|
The Argotist Online |
|
STEVEN WALING Steven Waling is the author of five collections, his latest being Calling Myself On the Phone. He is the editor of the about-to-be re-launched Brando's Hat, and has poems in Stride Magazine, Staple, The North, and many other magazines. He lives in Manchester and teaches creative writing to adults.
GHOSTS
“Dead
cat poems. Don’t like them. Never have. But
when the buggers die...” (Copland Smith) I
open the door, trip over the cat who isn’t there. What
would we like? Some toast? The past underfoot
like some sly creature who enters with
her own suitcase - porridge or cornflakes? and
stays for years. I could declutter that kitchen but
you aren’t the English Breakfast type, are
you? Anyway, that Christmas, the once you
took me shopping; or the time we sat quiet in
Lancaster, kissing like kids in the Meeting House; later
in Starbucks when I can’t be funny or brave. Sometimes
it’s hard nurturing the grace of
sleeping on beds, couches, the cushion the
cat took ownership of. You never stayed. I’m
lying when I say I don’t miss those midnights watching
you comb your hair, our dash to the car, then
my return to what? asleep on the pillow. Still
there’s ghosts I can’t rid myself of: how
long must I look to my heart, which craves attention
and food in bowls at regular intervals? No
more, little ghost, will you scratch at my door. FREE PHILOSOPHY LECTURE The
blind opera singers of the Karluv Most and
me caught without change. Yesterday I
narrowly avoided getting mugged by
a man in a light blue shirt. Listen: all
people have their own language. Now
I’m sitting upstairs in the Globe; and
there’s no words more beautiful than ours discussing
‘the will to change’. I see a
yellow sun that smiles on the world but
Dave from Iowa misses the point, gets
off at the wrong conjunction pursuing some
axiom all his own. Listen: stories pour
like water down these old town walls. Last
night I read poetry in the Tulip, tonight
there’s something wrong in the world but
now’s not the time, so everyone tells me the
most common risk is pickpockets as
we head for the Marquis de Sade. THE
GLOBE BOOKSHOP & CAFE, PRAGUE (SEPT 2004) Sitting
here with a coffee listening
to the buzz of American and
Czech, surrounded by books One
afternoon someone knocked on
the door. We went to open it and
there stood two girls Today
I’m not talking to
anyone, wandering into
a bear’s cave where
lunch costs 215
crowns 3 courses but
I don’t have to eat One
asked if the Mirgová family
lived here But
right now the sun floats
through the door reads
e-mail the Prague Post decides
on the borscht Mom
asked what was wrong and
the girl said that her name was
Zanetta Mirgová Everything’s
a warm contented
brown while outside
Prague stirs like
a coffee-cup under
the foamer We
were all astonished Mom
fainted when she heard it
was her little girl and
in my head last night’s jazz
band plays a long slow blues
over and over like bliss Alternate
verses: Helena Cajokovska, age 14, Prague Remedial School. (from Romano Suno:
Writings & Art work by Romany Children, Nová Škola 2001) MOTHER The
angel on the edge of my bed smells
of patchouli, stands six feet tall. In
all our portraits, I look upward, his
light in my eyes. I’m feeling unwell, my
stomach churned up. I almost ran out into
the streets to get away. Now bells ring
when they say my name. What’s that about? I
don’t want to know. He said we were to give a
great gift to the world, then locks me straight in
the eye. Dares me. They’d have me live the
rest of my days in blue. His hair was curled like
yours. Look at you now. You’d not believe what
I’ve sacrificed. A slip of a girl on
a mission. Boy, you give me such trouble.
copyright
© Steven Waling |