuckin what,” says Mati,
“this is not my concern
my interest is love,
I am history and the future
I am the effervescent present
my interest is love — liquid love
cascading through my earthquaking cunt
pumping in my heart
streaming through my
clitoris, womb, flesh —
in waves
                                inside
                                                              and out
 
not the
                               definite dry-deadness
                                                           of the definite article
                                                                                                     (the) 
                 but movement
                                                                        sense it”
                                                                                                                     “spin”

Fluids
 
 
Mati thinks
she’s some kind of shaman
mother-earth-fuck-good-witch
you don’t come the cunt with her
 
that’s the flavour of her juices
rich —                       
                             of the earth
of the dark soil
                            of the earth
of the crimson blood
                            of the earth
of the sweating degrading decay
                            of the earth
                                 the earth?
 
molten and flowing
metamorphic and volcanic
brutal, burning and exotic
to our paltry, human skin
 
Mati’s awright but
cool and tough but
just like a woman
 
that’s how I think about
the woman Mati,
then what she’d see
if she looked at me now
with her prophetess eyes
that melt your bones
she knows how men
like to look at women
and how to look back at men
 
right into their eyes
as if there was religious depth in the iris
- ignore the whites -
it always has to be the iris
rich with life-colour
blue and weeping
green precious emerald
brown and common as muck
but therein an ocean of creation,
wild colours not often found
unless you look long into the iris
 
never mind, if Mati looked at me now she’d
say, fuck that Jim shave and take a bath —
and that’s what I would do
for bathing is sacred so I’d
ask her to come in that bath
splash water on my back
shave the auld gray beard away
 
go on, she’d ask,
what’s your favourite punctuation mark?
I’d muse on the stupidity of the question
and the fun of it,
cum on her milky-white teeth
as if it had meaning
 
my fluids too, perhaps,
are of the earth
the soil and rock,
volcano, earthquake, rainforest,
desert
             desert
impotent, unless you know where to look
ah Mati, electric, shocking lover
that you were…   

 
Pregnant 
 
 
Mati
is pregnant
cures morning sickness
with herbal remedies, has
given up sex,
smoking, drink and drugs
sits out by the canal
in spring sun
reading Dostoyevsky,
Leonard Cohen,
Janice Galloway
 
Mati
knows the trick
like Ms Galloway
but is luckily still sane
breathes deep and easy
lets her belly grow
her breasts expand
 
people row up and down the canal,
laughter and voices, and water
breaking under the oars —
her father liked the water too
sailing and swimming
spinning under and up in his canoe
 
Sunday is her favourite day to sit 
so busy with boats and mothers
with children and fathers looking
somehow bewildered
as if the women
could send them a message of wisdom,
tell them telepathically
what they are for
somehow fathers don’t know anymore