the week

To observe faithfully and seek to be true to those observations.
Was my aim when I began to write in seriousness. A poem
Which paints pictures, which is the journey’s camera, capturing
Those things the machine’s eye cannot see, lost beneath the surface.

Not so hard when the journey was to some farflung place where
The colours, smells and sounds are words and truths in themselves
Desiring expression. But when that journey’s outwards shape
Seems so intangible, shorn of the gloss of the foreign;
How much harder it might be to render that voyage, the one
You and I embarked upon a week ago, last Sunday night.

Some images. A fire blazing in the yard, the Buddha gazing on
Approvingly. A round stone with a round hole on a beach dwarfed
By one of the Seven Sisters (who died in a blaze brought on
By their sin; or are forging a millennial path to their lover,
France). Then another stone with another hole. And then a third.
Old men in white waterproofs playing bowls through the drizzle
Whilst schoolkids sing as they walk. Monks in their robes kneeling in
The park, whilst Buddha gazed on, approvingly. A poor picture
On a pub wall, gaudy colours and childrens’ knees. Birds
On the table, jet plumage, hungry as birds, yet to proud to beg.

Just snippets, you see, from the journey. Jagged moments
Which are captured on paper at the expense of others
Through the selective whim of a poet’s mind. Images
Which drop no more than hints of the actual picture,
Peopled as it is by two protagonists sharing these images,
Making them theirs. Besides these are but the public images.
The private ones are another story, part of a history
Which might be beyond all recording.

The shape of an arched back. The imprint of teeth.
The lover’s gaze as the lover comes, the tender smile
That moment summons; a satisfied smile, satiation
Working both ways when pleasure felt is pleasure
Shared. The pursuit of the mutual. Pleasure
Taken in the way the other eats a piece of chicken,
Or pasta, or croissant. Drinks a sip of wine, mixes
Vodka, gets out of bed; gets into bed. Smiles of a
Morning or smiles at night. Tenses and relaxes.
Suffers at departure, suffers on arrival, bites their lip,
Choosing to smile on departure; relaxes on arrival;
Welcomes the other back into our lives. The moment,
Hands tied, the lover sensed the other’s change.
The conflict in the mind which brings on the conflict
Of a night, pursuit of some aggressive truth
Precipitating disaster; disaster averted in
Another midnight’s act of conciliation, return.
The shape of a touch; the touch of knowledge;
The knowledge of love; love love crazy love.


So these are all words which record movement. Which has
Been shared. When we let the bubble loose, to find out
How far it might travel in a week. Progress sometimes smooth
Sometimes not. Yet in the art of knowing, understanding, which
Could be the art of love, all movement, all time spent,
Seconds ticking, is a progression, a movement that takes the one
Deeper into the heart and soul of the other. There is no down
Time or bad time in the week. All time can do is cast more
Light where there was shadow, open eyes wider to the wonder
Of our luck. No matter how uneven that luck may sometimes
Feel. (3 stones with round holes is no casual piece of luck.)

Would all weeks be akin to this one, were the weeks endless?
They would be akin, but not the same. When lovers are thieves of
Time, their love counts multiple in the time they steal. Yet,
If the art is to pursue the secret heart of the other,
To hold it close and safe, then all weeks should be akin to the one
Whose journey we have just travelled, part of another journey
We shall always be travelling.



19.06.05