Poetry Magazines - The best collection of poetry magazines online - Simon Armitage

For J.H.

     The March sun came down Park Avenue with such brilliance it turned the skyscrapers silver on one side, black on the other, and transformed traffic into silhouettes. The sky above was vivid blue, humidity free, an Atlantic wind whipped and swirled as turbulence from waving giant hands - being pulled around walking downtown I felt like the third person, when I thought I saw, but wasn’t sure for he was a shadow, but then it was - John, whom I hadn’t seen for almost a decade. I fought the elements in my hurry toward him, shouting his name -

     “John!” I cried. “John!”

     He had a peevish look, standing on the corner leaning against the wind, waiting for the light to change, but at last he heard me, and he turned, threw out his arms, called my name, and in a rush we embraced.

     Breathless, we spoke, and as chance had it, we were both free, so went to a sidestreet bar, had a beer, and talked. The story is complicated, there was much to say, and there still is, for within there is another story, and some information which, though it is not altogether necessary, will be mentioned so as to let perhaps a more astute editor know that the author, among his other talents, works hard to leave no loose ends.

     Not that loose ends are not the point.

     We’d been salesmen together in the late Sixties, and both had quit for better jobs, me first, and a few months later, John. Didn’t hear a word, can’t say why, it’s a big city, but oh so small, and discreet, when friends and lovers part to go their different ways. But a couple of years ago I saw our old boss’s secretary taking a walk in Central Park, we greeted each other, and in conversation she said John had divorced his wife - “How’s Pattie?” was the question. “We’re divorced,” John had said, so on this windy afternoon in March I told him the news I’d heard, mentioning that my marriage had also failed - neither marriage had born chidren - my ex-wife was happy with another man as she had never been with me, and I can say, not in all truth, in fact in fiction, that John said the same was true on his side. It was also true (in this sense) that we were at present ourselves happy, each having met a woman we’d never dreamed we would, and that things were going great.

     The last I’d seen John he was too thin, and I won’t say too sensitive, but too aware of his duty to his wife, then, and too resigned, too pale, and day by day seemed sad, and exhausted. Yet sitting beside him and enjoying a cold beer, how he had changed! Gained weight, looked husky, strong, had a good colour, was prone to rather outrageous laughter, his eyes held a fire I’d never seen. His hair - still black - was somewhat shorter, but still long, and combed straight back, but it stood like a bush, and his long sideburns, flanking his high cheekbones, gave his broad and handsome face a rugged midwestern character I’d never - ever seen on him. He’s a tall guy, and as kind a man as I’ve ever known. Courteous. A gentleman. Not many men like John. Nay, not many.

     We swapped amusing - some very funny - memories about the old job. Like me, he has a good memory, and it was - as we agreed - a little disgusting that we remembered even the names of customers ten years before. But I reminded him of some more, and he did me likewise, reaching a point of intensity where we were losing control, having difficulty speaking, trying to cap the other which we did, until we called a truce, ordered another beer, quarrelling over who would pay. Never having felt better he had called in sick, took the day off from his job and was out shopping. I was on unemployment - causing us much amusement - and I too was out shopping, so Fate had worked her magic, and in the winds of March, which indeed makes one’s heart a dancer, John and I had met.

     However I feel somewhat guilty, for there is that little story saying - Tell me.

*********

     For a number of years, though neither of us knew it, both John and myself had been in parallel limbo - John’s divorce had preceeded mine, which meant around five years ago he had, one night in the Village, met a woman, dated and then gotten serious with her and they became lovers.

     Before she went to England on a Fulbright.

     And a year later when she returned, I met her at a party, and, - we became lovers. While out walking one evening we passed the old store where John and I had worked, and I mentioned, as one does, that I used to work there -

     “John did too!” she exclaimed.

     “John!” I exclaimed.

     “Yes. Do you know him? I used to go out with him.”

     We laughed, - and after I’d told her some job stories involving John , it turned out that she knew who I was, because John had mentioned me to her, so for several days - as she had an excellent memory - she swapped John’s job stories with me, and I was able to tie up some loose ends, for example that John had been separated from his wife, and not yet divorced, which was then, at that present, my state too (although his divorce preceded mine), for my wife was hitchhiking around Europe, and I felt an invisible bright green thread between myself and John, although I have to admit I had slight pangs when she said on her return to the States her first thought was to phone him, which she did, and was sorry to hear he was with someone else (it didn’t last). She was quick to spot my reaction, and told me not to worry, as in all truth she was curious about John and wanted to see how he was doing, because he had been in considerable distress because of his separation, she had worked hard mending him, she said, and when she had gone overseas, she had felt guilt in leaving him in his still painful state. It had nothing to do with any overt, or too-condescending intentions on her part - she had been drawn to him - but she did have expectations, and as she was an empathetic person, she wondered if she had failed him. He had wanted to respond, and although things looked good on the surface, she was aware that the more they were together, the worse it got, and on her return from England she felt justified in wanting to know how he was. I agreed, saying I too had wondered, but hadn’t phoned him because of my own problems, which I felt I had to solve alone before I became hypocritical and started solving the problems of others.

     Meaning John.

     She asked me if I had seen John and I said no, but, I added there will be a day. She asked, if I did see him would I write her and let her know how he was? I said of course, and not long after she went to California, where she still is teaching. Or so I heard. Our relationship was, in fact, brief, and because she was doing some last minute research, working with a professor at Columbia, we didn’t see each other, as I think of it, but two or three nights a week, so we were lovers of sorts, not in firm continuity, which meant we were friends, and when she left the farewell was warm. Which meant that I didn’t know her very well, although I knew her … a little, because you see, when she spoke of John as she had, I did, in that way, get to know her, - through John, for I was in John’s shoes, and as John and I had worked side by side for over three years, I knew him, and being in his shoes, listening to her, I wondered what John had thought - and felt. I knew what I thought , as well as what I was feeling, and if my judgement of John was any good at all, I was pretty sure I knew what was going on, for if anything had happened to him like what was happening to me with her, why was she lying? and this is what I was thinking as I sat beside him that March afternoon, drinking beer in a sidestreet saloon, not knowing how to ask him, or if I should, because it was so clear he was unhappy - wasn’t I? - yet -

     Why had she lied? I looked at him.

     “There is something on your mind,” he smiled. “I’ve seen that look before.”

     “Why were you looking so peeved on the street?”

     “Macy’s was out of the sweaters I wanted, and I was on my way to Alexander’s, which is not what is on your mind.”

     I put my hand on his shoulder.

     “Remember Blondie?”

     He paled, and was for a moment speechless, but then asked if I had known her?

     I nodded.

     I said, “Skip that part. What I want to know is why did she lie to me?”

     “Lie?” he frowned. “Her? She was as honest as anyone I’ve ever met, She never lied to me - what did she say? What was it about?”

     “You.”

****

     It was the combination of her astonishing intellect, her rockbottom sense of identity, dazzling sense of humor combined with her Calfornia beach-bunny figure, and blonde beauty - captivating for sure! - that caused her such amusement with that corny nickname. But it fit - she was so good looking she verged on a cliche. She could have been in the movies. Fantastic body, soft as pudding, warm as fresh milk, and when stripped, beyond conscious belief - affectionate, kind, and faithful. Fun to be with, willing to do things, sharp and bright in company, pragmatic, excellent, almost dangerous in her scholarship, a fascinating dialectian dedicated to teaching. She didn’t use her perception as a whip because she was too spontaneous to do so, and too sensitive to consider it. She was a good, and inventive cook, a domestic person who loved the park, the zoo, the museums, plays, concerts, and - sports. She was a delight to be with. Vivid, and self-assured with a great future. In truth, a little beyond the realm.

     In all truth, Blondie wasn’t the liar. I am. What I said to John was in part true, because the whole truth wasn’t to the point, that afternoon. It was so good to see you again, my old friend… I last saw Blondie in San Francisco, and my departure was not very pleasant.

****

     As John talked about her, it became clear that her certain language with me about him was in part necaessary. Not because the truth was beyond her, but in her complicated (or, who knows? maybe simple) emotional structure, there were things she wouldn’t admit, and as I listened, everything John said tallied. His story matched mine.

     Who wanted to give her up ? What man could, or would? She cast a spell, and as living with a creature from Antiquity he was spellbound, as in suspension, so when he came home from work and she ceased her studies, and came to him anew, it was with a tailwind blast that took his mind away, so no matter what he knew, by heart, by full experience, it was as if nothing had happened, they had lust met, and it was their first night together, and as she snuggled next to him, his doubt of reality was heading on a straight line to explosion.

     Well, he said, somewhat hurt by my having told him what she bad said, they had in fact broken up before she went to England. He had lost a good deal of weight, and in a gathering anxiety, fear and depression, at having to come home to her every day, he realized he was as haunted as he looked, which at last he confessed to her.

     “I’m worn out.”

     “I know,” she agreed. “I can’t help it. You know.”

     “Yes. Have the others said the same?”

     She nodded. “Most. Some sooner than you. Some like it.

     “Why?”

     “It’s the way I am.” Her voice was even.

     “There’s a reason,” he said.

     “I love it, I want it, so I get it because I do it - my way. I’m it !”

     She finished packing a hox of books, and crossed the room to him, put her hands on his cheeks, and looking up at him, said,

     “I’ve forgiven you everything, and perhaps taken more. She smiled, eyes twinkling. “Why question me? Is something missing?”

     “I’m lost,” he said, “ and that’s the trouble.”

     “Why?”

     “I don’t know,” he frowned, and they embraced - she embraced him, rather, as he stood and gazed over her head, his arms at his sides. The word he wanted was tender.

     “I want you to leave,” he said. “Come, I’ll get you a cab.”

     Her plane was leaving in four days. Or five? Couldn’t remember.

     “I can’t stay with you until I leave?” she asked.

     “No. I want you to go.”

     She gave him a long look, and finished packing - everything. There wasn’t much, but there was enough. She put on her coat, and silk scarf, looking at him. There was nothing hidden in her look, in fact it had a certain transparency, and way back there, he saw something he couldn’t comprehend.

     “All right,” she smiled. “I understand’

     “You like it to spend the nights with us, don’t you?”

     “I prefer it. It’s human.”

     “To prefer?”

     “Well, it’s my last chance to - to be with you. As it was with - others, yes. I love men. If you were being asked to leave, wouldn’t you want to spend the last night?”

     “No.”

     Her voice was kind, and unreal. “Perhaps I’m different. Will you kiss me?”

     “No.Let’s go.”

     “Go? you say. Where shall I go?”

     “You’ve got money, and there are hotels here. Make a reservation..”

     She crossed to the telephone table, and as she bent to take out the telephone book, he said,

     “Phone from the lobby.”

     She straightened, turned to him, frowned, and bit her lip. She was as hurt as she was surprised, and the combination made her more beautiful, vulnerable and tender-seeming than he had ever seen her. Or known her. And in the illusion his body began to flame, although, Cod he knew better, in a quick move, picked up her three suitcases, she picked up the small box of papers and books, as well as her briefcase, they went to the door, in a moment both were in the lobby, and she had made a reservation.

     The doorman caught the cab, and John helped the cabby with her luggage. The cabby got in behind the wheel, John opened the rear door, and Blondie stood, looking at him, a little at a loss for words.

     “Will you write?” she asked.

     “No,” he said.

     They shook hands, she got into the cab, he closed the door, she rolled sown the window, and he said,

     “Goodbye. Take care of yourself.”

     “Turned, and walked back into his apartment house, through the lobby to the elevator, and back up to his apartment as her cab drove across the city to her hotel.

     Because of the scent of her perfume, her body, and the residue of her very self, he opened the windows, stripped the bed, and began the lengthy process of clearing away every trace of her. He was clear in purpose, but moved puppet-like, as if a voice was directing him, thus he obeyed, and after a week or so, one evening when he came home from work, his apartment smelled fresh, or - it smelled as it seemed, like his and him. Of his soap, his aftershave lotion, his shampoo, and as he had always been a neat person, of the commercial furniture and floor polish and wax he liked. He sat down with a can of Bud and watched the evenings news, and following that, Walter Cronkite, and after that, the Muppets, which he liked. He felt non-aesthetic, and a trifle anonymous. He liked that best of all. He stretched his legs, inhaled, stretched his arms, and smiled. He was happy.

     He turned off the tv, went into his kitchenette, and made supper, which included a small salad, the kind he had enjoyed at home, in Minnesota, when he was a boy. He sat at the small plastic-topped table and ate. It would be a while before Blondie left him in a complete sense, but he had made a beginning, for in truth she was gone, and that, was final.

     He never saw her again, but if through any cause he was reminded - the myriad of associations - she occurred to him, he isolated the occasion, considered it, and, more often than not, rejected it. This discipline caused her to fade from his life faster than most, or, better, with a suddenness she wasn’t used to, so when she returned from England - a year later - and telephoned him he said something of no consequence whatsoever, in a brief line of monosyllables, which again startled her, she’d gotten used to being irresistable, so used to it that she felt an abnormal curiosity - not only had he resisted her, he has rejected her, and in a strange sense she was aware the tables were turned, and that’s why she lied to me. If what she said could be called a lie, knowing what we do, so far.

*********

     I met her again at a party in San Francisco. I was out there on business. She looked better than ever, and as we talked and drank, again I fell under her spell, and as we drank and talked - that woman could drink! - I began to wonder if lo these many moons had mellowed her, she seemed warm to me, asked certain questions, I gave certain answers, she was glad to see me, so we spent the night in her apartment in Berkeley, and after a nightcap, went to bed. I should have known better, but there are few women that created the illusion that Blondie created, and when the light went out, I was again with a woman, if woman was the word, tenderness wasn’t, creature seems more real, for she was more out of control than ever, more fierce, arrogant and crazed, and once again the illusion was gone, the beautiful and naked body before the light went became a monster, as I embraced her she elbowed me away, kicked, whimpered and tossed her head and hips from side to side, she climbed me, beat upon me, pulled and pushed calling my name, snarling, clawing and grabbing me with one hand shoving me away with the other as she heaved, sank and switched in all directions I felt instant rage - again! I wnated to hit her - hard!, and then again, tell her to cool down relax let’s be tender but her thighs slammed up against me and her legs scissored - a dangerous metaphor in sex - I grabbed her left hand and bent it behind her as my right hand, forearm and shoulder pinned her left arm into writhing stillness, I did this and that, and the other, too, as she arched her back, hips flinging she beat my back with her heels giving me my chance, and in I vent as I sunk my teeth into her neck while she screamed, and battled with every muscle in her power, had orgasm, was infuriated, redoubled her energies, she fucked like a shot snake and fought beyond mind, she had orgasm again, panting and fighting, both of us bathed in sweat, but then she subsided, and at length relaxed - not me - I held her locked, made my moves more gentle, and - tender. Her lips were parted, she panted through an open mouth in a kiss that showed distance we found a slow, warm but rather disappointing motion, slick with sweat she went limp, I came, staying in caution, and little by little as I left her I let her body go, and when free she curled up, murmured something, rolled away, turned her back on me and was asleep. I wiped myself off with the top sheet, had a smoke, and at long last fell asleep. I woke to find her gone, but heard the shower. At breakfast she avoided my eyes, spoke brief words in quiet, then dressed, and left for the University. I returned to San Francisco, spent the day doing business, and, as I’d told her I would, I spent most of that night doing paper-work in my hotel. I’d given her my telephone number, and the next morning she phoned, pretty early and sounding shaky, saying she wanted to be with me, so I met her at the BART (Van Ness station), and we caught a cab to San Francisco International. I couldn’t understand it at first, I’d never seen her this way, she seemed apart from herself, and as I checked my bags, and we walked toward the security clearance, her eyes were wide, her lower lip trembled and the first tears appeared. We embraced - her body seemed to have shrunk - and in our quick kiss she seemed unreal. I wanted to ask her why she forever wanted to be raped, and why she had chosen me as the assailant, but then I saw she couldn’t speak, and was frightened. Lost, forlorn, regretful, and so sad in the bright sun over the Bay, a brilliant beautiful little blonde that said goodbye to a man who had found the secret she had given him - a sudden sizzling bluewhite fire! Lightning sears the darkness beyond my desk, thunder rocks my midnight room. Silver rainstreaks slash my windows to her predatory violence ah, it was you, John, which she was beginning to realize, hoping I - but she didn’t know what to do, nor how to ask, she could not be told by me for it was not mine to tell her but hers to tell me, so I got on the plane and flew away, and she never saw me again.

     Maybe.

*