You will never be standing
on that impossibly thin line
four hundred metres
above the ground
between the two towers –
oh but you will:
all of us will, or were,
or are (even now),
only we did not realise then,
or have forgotten,
or choose to close our eyes
to the immensity of the drop.
(On 8/7/1974, Philippe Petit walked the tightrope betweeen the twin towers of the World Trade Center.)
The Old Testament beard blows
in the gale of a mighty shout;
the hair on his head raised
by the sheer force of fury; eyes
rolling under the promontory
of a frowning brow; brawny arms
outstretched in righteousness
burst the confines of the canvas –
This John Brown is anything but
a-mouldering in the grave.
This giant is girded with pistol
and sword; this prophet’s rage
raises tornados; this patriarch
dwarfs all who come near –
the settler unaware of the storm
bearing down on his wagon;
the cowering negro looking up
to the saviour that towers above him.
This John Brown is a soldier
in the Army of the Lord indeed,
and that his soul goes marching on,
of this the artist allows no doubt.
But that is not the question.
The question is whether
the voice of the black man
for whom this storm was raised
can be heard over the giant’s shouting –
if he can ever make himself understood
over the endless deafening chorus of
Glory, glory, hallelujah, Glory, glory hallelujah …
Heavy going
and he’s
in a hurry
as you can see:
powerful shoulders
pumping,
upper body
straining forward –
but the entrance
(tough luck)
is always
on the opposite side.
You wake up in a leafy street at dusk – it might
be Cambridge, Massachusetts: wide sidewalks,
separated from the street by strips of lawn;
white porches, pastel clapboard mansions
with wooden pillars propping up solid suburbia.
A yellow house pours honey-coloured light
from every window. On a gentle tide of voices,
music, laughter, clinking glasses you wash up
against the Doric columns of the open entrance
and are swept inside. Past the grand staircase
with its sweeping banisters you drift through
rooms with crimson sofas, Tiffany lamps, tight
crowds of people lost in conversation, out
on a balcony where girls in flapper dresses
smoke black Sobranies, and in the library
men drinking rye talk baseball scores.
Notes floating from a grand piano draw you
to a ballroom where a boy in white tuxedo
and a girl in red glide dreamily across the floor,
oblivious to your silent passing. Lured by
a hallway’s chequer board of black and white
you sink into the dark recesses of the house.
The happy din of voices dies away; the grand
piano tinkles to a stop; the muffled sound
of car doors slamming, then the hectic play
of headlights on the walls; and you remain,
a shadow drifting noiselessly from room
to room, turning the lights out one by one.
Some people say an ancient race landed
a spaceship here a thousand years ago.
They sent out scouts; explored the land;
settled, and tilled the soil. Then famine came,
and war. All memory ends here.
The travellers are gone; their ship, forgotten.
Until tonight. Tonight I walk the length
of the great hull. Anchored by buttresses,
pinned down by rusty scaffolding, it lies
a prisoner under an alien sky, the spire
straining to make contact with the stars.
A late car passes in the rain. Lights flicker
on the walls. I hear the swish of tyres
on wet tarmac; the hum of mighty engines
waking up. The ship is stirring. Timber
creaks; a finial falls, a flying buttress
scatters Purbeck stone, the sheer sides
soar up, vanish into space –
I shut my eyes – and it is nothing –
just a tale – as insubstantial as the wind
that shakes the chestnut trees and chases
leaves across the black, deserted Close.
Set up the tripod
set a long exposure
catch silhouettes
of ancient hills
stone cottages
bare trees
the moon’s trajectory
and if a farmer crossed
his yard
a cyclist passed
before the lens
they’re gone
as if they’d never been
Exposed to time man disappears
I had no say in this matter.
At no point was there any consultation.
I was not properly briefed,
nor were the risks pointed out to me.
No mention was made of responsibilities,
commitments, complications,
and no, I did not sign
on any kind of dotted line.
I was not given an itinerary,
and I never saw a bill of fare –
and if I had, I have a pretty good notion
it would’ve been the kind without prices.
And now, out of the blue, you have the gall
to ask me to pay for the trip?
I’ll admit: it had its moments,
and I’m not saying all of it was not worth it –
but I draw the line at coughing up
for a stone and inscription, too.
I’m not the kind to walk boldly,
barefoot. I have tried sidling
through life on stocking feet,
but in the long run it wouldn’t do.
Then I met of a pair of
sensible brown lace-ups.
They mean business and
get things done for me.
As the lace-ups leave for work,
the light-weight, cutting-edge
Gore-Tex hiking boots that live
in the mudroom tap their soles.
Upstairs in the wardrobe
a pair of crimson high heels
are in a sulk. My ballerinas
chatter away companionably.
Sometimes in public places
an enormous pair of shiny black
clown shoes slip over my feet.
People point and laugh; I trip.
I keep away from jackboots.
They might make me march
in step, and to music
I never hope to hear again.
In the small hours
I listen to the busy
comings and goings
of ambulances
swapping stories
from behind
the paper thin facade
of everyday
whypoetry 