Graham Burchell
HEADS
Petty treasure hidden deep within a stacking doll of the everyday
propped and squeezed into tiny garage space
and left to bland whimsy of all four seasons
Coins of several nations shared powdery oxidation
copper’s blue green on silver in clear plastic in a tin
emblazoned with wedded royals back to back
in the bottom drawer of a cheap nightstand
tilted beneath a rug spiral flattened
with a Rubik’s matrix of mahogany chairs
the plump buttock shine paled through neglect
Coins of the last century lingered there
heads ruling or dead rubbed cheeks in darkness
the quiet dignity of George VI on a penny
worn by the crush of so many subject fingers
who put it towards full fat milk or a packet of Woodbine
or smaller farthing with the face of his father twenty years before
enough to buy something from the grocer shop surely
thin round of copper passing hand to hand
as one shook another for a blessing
in a bloody muddy trench
Coins of countries rearranged or blown to bits
ten dinars change from a stop along Yugoslavia’s aorta
before its aneurism and rupture
and five cents from Rhodesia with coat of arms and open flower
now faded fallen where the arms lay torn from the coat
Sketchy reflections of moments and places
a single rupee showing ears of wheat
a token not dropped into reaching hands along the causeway
to Haji Ali Mosque in Mumbai
such a coin itself a bridge between fingers and a crust
or ten ngwee from Zambia its silver hornbill a neat fit
face down drowning in spillage of Mosi beer on a bar
Canadian cents over German pfennigs
unelaborated half portrait of Dutch Queen Beatrix
cow and calf elephants on Malawi florin
each part of a petty treasure
wordless memories disinterred
one day it will just be a bag of corroding coins again
the profiles worn into the background
meaningless like photographs in a stranger’s album
*****************************************
TESTAMENT
She lives a stiff walk from the hamlet
three miles north of a village
beyond traffic light hooks of a small city.
From a farm across the lane, tractor mud spews,
smelling of pig on wet mornings,
and because of this general condition of geography
she is officially a bumpkin, a yokel,
hick, hillbilly, hayseed, a bommekijn (a little barrel) –
except she is too willowy;
her hair wild, easily caught in the wind
like leafless winter whips that wave from a tree
in one far flung corner of unkempt garden.
Her house is brick and white with fox blood doors.
Inside everything is like her hair,
randomly layered and piled,
and on the drive her chipped car cools
from its last punishing bull ride thrash
against thorny hedges and plunges into rust puddles.
It is old like the house.
Fluids leak and pipes rattle protestations,
but she is full of youth.
She winds from room to room laughing at herself,
and spends more time noting the strangeness
of her face in this or that mirror
than the litter of old books, unironed clothes
and blank journals that she will never write in.
Smooth uncorrupted pages attest
to an inner desire for order
locked away beyond the boundaries
of ravenous periwinkle eyes,
curves of a nose that she does not care for
and pink lips that want to kiss,
but on this day
pull at underdone toast on the run.
She cannot cook. One black soot kitchen
in another town in another life is testament.
*****************************************
LITANY
Dreams are affected by moonlight
when you lay on your back by night to sleep
it layers your soft belly turns it ivory
your mouth becomes an instrument
of caliginous torment
you make every sound you ever heard
a replay of the day in reverse
from you dirt water’s hurried filter is heard
through mashed vegetables in a drain
before restaurants switch off their blearing lights
you imitate a cockroach stumbling
over a field of corrugated card
when you try to dream
and your heart thuds in its brittle cage
you have the breath of a dying spirit
over greasy comb and paper
you are a slow fall from a fifteenth floor
through syrup air hot with a day’s burnt gasoline
and corporate lies
you become a disconnected shame
of choking dogs all rib and desperate eyes
at their tether’s ends
then cry babies with broken voices
cowering on baptistry floors
screaming women wearing new bruises
men in locked places pleading for common sense
abusers tipping their stomachs in a day break shelter
or a curser of the moon like she that shares your bed
*****************************************
OLD PEOPLE LIVE HERE
You will know.
The front yard will be neglected,
part green, shady and inconsequential,
or it will be immaculate,
like a freshly combed haircut;
just as they would like their grave sites to be—
flowers or forgotten.
You will stand at the door or porch,
and hear nothing but the movement
of the hall clock, a preparation
for the long silence of eternity.
And you know that within,
you will smell history
mixed with a sad derailing of the senses,
the overcooked, over heated, undetected,
lives unwrapping slower than petals
yet running (like athletes) to seed.
*****************************************
STILL LIFE
Stillness captures attention
on the hard slabs of Madrid streets
where feet beat tired and peckish trails
to gift shops, cafes and signatures of antiquity.
I have an aerial view of stillness.
Two bodies on a street corner;
male (sprawled), female (seated), separated
by curve of callous stone.
Separated by a manhole cover:
a date stamp on a postcard home;
a grey sun, lighter than his rag jacket,
shoes and thinning cobweb hair;
sadder than golden clay upon her skin,
and gold collection tin with female slot
set begging on satin drape.
Stillness: asleep, wrapped in his dirt.
Poison, drunk to deny dignity
sticks fingers in his dreams, but for now
there is shade and I presume, no pain.
The innocent curiosity
of sunny youth ends her famine.
A coin feeds the slot and breaks
the hymen of stillness.
She smiles;
as pleased to wave from stiffened wrists
as she is to receive a token
for her nameless still life.
*****************************************
WEDDING
Young laughter broke a moment
after splashes in the pool.
Scattered atoms of chlorine
wassailed on the breeze.
Spiders, hungry in lavender,
hung on their silken platforms
in windless scented niches,
disinterested in the burr and clack
of conversation and plates set
between silver in a white marquee;
disinterested yet aware.
Jejune senses guarded, though
they had no choice but to tolerate
the uninvited that busied,
gathered, or set a fire to meat -
ribs parted on the open lawn.
Soon no touch of breeze would lace
the quilt of fields laid out
across this tiny patch of Tarn,
beyond white gîte
and ample shade of chestnut tree,
where bride and groom would meet
wet-eyed, to vow a heart-spun bond
before the gathered needy guests,
motionless as spiders,
hungry for the moment
with the expectation
of a following feast.
Graham Burchell
http://www.wump.net/
Words-Myth - A Quarterly Poetry Journal
http://www.words-myth.com