Concierge

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Those who enter here
need fear no judgement
I may make.
I sit here ageless,
though ages pass,
moving past the reach
of each new thought
sprung at their request.

There is a way
that some minds’ manners
fall outside the known:
blank faces outer,
universes build, flash,
creator-conscious,
next plunged starwards
to destruction.

There is its telling,
back in the sold
world, in stories
for the old.
Such a shape
may be seen
in the tick
of a slim minute,
by those whose hands
beat steel or idiots.

There is another way
to hold a world
by those who mine
a way beneath the rocks
where magma wells
from where they walk
across the crusted road
as birds croak from trees,
roots upward forced,
from rooves of ice-cracked
igloos built beneath
a heavy-bellied sun
as cold as iron
and as old as hell.

There is no way back,
let alone the telling,
locked in space,
shared with self-creation.
This one form
is never seen
except in dreams so deep
they’ve died by day.

There is a way to weep
for worlds and weeping brings
a cosmic calm where dancing
stars thread slowly through the
wind between the worlds
that can create,
but, subtly so, destroys
the human toys laid
neatly out in rows before
the watcher of the worlds.

The telling of that
is to myself alone
where I sit immobile on
age-stripped stones
beside the door whose
hinges groan under rust
and no wide opening.
Such a shape is formless
To those who enter here.

I throw a thousand years’
long curses at the black
backdrop to the stars
where time beats echoes
of wailing still outside,
yearning long and pleading
unfulfilled, to cross
this pitted step. Unstoppable,
the cry. It rises,
dies unheard.

The door moans
from nothing to nothing.

Teachers 1

 
I have fond memories of our Head of Latin at school - Charles Forgione, Welsh, of Italian extraction, known as 'Foghorn' to cheeky children. I'll come to the nickname later. He was my form master for five years and the walls of the room were decorated with all things pertaining to Latin art and language, which he changed frequently. He was the Head of Latin and a consummate Latin teacher with endless patience for explanation and questions. He had a very beautiful wife, also a teacher, and a daughter of about my age, both overtly friendly, where he was just stolid, bubbly where he was quiet and very warm towards people, as was he in his own patient way. I always got the sense that he was fond of children and I liked him a lot.

 

In profile he looked like one of the earlier Medicis - Cosimo, I think. He was of middle height, slightly tubby in a comfortable way and wore tweed jackets with his academic robes on top.  In temperament he was calm, collected and a thinker who had the ability to pre-empt a question or what the somewhat effervescent boys in our class were about to get up to. Not much of a conversation starter, if you asked him a question, he was a fund of knowledge and, looking back at it, wisdom. I sensed that he knew what I was thinking and feeling; he probably did. There was one time that I arrived at school, still upset by a rowing my mother had given me at breakfast. In the noisy corridor where we stored our books and coats, he asked me what had happened. I wouldn't tell him at first. He asked again and I eventually told him, crying as I did so. He said nothing, just put an arm round my shoulders and hugged me until the tears stopped. We all then trooped into the form room for registration. The incident was never mentioned again, but I was and am forever grateful for his kindness and that he had made no judgements.

 

I remember when he came on one of the school trips to Italy, where the accent was on visiting the grand, touristy places and buildings. Not for him; he knew the back-street secrets and piazzas and the little out-of-the-way churches that might have only one fine art piece or unusual architecture. I always went with his small group because it was on these that his knowledge of the arts and love of history and poetry shone through. He'd quote appropriate verses of Dante in Italian, then translate them for us; it was so beautiful to hear that liquid language with its very long vowels spoken so well. He also knew how to let the starers-and-take-it-in types, of which I was one, have their space. Nothing was said, but just the time to do that was allowed, while he stood alongside. I was happy to be in his silent company. 

 

There was one time when we visited Assisi and had 'done' the cathedral and main piazza when he said there was an interesting church just a few minutes away behind the cathedral. He gathered a small group, arranged with the other teachers at which time to meet up for lunch and took us off. We arrived at a small piazza, homes mostly, with a couple of cafes in the square and a small Romanesque church to one side. He took us around the outside, explaining what the architecture was all about, then took us inside. Romanesque there, too, on one of the side walls by the altar there was a large tempera painting of the madonna and child with the two patrons who had commissioned the work to either side. While the rest of the group buzzed about the church, I was entranced by the painting and he stood at my side saying nothing. Still immersed in the painting, I met up with the rest of the group and we went off for coffee at one of the cafes in the piazza. I was too full of the church and the painting to say much, so just sat there. He chatted to the rest of the group about what they'd seen, but at one point he looked up and winked at me. That was some quiet collusion about the value of silence and I knew it, even at that age!

 

BUT, that voice! In daily speech it was nothing out of the ordinary, though he had a most beautiful basso profundo singing voice, much like some Russian singers, and he joined us in school choirs and the school's madrigal/chamber group. People always remarked on his voice because it had the thrilling quality that hit you in the pit of the stomach, better when he could be persuaded to sing solo. He knew how to use it in other contexts, too. Our school was a new one, built on the premise of hugely long corridors running the length of the school with form rooms off them. Our room was at one end of the corridor and the toilets at the other. Of course, a few of us would delay going back to class at the end of break times. He'd then stand outside our class room and bawl and boom out the names of the ones who hadn't returned. The voice was so loud it reached the end of the corridor and penetrated the two entrance doors to the loo suite. We'd then have to run the gamut of shame past sniggering kids and not a few teachers on the way back. Not a word was said when we got back, just a return to class as normal. I can remember my cheeks burning on the long walk back. Really effective!

 

I think of him very fondly. He was quietly paternal, never ostentatious, knew just what was going on in the class and never raised his voice or got annoyed with us. Nobody ever played him up or tested him that I can remember; quiet authority and benevolence was his way of being and was much appreciated by a teenage me. Long live the Forgiones of this world!

Longings

She’s darning, summer-open window wide
to the roses’ perfume stilling air inside;
she’s wafted back to other afternoons spent
doing the same, the boredom routine meant.

Not art, but graft, this cobbling of aging socks
and on and more it plods; it never stops,
no exploration, just one chore after another
knocking the life out of any working mother,

so where’s art now? No time for paint or ink.
Life’s all too much and makes the spirit sink;
it’s best to get on with cooking the evening meal
once the weaving’s finished on this pathetic heel.

The darning’s done, the perfume’s fading fast;
there’s something more creative to do, at last.

Reluctance Both Ways

 

 

There he goes, the mower moving free
as he sweats and mutters in full sun,
making the most of moods - there’ll be tea
once the bloody chore is done

to a turn for another week. Glowering now,
he swoops across the lawn’s last scrap,
missing the edges; it’s more than I’d allow.
He needs tea now, so springs his trap –

me steeping it or not! I’d like to fling
a brew at him, the guilt-tripping sod,
but squash the fantasy and drily sing
out, “Yes.” He’d try the patience of God!

Marry!

Who wouldn’t want to wed a slip of Roquefort,
her innards creamy, bitter, tangy, salty,
while she’s decked out in white and blue, more
luscious than the usual bride and sporty
as she slides her plated length, no shortie
here stretched out for every eye to view
her bloom, behaviour open but unfaulty?
Her promised lord’s not come, but will be true
despite his pledge to all things here. His name’s not new;

it’s Him, devourer of all that lives and’s made
in whatsoever image – stars that flare deep
in the cosmos, daisies that huddle and likely fade
on grass by night when none can see him sweep
through meadow, sky or house where mourners weep
away their loss. No pain’s about tonight;
she longs to laud her lord, expects no sleep
now her groom has come for one last rite.
Extol her faithfulness on dying into light,

for so Death wed her strength. She’s gone; he’s fled,
but there’s no foul, no murderous act, praise be!
She was taken ripe, ready: he’d spread
the word to all before, a modeller, he,
with gentled touch for all to come. So we
might welcome him, not forego the pleasure
his presence brings. Besides, we cannot flee.
Accept him, then, as did his bride. His measure
is his gift, the end of life his treasure.