Poems

Thursday

Christopher James

The Funambulist’s Daughter

I was raised in the sky. For playmates I chose magpies and sparrows. On the high-wire I learned the language of clouds, of wind, and the balance of all things being equal. It’s where I found my feet, toed the line, while the butterflies and rain gave uptheir applause. I followed in her footsteps,heard her call my name from the other side. But only when she left, did I glean her gift of light, her lofty plans for me – to dare thin air, refuse the earth and turn down the invitation of gravity. I never shared thetrick that kept me on the wire: with each step I pictured my mother, holding my hand.

Kate White

Pickford’s Wharf, 1992

For once, I’ve written on the reverse where and whenthe photographs were taken, the biro showing through on your lapel and down my cheek. It’s about a yearsince we met, we’re there in black and white, smartly attired after the wedding of friends east along the river, now launchedinto their life together while you show me where your career will begin, same suit, the railway bridge behind you, the strandagainst the shine of water, tide out, your wavy hairline barely in retreat. And I’m pellucid eyed into the distance,the corners of my lips lifting. I might be sighing with sudden wonder at no longer being alone, standing by the railings,watching something float away from me painlessly.

Thursday

John Mole

Keeping in Step

One more dream – and may it prove the last of its kind to haunt me –where with a split-reed squawkI join a marching bandtowards the graveyard. My bent backleans earthwards, and notesno longer rise to a perfect pitch. At least I keep in step. Soonwe shall play The Saints, my restless feetBojangling, the big drum’s beatmy heart’s defiance. Not yet, Mr Bones,not yet. Let all be carnival,death’s dream deferred, and at this point,the jazz gods willing, I shall wake.

Claire Booker

Museum of Childhood

The little dictionary lies open at A for Applewhere it all begins. I want to turn the pages, but the vitrine is a border crossing; my ageing face, stamped on its glass and my papers way out of date. Moths have been at work along the faded pink of a rabbit’s ear. It’s swiveled to catch lost sounds. A big, red button reads: PRESS ME. So I do, and the little train clatters along N-gauge tracks –disappears into the papier-mâché tunnel. A long heart-skip, before it emerges still guarding its secret: the dark curved space, a pin prick of light dilating like an amazed pupilat the approaching world.

Thursday

Candy Neubert

Playground

Hold on tight, they said, but you have moved on,way beyond that. After a life on swings,look – no hands; they are folded in your lapquietly. Everything is quietly,the air quietly sifting over your skin,the bend of your knees imperceptible,slight; the movement is all from the core,from the torso. Forward, back, forward, back,become almost bird-like, sifting the sky on the stillness of wings, no more than thoughtdrifting there. A pigeon comes into sight,flung from a tree with a burst of applause,clap, clap, clap, and stop, before the swoop and drop.Your next ambition, that exquisite pause.

Saturday

Diana Hendry

The phone call

I spoke to you again last night – usual time, about 2 a.m. I know you don't mind. You're always awake. Probably sitting at your desk, fully dressed. You don't know it, but it's you I call most often. I admit, as a relationship, it's a bit one-sided. Possibly I amuse you – all those symptoms, such anxieties! I try to imagine you saying Nothing to worry about! in your most re-assuring voice. Some nights I do both voices – only ring off when  you start on about a camera down my throat.