November 28-December 4, 2005: Graham Burchell and Gayle Bell

Graham Burchell and Gayle Bell

Garden Party A rock legend is head-butting the head gardener, who allowed Geranium sanguineum to creep; to present itself in the formal rose bed, bloody, stunted at the feet of thorny ladders A grave digger leans towards Hyacinth, ignoring the perfume slapped clumsily behind both ears He fixes the eyes glazed beneath a blue rinse, and continues to bore with tips for the exhumation or embalming of shrubs A well-known social climber has herself nicely wrapped around a dandy from France with long yellowing teeth She tickles his pale neck lightly with her lusty tendrils, feigning adoration of his stiff posture A rake from Greenhouses poses against the south wall, barring Ivy Draper’s exit around the concrete urn stuffed tight with heliotrope She is considering climbing over it, through it, to escape his adulterous smile The Greens have just rolled in, the whole family, shaking rainwater and caterpillars from their heads The Maris-Pipers would move away if they could, thinking they are above them, when the reverse is true Victoria Plum is in the full purple swell of maturity, yet she is agitated, a stickiness of wet nerves, for she believes that she has a stalk-er, watching, waiting for a quiet moment to taste her morning dew And then yew are standing there alone, not a wallflower exactly, but unsure how to proceed, for yew have seen so much more than the others, the Violets, wild Poppies, or sweet Basils Yew have learned to spread with care. Porthole 1 Soon, after waking I arose to the smell of boat in my nose I could see through the stained porthole dolphin sky, endless acres of molten greyness, and then, just coming into view, the skeletal bow of a dead vessel growing out of nature’s lop and swirl, impervious, huge, much bigger than the real Noah’s ark; big enough to hold all the creatures in a belly long since dissolved by the salts of time, but the ribs, glabrous beams of oak, spawned from a hidden spine were kissed, slapped, licked by the surface brine We passed very close, humbled by the immensity of each ligneous bone that slipped silently by giving us the finger or somehow looking down with sad disdain The animals marched in two by two but now you keep them in a zoo, globally warmed, Is that the best you can do? As we slid beyond the final spur, I heard the feint watery clang of a sea bell, warning ships or mourning the waste I twisted to see a large bird, feathers the colour of tide From its perch it fixed me with its stare, raised its head and screamed a dismal fish-breath cry I realised at once, the word it had called T’was a bitter, long drawn “why?” Still Waiting   Christmas came to Chililabombwe, A misdirected card; Scrooge and frost Delivered to the wrong continent In the fan-cooled haven of the school reception, A bosomy secretary, head shaved of lice, Spooned excretions from the playground’s termite mound A red paste pile African caviar posed in a napkin Close by a mother and I seemed uneasy She slid one ebony gloss shin Over the other like a deaf cricket She was lost for good words Whatever she said it would sound stupid, she knew, But she would say it anyway fish eyed Like the kapenta threaded with small bones That she could afford on Fridays “It was that saint man what was he called Saint Claws? Santo Claws? You know he’s the one that goes down the chimneys “ Chimneys? Every year, white bearded and hot He would visit the school, waving, His costume the same flame tree hue as the fire engine, From which he hung in the sun of blue heat, Banana, jacaranda and rattling black seedpods “But on that Christmas night, he goes to the other kids – Always to the other kids For each of my boy’s eight years we waited We listened for the Santo Claws bells, But only heard the crickets and frogs of Africa “ Superman We walked in Valentine’s Park once, as a family; strolled past ducks that floated like Styrofoam on a stream, snapping up wet bread with their clattering clothes peg beaks Two others fit for a feeding frenzy reined in from a grey sky, wings spread to slow them, big yellow feet splayed, touched, broke the surface with the grace of a large aircraft “And that is just one of the ways in which they are superior to us,” my father remarked “Ducks?” “They can fly, fast, as high as they like They can sit on water like a cork without getting pruny skin or feel the cold on a wet chill March morning, yet, if the fancy takes them, they can climb onto the bank and eat grass “ “Walk, swim, float, dive, fly Can you do all those things?” Yes-I would like to be a superman, not the kryptonite-dreading moralist in body hugging blue, but I would like to have a rack, a menu of special powers that I could turn to on a whim Perhaps, to push a skin-covered button where the lines crossed in my left palm, and become instantly invisible I would twirl and dodge the unsuspecting Crouch, slip at knee height through the employees door at the bank when it is opened, and then siphon bills from waiting tills With a fleet step I could launch into the air, fly, feel wind streaking over me like oil I would speed across the foam of Atlantic waves to visit a sick mother in my native land: do it in the space of an hour or less; time enough to enjoy such strange solitude and nothing more My senses would sing From a hundred paces or more I might see individual ants climbing the vertical freeways of tree trunks I may hear a rabbit thinking, hopping through a distant cornfield I would know the scents of friends and strangers so that I may announce them in my mind, even before they came into view I would have strength, physical and mental; a power that was obvious to others at the merest glance I would help neighbours rip unwanted trees from their gardens, and whilst feeling the roots submit to me, slide helplessly from the soil, I would compose poetry in my mind Words to make you dance Words that would tear into me as the sunlight glistened and painted the taut swell of hard muscles in my arms and shoulders In the heat of the afternoon, to cool off, I would dive into deep green waters from cloud height; plunge through a stripe of torn bubbles, scare small fish and arrive at the dark place where tentacled life and lamp lit wraiths would eye me with suspicion, the same fish face wariness the locals wear in a quiet English pub I would open my mouth, peel back my eyelids, let the tiny bubble escape from a single nostril and breathe, feel the water rush through me with the silken ease of a clear flow babbling over granite in a Dartmoor leat.

Spring Perfume Her scent announces the riot about to occur in one of those places that will always be your favorite even if the food is lousy her gift makes you feel like you’ve gotten a kings ransom queen’s pardon and royal flush her sly wink seals the chaos the birds and sky had better well put on a grand show because you feel like dancing out the diner oblivious to the stares your vacant smile creates