Ragged Claws

(Collage by Suzi Dennis)

“And ungraspable multitudes swarm, come together
in the crinkles of tree bark, in the telescope’s eye,”
.                                                                             (Czeslaw Milosz)

What veil is lifted when we first see
love,
not as a gift – or worse: A prize

but as a play of light, catching or
caught
on the wings of a bird that has

no knowledge of ideas or
destiny.
Not even thought of flight:

Just flight – for
now:
Just flight.

“while below, the foghorns bend to their work,
bringing home what is coming home,
blessing what goes.”
.                               (Jane Hirshfield)

I can remember that I read to you.
November, it was – in Prague, of course.

You were sitting in that chair
with the Communist upholstery,
that creaked each time you moved
to pick up a stitch (creaking like
the masts of an ancient clipper,
out on the ocean, looking for
treasure and mythical beasts.)

I remember reading to you;
I don’t know what, precisely.
A poem, no doubt – something
I’d written, while you were out,
hunting for groceries or off to the park
or drinking white wine with one of your
hopeful yoga class students.

It’s April now, many years later.
I am still reading to you – calling you home.

“We could never really say what it is like,
this hour of drinking wine together”
.                                                      (Sharon Olds)

You never knelt before me,
drying my feet with your hair

but then I never claimed
to be a Saviour.

The water that we drank
may have been wine

but how should we have noticed,
with our flesh and shadows

melted and moving,
coated in sweat and come?

There are no footsteps.
No one will come.
.                           (Kate Rhodes.)

Before, I was afraid
of everything that might
be hidden in the dark.

I always feared I’d stumble
upon truth: Something
the night would fail to hide -

a pattern that might half reveal
the distance measured between breaths,
between the birth and death of stars

as nothing – as the space
between two standing waves
upon an empty sea.

Before I died, I was afraid
I would become a knowing part
of that eternal night.

(We always fear what we can
almost touch – and we become part
of the dreams that we abandoned.)

“and anger is no more than some old clock
ringing to itself in ancient ruins”
.                                                (Selima Hill)

I did not set out to be saved
or kept inside the prison of your
arms, the stern appraisal of
your mind.

If I am guilty, I am so
because I dared to dream
that you would not hold up
such mirrors.

As it is – and as you slam
the door on us, I now can see
what you created: Another
drowned Ophelia

that you can blame for
everything you fail to touch.

(For M.)

The bed, still warm,
still holds on to the smell of you;
your imprint on the pillow
my holy Turin shroud,

while you, now mirror bound,
applying make-up,
remind me of self-portraits
by Rembrandt and Frans Hals.

It is funny and quite humbling to admit
that lipstick, eye-liner, mascara
bring out your beauty more convincingly
than all my poems ever will.

Tengo hambre de tu boca, de tu voz, de tu pelo
y por las calles voy sin nutrirme, callado,

Flocks of birds drop from the sky.
They cling to the branches of trees,
replacing fallen leaves with song,
before resuming their long journeys.

(I am tree)

no me sostiene el pan, el alba me desquicia,
busco el sonido líquido de tus pies en el día.

Stars move down the slope of night,
like footprints in the snow, left by children
who were skating on a lake,
before their parents called them home.

(I am lake)

Estoy hambriento de tu risa resbalada,
de tus manos color de furioso granero

l

Can revelation ever be a mercy?
To leave your house,
like Saul, to head out for
Damascus – and be blinded…

To claim that God (or
finding God) is love may
be as much acknowledgement as
revelation: That both destroy old worlds.

ll

Love may become a habit
that you learn to wear
and to take care of – like
refugees, who leave one element,
may learn to be accepted in a
new environment but will forever
remain strangers.

So, this is not the Disney version
(obviously)
but Andersen’s young mermaid
paid for love, by growing
feet that would forever walk
on shards of glass:

Always a stranger to those shores
and newly married to
this alien concept of
love – and all love’s
painful transformations.

lll

Anything not fully formed or
present is a ghost – a revelation,
begging for experience.

If you could not make love
to someone properly
but had to choose between these options:

To hear her voice
To feel her hand
To look at her
To talk to her
To smell the beads of sweat on skin

and knowing that,
if you picked one,
all other options would be

gone forever:
Which one would you choose,
if you can’t have it all?

(The function of ghosts is
to remind us of loss -
and of love.)

lV

… and thus in 1989
the Berlin Wall came down.
There was, as commentators said,
a rush to freedom.

Between the Stalin-statued East
and Coca Cola loving West
(despite the Wall)
there had been knowledge of the other,

so when the Wall came down,
it wasn’t like an airlock being opened,
with air rushing out or
vacuum invading.

(Still, what side of the Wall
are we, when we first find
that first & perfect lover – or the day
we have our heart first-broken?)

V

The human voice,
as set to music, is
a marvel.
If you don’t know
those tongues, how
can you tell a Muslim
funeral song from
an orthodox Greek wedding?

So, if we really heard
the angels sing, would
we then perish – drown
in beauty; lost,
as if in Heaven,
while they read out all of
the names of those who died
during the Holocaust?

Vl

Lust is like the common cold.
It comes and goes – and is
no more than a distraction.

Love is an invasion, like malaria.
You may suppress it, for a while
but it is there, forever, in the system.

Vll

The function of ghosts is to
remind us of love – and of loss.

When love invades,
it does so in full armour.

It sings its battle songs
in the tongue of angels.

The words that we still have
to learn are alien, yet feel familiar:

They scare us, while they echo
in the broken ruins of our feeble,

doomed defences – and we
surrender to it, totally and gladly.

Gratefully, we watch
this new world being built,

that we now will inhabit and
must learn to navigate.

Could I undress you
with one word,
one look,

that word (or look)
would need to last
a thousand years

to do you justice.

Walking through the streets
with all these dreams and ghosts,
caught by a shiver of moon,
a passing cloud -

a passing moment of perfection
in a sigh of stars,
that bathe me
in their distant glory.

Walking through the streets,
my heart a waiting murmur,
my lips now pause for breath,
one word: your name -

and now the night
(this miracle,
transformed)
is made of new beginnings.

Walking through the streets,
deep inside the winter night,
my breath is warm and wonder -
longing, whispering to you.

Tonight I’ll disconnect the phone
and lock all doors
and close the curtains.

It will be me and my TV,
some sushi maybe
and some wine.

The couch and comfy cushions
now a small tropical island
in a sea of quiet bliss.

I’ll start with something light
and frothy – something
that will make me smile:

‘Arsenic and Old Lace’ or
‘Beauty and the Beast‘,
‘Great Expectations’ maybe,

before it’s time to brace myself,
to go all-out for perfect bliss -
a box of hankies at the ready.

Yes, for here we are again:
in Paris and in black & white -
and yes of course: it’s raining.

Two people meet and fall in love
while Europe’s burning
and the armies march.

Then, of course, their time runs out
and they must part and say goodbye
amidst the smoke of waiting trains.

(A station is the best farewell:
its sounds and smells so redolent
of love and desolation.)

The camera now shuts its eyes
and when it dares to look again
it is upon a different scene -

another place, another time,
of deserts and of nightclubs,
of nazi boots and gambling debts:

a place without much hope,
but that for some has now become
their lonely bit of exile.

So, enter Rick into his bar,
a cigarette between his lips,
a hat that’s almost jaunty…

… and well, you know the story,
don’t you…? Everybody surely knows
this movie: Casablanca.

Those images of hope and loss,
of grief and laughter – all those
long goodbyes and then those songs:

“You must remember this
A kiss is just a kiss, a sigh is just a sigh.
The fundamental things apply as time goes by.”

A perfect movie and a perfect ending.
Sad, of course, for yes,
it’s yet another parting…

But what a world to visit once again,
where everything must always be about
these old, familiar enchantments.

Love and loss – and duty, honour
and the faith that all of this will conquer evil
conquer shadows, conquer time.

( ‘As time goes by.’)

The glamour of your face,
your hair now loosened in dark waves:

the sudden rightness of these moments -
all of me now here in trembling awe,
kneeling (praying)
tongue-tied to your flesh
and rising heat.

(I need – I need so much to see you,
taste you on my skin,
embrace you
and lay waste to years of caution,
soft despair and waiting.)

The earth-bound magic of the flesh
that like the rain
must dress the land
in moist and blooming sweat,
must now – must come to me.

I enter your calm waves and senses
(how I need – yes, how I need
these bones and dreams and you.)
My Lady of these morrows and these nights,
my storm and sky and anchor:

hold me here in birth and death
and senseless, sheer delight.

(I can see the shape of your dreaming
and touch the stem of your breath.)

Your lips surround me now.
You take me in,

like flames that taste
the heart of the wood,

and words on skin
or bone-carved flutes,

like a shock of warmth,
as the butcher’s hand

or a priest holds up
the heart of the Lamb.

Your lips surround me now.
You take me in.

(I can see the shape of your dreaming
and hold the weight of your breath.)

The grain of the wood,
fastened and softened
by time and breath;

these pebbles so smooth,
coated and left with
the silk of dead waves -

and you, all of you, your flesh
so awake to my longing, my touch,
are more beautiful yet

than all these reminders
that night will embrace us
and change us in time.

Waking to the moment of your touch
I hold my breath and body
like an altar, like a kiss.

(I want to hold your breath
upon my tongue; I want to
weigh your touch upon my skin.)

As the light needs an horizon
to submit its colours
to the weight of night

(I want your eyes on me,
all over me,
your lips to take me in)

I need you to possess me
and undress me
to the bone.

You’re like a Rembrandt,
painted on the edges of slow
moving, moonlit clouds,

a promise that the world
is full of wonders,
new beginnings and encounters.

My love, you’re all the stories
that will start
tomorrow or tonight,

and all the waiting
turned to soft applause
and laughter,

all the moments that are
left for me to love and
hold you till the end of light.

And when it ends
it grows so quiet.

Logic has a weight to it
and so does magic.

Love,
when it is gone,

moves beyond time
and distance

and it grows so quiet.

Some journeys start like stories,
some like dreams.

(I can see the shape of your dreaming
and touch the hem of your breath;

these sheets, dressed in darkness,
touching your flesh.)

Strange journeys,
strange frontiers,

where some things end in stories,
others move like dreams.

(I can’t see my skin
through these fields of you;

all my seasons bound
to a touch of you.)

How sweet time feels
when it’s too late

and you don’t have to follow
her swinging hips

all the way into
your dying imagination
(Leonard Cohen)

When it’s too late it is too late for everything.

Too late to tell her how much you love her. How much you loved to see her move between the kitchen table and the stove, from power suit to garden clothes, from the old dressoir to your shared bed – from morning till evening, till morning again…

She’s gone – beyond your calling. Beyond taste, and touch, and smell. What lingers is regret: you should have said this, or done that. You could have done more – could have done things differently.

But you did not -or you could not. It’s the same thing really, in the end. And it did end – and she is gone.

You remember the first time the two of you met. It was a Tuesday morning, in a car park, of all places. You had been late for work. She had dropped some papers. One look at her worried face, her wind-blown hair, those lovely but unpractical shoes and you were lost. You helped her gather her papers. One or two had escaped beyond recovery but she thanked you warmly anyway. She smiled at you and you were lost all over again: twice lost within minutes – beyond recovery: you were worse than those damn papers…

You gathered your courage and asked if you could have her number.

She said:

“No, but we could have a coffee after work, if you want.”

Yes, you didn’t know but she worked at the same office as you did. She was in management, while you were still working your way up to those heights, from your lowly cubicle. She had seen you a few times before, from her office window, when she was already at work and you were late again.

That’s how it started – and you were married six months later. Eight happy years of marriage. No children yet: there was no hurry – they were both still young.Now, there won’t be children. No presents under Christmas trees, no worrying over bucked teeth, or playground bullying. No future boyfriends or girlfriends to weigh up. No future altogether.

When it’s too late, it is too late for everything – and it doesn’t even matter much how it does or did or will end. It can be a car crash: one moment of inattention while the two of you are returning home from a movie. You are driving, of course. She’s telling you about the lead actor’s crazy ex-wife. You laugh with her, when she reaches the punch line.

Someone crosses a red light. You wake up in the hospital: you’re basically alright – a few broken bones but nothing major. She died in the car, while you were unconscious. You didn’t even feel her warm blood spilling over you, or her dying words, if there were any.

Or it could have been following one of those regular visits to the doctor. Some vague and threatening shadow on an X-ray. A brain tumor or something in the lungs, the heart, kidneys or liver. There are so many ways for a loved one to die. The flesh you love to hold and the mind that lives there are so fragile.

Or maybe you just went mad and fucked someone else’s secretary at work. Some blonde, gum-chewing funny girl. With just enough brains and just enough heart to be interesting and alluring. Unknown flesh, and the old desires, suddenly burning again – beyond reason, beyond vows, beyond love itself.

And when she found out, she didn’t even cry in your presence, or curse you out. She just left – as you knew she would.

When it’s too late, it is too late for everything. For words of love, for forgiveness, for redemption. Broken pieces are just that. You can try to pick them up – but you can’t rearrange them, like the fallen pages of some annual report. You can’t find meaning in shards of bone or ashes. There is no meaning in death and loss.

That’s how it started – and you were married six months later. Eight happy years of marriage. No children yet: there was no hurry – they were both still young.

Now, there won’t be children. No presents under Christmas trees, no worrying over bucked teeth, or playground bullying. No future boyfriends or girlfriends to weigh up. No future altogether.

When it’s too late, it is too late for everything – and it doesn’t even matter much how it does or did or will end. It can be a car crash: one moment of inattention while the two of you are returning home from a movie. You are driving, of course. She’s telling you about the lead actor’s crazy ex-wife. You laugh with her, when she reaches the punch line.

Someone crosses a red light. You wake up in the hospital: you’re basically alright – a few broken bones but nothing major. She died in the car, while you were unconscious. You didn’t even feel her warm blood spilling over you, or her dying words, if there were any.

Or it could have been following one of those regular visits to the doctor. Some vague and threatening shadow on an X-ray. A brain tumor or something in the lungs, the heart, kidneys or liver. There are so many ways for a loved one to die. The flesh you love to hold and the mind that lives there are so fragile.

Or maybe you just went mad and fucked someone else’s secretary at work. Some blonde, gum-chewing funny girl. With just enough brains and just enough heart to be interesting and alluring. Unknown flesh, and the old desires, suddenly burning again – beyond reason, beyond vows, beyond love itself.

And when she found out, she didn’t even cry in your presence, or curse you out. She just left – as you knew she would.

When it’s too late, it is too late for everything. For words of love, for forgiveness, for redemption. Broken pieces are just that. You can try to pick them up – but you can’t rearrange them, like the fallen pages of some annual report. You can’t find meaning in shards of bone or ashes. There is no meaning in death and loss.

When it’s too late it is too late for everything.

“Why are you looking so grim.” she asks, entering the living room, still rearranging her hair. She smells of that new perfume you gave her last month, for your wedding anniversary.

“No reason.” you say, “just thinking.”
“Stop thinking then.” she says.
“I already have.” you say.
“You’ll behave when I’m gone?” she asks.
“I promise.” you say.
She smiles down at you.
“Now don’t go all gloomy, you hear!”
You smile back up at her, from your lazy chair.
“It’s only for a week.” she says; “I won’t be gone forever.”

She walks over to where you sit, kneels before you and takes your hands in hers. Then she stands up again, bows over, kisses you softly on your mouth and looks you into your eyes.
“You’ll be okay?” she asks; ‘Really okay?”
You smile at her again, and say:
“Of course. It’s like you say, It won’t be forever…”

You go your way, I’ll go your way too(Leonard Cohen)

When it’s too late it is too late for everything.

“Why are you looking so grim.” she asks, entering the living room, still rearranging her hair.

She smells of that new perfume you gave her last month, for your wedding anniversary.

“No reason.” you say, “just thinking.”

“Stop thinking then.” she says.

“I already have.”

“You’ll behave when I’m gone?” she asks.

“I promise.”

She smiles down at you.

“Now don’t go all gloomy, you hear!”

You smile back up at her, from your lazy chair.

“It’s only for a week.” she says; “I won’t be gone forever.”

She walks over to where you sit, kneels before you and takes your hands in hers. Then she stands up again, bows over, kisses you softly on your mouth and looks you into your eyes.

“You’ll be okay?” she asks; ‘Really okay?”

You smile at her again, and say:

“Of course. It’s like you say, It won’t be forever…”

You go your way
I’ll go your way too
(Leonard Cohen)

God (but you are beautiful)
I whisper,

half afraid to breathe
or close my eyes.

So beautiful
(and here with me)

and I am old
and I am hungry (lonely)

and not used
to worlds of wonder.

Come.
(She comes to me.)

And I am naked and I die
a miracle of dreams.