Wobble to the bathroom mirror,
slippers on formica tiles,
(older than they ever were)
stained a little, thin,
look on, and in, there for a hope of
stars or suns and galaxies
more light-years than pronounceable
and way beyond any dancing dust
but, no, I see a face;
misty in the silver, glass,
ancient as my father, yes,
fading now but, yes, with eyes
(retina and iris)
burning still, a facet.
Ask a stranger’s name
and call them by their moniker
again, again, again. Smile!
Pose some little question
about themselves, a happenstance;
their tiny likes and dislikes, fads,
(and food’s a classic - fries and puddings,
vegetables, drink?) Persist.
Question ‘are you married?’
with a little twinkle
then ask them, now, to help you
in some small way – like, get a drink.
Call them by their name, again.
Say ‘I love you.’ Smile.
Largely on his own, young Andrew sits
considering his crayons, woolly toys;
more single than the loneliest of boys
encoded in a matrix, special net:
Down’s Syndrome his recurring epithet
and, in his head, a special kind of noise,
‘contain the world, oh hold it!’ cry his muse’
and woolly toys and crayons are his mates.
But aren’t we all like that, within our ways,
stabilizing bubbles in our head,
turning inwards - into iphones, net -
(not ambling forward like the tiger, lamb
open to the river or the land)
hyonotised by spouses, girls and boys?
It’s nivver easy being a poet
fra Yorkshire, wi an accent set to confuse
‘do ya like talkin’ wippets?’ Nah, forgedd it
let’s hit the booze;
no longer bothered by any rhymes, hooray’s or boo’s.
But Larkin, Armitage, Harrison, they upset
t’establishment - summat like Ted Hughes -
by spoutin’ swear-words in a sonnet
(even in a luv sonnet)
using bar and bitter as their muse.
A genie fra t’coal-hole’s what ya get.
No wonder Friday night’s the night to booze.
It’s reet ‘ard graftin’ as a Yorkshire poet;
done now and I’m off to turn to booze.
We wobble through the woods, conceal crayons
in the nooks of old trees or in bushes
so that Andrew can amble there, find one,
and exaggerate joy when he gets them.
His bedroom’s full of thousands of crayons
(so we inch them out into these wood-walks)
creating a constant new colour;
like blue, black or green, maybe yellow
and we reckon we’re conning the rascal
with a weaving of colours in the country
but I know that he clocks every action,
peeking sideways, pretending they’re new.
Why would he support such reprocessing?
Why? Returning fine splurges - delight.
Multiple bodies sitting on a crowded train,
becoming aware, feel Andrew stand
and wobble for thirty minutes;
unwilling to give-up their little seats.
Outside, the sun is cool,
(you might expect cold in winter):
look down, stare ahead, or sleep;
‘we don’t need any connection, eyes hint at a danger’.
Angry, I stand by him
on a raging mind-trip - disconnection, society, media! -
while he rocks and smiles, decides to blow kisses
at reflections in windows, ghosts
and pale echoes of something and nothing.
Then he blows a few more - to the sky.
