Flying South Page 3

  monstrous Victor Emmanuele monument following an old

  gent with a yellow flag and silver tipped walking stick, hurrying

  now to take in the Fori Imperiali, Palatine Hill and Colosseum

  before closing time. Gangly seventeen year olds, with braced

  teeth, push against Eastern beggars, cups held out, all ignorant

  that high above them, chin out, once stood the strutting man

  who made the trains run on time.

  In our small cramped hotel room, on a hard bed, we make

  love silently to the sound of Eminem coming from a

  stalled car on the Via Convertite. I stifle my wife’s cries,

  embarrassed by the nearness of the thin partition separating us

  from the rutting couple next door. Far now from our own

  familiar things we settle down to sleep in the quietly falling rain.

  Sandcastles

  I am talking, telling of now, and try as I might

  a moment ago is hazy in its recollection, carrying

  truth or some invention of a slide towards truth.

  Even two moments ago have less certainty,

  mountains built on foundations or inventions

  of a moment ago; three moments ago beg the

  mountains to be reshaped into hopes of a brighter past,

  while four moments ago are lost, to be brought back

  in casual talk of future years and then only like

  pebbled sand patted down into castles of words

  shaped

  by time while

  five moments ago are

  already a legend grown tall

  in telling to awed children and old

  men fearful of telling moments to come.

  Selfish Time

  Then was his time of plenty, the lying with

  women, snatched moments of redemption

  from the ordinary, mating like dogs who once

  finished saw no further purpose in each other.

  Later he wallowed in the mature body, coupled

  slowly with intent, adoring nakedness and

  being adored, lying crumpled in hidden shady

  streets, in beds made sweaty from his struggle.

  Ageing he tasted the unsubtle changes in his

  naked women, the muscled arms, thickening

  thighs, sagging buttocks and drooping breasts

  gorged with darkened nipples grown dry.

  With loathing, recoiling from his distended belly,

  shrinking testicles, the less than always

  ready penis, and dreaming of younger firmer

  breasts and quivering raised painted toes

  he searched for youth and new pleasure,

  uncovered it creeping away in the dawn,

  oozing slowly into rivers of time-worn time,

  cascading into oceans of bygone memory.

  Shadow Thoughts

  I am leaving old ways and cinders of my nights

  in the heart of an ancient home and building

  far into the desert a monument to solitude,

  a column of silence of my own making.

  Across the valley, in the shadow of a mountain

  the new pillar rises to show my immortality,

  its bold design thrusting upwards to touch

  the sky and take on new skin,

  a weight of expectation, a buoyancy of

  yearning. Rigid I shall stand on it evermore,

  year following year in the cruel heat, yet

  looking down I may in time judge

  the opportunity to jump to eternal life,

  be forever that which others cannot be,

  a prophet, king or mighty god deep

  in the shadow of a people’s history.

  Yet sometimes in my bold scheme I muse,

  knowing this edifice may not be their desire,

  chips of my loins and others who come

  after me might say;

  ‘What monument like Oyzmandias you leave!

  Lifeless in this desert of souls you stand hermitlike,

  no movement, wasting away to no purpose;

  what a spectacle of idiocy you force us to admire!’

  later still, in the near distance, units of ragged

  soldiers may advance drawn by the high spire

  and the seemingly everlasting truths embodied in it.

  Humiliated, if found they have been beguiled into

  the hot desert by the same credulous wisdom, they

  will converge around me, taunting me to jump.

  Looking up one last time, the murmuring of men,

  mislead to this stark brooding steeple, will rise in the

  shimmering air and with aching feet and downward

  look they will melt away into the distance, shuffling

  back from whence they came.

  Sunday Morning, Los Boliches

  Two cars with flashing lights come first, driven

  by sullen cigar smoking policemen, leading

  revving motorbikes weaving down the Paseo,

  sixty year old babes, legs strapped to fat

  storm troopers, waving regally to onlookers

  drawn to a spectacle of the old playing young.

  Here and there a child appears, perhaps a

  favourite grandson, miniature nazi helmeted, tied

  down in a 1950’s sidecar, head turned from

  the crowd who are excitedly pointing to Honda

  Goldwings driven by middle aged hippies with

  flowing grey mullets and topless large breasted

  young girls, golden legged, caressing the backs

  of the riders, flicking blonde tresses to open

  mouthed testosterone filled local boys, seeking

  erotic pleasure, stunned to find it driving by on

  a quiet Sunday morning in a cavalcade of more

  than a hundred temporary refugees from reality.

  The End Of Battle

  I had been harvesting the dust of another life,

  brushing it into valleys of tentacled vines, of dark

  and gloomy overhangs, a distant hideaway in my

  unconscious mind, when you came along, cut

  the leaves and spread your sunlight unto fertile

  ground, my love for you budding suddenly, urgently,

  the light soaking into my imagination, fuelling and

  firing signals, rockets of awakening dreams,

  a new beginning. Now I lie with you, familiar,

  pleasured, knowing our two minds are

  spooned into each other, quiet now that battle is done,

  common thoughts ticking slowly until ending time.

  The Keeper Of Lies

  I know a man who keeps his wife

  on a top shelf; like girlie

  magazines she invites you to ogle

  and marvel at her compactness.

  Sometimes he takes her down, opens

  the copper urn and directs you to delve

  deeply into the plastic bagged grey ash,

  cold and powdery to the touch.

  He cries he loves her, but I can recall

  the ticking clock of an angry house,

  the bitter words shredded in scorn,

  the lonely journey of hostile minds

  made partly whole before death in

  the promise of a joined resting place;

  a monument to fifty years together

  that now only he will occupy.

  Tumbledown

  There is in his house a convent room,

  heavy bed crying for people, laughter,

  moments of night passion, mornings of

  fluffed pillows and earnest talk.

  Behind the bed tumbleweeds of dust

  move hither and thither like refugees

  from a deserted cowboy town, while

  underneath punctured suitcases, encrusted

  with travel and spider webs, lie unaware

/>   of their uselessness.

  The blood red duvet is smooth now, the feathered

  insides, like rushing tides risen in their unexpected

  freedom, have dissolved the indentation of a shapely foot

  cultured with exotic creams, crowned with painted toes.

  Rundown seedy clocks squat on side tables,

  troubled by their lack of motion and purpose,

  their eyes fixed on shabby gowns hanging from

  the door, necks stretched by time and weight.

  For love has fled this convent room, silently from

  the bed it slipped. Encased in flesh it has sought

  another home, seasons of gentleness, a more

  forgiving boundary.

  Two Years Later, 13th December, 2002

  When I concentrate very hard I can still see you

  on the night of your old friend’s removal-my last visit.

  You would not go out because of the cold but sat

  warm in the green cardigan that a week later they

  would tear into fragments coaxing your failing heart.

  I am glad they did not get your expensive vest,

  it hangs still, swaying as the wardrobe door opens,

  almost daring you to come back and try it on again,

  mocking at your earlier fear of somebody else strutting around

  the nursing home in a Calvin Klein pleased with their find.

  While on the subject of clothes you would be happy to know

  I met your tailor recently and he was disappointed to hear

  you would not be coming back. ‘A man who knew his cloth’

  he said, adding that his father went the same way,

  sudden in the middle of a carefree thought.

  On my desk in front of me is a photograph of us

  at the Porto Fino. We both look well and in

  open necked shirt your eyes search deep into

  the camera, only twenty months to go, but years

  you dreamed to hunt down a century of life.

  I am reading Billy Collin’s poem “Death Bed” in which

  he imagines and hopes for a peaceful end at home.

  It makes me think how you too would have wished

  for this. Did you feel cheated leaving us somewhere

  between the kitchen and the journey to the hospital?

  I know I did.

  My wish for you then this day, two years later, is that

  you too could have counted down the time to the end,

  perhaps lying in a bed, knowing there were moments left,

  all projects finished, your To Do list crossed out, a satisfied

  feeling of everything in order and a growing curiosity,

  tingling and fluttering the stomach muscles, about where

  you were going and what you would meet there.

  Unknown Times, Shadow Places

  There was in the beginning, unbidden, a flickering

  in first morning light, an awakening in the wakening,

  quietude only in the sleeping of dream nights, tumbling

  into flickering morning light, a woken awakening

  in offered hopes, dreams dangling on ends of worn

  thread, woven by shrunken toothless hags, born

  to weave and spin unearthly cloaks, precious yet torn,

  raggedy in their hanging places, seated in early morn

  they laugh and talk, haggle and yawn, hands strangling

  impatient cocks, awakening in the wakening, flickering

  first thoughts into morning light, breasts pounding

  their call is numbed, then smothered, life for the taking.

  Death for the waiting.

  II

  STORIES FROM MY TIME

  CIGAR JOHN

  I AM NINETEEN SITTING IN THE LOBBY of a hotel beside Madison Square Garden with my last ten dollars in my pocket. I think I look cool but internally I am petrified about running out of money before I get a chance to earn some. Yesterday we finished our orientation course and had to check out of the hotel. Now I am back desperately seeking work listening to other students who have also congregated here. Some are talking excitedly about the Catskills and job opportunities in the hotels, others mention the lovely girls apparently available in the Hamptons and ‘Let’s go there’ they say. A few drift offforming temporary bonds to finance bus trips across the country. I am tempted to follow but my father’s words are ringing in my ear ‘Don’t leave New York remember there are family friends beside you in Jersey City.’

  Now I am talking to a bell boy who asks me if I am Irish. Grateful for any company I tell him yes I am and does he know of any jobs going. ‘Sure’ he says ‘Go to room 436 in the Roosevelt Hotel here beside us and ask For Mr. John Rosen. He has great jobs on offer.’ I warn him not to tell any of the others and quickly leave. Running up the sweltering street, sidestepping the hot air vents from the subway, and imagining hordes of Irish students over-taking me I finally skip up the steps of the Roosevelt and pause in the lobby to dry out my wet and sticky shirt positioning myself directly underneath a monstrous chugging Westinghouse air-conditioning unit.

  I am now outside the door of room 436 and gently push the bell. The door suddenly opens and a voice says ‘Yeah what do you want.’ Looking down I ask ‘Mr. John Rosen?’ Nodding he turns and walks back into the room. He is dressed in slippers with black socks up to and multicoloured underwear down to his knees. There are silver bands around his muscled legs holding up thesocks. Above the underwear is a sweat shirt and protruding out of his mouth is a large cigar. ‘Sit down kid’ he says waving a hand around the room. He is now slumped in a deep chair with one leg dangling over the side. I sit opposite him trying to concentrate, over a hugebowl of fruit, on his small mouth and glowing cigar. ‘I am told you might have jobs on offer’ I blurt out. He takes the cigar out of his mouth and pointing it in my general direction he says ‘You bet I have kid. I have the best goddam jobs in the world. You want to work at Kennedy? I can pay you $150 a week to unload luggage. What do you think?’ Before I can answer he says ‘Good you can start tomorrow morning at 6.30am. Check in with Marty at United Baggage Handlers. Tell him Cigar John sentyou.’ In an instant he has me on my feet and is walking me to the door. “You’re a great kid” he murmurs reaching up to slap my back.

  I find myself outside in the corridor my mind whirling.Wow! $150 a week, how am I going to get to Kennedy so early in the morning, will Marty take me on, will I find United Baggage Handlers and finally, as I get into the lift to go down to the lobby, the thought; what hours will I have to work? Exiting the hotel I am assailed once more by the overwhelming humidity, the crowds and honking horns of cars. Deafened by the noise I at first do not hear or notice the man calling me. He is shouting ‘Hey you, yes you in the thick shirt.’ Turning towards the sound I see a large dark skinned man approaching me. He has a smile on his face and is looking over his shoulder at a small man who is winking at him. He stops in front of me the smile playing on his lips. ‘How’s tricks?’ he asks and I detect under the Brooklyn nasals an Irish accent. ‘Great’I say ‘Just great.’ He astonishes me by then saying ‘How is Cigar John?’ Without thinking I tell him about my encounter with Cigar John and the high paying job waiting for me at Kennedy Airport. He looks around, grabs me by the collar of my shirt and pushes me up against a wall. ‘Now look here kid’ he shouts into my face ‘We are not having any of you fancy students breaking our strike. If I catch you up at Kennedy tomorrow I will break both your fucking legs and you will be going home to Mammy on a stretcher.’ His final words are accompanied by a large spray of spit which settles on my cheek bones and slowly drips down my face.

  When he is gone I try to compose myself. My knees are knocking, my breath and heartbeat are irregular and I feel like I am going to faint. I struggle back to the YMCA, get my key, stumble into my room and promptly fall asleep on the bed. Later when I have time to reflect I realise how gullible I am, innocent in the ways of th
e real world, a half man among men and an ocean from familiar things and people. I recognise that this experience is a turning point for me, a crisis confronted early in life, an episode to learn from and grow wise.

  COLD MOUNTAIN

  IN THE BEGINNING THEY WERE JUST TWO. Strewn on the bed are photographs of their wedding day. My nineteen years old mother smiles nervously. She is dressed like Jackie Kennedy, pillbox hat and clunky shoes. They are in a car park, behind them is a wall and in the distance a small island. My father stares from the photograph, a jaunty look shading the hideous brown pin stripe suit he would continue to wear, to the embarrassment of the family,until I was twelve years old. A smile is on his face and he looks as if he has just whispered to my mother his oft repeated refrain that she would undoubtedly leave him when he got old. She was fifty five and he almost seventy five when she went to live with Dave Stirling her bridge partner. My father stayed on his own for five years until on his eightieth birthday I moved him in with me.

  Now we are just two again and he is near death. My sister would have appreciated the irony of the situation. We had both decided as ten year olds that the best way of showing our love for our father would be to make sure his funeral was the biggest, most talked about event in town. United in grief, and bonding with the kindness of the thousands of friends he undoubtedly had, our love for him would shine through to all. Now at ninety any friends he had are gone before him and I am carrying out the death vigil alone.

  My mother, before she left him, had one day found a file full of poems, which to her surprise seemed to be written by him. The poems spoke of love and lust, despair and betrayal, but also happiness and contentment and hinted at dark powerful passions. The love poems appeared to be about one woman only, and try as she might, my mother could not recognise herself in the tightly drawn portrait of a person in the throes of a love affair with my father. Indeed she could not recognise my father, as the narrator, the creator of words and emotions alien to her life with him.

  He had over the years slowly withdrawn from family life and spent a lot of time in his study writing. His withdrawal accelerated when my sister was found dead in her apartment. His poetry at that time spoke only of his love affair or, in a series of poems, discovered by me and unknown to my mother, of his failing marriage.