spoor

 

spoor  

 

then there’s the walk

the pulling on of the boots

the tightening and tying of the laces

the tracks they’ll leave in forest

the pattern of the tread

the length of the stride

the measure of the gait

traces in the soil   in the snow

of himself and other animals

somewhere to be    somewhere to go

…

then the pulling off of the boots

of the trick of perspective in the forest

like something approaching absence

and all that’s left

is the dirt on his hands

the sweat in his armpits

the stains upon the carpet

the snow melting to pool on the floor

in the distance from his chair to the door 

extra

extra   

Imago in the background  

sitting in a life at a table busy with

 

untouched food    the dregs of wine

a man awaiting direction  

 

cue laughter   take 5   cut

part of the crowd   always

 

crossing a road on the way to somewhere

walking out of the frame

 

man getting off the bus

to join a queue as man with wife

 

the camera panning away   always

shifting the mise en scène

 

in the end credits

old man alone on bench

 

and that one time he looked straight into the lens

his lips moving   not even making the final edit

 

equity denied

I was alive when Kennedy died 

a thin disguise

Manor Crescent (aged 12)  

 

Imago remembers sitting in the window

he’ll be there a long time   just watching

 

the discovery of other people   people he knows

suddenly disconnected having lives outside of himself

 

himself as observer   this is a new trick this invisibility

the radio is playing    he is sitting on the sill

 

knees drawn up under his chin   he’s

perched on this surprising sense of his being in the world

 

how he is in it and how he is not the centre and how his

seeing it makes it real but is unnecessary in making it so

 

the music is invisible too and only seems addressed to him personally

and is therefore perfect for the illusion of the imaginary connection

 

how the world shrinks down to the size of you   just to fit you in 

just to leave you on a shelf   wrapped in the thin disguise of yourself 

cold war

 

cold war (Berlin)  

 

he has told the story often enough

around the age of five   Christmas time

he was losing faith in Father Christmas

snow fell that Christmas Eve on RAF Gatow    

his dad was elsewhere eavesdropping on Soviet plans

for troop movements over the Yuletide celebrations

and his mum took him out onto the balcony to see Santa in his sleigh

being slowly driven around the streets of the camp

leading to the urgent declaration

“I do believe   I do”

his mum told him this story   her truth of it

made it a memory   over time

music was added   carols   the sleigh stopping

just yards from their flat and Santa waving   waving

to him    and the flakes of snow

grow fatter and thicker falling and settling

and covering his tracks   and he did believe  

 

later   years slow then the rachets slipping   days to decades

when they talked his sister and he and he said Dad …

his sister stunned at the idea that his mum their mum his dad their dad

and it was her mum and her dad and the remembering and experiencing

and remembering the experiences and experiencing the remembering

were all topsy-turvy    a turvy-topsy truth of who was good and who was bad

a mummery of the time and place   the shaken and the stirred   the decayed

 

and the Russians moved their soldiers here and they moved them there

(but mum’s the word)  

carry on

carry on teaching (excerpt)

 

(1^st and 2^nd years not beyond   and not

an age preference   just defence

by thirteen you’re a different animal

another self kicks in   kicks against)

 

he knew who he could touch

experience   a skill   a radar of recognition

the blips on his screen   one of which was you

he would have picked you out

called you out to the front to his desk

to question your sums   your figures

whilst the others were to carry on

 

there’s no trauma   forgotten by playtime

just the memory to parse   a boy’s grammar

not a moment   nothing written on the skin of time

his hand resting lightly unmoving on your arse

your own tense muscular reflexes feeding

the electric current of his impulse   pulsing  

 

and at home alone in his study marking

his wife upstairs in bed alone in front of the TV

the children doing their homework in their rooms

the Polaroids in his diary   the days blank with wanting

in one there’s Tommy Atkins across his knees

smiling into the camera   you’re all smiling   posed

the teacher beaming his hand poised for the slap

you press the button   snap   and you’re all caught 

in a bit of fun for his uncle/brother/friend in Australia

the picture in your hand develops slowly    remains

unresolved   your story   what this says about you

then and now

 

in the bathroom he washes his hands   washes his hands

before going into his kids   the kiss goodnight

tucking them in safe and tight   don’t let the bedbugs bite

his hand resting lightly on the softness of a cheek

the warmth of the breath on his fingers

undeliverance

undeliverance  

 

the cart stumbling over the rutted track

losing a wheel   the world keeps on turning

the letter not arriving   distant gunshots 

 

and no difference

 

except maybe the tiniest of tears

in the fabric of time and space

the inaudible hiss of air escaping

the world unmeasurably smaller

 

an eternal unnoticed silence

pushed to the side of the plate 

on the near death of Dostoevsky

Polaroid

 

Polaroid  

 

it’s underexposed   dark

taken on the run

but while I’m alone

you’re still there   a snatch of starlight

the flash in the window behind me

and somewhere in the space-time continuum

    the curve   the move

a planet that devolves itself to a moon