From Interrogating the silence
On one of the very bad days, I cried
in a new way, in a way I didn't
cry when you were there - but this time I did -
and there was nothing to say. I couldn't
watch you go again. I had to get out.
There was a picture I liked, a ploughed field
with a farmhouse and some trees. They were shut
safe and sound in their Rowland Hilder world
until I stepped in and entered a place
where reality had been rearranged.
I found the holidays we hadn't had
and the children. A plate of bread and cheese.
My husband. Quietness. The table laid.
And the crying had stopped. Something had changed.
You've never seen my jealousy set loose
because I keep her chained. The place she sleeps
is deep and stone and chill. A brazen noose
encircles her hot throat - mostly it keeps
her teeth at bay. A daily douse of ice
prevents her blood from boiling. But her eyes
terrify most. They bleed with avarice.
She wants and wants and wants. No compromise.
She waits with deadly patience, knowing she
outlives most men. Her red hair seethes and glows,
filling the air with snakes. Resentfully
she squats and broods. Occasionally she grows.
No pet. You can neither tame nor breed her
and it isn't wise to - no - don't feed her.
Love is inhabited by cruelty.
It can strip soft skin to the quick, can tear
flesh to ribbons. It has no sympathy.
It doesn't stop to think. It doesn't care.
No matter how gentle two lovers are
they will be vile. They are secretly hard.
They have gone into another world where
the things that matter have all disappeared.
Whatever they say - whatever they write -
they are OK. They are hot, and then cool.
They exchange fair play for unfair delight.
They don't want to be nice. They like it cruel.
Racked and trembling, pale victims of lust,
their paroxysms mimic self-disgust.
Often it wasn't unlike attempting
that fairground game - a handful of ping-pong
balls and dozens of glass bowls, opening
false mouths. Every last throw would bounce wrong,
merrily dancing anywhere but in -
and that gaudy music playing. I'd spend
everything I had and more. I would win
nothing. Not one tiny fish. When my hand
was finally exhausted from throwing
I came home alone to my quiet house
without you, my unattainable prize.
It was a stupid thing to do. Going
to the fair is a waste of life. What use
is a goldfish? You get it home. It dies.
I'd never wanted to be beautiful
so much as then. I wanted you to fall
without a moment's hesitation, all
of you heart-stopped by my face and your whole
world secondary to my loveliness.
In my imagination I was tall
and willowy. I was off to the ball
with emerald eyes and slippers of glass.
How silly I was. They vanished - the dress
and the beauty. You waited in the rain
until midday. Later I ran away
and shrank, like washing, into littleness.
I am Mrs Tiggywinkle again
scuttling up the hill with my irony.
Magma Showcase: Helena Nelson
Magma makes a point of supporting new and up-and-coming poets as well as established ones. To further our aim we are introducing a new feature, the Magma Showcase, in which we give more space than is normally possible to an individual poet who we feel deserves to be more widely known. For this first Showcase we have chosen Helena Nelson. Helena was brought up in Cheshire, but for the past twenty years has lived in Fife. Her first collection, Mr and Mrs Philpott on Holiday at Auchterawe, was recently published by Kettillonia. She has been published from time to time in Magma since one of her poems was first selected by the present Editor for Magma 16 in Winter 2000.
Page(s) 39-40
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