THE KISS by Stephen Edgar

Stephen Edgar has always been a favourite poet of mine. Born in Sydney in 1951 he spent a number of years in London, forming a friendship with fellow Australian poet Clive James, before returning home. This is a fine poem, as is Man In The Moon.

THE KISS

How can she do this now that it’s all changed,
Present her lips to kiss
As though that known face were the same as this
From which you’ve been estranged?
Of course it is. Here, now? Or then and there?
How can she sit down in her cloud of hair

And watch you as though you were someone else?
You are, of course, to her.
You were this rendezvous’s commissioner
And nobody compels
Your self-distressed attendance here but you.
So watch her do as only she can do.

She lifts her left hand to her left earlobe
And tugs the earring, slides
The hook half out and rubs at it and glides
It in, as its purple globe
Swings back and forth to tantalize your sight.
Soon she will do the same thing with the right.

A silver bracelet rides along one arm
Or settles at the wrist,
And lest adornment should seem prejudiced
The other has its charm
As well, made somehow perfect by the dent
That mars the curve of its encirclement.

And those two combs holding her hair in place,
Two combs of tortoiseshell—
And when she took them out, oh how it fell
At night around her face,
Which she would lift to you and shut her eyes,
That beauty come to seem beauty’s disguise,

And whether by desire or candlelight,
Her skin took on a glow,
An alabaster lucency, and so
She leant back to invite
Your open-mouthed assent. And you would hold
That pose like two Klimt lovers cloaked in gold.

And that first night you slid the purple shift
Over her shoulders and
Peeled gently downwards, leaving her to stand
In Aphrodite’s gift,
And sinking with her garment to the floor,
Made moist the shadowed fold you knelt before.

How can she do this now that you’re estranged,
Stand in her cloud of hair
As though she were the same, though well aware
That everything is changed
(Of course she is), presenting for your kiss
The mouth that was the mouth that is not this.

CLUBBED BY KINDNESS

CLUBBED BY KINDNESS
Clubbed by kindness
I sit here stunned
By the knowledge that
You loved me once
Possibly.
No room for any doubt on my side
But you were forbidden fruit
About to fall from the tree
Trouble was
I never tried to catch you
Not really.
And now I have fallen further
Than you ever could
And there you are
Somehow
To pick me up

PEARL ENCRUSTED GATES

PEARL ENCRUSTED GATES

It’s the waiting you see

For something to happen

Or not, as the case may be

This limbo life limps on

Nothing changes

But another day gone

Maybe tomorrow I’ll wake

Without a new ache

And think – ah nothing’s wrong

But the delusion persists,

Or is it illusion?

That a mighty fall awaits

Outside these pearl encrusted gates

FROM THE WORD MUSEUM

FROM THE WORD MUSEUM1524898_641076452617785_515751935_n

Shivelat’s-hen

Shammocking dog

Shanks’- pony

Shuttle-gathering

Ramfeezled

Raw-gabbit

Redder’s lick

Rattle-bladder

Puke-stocking

Pulpitarian

Postillion

Pseudologer

Pizzle-grease

Pismire

EVEN IF I HAD NO HANDS

LOOK, NO HANDS

Even if I had no hands

I would be ambidextrous

Ac-dc in a strange sort of way

Though women would still be kings

Or should that be queens?

Even if I had no legs

I would still walk tall

Play legless football

If the fancy took me,

Roller-skate differently, that’s all

Even if I had no mouth

I would still speak out

Words would continue to pour forth

I would not be silenced

I would speak from the heart

Even if I had no eyes

I would still see plenty

Believing would be seeing

And if only in my mind’s eye

My vision would still be twenty-twenty

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JESUS FREAKS

JESUS FREAKS

Jesus on the streets

Satan under the sheets

Why do the heathens rage

When we don’t keep sinners in a cage?

He that sits in the heavens shall laugh

When he speaks to them in his wrath

Hear me when I call, ye sons of men

How long before ye turn glory into shame again?

Stand ye in awe and sin not one time more

For your pillow will be a hard rock

And your bed a fiery brimstone floor.

THE END OF THE WORLD IS NEIGH

sunset-birds

THE END OF THE WORLD IS NEIGH

The end of the world is neigh
Said the sandwich-board vendor
The word is ‘nigh’ my friend, I replied
And anyway it’s not due until next November.
We’re all cowboys on this burnt out lump in space
Searching for a spark in the dying embers
The world has already ended many times
The latest one was in the dog days of last December.

JOHNJO – an extract

MY NEW PLAY – JOHNJO – IS NOW AVAILABLE IN PAPERBACK ON AMAZON

download

JOHNJO EXTRACT

 scene one

A darkened stage. We hear the sounds of a busy building site.  Then a voice…

VOICE:     Jaysus, Blondie…that’s a…a…

Then another sound – an explosion.

Silence.

The light’s come up, to reveal JOHNJO sitting on a rock on a hill.  The hill looks down on some windswept, craggy fields, and, in the distance, faint outlines of farm buildings (unseen).  Johnjo is in his fifties, weather-beaten, but well-dressed…(suit, polished shoes etc) He is singing softly at lights-up.

         

JOHNJO:                               (THE ROCKS OF BAWN)

Come all ye loyal heroes and listen on to me.

Don’t hire with any farmer till you know

what your work will be

You will rise up in the morning

from the clear daylight till dawn

And you never will be able

For to plough the rocks of  bawn

My father was always singing bits of that song.

I don’t know, maybe he didn’t know any more of it,

but those are the only words that stick in my mind…

(pause)

I suppose, though, they had a certain ring…

Plough…Rocks…Bawn….

(he gets up and looks around)

I mean, look at it…

More rocks than bawn…

By God, if I had a penny for every stone we picked…

For every furze bush we cut down…

(imitates his father)

Fifty acres, boy…and five of them is a hill.

What good is a lump of limestone to a farmer?

You can’t feed beasts on rocks. By God, if I

had my way, I’d blast the whole lot to kingdom

come…

(laughs, sings  I AM A LITTLE BEGGARMAN)

I am a little beggerman

and begging I have been

For three score and more

In this little isle of green

With me sikidder-e-idle- di

And me skidder-e-idle-do

Everybody knows me

By the name of Johnny Dhu.

That was his favourite song

He would sometimes sit me on his knee…

Johnjo ‘hears’ a woman’s voice calling.

‘VOICE’:   Johhny, Johnny where are you?

Out there in the cold with the child!

Come on in now and milk the cows… Continue reading

DOWN SCRUBS LANE

WORMWOOD

Wormwood isn’t here

The sign said, rather waspishly.

It wasn’t the Wormwood I remembered;

Scrubs Lane on a wet Sunday

The outback in West London

No buses, no cars, no people

Just limp grass, acres of the stuff

And, oh yes, the finest redbrick edifice

Victoria’s henchmen could construct.

No rotting bodies in here, my friend.

Not Newgate, not by a long shot

Though debts must still be paid

And some may still get laid

Lord Alfred Douglas lay here,

As did Charles Bronson,

Keith Richards, Leslie Grantham.

And  George Blake

Scurrying along in his traitor’s gait

Till the day he pole-vaulted to freedom

More or less

Before waving goodbye

To his English life,

His liberty and his wife

And all those Wormwood scrubbers

 

NEUROPLASTICITY

NEUROPLASTICITY

You can teach an old brain new tricks

Neuroplasticity is its name

The mind is what the brains does – they say

But the reverse may be true, just the same

There are no lights, sounds, colours

Or smells inside the brain

Only patterns of electrical information

And our sense receptors

That help the brain to sculpt itself

To rewire itself, as it were, and keep you sane,

By conscious habits of thought and action.

They say machines can’t fix themselves

But what of the power of mind over matter?

I think, therefore I am isn’t just idle chatter.