In Memoriam: Martin Kemmish

Almost two months, and counting. If I could number the actual days, I would, but I can't because the pain has been too sharp to bury. The mind has a merciful anaesthesia of its own - a blessed coping system. The loss invariably slips through, floats to the surface though. 

There's a big Martin-shaped hole in the fabric of my days, something my heart refuses to acknowledge even if my head technically has. I still look at my chat list, expecting to see you pop up on it, all ready to say MEW MEW MEW at you one more time, and then I remember that I can't. Not any more. Not in this lifetime anyway. I still catch myself thinking, oh I HAVE to share that with Martin, and I have to remind myself that I can't do that either. 

How do you even begin to recover a loss like this? So much of the warp and weft of my life over the last few years has been inextricably bound up with the solid bulwark of your presence there. A solid confidence, knowing that you'd be there when I finally got online to bitch and complain, or maybe just squee guiltily like a 16 year old over something that had caught my rare fancy. There was never any shame in it, never any judgement, not in your eyes. Not even when you were caught in the crossfire of my considerable fury, the inevitable bad choices, the grief and the selfish bitchiness that I always apologised for once I'd given myself a good shake.

It was a fragile solidity perhaps - a tenuous one, but to me you were indestructible despite realities. You weren't allowed to go before I did, I told you, and threatened you with eternal wrath and beatings, and you just laughed and said, Yes, you would wouldn't you. How were we to know that we'd have to face this sooner than we thought? How did anyone know.

You made it ok to be a redhead, even if I was just a redhead in character, not hair colour - although I did change the colour more than a few times too. You made my days more vivid, my conversations more surreal, my entire life more interesting, because I had your chats to look forward to in the late nights and early mornings. 

Almost all our conversations took place at the most ungodly hours, thanks to time zones. Not that it mattered - I've never really gotten over being on US time anyway, since I'm up all hours of the morning and night. So much to say, and yet nothing, because I knew you understood all that I couldn't put into words (and the ones I put into words very badly). You accepted me, considerable imperfections and all. There was safety in those wildly far-flung conversations we had; freedom to be myself, and not be belittled or criticised for it. 

It is so hard to write even these short paragraphs because I don't know what to say. My heart is too weighted, too full, too everything, to be explained in the inadequacies of language and words. All I know is that I miss you, I miss you, I miss you, so much that I can't accept you're not here to hear me say it any more, to go MEW and WUMP, and have it reciprocated in kind. 

Rest in peace, Martin - 'friend' doesn't even begin to cover what you were and are to me. I love you, and I will always miss you, and I hope that if you're looking down at this now, you'll read everything between the lines that I can't say because I don't know how. If nothing else, I hope that I made some part of your life happier, maybe a little better, and that our friendship was as special to you as it was to me.

Love always,
--The Major

CONVERSATION
(For Martin Kemmish)

Not so long ago when you were ill
Hospital-bound and cranky
I told you this: that you were not allowed
To predecease me
That I would drag you back 
Just so I could yell at you
And throttle you properly myself
For daring to leave us before your time.

Forgive me my friend
For this broken promise:
That this limited, mortal body
Cannot transcend time and space
Impotent fists beating, futile
At the barrier between us
Thin as gauze, impenetrable as sorrow
Where you stand –
So near, yet so far
Your outstretched hand
Passing through my clenched one
Like a sigh in a storm.

Dust

There is the blood-red glory

Of the angels of war

The lightness of the angels of air

Of earth, of sky, of water

Of terrifying beauty and grotesquery

The cat-cold eyes of dark angels

Watching in shadow

The scaled skin of fallen angels

Burning in unrelenting sun

Let me be the angel of the dust

Crouched in the dry concrete of back alleys

Near to the ground, the swirl and churn

Of a thousand feet measuring lives

In steps on the cracked pavement

Spread-eagled in the sand

Of long-demolished houses

The taste of worn-out hopes

Fine-grit in the mouth

Puddled in the mud of faded streets

Spackled by sullen drizzle

Tired scents of stale futures

Seeping into my skin

 I gather the ashes of broken dreams

Sifted like chaff in the palms of my hands

Ghosts of long-dry tears

Exchanging kisses with old regrets

Before fading into dust.

Soliloquy

All quiet now.
All quiet in that solitary place
Where all is still and your inner reflection
Stares back at you from a tarnished mirror:
Patchy, half-formed, unclear
Speckled through with rust and age.

There are no rewards for being a 'nice girl’
Nor for being a ‘nice boy’ either, really
(If one thinks about it a little more, that is.)
But if nice boys score sometimes
Nice girls don’t score at all.
In the end all that’s left
Is solitude, and that
Is utterly embraceable – unlike you.

NaPoWriMo Day 30: Balloons and Balloons

Inspired by the amazing Jennifer Liston and her wonderful 'Mrs. Noah' poem, and the Mary Poppins story of the Balloon Woman with her 'Balloons AND balloons, my dearie ducks!'

Three months and dithering

Verklempt, unsure

She gave in finally.

Walked to the store, money in hand

Bought that damned book

The one with the detective (she hated the dames)

The one she identified with so much

She wished they could have dinner.

Talk all night. Dance all night.

If wishes were horses – but she didn’t ride

And she’d fallen off the one time she did.

She went to the park. She felt it was calling her.

Breezes, sun, perfect lazy weather

And there at the entrance was a Balloon Woman.

“Balloons and balloons, my dearie ducks!” she cried.

“There’s a balloon for everyone

If you only take your time!”

What the hell, she thought, it’s only fifty cents.

So she paid, and took her time

And picked a balloon, scarlet as the bright stripe

On her defiantly undercut hair.

To her surprise, initials appeared like magic

On the balloon’s spherical surface –

Beautifully calligraphed, an O and a C.

“…Those aren’t my initials!” she exclaimed.

“They’re mine though,” said a voice beside her.

Startled, she turned, and right there was The Detective

(She recognised him at once, she knew his description so well.)

“Maybe this is yours?” he asked, and handed her

A deep blue balloon that looked like velvet and stars

And sure enough, her initials.

“Thank you,” she stammered, and handed over his balloon.

“They say if you wish hard enough, you can fly,” he murmured.

She looked at him. At the balloon. Then back at him again.

“Let’s go flying,” she said, with a smile like sparkling lemonade.

And the Balloon Woman watched with a satisfied dimple

As they held hands and swooped into the air

Balloons flying joyously like flags –

The Detective, in his dapper suit

And the Dame, in her tank top and old blue jeans

Laughing and talking, light as dandelions

On the good spring breeze.

NaPoWriMo Day 29: Portrait

Prompt: Incorporating Twenty Little Poetry Projects into one poem

Gimlet eyes, focused like a smoking gun

The candy-corn stripe of her sinuous upper lip

Trembled in the dark like a Cheshire cat smile

The air tastes butter-warm in cold mouths

Her scent is that of old bones and talc

Charged with electricity:

Musty, dangerous, a tangible prickle

Over my skin

Hell Helle Hellebore

It’s noon in Paris, the ticking minutes

Reflected in her metronome gaze

She drifts by, scentless, silent

The lilacs bloom in Central Park today

Clustered like grapes on the vine

Overripe, sweet perfume like sticky juice

Dripping over nose and mouth

A finif will get you a bet going nowhere fast:

Hell is her name, therefore, hellion

Yo buska ku bos teng kantu sen

Ke faze fabor

The reticulate shadow of seduction

Is a gauze curtain veiling a mystery

A verdant tree sending roots deep

Insidiously breaking up foundations and ground

A weed in an oasis of plenty

She walks on air, and her wings unfurl

Black as steel, sharp as words

As she steps into the night towards the moon

The Dame is a flower at evensong

She shall unfurl her petals like a skein of silk

Watching as knights and errants war in times soon to be

For the favour of a dropped pearl-smile

The stars are her heartbeat, tu l’as vu? Mais oui!

The gun in well-oiled silence

Settles with a wordless purr

Into the cradle of her warm, warm hand

In her hair a rose blooms like a blood drop

Scarlet as the painted mouths of the dead

Their old bones shrouded in lace

And the scent of old women’s talc.

NaProWiMo Day 28: Archie Goodwin

“Will she report what she told me?”

“No.”

A corner of his mouth twitched. “That’s why I put up with you; you could have answered with fifty words and you did it with one.”

“I’ve often wondered. Now tell me why I put up with you.”

“That’s beyond conjecture…”

—‘Death of a Demon’, Rex Stout

Flip
Hip
Cat nerves
Dog bold
Dance floor electric
Dame magnetic
Street smart
Snark
Heart

NaPoWriMo Day 27: Of His Bones Are Coral Made

Prompt: Use only words from a newspaper article

Good night Malaysian three seven zero
No explanation, no fruitful news
Seven weeks of intense searching
New details but no blueprint
For the search ahead.
Found? Not known:
Nothing happens fast underwater.
Good night Malaysian three seven zero.

NaPoWriMo Day 26: First Class Post to Doom, Did You Say?

For Jer, and let's hope that damned package turns up soon eh?

The International Postal System

Is run by a series of  accidents

Disguised to look like organisation.

The mail, sorted by sugar-high monkeys

Is then fed to dyspeptic dragons

Which, being dyspeptic, regurgitate it

Into a mud pit inhabited

By lumbering drunk Godzillas

Duking it out with highly hyperactive Mothras.

The resulting carnage of postal material

Gets sucked down the Black Hole of Doom

From which nothing ever escapes.

It’s said there is a vortex within the Black Hole

Swirling thick with countless billions

Of lost pieces of mail, each spinning endlessly

Forlornly, for eternity.

So the legend goes anyway.

No one’s emerged yet to tell the truth

And neither has any of that damned mail.

NaPoWriMo Day 25: The Boys of Nero Wolfe's Brownstone on Poker Night

For Escamillo, who loves the Nero Wolfe books as much as I do

The boys of the brownstone, in shirts and ties

Studying cards with jaundiced eyes

Every Thursday night the same

(Though work could interrupt one’s game)

Lon’s the dealer, Fred plays aces

Saul’s the king of poker faces

Orrie hopes his luck will turn

Archie’s hand might crash and burn

3am, Saul wins once more

“Next week,” growl the rest and they’re out the door.

NaPoWriMo Day 24: Closure

I close the book on this chapter

And let you go

The memory of you

Like garlic kisses:

Pungent and sharp while fresh

Stale in the mouth after.

NaPoWriMo Day 24: The Gift of the Magi

For my choristers, preparing for competition

There can be only three, of course

In this race for dominance.

Three winners.

Your eyes say it all:

How sweet, to be one of them.

I tell you this:

The measure of winning is not in points

Not even in skill

But in the journey:

The cost of time and discipline

In gritted teeth and sleepless nights.

You lay at my feet

A sacrifice of grit and guts

The best of your abilities

Your all, held in cupped hands

Offered freely

The gift of the Magi

More precious than any treasure.

My children, my loves, know this:

Stand tall, stand proud.

You have already conquered

And I, recipient of such bounty

Can only stand, amazed

In humble gratitude.

NaPoWriMo Day 22: Disconnect

Flattering words
But I stopped listening long ago
About the same time 
I stopped believing you:
If this is what it is to fly
Then I'll stay firmly grounded.
Better mud huts in scorching heat
Than castles in the air
With no substance.

NaPoWriMo Day 21: I:Eye

i

eye:

all in the seeing

all in the choice

and i choose

not to dwell on i:

my discontent

my wants

my keeping up with never-ending jones

but to see with the eye

beyond the i:

to be the change

instead of mere talk

to be the voice

where there is none

to diminish i

so the eye

can find needs

so my hands

can fulfil them.

NaPoWriMo Day 20: Standards

I stifle in the corset of words
Society has created for me
Nipping in the waist
Of my behaviour, creating
A long line, an elegant silhouette
Shaping my perception like an hourglass:

Proper. Ladylike.
Tall. Beautiful. Slim.
Successful. Smart. Sexy.

Words, bolstered by steel bones
Of societal expectations
Unrealistic as carefully Photoshopped images:
A manufactured standard
Designed to control
To keep us in ignorance
Of the liberating power of being ourselves
And not giving a damn.

NaPoWriMo Day 19: Secrets

Four years of silence
Watching the girls
With graceful limbs
Articulate features
Revolve like constellations
Around your world
And I, an asteroid 
Caught in your gravity
Praying you would catch me
In freefall.

NaPoWriMo Day 18: My Grandmother In The Last Stages

Why.
I can’t even try
To understand. It isn’t fair.
To say otherwise would be a lie. 

Stay. 
Even though I pray
That all will be well, I know too soon
Inevitably, you will fade away.

There.
Delicate as air
I hold your comb, as you once did mine
Drawing it through your snow-white hair.

NaPoWriMo Day 17: Intimacy

peel me

like a new-boiled egg

like birch bark for a whip

like a grape from its skin

until my thoughts are laid bare

an onion stripped of layers

an artichoke heart plucked clean

NaPoWriMo Day 16: Reclaiming No

As girls we’re taught to fear it

To believe that the root of all evil

Lies in saying: No

No this is not right

No I will not submit

No you will not have power over me

No no no no cries the woman who wishes

For a life of her own

And tongues wag and old wives condemn

Calling her rebel, calling her faithless.

Like a mantra we tell our children

Yes. Always, say yes.

Yes until the bottom of your well runs dry

Yes until blood flows and bones shatter

Yes until nothing remains

But a dried-out husk.

We tell ourselves that to say yes

Is to be virtuous

Not knowing that No is power:

Power to create negative space

To push away distractions

To regroup, to grow in the darkness

Like a germinating seed

That to reclaim the power of No

Is to begin to blossom and live.

NaPoWriMo Day 15: The Gift

She greets me with a quick smile

Bright as a sparrow’s eye.

Her taxi-driver husband

Unable to make my pickup today

Has, with rare kindness

Recruited her help.

Her name is Rosemary, her voice

Lilting and laughing, her chequered shirt

Yellow as  sunshine.

Her friend Joan, coffee-skinned and trendy

Wears pragmatism and sunglasses

Like antique pearls.

Around one mobile wrist

Her Pandora bracelet overflows with charms:

Statue of Liberty, a ship

A green glass bead

Glowing like an idol’s eye.

They banter, these two, with the ease

Of old friends, comfortable

As soft flannel pajamas

On a cold night.

No awkwardness, not even with strangers

Their conversation invites, even welcomes

Drawing me in.

Their gift of intimacy, their benediction of kindness

Stays with me long after the afternoon ends.

Having received, it is now my turn

To freely give.

NaPoWriMo Day 14: Elegy

For Robin, in memory of Shane Gibson

Earth and air.

Earth, warm and bold

In each smile

Each goofball moment.

No airs, no pretence

None needed.

Air. Aire. Music

Soaring like air to the heights

And beyond

Virtuoso skill

Drawing life, love, breath

From taut strings.

Troubled Apollo, crafting beauty

From the ashes of your pain

Who knew that your song

Would be silenced so soon.

Lay your weary head down

Upon your strings.

Earth and air:

From grief, from brokenness

Your memory rises from the pyre

From the fire

Like a phoenix, evergreen.

NaPoWriMo Day 13: War Song For Teachers

This is a song for the children

For the broken

For the ones who always hear

You are not good enough

In subtext, in words, in actions.

You are not the sum

Of anyone’s thoughts.

You are not defined by your mistakes

But by your actions and reactions

Your future is more resilient

Than one bad grade.

I will not give up on you.

Success and failure do not define

The sum total of who you are

And will be.

Fail when you try

Fall when you learn

But stand up and try again.

 I will teach you to believe in yourself

That there is nothing you cannot achieve

Through discipline, teamwork, and perseverance.

I will not let you give yourself excuses

I will not allow you to blame others

For your shortcomings.

This is both war song and love song:

I will fight to break those words

On loop in your psyche:
Failure, stupid, useless, ugly

I will not measure you with these standards

But by the yardstick of your capacity.

I will stretch your horizons and show you

Worlds beyond, for you to explore. 

NaPoWriMo Day 12: To The Person Who Stole My Shoes

May your feet rot in everlasting agony.
May gout strike you and keep you prone
And may your liver sicken with unknown cancers
And give up mysteriously on you.
May your hair drop and your eyes blear with cataract
And may your thieving, greedy hands 
Thicken with arthritis and atrophy in two weeks.
May you never know a month’s wage or even a day’s pay
Because no employer will keep you for longer.
May everything you care about
Be taken from you and may you be destitute
For the rest of your mean, useless life.
May nothing you set your hands to prosper
And may everything you touch wither and be destroyed.
May every traffic light turn red for you
In your worst hurry
And may diarrhoea strike you in the middle of a 4-hour jam
With no lavatory in sight.
May roaches infest your house and mice your kitchen
May your children be devoured by snakes.
May your blood vessels burst and give you aneurysm
And may you not reach hospital in time to prevent brain damage.
May your skin crawl with the pain of shingles
And may you find no rest nor cure.
Be stricken with terminal illness, and be unable to die.
Be humiliated, and unable to defend yourself.
Be cuckolded, time and time over, in public
May pain and suffering strike you over and over again
May you be paralyzed and unable to move
And may you have not a single moment's peace or relief
For the rest of your blighted, unsightly, unproductive life.

NaPoWriMo Day 11: Drawn Threads

A tiny snip. The careful separation 
Of warp and weft.
Drawing out threads, meticulous 
As a weaver bird crafting its nest.
With needle and thread
Fashion patterns from negative space -
Intimate, delicate, lovely.

Teach me to endure:
To see each hardship and pain
As a drawing forth of threads
Making space in the close fabric of a life
To exhale – to breathe –
To create from its sparseness
Transcendent beauty.

NaPoWriMo Day 10: Challenge To A Self-Styled Indiana Jones

Archaeology: the study of human activity

Through clues and artifacts

Left behind from the past

A puzzle to interpret

A key to understanding.

Excavate me

Like a geological strata

Like an archaeological dig.

The clues are there to interpret

The artifacts open for understanding.

NaPoWriMo Day 9: The Secret Life Of Phone Booths

Note: I know I read a poem ages ago about levitating phone booths, and I cannot for the life of me find it anywhere online - the book's in my hometown. So, apologies to the poet whose name I can't remember - this is a fond tribute, not a rip-off because I have very fond memories of that particular poem.

The secret lives of phone booths are complicated.

They stand, solitary street confessionals

Inviting telephone confidences.

Unwilling eavesdroppers of conversation

Each graffiti mark has its tale:

Marz luvs Joolz. Call Me xx-xxx

U sounded like coordin8s 2 avoid were an invitation 2 bed

Down with taxes! right next to Have more sex, it’s free.

Phone booths hold the weight of the world

Within their cramped, four-walled confines.

Close, heavy air laden with secrets

Claustrophobic with anxiety and sweat

The rank odour of dead dreams and stale food

An insistent, insidious permeation.

Such gravity is hard to carry.

Last night I heard a phone booth whispering to another

Through the telephone line:

A soft, dull patter like the rustle of directory pages.

They stopped politely when I made my call

Coins dropping through the slot like cheap marbles.

When I finished, I heard them resume

Before I put the receiver down.

When I exited, I swear I saw my phone booth float

Two inches off the ground, then lift off quietly

Into the air where another phone booth waited

A silhouette against the crescent moon.

But in the morning, it was back in its place

Solid, unmoving, a perfectly ordinary phone booth

On a perfectly ordinary day.