i am the sea
that january.
prestwick beach.
the sea heaves. swallows herself down
like cough syrup in thick slow gulps. we’d sat on this rock
just two days before, both of us with our backs to the world
staring out across and into
the thickness.
i counted a thousand and one seagulls that day
watched them huddle together, balance like storks
on a single orange leg the other nestled up in the warmth
of their soft white bellies as they, with uncharacteristic
patience, waited for the rain that would surely fall
and when the wind whipped up, andrew
jumped from our rock pulled his emerald green kite
from his rucksack tore off down the desolate beach his kite ploughing
a trench in the sand behind him, eager for the gust that would
lift it to where it wanted to be
and every few seconds he’d turn around
and run backwards untangling cords and calling out across
the increasing distance between us, ‘c’mon on ali! c’mon!’ and i heeded
his call, jumped from our rock and ran as fast as i could
in jeans frozen stiff as though they’d
been pegged on the line
in an overnight frost and i shrieked
with the gladness of finally being here with him—
and no black clouds could ever threaten this day for us. and he kept on
running and turning, turning and untangling till finally a gust obliged and
his emerald green kite soared skywards and free—as free as we are
ourselves if only we’ll listen.
we’d parked the car just up there by mancini’s
snack van, closed for the winter now, its magnum ice-cream posters,
faded and neglected, flap listlessly in the wind and the menu promising
hot chips and curry sauce hangs on the outside wall,
saturated by rains gone by forcing
words to fade, corners to curl and brown
moisture spots to appear in the most unappetising of ways.
we’d laid our picnic out on this rock, poured tea from our tartan thermos
ate buttered rolls, dunked mcvitties chocolate digestives and talked and
talked till the sun slipped off her shoes, turned out the light
and slithered into the black dreams
of the irish sea.
and days later with him already
too long gone i am sitting on our rock with my back to the world.
the sea heaves still. i watch her swallow the sadness rising
in her throat, as broken hearted waves throw themselves
at the feet of a shore that really couldn’t
care one way or the other.
Previously published in Pittsburgh Quarterly Magazine. Editor Fred Shaw
eventually you will turn fifty
and this will be the day you will lose your mind.
you will produce honey and certain insects
will be attracted to you
you will put on a dab of hollywood red lipstick
this will be the same colour you discovered
when you were ten in the cardboard mushroom
carton that doubled as your mother’s make-up box
and when you emerged from the bathroom wearing
the lipstick your father told you you looked like a fucking
whore and it will surprise you that actually
he was wrong
you will put on a black frock which never
used to but now clings to the rolls you seem
to have developed over-night these rolls
will make you appear more womanly and you will not mind this one bit
you will start to take more time over your hair
buy a pair of earrings in the jewellery shop
that is closing down they will match your lipstick
and you will look beautiful because your hair
will fall over one eye and this will make you look sultry
you will even consider putting on the MAC eyeshadow
you bought seven years ago and never opened
it may still be good a man you do not know
will tell you your earrings make the green
of your eyes look very nice and you will laugh
and look away as though you are shy though
you will hope the lens of his camera is still
upon you
you will have spent twenty years with the same partner
this partner will love you more and better than anyone
ever could including your own mother who loves you very much
eventually your earrings and lipstick will cause your partner
substantial discomfort though he will not say anything
about it because he will know that turning
fifty sometimes means that things might change
and he will know that all he can do is wait to see if anything
is still standing once the high pressure
system has moved through and although he is not a buddhist
he will accept the river of life will sometimes
burst its banks that water will rise in kitchens
and the insurers will need to be called in to assess the damage
to the european appliances and you will know something
inside you is dying now that the tub of fresh double cream
that has sat happily at 3 degrees in the refrigerator
of your life is now on the turn you will meet a man
you did not expect to meet you will want to spend
many nights with him you will make up many excuses
as to why you are coming home late you will ask your girlfriend
who is also very good at lying to join you in your dreich den
of dishonesty and she will agree to act as your alibi
should your partner of twenty years decide
to call her one night to confirm you are with her
on the evenings you are not home your partner
of twenty years will eat dinner on his own
and he will cling wrap yours so when you come home
he can microwave it for you so you can have a hot meal
he will know that things are now very different
and he will know exactly what is different
but he will not say anything about it because
he will not want to make you feel you cannot behave
in the way you find you suddenly need to behave
he will notice you are now shaving your legs
having your bikini line waxed and sometimes
your nails painted fire engine red and he will not believe
the outrageous lies you are telling him
but he will not call you on them and this will
make you think you are getting away with them
and even though he is not a buddhist he will
not show you any rage rather he will love
you all the more because he will understand
that you what need right now is love
and one morning when you will have stuffed
your liver so full of your own lies that it sits
swollen like that of a french goose
he will ask you gently if you want to talk about
what’s going on and still you will tell him everything
is fine and keep on with your lies till you are now choking
on them
eventually you will be home for dinner less and less
and your lies will increase more and more
and one night you will send him a text saying
you will be back later than usual maybe even the next day
and your lie for this one will be very original and completely
unbelievable but you are now so addicted
to your lies like a kid on nothing but smarties and mars bars
and tob-le-fucking-rones that you just keep right on shovelling
your refined sugar onto the fire of your truth and your partner
of twenty years will text you back simply saying ‘OK’
cause he knows you need to go through what you need
to go through and he will eat dinner alone that night along
with all the other nights and he will wash the dishes
and watch the evening news and he will miss that you are not there
shouting at the telly when the liberals come on and he will
put the hot water bottle on your side of the bed
and cling wrap your dinner because he understands
the importance of a warm bed and a hot meal
when you finally come home.
Previously published by Beautiful Losers Magazine, Editor Lee Ellis
& Wakefield Press, Editor Julia Beaven
mia council casa es tu council casa
i live out of sydney these days it is close
to the beach though we are not wealthy.
Some days there are whales other days dolphins
occasional jellies and never dead babies i like visiting
the art gallery in the city it takes me one hour
to drive there i park at the expensive
multi-storey it is a $10 flat rate on a sunday
after parking i cut through hyde park past the statue
of robert burns standing alone and too far away
from scotland we are both foreigners here of the acceptable
kind. i like the location of the gift shop
it is right next to the entry which is also the exit
i always go to the gift shop first they have handbags
made of unshaved cow and earrings like hot air balloons
and a dimly lit section at the back with mysterious
art books in thick polythene covers the thickness
of the polythene indicates their seriousness
and the price and there is an arsehole in there wearing
jesus sandals though he bears no resemblance
to jesus and the arsehole says to a random
woman (who turns out to be an arsehole too) he took a holiday
in paris once on the left bank some thirty
years back when it really was something and if hitler
was alive today this whole thing with the syrian refugees
would not be happening and the female arsehole agrees
then the jesus sandalled arsehole says what’s going
on over there is nothing but a european invasion
and the subject of the little boy’s body on bodrum
beach comes up and i have been there on holidays
some thirty years back when it really was something
the hotel was right next door to the doctor’s surgery
bent black clad women came daily clacked rosary
beads on milk crates in full view of fat tourists
bathing topless on hotel loungers ordering
chips and cokes they did not need from kadir
the turkish waiter who brought me proper chai
in a glass and taught me how to say
‘tomorrow i am going to instanbul’.
After the little boy’s body got washed
up on the sand australia offered synthetic
duvets fake chai lattes and empty promises
to twelve thousand of the five million
in camps who cry themselves to sleep at night
and i have calculated this on my iPhone and it works
out to be a teardrop in the ocean to the closest
decimal point australia i have offered
more hope to more cockatoos more safety
to kookaburras more gum leaves to koalas
than the crumbs you are flicking
from your all you can eat buffet
it is time to feed the birds australia
tuppence a fucking bag sure what does it cost
to pipe in a haggis share some tatties and neeps
raise a glass to their health mia council
casa es tu council casa australia the world’s
eyes are rolling in your general direction
and right now you look like some kind of jesus
sandalled arsehole sitting on the veranda
of your ocean front property with your deep pockets
and short arms pretending you don’t even know
it’s your turn to buy the next round at the bar.
Previously published in Other Terrain Journal, Senior Poetry Editor Anne Casey
& Wakefield Press, Editor Julia Beaven
there is no sound when it snows
like when you pull your tam o’shanter
down over your ears and i know this muffled
silence so well it is there always
in the forest at the end of our road
where conifer boughs layered with thick snow sway
like fat babies just fed their heads
lolling on the brink of nodding off and the train
to london whizzes past twice a day punctuating
the silence with two giant exclamation
marks triggering tremors causing snow
to loosen and waltz from boughs with a whispering swoosh
and there were times i was on that train
mum would drop me at the station in the village
then race back through the forest
to wave as my train sped past and as the forest
approached i’d wave through the window
though the train went so fast i could never
quite see her––but i knew that she was there.
the air is iced and sharp here and i breathe
it willingly stick my tongue in the air
catch snowflakes that flit i swallow
their flesh drink down their blood
till i am the snowflake the snowflake is me.
i lived here once. in this icy silence
the place i live now is hot and there are days
i could weep for the boughs of my forest
and the north wind that gusts and near blows
the toorie off my glengarry this hot place i live is australia
the land is dry and cracked here
much like the skin on the heels of my feet
that were never like that when i lived in scotland
i’ve got my father’s feet they say heels
that need softening in the bath for a fortnight
before you could even begin to take the cheese
grater to them and only then will the thick skin
come away crumbly like the mature scottish
cheddar i’ve never enough money to buy in the supermarket
things have changed since i came to this hot
place i’ve forgotten a lot about scotland
sure that’s what i came here for in the first
place but i have my reminders all around
me now indeed as i lay here on my bed
on this hot january afternoon wilting
from the searing heat and not a breath
of air to be had my dog eared copy of antonia
fraser’s ‘mary queen of scots’ jams my sash
window open since the cord of the sash snapped
and sent the upper case hurtling to the sill
like the guillotines that have taken the french
heads off more people than i care to remember
and i have my postcard on the wall
the one of the highland cow my brother
sent me from his camping trip on skye –
‘come back ali’ it reads ‘before you forget
how good this air truly tastes.’ and i read
that card daily and it too is dog-eared
for i peel it from the wall each morning
and stick it back with the same lump of blu
tac i’ve been using for the last as many years
i can’t move in this heat
all i can do is lay here on my now damp cotton
sheets damp from the sweat i’ve been leaking
as hot winds torch and burnt dust swirls forcing
locals into bars with promises of half price
cocktails served in coconut shells at times
of day not made for drinking
i moved into this weatherboard cottage
with hardly a thing it was the first place
i’d lived in australia with a garden––i should
say yard––they call gardens yards down here
yards make me think of barbed wire fences
broken concrete slabs and gnashing
guard dogs on choke chains that near sever
their wind pipes rushing strangers that come too close
the day i moved in i sat in my new garden
overgrown with something green and curly
––chokoes the neighbour advised––whatever
the fuck chokoes are i looked them up ‘native
to mexico though particularly easy to grow
in the australian YARD’ and this house
came with a fish-pond baking in full sun
naked of algae and the loneliest most bored looking
goldfish i have ever seen he barely moves
does not dart nor scoot unlike the darting
scooting goldfish of my youth won at fairgrounds
knocking the heads off clowns with a coconut
i call this goldfish gordon for no other
reason than it starts with a g
sometimes i sit under my chokoe vine
and stare at him once in a while he swims
half heartedly from one end of his blistering
pond to the other humiliated by mosquitoes
landing on fairy feet pricking the surface
of his pond there was a time he must have eaten them––
i don’t see him so much as place his lips
to the surface now all he does is hang
with all the the weight of the depressed
man who care barely lift his head
off the pillow and i get to thinking
all this gold fish has probably ever
known is life in this simmering pond
but me i’ve known something different
i’ve seen my frosted breath hang in the stillest
of air and my lips have kissed the chill
of snow that brings a silence money
couldn’t buy you so i’ll lay here
on my damp sheets a wee while longer
and i’ll dream of scotland and mary
queen of scots and two-man tents on skye
where toories are taken in gale force winds
and goldfish are not boiled alive in some scalding
pond
sure this hot country is no place for a goldfish
this hot country is no place for me.
Previously published by Red Room Company, Editor Kristy Wan
& Wakefield Press, Editor Julia Beaven
| and my heart crumples like a coke can
you never ate fusilli nor farfalle nor spaghettini. you did not like all that italian shite. you liked chocolate eclairs penguin biscuits beef with string in gravy and custard with steamed pudding which is like a fruitcake. a long time ago we wished you would die. you loved tractors and bob-cats. a bob-cat is the australian name for a digger. one winter you dug a hole in a field with your bob-cat cut off the electricity supply to the entire village burst the mains water pipe. the water froze children skated on it wayward cars skidded into badgers and lambs born in unseasonal snow. your father was a farmer. he gave you your love of tractors. and potatoes. he skimped on other sorts of love. once you gifted a plough to mum. and a socket set. another time a cement mixer. you smoked and drank. grouse mostly. embassy regals. one time you moved a washing machine for a neighbour. you bought old tractors and renovated them sold them in the classifieds. although you could not spell it you were an entrepreneur. your legs went thin. the nutritionist said all you had to do was drink complan. you used to wash your car a lot. the celebrant at your funeral said you would be on your way to heaven in a gleaming vehicle. nobody laughed. you were not religious. i do not believe in heaven. your brother in canada rings me a lot since you died. he told me you were coeliac. it is unrelated to motor neurone disease. you were seventy fucking two. david bowie sixty nine. alan rickman the same. your adam’s apple stopped moving. i realise i too will stop breathing one day. at your funeral your sort-of-wife asked for donations to the disease you didn’t know you had. i don’t know if anyone donated. nine days before you died i visited you at your pebble dashed house, sat beside you on your tan leather couch, watched upside down chaffinches feed on the bird nuts hanging from the hills hoist in your front garden. a hills hoist is australian. in scotland it is a whirly jig. i have been away too long. you tried to make your way to the bathroom on your zimmer frame. you fell in the hall way. i didn’t know how to get you up. i lay beside you on the carpet. you kept apologising. there was nothing to apologise for. the nutritionist was wrong. you died the tuesday after valentine’s day. valentine’s day was on the friday. stephen hawking had motor neurone disease too. his is different to the kind you had. there are four different kinds. yours was diagnosed the day you died. you were already dead. stephen hawkins liked cosmological stuff and the big bang. you liked tractors. when i think of how much you liked tractors, my heart crumples like a coke can.
“mia council casa es tu council casa” and other poems are © Ali Whitelock |
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Chris Murray 