« May 2006 | Main | August 2006 »

July 09, 2006

Kissing in Airports

There will always be a couple kissing
at the airport

It's the way with airports,
they are always exactly as we imagine them
Everything in it's supposed place

I sometimes think they must pay them,
those kissing couples,
even the train stations have them now,
or had them first,
I tend to forget which is which.

All places of departing,
and parting is, we know,
such sweet sorrow.
Like the candles in a restaurant,
there must be the right ambiance.

I'd like to know who pays them,
who's running the whole show.
Who signs the checks,
and works out the angles.
I'd like to visit their office,
and pick up an application form.

Blue Hawk Lake

I.

It's cold enough to kill
out here on the frozen waters,
where the frost creeps in
to everything,
where the winter wind
will break you.
Bent double under it's weight
Naked, stripped of life,
on this cataract of ice,
this fog on the eye
under the frozen sky.
It cuts to the heart,
icicle daggers in our hands
or crushed in our mouths.
Their bones turning to powder,
the powder to cool water.
The blizzards cry, a howl,
to wake us from death.
Death is what we are.
Trapped in creeping veins
of cold wonder.
Time gets lost underneath
the snow laden boughs
of the evergreen trees.
This wasteland of white
paper, a reflected sky.
The clouds above us piled high.
We wait for the thunderous fall.
A tidal wave of white
descends to drown us all.


II.


Summer with my second cousin,
catching fish off the docks,
stickleback and perch,
their spines drawing blood,
all strung out on a chain held between us.

In winter we struck out on snow shoes
Trekked up the mouth of a frozen stream
to find a beaver dam,
wolf tracks in the snow
and a half frozen waterfall,
The whole world held
in that captive moment
a filigree of frost on every twig and reed.

Freeze dried dinners,
cooked over a Calor gas stove
on a tiny island, lost
in the middle of
some nameless lake,
which we shared with the birds and the sky.

We battered our frozen hands raw
running a toboggan down the hillside
and shooting out across the frozen lake,
screaming with excitement
until our momentum
could take us no further.


III.

He should have been Ahab,
that storm washed captain
born to the sea, he was
some mad gunner, screaming
“FIRE ONE!”
as we loaded hairspray charges,
and our soft fruit shells
rained down on the tree line
Plastic drainpipe, aerosol,
a match, and a potato
in his hands became a cannon

We were soldiers in thrall
to his battle cries
Nemo, riding the waters,
his Nautilus an old tool shed
on runners, dragged across
the frozen lake

His wooden house lost
in the wild North lands,
we could only go deeper,
find him, like Kurtz,
at the end of the river

He taught me to kill,
to tear life from the waters
The darkness was learning
how a deer is dismembered
How meat peels from bone
and fish eyes burst like grapes
between our fingers

He will always be magnificent
The city will not claim him
He will sink into the earth,
into tree sap syrup, and worms
to dangle on my fishing hook

A Satchel Full of Ammo

He never seems to talk about it,
not really
Not the stories that I want to hear,
the ones I've seen on the Cineworld screen.
Not the real stories.
He tells about the time he cut a dozen lines
for the morse code machines, by accident,
and how all the squaddies used to call him
'Taf' (seeing as how he was a Welshman).
He tells me how he could have had
a genuine samurai sword
if not for being sent home early,
(sick with some disease or other)
two weeks before it was all over.
But he never really talks about Burma,
about the jungles and mosquito heat,
sweat streaming into your shirt and the fear
of every sound in the jungle
That I can only imagine, and wonder
how much I've invented.
Sometimes on the BBC, they'll show
'Bridge Over The River Kwy”
and I'll watch him remember,
in silence, and still I'll think about,
the one fragment he let slip,
enemies approaching, all the men armed,
a machine gun thrust into his hands and,
over his shoulder, a satchel full of ammo.