Loss and losing

I thought it would be sharp and sudden,
the abrupt silence of a song broken by a
scratch.

Instead it was the gentle eddyingswirl of leaves on
the still pond.
We watched it that day - remember?
I watched that day.

You looked up and I looked down amber foliage,
sinking into grey, cool, water.

And the traffic droned behind us.

Submerged

Water pools
beneath my ears, my heels, my elbows.
Spreads my hair like a fan,
rises to lap across my unfloating body,
unerringly flows into the spaces that join me with the
steeping ripples that flow on
and over.

Travelling to the Belowplace

Skimming
transcluscent trails over a surface in thinly
this guarded space.

waiting

(so tired)

for the bubble's
gilded to break

for the sinking that will
follow

as each spindlelimb

is suckedsuckedsucked

through tiny crevasses.

Miniscule gaping miniscule traps into the thick

(so tired)

sticky fluid of the belowplace.

Puzzles

He knows she enjoys crosswords – she annoys Robert by downloading them from the internet and printing them off. She does all the across clues before her first cup of coffee, and then moves onto the down clues. Sometimes he times her for his own amusement. Last Tuesday it took her 10 minutes, but only because she couldn't remember the synonym for “isotherm”. This morning the printer malfunctioned, and she was forced to drink her coffee while staring at the ceiling.

He doesn't know if it's the routine she likes: scribble, sip, scribble; her mind racing along a few minutes ahead of her pencil. Perhaps she just finds it comforting, faithfully filling out blank squares, knowing that each answer leads to another, and that in the end a solution is sure to reveal itself. He could ask her why she enjoys her crossword, but he prefers to observe her murmuring to herself, observe her slight smirk on a Monday (apparently Monday's cruciverbalist is a pushover, preferring clues about dogs), and smiles at her frustration on Sunday (Sunday's cruciverbalist is a sadist, she says, and she is usually only saved by her esoteric knowledge of 18th century furniture).

She doesn't always finish her crosswords. She doesn't throw the unfinished ones away though. He's pretty sure he saw her dig last Wednesday's out of her bag when she went to the bar to get a round of drinks. He wondered what the clue was. Casting his thoughts back to the ribald and inane conversation junior sailors tend to have on shore leave, he's at a loss. Sharks, motorcycles and the cheapest hotels in Bangkok don't tend to make an appearance on a crossword. She likes British crosswords over the ones in the local papers. She doesn't do cryptics. He's not sure why.

And he doesn't quite understand. He likes a pub quiz himself, although it's been a while since he's allowed himself to indulge in one. His strengths are cricket players of the 1950s, Queen's greatest hits, and Humphrey Bogart movies. He doesn't like picture rounds – the sweet young things all look alike to him, and he was never much cop at identifying foreign world leaders.

He's tried his hand at sudoku, but the logic infuriates him. He would prefer to calculate the numbers, like a brainteaser, to manipulating them into place. Occasionally he teases out the chess problems in the Post's letter pages, but strategy is for real life, not a game board. The Rubik's cube on his desk he appreciates. He likes the ongoing thought process of it all, that with a few quick random twists he could be on the path to even colours and peaceful order.

Crosswords are a known and unknown entity. Last Saturday he got to spend a rare day at home. His plans for the day included catching up on the Ashes highlights package and running to earth his other hat. He last saw it in the garage. He thinks. His plans for the day did not include printing off The Guardian's daily quick crossword and making a cup of coffee. He lasted 5 minutes before carefully placing the printed paper down on the table and deciding to search for the hat instead.

It was too hard not to imagine her there: scribble, sip, scribble. Chewing the end of her pencil as she works out the angles. “Lead poisoning,” he imagines himself warning her. “Graphite,” his imagination answers him swiftly, smiling at him as only his imagination allows. It's why he doesn't ask questions about her crossword, tease her about her morning ritual, or tell her how long it took her to untangle 6 down yesterday (2 minutes, 9 letters, the scientific name for a llama). He can't ask her a question, because once he starts he won't be able to stop, and there are questions that demand answers that can't be resolved here.

So he keeps his questions to himself, but finds out from Robert if the printer is working again. He quietly passes her the printed sheet with her mid-morning cuppa. She chuckles and reaches for a pencil. He stares straight ahead at the turbulent grey ocean, and starts the timer on his watch.

Welcomes

Welcomewelcomewelcome and
warmhandswarmhands
warmarms extend.
Lifted over the threshold by the elbows,
pulled forward by the waist.
Into the pool of light and the joy of a loaded table,
a conversation in
shorthand.

Red-rimmed glasses, gossip, secrets, and
philosophies, re-lost and re-found in the platter and
the fork discarded on the floor.
Met minds
coughed into napkins
soaked into damask
spreading
in wide pools.

Dissected by the carving
knife.
Drowned in the
decanter.
Turned out into
saucers and:

Remade.

Gone

the wind
took you to where
It wanted to
go.

it swept your self
to hidden
places
away
from the place you called home.

it swept your self
and it took you
and it left you
here.
here.
here.

where nothing grows,
but those who cling
Live.

There are days

There are days when I can only think of
You.

There are days that begin with the thought of
You,

And end with the remembered
moments
places
glances
times
(so few, really).

(isn't that sad?).

And I talk to You in the dark.
In whispers that only my Soul can hear.

(isn't that sad?).

Bye

Good bye.
Goodbye.
Bye.
Byebye.
Byebyebyebye.
Come back -
comebacktomewhenyoucan.
Because behind goodbye is
Imissyou.

Starbucks Parable

Not every panini is my panini,
I said,
wishing it was so.
As a steak and tomato toasted made its way to the customer
at table 3.

Not every panini is my panini,
I murmured,
passing my gaze
to the display case with its sign:

Fair Trade (a better deal for all)

and waited for my skinny latte.
Double tall.
Extra hot.

Plato was right

I know
that I know
your shadow
only.

I know
that you are just an

outline

a sketch

an obscure reflection of a conversation long since forgotten.

I know
that I know
your shadow
only.

I know
that you are just an

unfinished note

an unheard song

a whispered melody, misheard and forgotten.

I know
that I know
your shadow
only

I know

Old stuff

Endless rows of endless faces
smudged as far as eyes
can see
peering to the bitter edges
trying to find the rest of
me

Endless rows circle faster
spinning swirling sicken stop.
One room, staring, at the walls,
blackness staring back.

The Crank

He was a crank, and he knew looked it. He stood under the overhang on the platform at Kenilworth station, a full rubbish bin to his left, empty tracks to his right. He was a crank. Pissed off. Dikbek. He listed them as he waited for the train to come in, peering at the lights, willing them to flash green. It was hot and he was waiting. Trains, heat, waiting. He worried the words over in his mind, making them fit.

He reached up to touch the rafters above his head, scowling as his fingers brushed over pigeon shit. He ground his teeth at the unconcerned birds, hating them for their well-worn perches, their homey mess. As he hated the other would-be passengers who joined him under the overhang. His antipathy swelled as he watched them cluster together, away from the bin where he stood.

Flies, attracted to his overheated appearance, circled lazily. Flies, heat, trains, waiting: he listed them again as the lights went green and the train screeched into the station in fits and starts. The people around him forced open the doors, clambering over each other in their eagerness for seats away from the broken windows. Carrying his list of peeves with him, the crank chose carriage number two.

Unsure of his reasons, he faltered for a moment, trying to rationalise his decision. The shrieking whistle yanked him out of his reverie and he barely managed to avoid the closing door and grabbed onto a rail for safety. Unnoticed, unheeded, unwanted, he thought morosely when none of the other people in the carriage so much as glanced at him.

Not thinking this time, the crank chose a seat by the door. He settled next to a schoolgirl absorbed in her book. A wave of something encroached on his habitual self pity. A quick glance at the girl confirmed that she hadn't noticed. Uncaring, he thought, adding the word to unnoticed, unheeded and unwanted.

He glumly examined the spear of sun shining on his well scuffed shoes. Soon it would creep over his ankle, attack his knee and bake his leg. Stickiness, stuffiness, sullenness. The alliterative misery broke through and he smiled, briefly and sardonically. He reached into his pocket and brought out the other list, the one he had had no say in compiling.

Breathe, it said.

Quashing the impulse to roll his eyes, he huffed in and out.

Close your eyes and absorb the atmosphere, it said.

He blinked and considered that done.

Sit without judgement, it said.

Look without criticism, it said.

Relax, it said.

He folded the list away carefully, placed his hands on his knees and prepared to stare at the floor. He ground his teeth as he noticed an identifiable stain by his right foot.

“Think we'll be late again?” a young voice asked.

Startled, he swung around to face the schoolgirl.
She bent the spine of Wuthering Heights back. “Were you stuck yesterday too?” she ventured when he looked at her.

“No,” he answered eventually.

Breathe, the list had said. He inhaled, exhaled.

“I don't usually take the train.”

“I always take the train,” she answered him comfortably. “But it means I'm late a lot. Have you ever tried to explain to a teacher that it's Metrorail's fault? The first 50 times, sure. After that they start to get a bit sceptical. Have you read this?” She gestured with the book.

He nodded slowly.

“It's prescribed,” the girl said. “I don't know how I feel about it yet.”

“Either you like it or you don't,” the crank said, surprising himself.

She shook her head.

“Impossible to say.”

“Why?” the crank asked, despite himself.

“Because they're horrible. Obsessed and pathetic is not particularly appealing you know. They should just let it go.”

Relax, the list said.

“This is me,” the schoolgirl said as the train shuddered to a halt. She leapt up and was immediately lost in the crush.

The crank followed more slowly, his instructions screwed up in a ball in his hand. He walked up the platform, not noticing the vendors and their buckets of ice and cooldrink. He didn't notice the ticket collector's glare when she buzzed him through the turnstile. He walked straight past the boys with their hands outstretched to where the young therapist waited.

“Well?” the young man asked. “Did the list help?”

“Goddamn fucking waste of my time,” the crank grunted, and threw the list away.

Literary Lessons

Endless rows of endless faces
smudge life as far as the eyes
can see
peering to the bitter edges
trying to find the rest of
me

Endless rows circle faster
spinning swirling sicken stop.
One room, staring, at the walls,
blackness staring back.