Delph's back

[delph_ambi]

Thanks folks - and always delighted to have raised a chuckle

[delph_ambi]

still married after all these years

I’m the survivor of late October
I’m dried-up mushrooms
punnet-loads
spored out
I’m dusty
I keep to the slow lane
my tires are cracked
I bounce
give whimpers of fear or delight
and I can’t remember which one it should be
because sex is something that happens to others
I leak
I’m bags of parsnips left in the back of the fridge
I am slime

I travel by tube
remembering the echo and blood-lust of trains
and for one sickly moment I rub my groin
then stop
embarrassed
I smell of piss-farting fabric conditioner

October
what happened to August?
I’ll do without springtime
but summer –
mangoes
fat hairy stones
wet skin
well-fucked in the best possible way
dewy-wet mornings
sloppy and sated

October’s shite
don’t go there
don’t whistle while pissing
don’t eat green potatoes
don’t vomit your pulsating heart on the table
don’t ask her –
for Christ’s sake don’t ask her

[delph_ambi]

The Game

It’s as if they’re playing
a game of hide and seek:
he’s on one side of the tree,
she’s on the other – it’s clear
they can see
for all he’s crouching down
trying to make this work.

She’s standing
looks bored
plays with a long string of beads.
The tree is bare.
The path past the tree is on his side
but it doesn’t look as if she’s bothered.
They’re in a sea of mist
just them and the tree
the man still hunched
hurting now
needing her to look.

She stands like a model
almost twirls
her hand’s on her hip.
Fireflies flit about
they won’t stay –
too chilly.
She bats at one and hits it
the insect falls to the ground
she giggles.

Her dress is off the shoulder.
He’s in running shoes
must leave soon
this situation is impossible.
She poses as if for a camera.
There is no camera.
He waits
slows his breathing.

She forgets he’s there at all
slips down the hillside into the mist.
He stands up
pained
entirely alone.
The tree is dead.

He knows there’s a difference
between being a survivor and surviving.
He has a path to follow
can’t follow it.
She didn’t even try
to play the game.

[delph_ambi]

Blame

Go on
shove her
kick her in the back
watch her topple overboard
get rid of her
you won’t even hear the splash
it’s dark
the ferry’s going too fast.

Disembark at Dover
look concerned.
“Where’s my wife?
Has anyone seen...?”

Clutch that little soft toy of hers
don’t let it go
practice your woeful face in front of the mirror.
Repress your singing.
No bursts of the Hallelujah Chorus allowed.
Read poetry.
“What is this life if full of care
we have no time to stand and stare?”

Let your hair go grey
don’t shave.
Eat ready-meals.
Sit in front of the telly watching reality shows.
Dress in lycra because it stretches and it’s easy and it makes you –
made you look sporty a long time ago
when you first met her and she ran her fingers over your body and shivered.

Grow old
disgusting.
It’s her fault.

[Andrea345]

"Blame" - I enjoyed the read. I have only one suggestion and that would be to cut, "disgusting," b/c that last line really just says it all and "disgusting" sorta gives away the punch line, weakens the impact of the other two lines - which say it all anyway.

[Donner]

Hi, Catherine,

Your work has the bite of experience, not necessarily of the personal sort (at least I hope you've never shoved anyone off a ferry in the dark), but the kind life teaches us as we age. It's a good place to be. still married after all these years (almost 39 for me, heh) and Blame have that bite.

NaPo is such a treat, getting to read so many very good writers writing such good stuff, all at the same time.

Donner

[cookala]

hi Catherine! got anger? Blame and Still Married are like simmering cauldrons ready to boil over and barely hidden beneath the surface. phew! powerful stuffs.

[delph_ambi]

Anger is no problem. (thank you menopause, glad you're useful for something)

[delph_ambi]

Five Years

Midnight, I’m so fucking tired
working my guts out, you’ve never once said thanks.
The kitchen stinks of boiling clothes
Christ... you have no idea.
I’m red raw with soapsuds
my hands are cracked
I bloody hurt

You’re in the lounge with your German cousin
laughing.
I’ll go in shortly
ask if anyone wants tea
you’ll be sober, polite
your cousin will say no thanks.
You won’t speak.
I’ll shut the door
you’ll say something
the two of you will laugh.

I’m not doing this any more.
Five fucking years.

I used to be beautiful.

One ‘thank you’ is all.
One ‘please’.

I’m going home to my mother
to bread pudding, crisp and black on the top.
You can write.
I might even reply.
Just don’t expect me to live with you ever again.
I can’t bear
to feel you
moving inside me
feel you
so distant.

I’m ready to follow the swallows flying north
five years too late.
I understand migratory patterns.
You never have,
and I’m sorry, so sorry.

[delph_ambi]

Weasel

I always see small mammals at the reserve –
today, a weasel, hurtling through the undergrowth,
an express train.

I thought of needle-sharp teeth and carnage.
I thought of you.

I’m trying to remember when anyone last bit me
aside from my budgerigar.
How did we come to this? You fat and grumpy
somewhere in Spain; me
lithe but grouchy in Southwold.

Dammit, but we were alive once.
We clawed at each other, we hurt.

I don’t want you, I’m simply musing.
So I saw this weasel,
I went and sat in the café;
this couple came in, the bloke didn’t see me,
said to his wife, ‘We’re the only ones’
and she said, ‘No, there’s a young lady in the corner’.

A young lady! It’s only in shadows
that I’m allowed to be young.

The first bluebells were out,
celandines, kingcups down by the river.
A wren, a jay.
The weasel. Quick. Alive.

Me. You. Dead.

[5th column]

Hi K, apologies it took so long to get here. I wanted to mention Careering and Orchard. These are strong poems with a voice that would be recognizable in print. The line 'death is an option' while simple is the highlight that grabbed my attention and made me go back and read again. It's the key to the poem (for me). Orchard has some memorable images and interesting lines and feels effortless, the way that good poems do. 'I used to be beautiful' - you have a way with the simple lines that serve to illuminate the balance.

I'm sorry I can't stop For more more but NaPo is brutal when there are so many people writing so well.

Lovely thread.

[cookala]

heya Catherine! oh yeah, I remember menopause. glad I'm done with the ups and downs of it!
Five Years - ouch, but I do feel Ns pain at being taken for granted and used in the worst of ways, esp by a husband. someone should teach that man some manners and appreciation! the poem captures that well.
Weasel - ouch again. a woman scorned... I have to think you chose a weasel on purpose to show Ns thoughts about the significant other, as men are often referred to them as such, but here I don't mind the cliché.

[delph_ambi]

Thanks folks! The weasel poem was written because I saw a weasel this afternoon. Genuinely. Serendipity!

[delph_ambi]

Fixing Things

There were ten of us. Six
killed instantly in the explosion, two more
dead of injuries a few hours later,
sickbay damaged. I’ve fixed it now.

Two of us left; engineer, captain.

He’s hurt. Won’t speak.
We’ll die here when the filters
can no longer clean our air,
recycle our waste.
We have years of food.

He looks at me, as if to say:
you’re the engineer. Fix it.
Get us out of here.

I can’t. I’m trying.

If we don’t talk soon, we never will.
I offer him coffee, meals, I ask him
what I should do with the crew’s bodies.
I cry when he won’t answer.

He gets his own meals, reads books,
looks at endless videos of hills,
valleys, forests. He lives
as if he’s entirely alone
in holograms of rain and mist.
He moves awkwardly, in pain.
I offer to help him to sickbay,
but he needs pain more than he needs me.

One of the escape pods can be repared.
I’m working on it.
I can do this.
I can’t do anything about
the smallness of the pod,
designed for one person.

Six weeks on,
I’ve done all I can;
stripped out the interior
made room for two, for the extra equipment,
life support. One of us
will need to stay awake
to check instruments, make minor adjustments –
I can’t risk both of us in stasis.
Which one, though.
We need to talk this through.
He still won’t talk.

I could leave on my own but I won’t.
He could, and if he does,
I don’t know what I’ll do.

I sleep, and I dream – take his hand,
lead him into the pod, there’s a garden,
we lie on a warm grassy bank and dream,
but the dream is a nightmare of dark matter.

I wake and my eyes are gritty.

He’s standing there.
It’s time.
We slip into the pod.
It’s tight, we’re lying together,
wrapping limbs round each other.
We may be like this for months.
I want to sleep now.
I don’t want to wake.
He speaks at last:
instructs the computer to do final checks,
seal us in. His arm is round me.
He’s warm. He whispers,
says he’ll keep watch.
He thanks me, kisses me
and I remember hills, the falling dark.

[casket N orbit]

"minor's wife", a voluptuous poem with dark and colorful images. The last two lines are riveting.
"careering down the hillside", great metaphor: "he is daytime", the character, in general, superbly fleshed-out. I love the play on the word careering; I instinctively replace it with careening when I read the rest of the phrase - - Down the Hillside.