Poetry: Images of Istanbul by Simon R Gladdish

IMAGES OF ISTANBUL

BY SIMON R. GLADDISH

IMAGES OF ISTANBUL

Following on from the critical success of ‘Victorian Values’ and ‘Back to Basics’, ‘Images of Istanbul’ is the author’s
third collection of poetry.

In many ways it marks a new departure as it is essentially a
travelogue of the poet’s lengthy sojourns in Istanbul and
Kuwait City although a couple of the poems (‘Foxes’ and
‘Telephone’) were written whilst at home in Wales.

DEDICATION

For my much-missed mother Enid and father Kenneth (fellow author), my brother Matthew and his family, my sister Sarah and her family and last but never least, my wife Rusty, without whom there would have been nothing.

BIOGRAPHY
Simon R Gladdish was born in Kampala, Uganda in 1957.
His family returned to Britain in 1961, to Reading where he grew up.
Educated at Oxford and Cambridge Universities, he trained as an English Language Teacher, a profession which enabled him to live for years in Spain, Turkey, Tunisia and Kuwait. He now lives near Swansea, Wales.
His poetry has been warmly acclaimed by many other poets including Andrew Motion, the present British Poet Laureate.
He has published eight volumes of poetry so far: Victorian Values, Back to Basics, Images of Istanbul, Seasonal Affective Disorder, Original Cliches,
Torn Tickets and Routine Returns and The Tiny Hunchbacked Horse jointly translated from Russian with Vladimir and Elena Grounine.

EGO TRIP

I arrived last Sunday;
I’ve been here a week
And Turkish is a code
That I don’t speak.

My linguistic incompetence
Is causing me distress;
It’s one of those languages
You can’t even guess.

Sly street vendors
Are aware of this
And taxi drivers
Queue to take the piss.

I’ve got my phrase book
And I’ve got my guide
But have I got enough time
To reverse the tide?

I think I’ll have grown
An extra pair of lungs
Before I make myself known
In this strangest of tongues!

POLITICS

For colourful rulers,
We must look to the east.
Compare and contrast
Our bland western leaders
With their oriental counterparts:
Ivan the Terrible,
Vlad the Impaler,
Selim the Grim,
Saddam the Madman and
Boris the Drunkard.
The price of democracy
Is eternal vigilance
And the sly elevation
Of John the Modest
Over Suleyman the Magnificent.

WINTER

Soggy snowflakes slowly swirl
Like listless dervishes
Around the Ottoman blocks
Although the press of human traffic
And the heavy tramp of booted feet
Give them little chance to settle
Or survive.

The water was turned off again today.
As I reluctantly rejoined company
With my soiled apparel
I noticed the woman opposite
Washing her windows
For the third time
In as many days;
Conscientiously removing
The imaginary grime,
She reached into every clean corner
Before carefully rehanging
Her opaque net curtains.

105 IZZETIN SOKAK

Our flat is in Kadikoy near the docks.
It’s a bit basic. In fact it’s crap.
It smells of air-freshener and mouldy socks.
We don’t have any carpets;
Well, we’ve got one moth-eaten old rug in the lounge
But most of it is sandy coloured blocks
With matching curtains -
All the rage in Moscow, circa 1950.
The main entrance is tastefully painted two-tone
In curdled cream and dog-shit brown
With an appropriate accompanying stench.
(I don’t know if it’s the gas
But there’s always a lingering malodour of
Cabbages, rotten eggs, urine and decomposing food.)
To the rear we have a narrow balcony
Overlooking a wasteland wilderness
With some ominous cracks near the back door.
(That’s the end we reserve for visitors.)
Speaking of which,
One summer evening we had some guests over for drinks.
Suddenly, something fell from the ceiling
And brushed past my left shoulder.
When it landed, I saw that it was a dung beetle
With fiendish looking pincers
And a tail like a question mark.
After I had crushed it with my carpet slippers
I gave it a closer inspection and realised to my horror
That it was a scorpion which had left a pool of yellow venom
On the living room floor.
(It went a treat with the curtains.)
I thought the women took it very well -
They didn’t all leave immediately.
As you can imagine it worked wonders for our social life.
(Luckily we prefer our own company anyway.)
The funny thing is,
I really like this flat.
I feel remarkably at home here.

TURKISH BATH

I’ve just had a ten-minute shower
And spent an hour mopping it up.
I can’t help thinking
It would have helped a lot
If they had placed the spray
Over the tray
Instead of on the opposite wall
Several feet away.

MATCHES

I walked beside the Bosphorus
And bought a box of phosphorus
In order to ignite
The living-room light.

And when the lamp was lit,
I spelled the word ‘kibrit’
On that little box of phosphorus
I bought along the Bosphorus.

ISTANBUL SUNSET

You can see the minarets
Stabbing and probing the heavens
And the sleepy solitary fishing boats
Bobbing gently on the placid waves.

What you see is what you get
Staring out across the Bosphorus;
The celebrated spiky silhouettes
Of Istanbul’s most famous sacred mosques.

The sun begins to set,
Lassoing the city in a loop of light;
Pools of coral-pink and purple-violet
Briefly defy the jet-black curtain of the night.

An everyday scene for an Istanbulite,
But for me a transcendental sight:
The subtly fading contours of the star-strewn skyline
In the dusty pastel colours of Turkish delight.

THE BLUE MOSQUE

Even the moon
Was crescent-shaped and supine,
Lying on its back
Staring at the stars
As it hovered over the Blue Mosque.
It took a while to enter;
We had to cross with silver
An army of extended palms
Before taking off our shoes
And stepping inside.
The carpets ruby-red and sumptuous
Competing with the soaring azure arches
And delicately patterned
Turquoise stained-glass windows.
The colossal columns purposeful and stately
Supporting the noble forehead of the dome;
The wide-eyed windows of the clerestory
Admitting shafts of artificial light
Illuminating the gold on black on gold
Carefully chosen suras of the Koran.
No Muslim I,
Yet can concur with Keats:
Beauty is truth; truth beauty.
That is all we know on earth
And all we need to know.

THE HAGHIA SOPHIA

I was disappointed by the Haghia Sophia.
An ugly brick-red colour
It is imposing without being attractive
And none of the minarets match
Having all been built at different times.
(An elementary error, dear Watson!)
Less like a mosque than a power station
(Byzantine wattage converted to Ottoman voltage?)
You half expect to see thick black smoke
Come belching from its ill-assorted chimneys.
The interior is spacious, light and airy
And contains the fading vandalised remains
Of several magnificent mosaics.
In one of them Christ raises his right hand
In a gesture of blessing
While his left holds a Bible
With the Greek inscription:
‘Peace be with you. I am the light of the world.’
The problem with the Haghia Sophia
Is that it has too many influences
(Roman, Byzantine, Greek and Ottoman)
In a pointless pseudo-synthesis.

CARPET BAZAAR

The carpet shop was empty
Except for us.
We entreated the proprietor
Not to make a fuss.

We begged him to regard us
With circumspection.
Our finances dictated
It was only an inspection.

Still we got the spiel,
We got the feel,
We got the apple tea,
We got the smiles,
The salesman’s wiles,
The in-house lavatory.
We got the chat,
The patterned mat,
The kelim and the rug,
We got the price and the advice,
No wonder we felt smug.

Goodbye Guven
We have to go,
It’s time to catch the ferry.
We’ll be back in a while
For your virgin pile
When we win the lotterery.

CONCERT

Last night we went to see
The Istanbul Symphony Orchestra
Playing at the Ataturk Kultur Merkezi.
What a treat!
They began with a composition by Friedrich Gulda.
The chubby cellist looked like a rotund version
Of Groucho Marx in his owlish gold-rimmed glasses.
Talent? I’ve never heard such talent.
The music poured forth
Like a high-fidelity compact disk
From a quadraphonic sound system
And his hands were just a blur.
He was slightly overweight
And started to sweat under the lights
But his lubricious perspiration merely served
To enhance the overall performance.
Clap? We thought our hands would fall off.
The real star of the show, however, was the conductor.
Elderly, somewhat stooped,
Attired in a white suit with a crimson carnation
And a jaunty cravat wound round his scraggy neck
He was a showman to the tip of his baton.
Charisma? I’ve never seen such charisma.
During the Brahms Gypsy Dance he snatched a fiddle
From one of the lady violinists
And played a whole section
Facing the audience.
Laugh? The whole place erupted.
Then, during the Strauss Spring Voices Waltz
He executed a little soft-shoe shuffle on the stage.
Applaud? We went wild.
The final number was Hayman’s Hoedown,
You know that American piece with all the rodeo noises.
Anyway, on the final note
The drummer produced a pistol
And shot the conductor at point-blank range.
He lay there for a long time and the audience left.
I assume he’s alright;
He’s performing in Prague on Sunday.

MEHMET

Mehmet may not be the best hairdresser in Istanbul
But he’s certainly the cheapest and the most honest.
Actually I’m just being flippant – he’s excellent.
He’s a craftsman, an artisan, an artist.
He doesn’t simply shear hair,
He shapes it, moulds it and sculpts it
Like a topiarist transforming a privet hedge.
He smells of cigarette smoke and eau de cologne
And keeps breaking off to answer the phone.
The first time that I met Mehmet
He ran his fingers through my hair
Before I’d even got into the chair
And kept winking at me,
Obviously trying to put me at my ease.
He’s terribly friendly
(I’m surprised he hasn’t found himself a wife)
Still, he seems quite happy.
His hands are two feathery little sparrows
That dart and flutter round your head
Like a soft and gentle breeze.
The fact that I hardly speak a word of Turkish
Doesn’t inhibit him from carrying on
A convoluted conversation in that esoteric tongue.
All too soon it’s done.
Out come the tissues and the brushes and the mirrors,
The ultimate flourish of eau de cologne
And the final proprietorial pat on the head.
The best part of all
Is that when I pay him (bahshish included)
He lays his hand on his heart and gives a low bow.
How’s that for service?
(You’re lucky to get a nod in England.)
I’m going again next month.
I’d go every day if I could afford to.

BIRD LISTENING

Lying in bed late one night,
A strange inhuman cry
Percolated through our slightly open window.
‘What sort of a bird is that?’ I inquired.
‘It’s a cat,’ my wife replied.
‘I’ve never been much of an ornithologist.’ I sighed.
‘It’s an easy mistake to make,’ she lied.

BUDGERIGAR

I tried to teach the bird to talk
But he stayed as dumb as a piece of chalk.
I opened the cage to set him free
But he didn’t even look at me.
I opened the cage to free the bird
But the blinkered budgie never stirred.
I clasped him firm and held him high
But the barmy bird refused to fly.
I put him on the window-sill
And I dare say he would be there still
If I hadn’t replaced him in his cage
And braced myself for heaven’s rage.

FLOCK OF BATS

At night the block of flats
Becomes a flock of bats.
A crowd, a black cloud
Wheeling, whirling, spiralling
Round and around
Seventy feet above the ground.
Sinister, sightless and sad,
The blind leading the blind
In a circular pageant.
Neither bird nor mouse,
The topsy-turvy tenants
Of a haunted house.
Using auditory vision
And radar for flight,
They spin out their lives
In perpetual night.

RAT

I saw a rat the other day.
It was about a foot long
And that was just its tail.
It was nonchalantly sauntering
Towards an open drain,
Had a leisurely look round,
Twitched its whiskers and sighed
Before reluctantly deciding to return
To the sewer.
It must get a bit boring
In the bowels of the earth.
Even rats appreciate
The wind in their fur,
The sun on their backs
And a necessary change of scene
From time to time.
Probably just stretching its legs
After an afternoon’s love-making.
Everyone who saw it laughed
Including me
And a couple of Black Sea sailors
In their resplendent gold-braided uniforms.

ISTANBUL INSECT

A wind-borne insect blew in
Through our open window,
Its legs so thin I could barely see them
But that didn’t stop it running around
Flapping its gossamer wings,
Tiny yet bent on survival.
Single-mindedly searching for food and sex,
Air and water;
Keeping a wary eye out for larger predators
Like me.
It didn’t realise it was in no danger.
I watched transfixed,
Aware I was observing
A minute miracle.

OBSERVATION

Spain has the Alhambra,
Yugoslavia had Tito
And Turkey has as many mosques
As mosquitoes.

ALARM CALL

I was woken at five o’clock this morning
By the muezzin calling the faithful to prayer
And the high-pitched buzzing of a mosquito
In my right ear.
I found it difficult to disentangle
The pricking of religious conscience
From the persistent fizzing
Of the insolent insect.
All I knew was that I had lost a beautiful dream
And was unreasonably upset.
Vengeance would be mine.
At length I arose
Not to attend the mosque
But to attend to the mosquito;
My mission to seek and destroy
My bloodthirsty tormentor
(The least of Allah’s creatures)
And give it a taste of its own scarlet medicine.
The red smudge on the bedroom wall
Almost rebalanced the scales of justice.

ALLAH

Life is a problem,
A conundrum, a paradox,
A brain-teaser, a black-box,
A maze, a mirage, a labyrinth,
A Chinese puzzle, a riddle, an enigma,
A mystery; some would argue a cosmic farce.
Allah created the earth, the sun, the moon and the stars
Then hid Himself away in his seventy-seventh Heaven
Where even nuclear physicists can’t find Him.
The rocket scientist and the village idiot
Waver between the same two choices
We have always had:
Utter bewilderment
Or blind faith.

KNOWLEDGE

When God made us,
She made us blind;
Unable to unravel
The process that produced us.

When God created humankind,
Her superior intellect
Totally traduced us.

When we try to understand
The way the universe was planned,
We find ourselves unmanned
By ontological constrictions.

Our intelligence is dim;
The Almighty’s slightest whim
Can ensnare us in a maze
Of contradictions.

Philosophers like Kant
Knew less than my great aunt
Although his published works
Were clever.

As for Berkeley, Locke and Hume
Who opined from womb to tomb,
They knew about as much as my mate Trevor.

ISLAM

Why did God make Mohammed?
Because he wanted to make a prophet.
Why Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, Jesus?
Because he wanted to warn us.

You love this fleeting life too well
(Wrote Allah in His holy Book)
Yet don’t forget the Gates of Hell
Stand open. Take a closer look.

The Gates of Hell are gaping wide
For all who live in sinful pride,
But anyone who is generous, wise
Shall surely enter paradise.

The next life is the one where we
May live in peace and harmony.
In this life we must sweat and toil
And spill our seed on barren soil.

So that’s why God made Noah, Moses,
The Heavens and the earth, the rainbow and the roses;
Whales and crocodiles, camels and horses
And the sun and the moon pursuing their courses.

DAILY BREAD

On a dazzling Mediterranean morning
The scent of baking bread wafts mouth-wateringly
Along the still silent streets mingling
With the perfumes of mimosa and jasmine
Gently suffusing the sun-filled gardens.

The world sleeps on sublimely unaware
Of the workers toiling in the boiling bakery.
Darkling-dim and stifling hot; smoke-blackened beams
Snow-smothered by the flour-laden air.

Moustachioed men, loose-clad in cotton whites
Dash quickly back and forth in practised moves;
Hardly speaking, muscles rippling, backs complaining,
Straining to lift the scores of golden loaves
Out of the yawning furnace.

Teeth flashing, faces grinning in the gloom,
A familiar fragrance fills the dingy room.
Suddenly, without ceremony
The patient townsfolk
Step from the shadows
Eager to snatch up the yellow treasure
Spilling from the glowing cavern.
They rush outside
Clutching their bounty,
Racing down sunlit streets,
Feet pounding on uneven pavements;
Tossing and catching the baguettes
Too hot to handle or to hold.
The sun climbs high in a sapphire sky,
The day already glistering like gold.

SIMIT SELLER

Whilst the neighbourhood is still asleep,
A brown-skinned boy with broken teeth appears,
Knees buckling under the burden of a bulky tray
Precariously balanced on his head,
Piled high with quoit-shaped sesame-seed buns
Which sparkle in the early morning sun.

The townspeople are stirring in their beds,
The simit-seller’s song resounds through empty streets.
The neighbours are resistant and reluctant to awake
But the simit-seller is nothing if not persistent.

He is rewarded by a window in the wooden house above
Flung wide. A tousled head blears out
Bat-blinking at the unaccustomed light.
She holds up all ten fingers
And lowers her wickerwork basket
Bouncing and rebounding off the rough uneven walls.
With an acknowledging call
She hauls up her family’s simple austere breakfast.

The brown-skinned boy is smiling now,
Revealing his decaying sandstone teeth.
He carefully secretes away his daily bread
Then continues on his way, his strident propaganda piercing
The hungry subconscious of the slumbering neighbourhood.
Further down the street more windows swing and baskets fall
To receive the fresh elusive flavour of a new-born day.

MASTER BAKER

Did you hear about the Turkish baker
Who worked night and day
And still never made enough dough?
He became a poet,
Callling himself Selim Bulent Yeast.
Here is an example of one of his early efforts
(Indeed his only composition to date.)
The translation is literal
Rather than literary or lyrical.
‘Turkish bread is very good.
It tastes as freshly baked bread should.
It doesn’t taste of shredded wood.
It tastes instead like real food.’
Selim assures me he’s got a lot more
Poetic buns in the oven.
Congratulations on your new career, Selim,
But don’t give up the day and night job just yet!

TURKISH TRAFFIC

Octogenarians throw away their canes;
The blind develop second sight.
Pregnant women outsprint Olympic atheletes.
Has Jesus Christ returned? Not quite.
The citizens of Istanbul
Are attempting to cross the streets.
Turkish traffic needs to be perceived
To be believed or even conceived.
There are no laws, rules or regulations
Apart from resolute action-stations
And the survival of the quickest.
Traffic lights are just abused,
Zebra crossings lie unused.
Yellow taxis swarm like angry wasps
Scattering pedestrians like pigeons.
Private motorists hold a cosmic grudge;
Public vehicles cover you in sludge
And it would be quicker to push
The average dolmush.
You can taste the pollution
And the only solution
Is to stick to the uneven pavements
Where the worst you can sustain
Is a broken ankle
Or some lumber pain.

FERRY TRIP

The world slips past in a profusion of colours.
The ferryboat glides swiftly through the waters
Pursued by a stiffly blowing breeze.
The sunlight sparkles on the stunted wavelets
Tinted green and grey and blue.
Seated on the grimy decks, our hands clasped round our knees,
We gaze dreamily at the distant shore
Where the floating palaces, gleaming like ivory
Lie in stately elegance, glistening silently.

Seagulls hover hopefully above the hold,
Jostling and crowding each other like hungry schoolboys;
The ship is humming with a multitude of voices.
Clutching favourite toys, exclaiming in delight,
Children, shouting joyfully into the wind,
Lean recklessly between the safety rails,
Gripped by indulgent over-anxious parents.

The insistent cry of the tea-seller mingles with
The excited murmuring of the holiday throng;
Manoeuvering his delicately balanced tray
Covered with crystal glasses half-filled
With pale-green apple-scented tea,
He plies the gangways calling out his song.
The simit-seller with broken teeth
And tray piled high with sesame-seed buns
Stacked carefully on his head grins shyly.

Gracing the banks of the Bosphorus
Stand old Ottoman houses built of wood
Stll flawless having stood the test of time and watery decay.
As it threatens to get dark
We dock with an almighty thud against the tyres
Suspended from the quay
And, chattering like chaffinches,
Gradually disembark.

TURKISH AFTERNOON

It was hot this afternoon
When we wandered into town.
I went to the Kitapchu
And bought myself a Turkish Bible.
I couldn’t understand a word
Though perhaps one day I will.
Then we walked along the quay
Looking for a suitable café.
Eventually we found one
That was reasonably empty.
We ordered a couple of cans
Of lemonade.
In front of us
A bottled blond
Sitting alone
And smoking heavily
Was tossing her nicotine-stained hair
Like a horse switching its tail.
Like most Turkish women
She was painfully thin.
I never know whether it’s fashion
Or malnutrition.
We tipped the waiter out of guilt
Who responded by making us
A linguistically impenetrable offer.
Tempted to accept
We reflected
On the number of times
We’ve been fleeced
And politely declined.
‘Tuvalet nerede?’
‘Tuvalet yok.’
We both sighed and crossed our legs.
It hadn’t been a perfect day
Although it had been perfectly O.K.

STREET SCENE

In the sleepy sultry afternoon
Heavy with soporific heat,
Cats lie sprawled in the shade
Of the broad-leafed fig trees
Keeping a lazy surveillance of the dusty street.

Kids muck about in the gutters
Playing football and leapfrog and tag;
A woman pulls open the shutters,
A vagabond drags on a fag.

Mosques silhouette in the distance,
Cupolas outreaching the trees;
Flags feebly flap from the buildings
Stirred by a half-hearted breeze.

Fairly soon the moon will rise up full
And conclude another slothful afternoon
In Istanbul.

SULEYMANIYE MOSQUE

The glinting grey domes of Suleymaniye mosque
Ascend above the city’s skyline,
Brooding and omnipotent in the sultry summer haze;
The muezzin’s mournful summons echoes in the maze
Of bustling, teeming streets swarming with market traders,
Their strident voices vying with the holy exhortations.

Inside the mosque the stone is cool and atmosphere is still,
A soothing tranquil balm to calm our jangled overheated nerves.
Footsore and weary, tourists drooping like lilies in the heat
Ease off their dusty sandals from tired feet.
Awestruck they stand, staring in wonder,
Stunned into silence by such sumptuous splendour.

We linger under the central dome,
Necks craning, eyes straining to gaze up at man-made miracles.
Muted sunlight streams through stained-glass windows
Throwing vibrant glowing colours at the gloom;
We pause amazed at walls ablaze with blue ceramic tiles
Like gentians in full bloom.

Our adoration is abruptly interrupted
By a flock of Japanese tourists;
Childlike voices chattering and purring with delight,
Cameras clicking and whirring as they sweep past
In a flurry of flashes, hurriedly herded by their guide
Who rushes them off to the next mosque.
We follow them out of the main gate with the chiselled inscription:
‘There is no God but Allah and Mohammed is his prophet’
And wander slowly home through crowded city streets.

SINAN

‘In 1539 at the age of 49, after being appointed
chief of the imperial architects by Suleyman I
who appreciated his great talent, Sinan created
his magnificent buildings. In his lifetime he
built 80 large mosques, many schools, hospitals,
palaces, bridges, aqueducts and turkish baths.’
Talent?
Sinan meant to Istanbul
What Wren would later mean to London.
He turned an average town into an imperial city;
The mercury of mediocrity
Into the sublimest silver and most glorious gold;
Ideas into reality, dreams into buildings, visions into stone
And civic architecture into a soaring Saracen symphony.
Sinan died in 1588 aged 98
And was buried in a simple grave
Beyond the outer courtyard of the Suleymaniye mosque,
His place in paradise and history as solidly secure
As the firm foundations of his own creations.

TURKISH FLAG

Today is National Children’s day
And Turkish banners drape from every window.
The crescent moon protecting the shining pentangle
Like a pair of headphones,
An open parachute
Or even a blood-soaked bandage,
Brilliant white against a crimson background.

What are we make of this?
It’s only fair to point out
That Turks are not particularly nice to children
(Or anybody else.)
They send them out to play or beg
In deepest darkest winter,
Thrash them when they complain
And herd them into overcrowded classrooms
Manned by suicidal undernourished teachers.
On the other hand
Such instinctive support
For so worthy a cause
Deserves applause.
On the radio today
I heard that another batch of Kurdish terrorists
Had been executed
And a couple of investigative journalists
Electrocuted.
Patriotism, nationalism, chauvinism, jingoism, ethnic cleansing
Is all a matter of degree;
Call me a sceptical Englishman
But rather you than me.

WRITER’S BLOCK

I wish I could write
Like Guneli Gun
But I can’t
Even write
As well as her aunt.

OFF DAY

Drinking in a crummy bar,
Wearing a filthy mac,
A girl walks past the window
Her blond hair streaming down her back.
Music pours through the speakers,
Turkish and incomprehensible;
My feelings about this country
Are frankly indefensible.
Third world chic and Black Sea cheek
Are not what I am after;
Please take me back to the pool that’s black
And sand and sea and laughter.

PARTY AT GOZTEPE

Two nights ago I attended a party at Goztepe,
Got blind drunk and profoundly offended
A woman I don’t even know
Which just goes to show
The dangers of drinking immoderately
And acting irresponsibly.
I identified her as a feminist
And heaped on her the sort of ritual abuse
That insecure males reserve
For such occasions.
(I’ve always been a bit uncouth.)
Too late to apologize,
Unable to find her,
I feel the burning brands of shame
Behind my ears
And the bitter taste of ashes in my mouth.

VISION

You high-bosomed houri
With your tray of sherbet,
Your long dark tresses
And your bashful smile,
Your shyly sparkling eyes
And your milk-white teeth,
Your hot black coffee
And your bunch of purple grapes.
Am I dead already?
Did I pass the test?
Or in some seedy café
In old Istanbul?
You bow your head and whisper
In a voice like tinkling silver
That I’d better get a move on
Since you close at twelve.

DREAM POEM

Last night I dreamt about a perfect poem.
It was only one page long, that is
Length played no great part in its immensity
Yet frightening in its intensity.
It reminded us
We are but shadows fencing on a summer lawn
Condemned to die as soon as we are born,
Patiently awaiting the explosion of the sun.
It reminded us
That liquid splashes
And love and passion turn to dust and ashes.
It reminded us that all is vanity
And the quest for permanence, insanity.
We are human flotsam scattered by the wind
Into the whirlpool of nothing.
So true was the poem
That the words hurt
Like needles driven into flesh,
The metaphors timeless yet still fresh
Mocking us as much with their antiquity
As their immediacy.
I wish I could remember how it went,
Or if it rhymed or if it bent
This way or that but can recall
Almost nothing save for its existence.
Such abject failure of my memory
Makes it impertinent of me
To scribble even these few lines
In pathetic apology
And clumsy mimicry
Of my dream poem’s authenticity.

IMAGES OF ISTANBUL (HAIKU)

A haiku is a Japanese poem
Composed of only three lines
And no more than (say) twenty words.

The Judas tree is flowering
Pink blossoms luxuriate in the sunshine
Soon the petals will fall and form a carpet.

A sudden storm detonates
People cower and run for cover
The thirsty earth opens its mouth and drinks.

Cats howl at midnight
Screaming like abandoned children
Scratching out each others’ hair and eyes.

The family opposite
Can see right into our apartment
Luckily they are Turkish so it doesn’t matter.

A scorpion scuttles across our bedroom floor
Thinking it a beetle
I squash it with my bare feet.

The trader gave us a grudging discount
On two pairs of sandals
Which fell to pieces when we wore them.

The weary potato vendor
Wears out his voice and shoe leather
Before trudging home to a plate of cold chips.

So much depends upon the red tomatoes
Glazed with rainwater
Beside the white mushrooms.

The simit-seller is a charming fellow
Whose accomplishments are stellar
Though his teeth are rather yellow.

Istanbul taxi drivers have no sense of direction
They always go the wrong way, apologize profusely
And then charge double.

Turkish flags float from every window
Scarlet and white like a bloody bandage;
Tourists smile indulgently.

I noticed an attractive young woman
Wearing a black headscarf and veil
I smiled, she blushed, we both looked away.

The fishmonger pours tapwater
On his catch to keep it fresh;
The fluttering fins and cloudy eyes register grim approval.

The Bosphorus is a sheet of glass
The ships, insects crawling across it;
The centipede, a Turkish galley.

The ferry steams from Kadikoy to Eminunou
The passengers outnumbered
By shrieking seagulls, cormorants and guillemots.

After the football match
Excited supporters fire their guns
In celebration of their comprehensive defeat.

Most people are sheep
They follow the herd and always seem amazed
When the end up in the abattoir.

The sky fades over Istanbul
In the smoky Ottoman blocks
Lonely orange windows light up one by one.

The night wraps Istanbul in a velvet cloak
The minarets puncture the indigo fabric
Creating tiny pinpricks of light.

Turkish, unlike Arabic
Is a mellifluous language
Beautiful and incomprehensible in equal measure.

FOXES

I saw a fox this morning,
No, that’s not strictly true;
Under the spreading apple tree
I actually spotted two.
Blissfully unaware of me
They made no attempt to hide;
One was coiled upon the bench,
The other alongside.
Among the foxgloves and the buttercups,
Muscles twitching, ears rotating,
The morning sunlight on their backs
As bronze as copper-plating.
Delightfully at rest,
Nudging and nestling further
Into their chestnut fur,
Their gingery hair,
The white blaze on their chest;
Their pointy noses quivering,
Questing the scented air.
Relaxing after hunting
With no cares in the world,
Their bodies sleekly slumbering,
Their brushes neatly furled.
Eventually the lower one
Got slowly to his feet,
Sniffed the air, twirled round three times
And went straight back to sleep.
Later, when I peered again
The bench was quite bereft,
Aurelien and Reynard
Had evidently left.
Believers boast of miracles,
Of water into wine
But the Holy Book of Nature
Remains the Creator’s greatest sign.

TELEPHONE

The telephone dismembers the silence
Like a spoilt child demanding attention.
(I am already engaged.)
I break off what I am doing
And amble slowly towards it.
(The telephone and I are old adversaries.)
As I stretch out my hand
To squeeze its plastic throat
It dies on me, its final convulsion
Merging with the serenity it has abruptly ruptured.
I should resume my former task
But the interruption has upset me.
Was it my wife, my mistress, my father, my boss?
I ought to ring round and find out
But I can’t be bothered
And anyway people would think I was mad.
Sighing deeply and
Pausing only to curse the inventiveness
Of Alexander Graham Bell,
I return to my work.

KUWAIT

Kuwait’s an interesting country:
There’s sand and sea and sun
And soaring, gleaming grey skyscrapers
With cockroaches inside,
Chevrolets outside
And lugubrious camels
Munching the threadbare scrub
Along the margins of the desert.
Kuwait is an interesting country
With its dish-dashas and car crashes,
Flowing white robes
And open-toed sandals,
Square squat modern blocks,
Kiosks and mosques on every corner.
Its pylons and nylons,
Rayons and crayons,
Prayer mats and stray cats.
Oh, I almost forgot
The millions of gallons of oil,
A veritable mass
Of petrol and diesel and gas;
The substance below,
The odour most definitely above ground.
Kuwait is an interesting country. Just Q8.

HANADI

Hanadi, you are black
And the abaya on your back
Is comely.
Your smile as radiant as the stars,
A crescent moon slung like a hammock
Between Jupiter and Mars.
Your salt-white teeth
As precious as the milky pearls
Your forefathers used to dive for.
When I see you in the classroom
Demurely seated to my right-hand side,
My weary spirits lift.
I, a harassed teacher
Dreaming of yards of untouched yellow sand,
Miles of waving, dimpled denim sea
And Copacabana cocktails in the Caribbean.
Only one thing saddens me, Hanadi.
Why is there always an empty space
Between you and the other girls?
Even stars have companions.

FEAR

I arrive late and sweating,
Push open the door and enter the room.
The others are already there, seated.
The atmosphere is tense, moody, profoundly irritable.
I don’t want to look at them
So I stare at the floor.
The stale air tightens like a noose.
Slowly I raise my head
And peer apologetically around.
I see their grim, pitiless faces
And read the contempt and hatred
Written in their eyes.
They make no effort to conceal
Their intense loathing of me
And everything I stand for.
They obviously believe I’m guilty
And I’m beginning to wonder
If they don’t have a point.
The blood hammers in my temples
And my heart smashes against my ribs
Like a caged cockatoo.
I try to speak.
Inarticulate sounds gurgle in my throat.
I try again and can just discern
A thin, reedy, strangulated voice
I barely recognize as my own.
‘Good morning class. Please open your books at page 13.’

SUMMONS

Five times a day the muezzin calls.
His summons shakes the city walls.
It’s frankly getting on my nerves,
But never mind.

And as the world is new and old
The self-same story must be told
To draw the faithful to the fold
Quinturnally.

In harsher voice than any bell
(Designed to scare the infidel)
He frightens us with scenes of hell
(It sounds a bit like EFL)
The endless repetitions till
Our bones are seized with rust
And our mouths are stopped with dust.

Forget humiliation;
We know we do not stand a chance,
Our fortune is to sway and dance
To the rhythm of creation.

Five times a day the muezzin calls.
His summons shakes the city walls
To their foundation.

N.V

I envy bakers their daily bread.
I envy those already dead.
I think, as I’ve already said,
I envy them.

Diplomats with their pretty wives,
Aristocrats with their easy lives,
Almost anyone who survives
The butchers with their steely knives.

Everyone who hasn’t a care,
Anybody with plenty of hair,
Everybody everywhere;
I envy them.

I envy those who are blessed with luck,
The idle rich who don’t have to work,
The feckless poor who don’t give a fig;
I envy them.

Children who are loving and giving,
Parents who work hard for a living,
Atheists who end up believing;
I envy them.

Sensation-seekers in faraway places
(Especially those with beautiful faces)
Winners who’ve been dealt all the aces;
I envy them.

I saw a woman with a family to feed,
I watched her care-worn fingers bleed,
She had no time to play or read;
I didn’t envy her.

I saw a child without a limb,
Blown up by a home-made bomb.
He’d barely left his mother’s womb;
I didn’t envy him.

FOR RUSTY

When I’m in the bath
I could be in any bath,
Anywhere in the world.
And when I’m in bed
I could be in any old bed.
And when I wake up
I could be absolutely anywhere,
Anywhere at all.
And when I’m in the kitchen making tea,
I could be in any kitchen
In the known universe.
And when I drive to work
I could be in any country
(That drives on the right-hand side.)
And when I’m in the classroom trying to teach,
I could be in any secondary school
On the planet.
It’s only when I’m in your arms
That I realize I’m completely lost.

N.M.E.

The eye is the enemy of seeing,
The ear of hearing,
The tongue of tasting,
The nose of smelling,
And the fingers of touching.
Reason is the enemy of understanding
And logic of comprehension.
Sex is the enemy of love
And children the enemy of freedom
Which is the enemy of fatherhood.
When you see an enemy
It is something you wouldn’t wish
On your worst anemone.
My enemy is dead
I think, I believe, I wish, I pray, I hope
He doesn’t read this poem.
My enemy’s enemy is my friend
And we are all
Our own worst enemy.

SULTANS AND SLAVES

Whilst we cower beneath life’s storms
Before becoming food for worms,
Sultans and slaves
Sleep in their graves
Oblivious to
The wind and the waves.

LAMENT

Poets are poor
And live in hovels
Because they’re too lazy
To write novels.

Novelists are rich
And live in chateaux.
‘Another glass of port, please
To accompany my gateau!’

Life is cruel
To poets in garrets.
They subsist on gruel
Made of mouldy carrots.

Lost in thought
On a southbound train,
I add a pointless adjective
To lengthen the refrain.

When I look in the mirror
I see lines of age
But it’s better than staring
At an empty page.

Until we’re buried
In the barren earth,
The thickness of our wallet
Is the measure of our worth.

I too could have been
A famous novelist
If I’d spent fewer evenings
In an existential mist.

The right of Simon R. Gladdish to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

Poetry: Five O’Clock Shadow

FIVE O’CLOCK SHADOW

As another new day dawns, an arctic silence
Lies upon the frosted furrowed fields.
A bitter breeze blows through denuded trees.
A bunch of disillusioned crows sit hunched
Among frost-blasted branches,
Mourning for the summer days long past.

In the distant woods, a wily fox returning late back to his lair
Gives out a sharp consumptive cough,
A sinister sound, enough to set the huddled birds
A shuddering on their perches.

A wintry sun shines weakly in a blue uncertain sky,
Reflecting rainbows in the glittering crystals
Suspended like diamonds from the cottage eaves,
Trembling in Zephyrus’s icy breath.
A brazen robin trills his song, defying Death
Who masquerades in winter’s hoary mantle.

Across the bleak and whitened wastes of empty fields
The strident call of some triumphant pheasant can be heard,
Strutting proudly through the ploughed  and furrowed iron ground.
A haughty bird who bears his noble plumage like a shield of honour,
A brightly feathered coat of arms.

But now the winter’s day is disappearing,
As Vesper spreads his cloak of gathering gloom,
And in a clearing through the snow clouds
Can be spied brave Hesperus travelling home.
 
MORPHEUS AND REYNARD

Wrapped in Morpheus’s poppy scented cloak
Lost along the paths paved with unwanted dreams,
There came a sound so strange that broke
Into my unconscious, a lingering, chilling, sobbing scream.

The clock ticks on and you breathe easily beside me,
I lie awake, all senses straining in the dark,
Waiting for another sound to reach me,
Listening for the fox’s prehistoric bark.

Going quickly to the open window,
I gaze upon the silent and deserted street,
And suddenly I catch the faintest echo
Of Reynard’s snarling cough as he retreats.
 

The right of Rusty Gladdish to be identified as the the author of this works has been  asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents act 1988.

The Inheritance Powder

The Inheritance Powder. A Short Story by Rusty Woodward-Gladdish
‘Arsenic has been a popular way of poisoning people since the Middle Ages. The symptoms of arsenic poisoning could be confused with those of many illnesses, and it was also very difficult to detect arsenic after death so it provided a practical way of murdering someone. Indeed, white arsenic became known as ‘Inheritance Powder’. (Marjie Bloy. Ph.D., Research Fellow of the National University of Singapore)

Part One: Winter

George and Julia

It was raining again. It ran, coursing like tears down the window pane. George lay awkwardly in his bed facing the window. He lay on his side staring unseeingly out at the rain, his long legs drawn up into his stomach. His silver hair was dark with sweat. He moved his head irritably from side to side on the damp pillow. Then, his face contorted into a grimace and his eyes became mere slits as a searing pain shot through his entire body. His back arched as he wrestled with the all consuming pain. Then, just as he felt he could not bear another second, it stopped as suddenly as it started. He rolled onto his back, gasping for breath as the throbbing, red wave of pain ebbed from his spare frame.

He lay on his back for a moment staring at the ceiling, his muscles released from their vice-like grip, relaxed. He waited for a moment then he sat up gingerly. An icy wind sprang up outside and crept in the open window by stealth, tugging at the chintz curtains. George shivered involuntarily. He was nursing a full bladder and felt the need to urinate. He swung his legs out of bed and stood up unsteadily. He went to the window and looked out at the garden below. The late afternoon light was fading as winter drew its dark mantle over the neat suburban garden. It was raining steadily and the black denuded trees trembled in the sqally winds. Two dissident crows sat hunched in the branches with their backs to him. He frowned at the sight of these interlopers. It was unusual to see crows. The garden was normally the undisputed domain of three chattering magpies. He closed the window and shuffled to the bathroom.

After he had relieved himself he washed his hands allowing the water to run over his fingers. He leaned his head weakly against the glass of the bathroom mirror. It felt cool against his hot, moist skin. He studied the face reflected there. His hair was almost completely silvery white. Nothing left to suggest the full mane of blue-black hair of his youth. The green eyes that gazed back at him seemed dimmed somehow. Pain had dragged down the outer corners, giving him a permanently sad expression. He noted the deep lines running from nose to mouth. He had just turned sixty but looked older.

These terrible episodes of pain were aging him. He couldn’t understand it. He had always been so healthy and strong.
He still played tennis and golf. He scratched his head absently. The doctors had subjected him to a barrage of tests but could find nothing. He turned away from the mirror and made his way back into the bedroom. He sat on the edge of the bed. He could hear his wife Julia clattering about in the kitchen downstairs. The muffled strains of the radio drifted upstairs.

He shuddered again. The room felt cold although he had closed the window. He realised he was thirsty and a little hungry too. His eyes fell on the old walking cane he once used for walking the moors. He grasped the cane and gave three resounding knocks on the floor. Julia came running sprightly up the stairs. She put her ash blonde head round the door and beamed at him.

‘Feeling better darling?’ she crooned.

‘Well yes, I do as a matter of fact’ he murmured.

‘Shall I bring you something on a tray darling? What about smoked salmon and scrambled eggs and a pot of Earl Grey? It’s your favourite’ she purred.

‘Yes, that’d be lovely dear, but don’t bother bringing it up. I’ll come down’

‘Are you sure darling? You look very pale’

‘Perfectly sure’ said George firmly ‘By the way, don’t you think the house is rather cold tonight?’ He noted that she was wearing a heavy sweater and thick tights concealing her shapely legs.

‘The central heating’s on darling. Perhaps it’s because you don’t feel well’ she said and whisked out of the room.

Downstairs in the kitchen Julia set about making George’s supper. She moved about the kitchen with a measured efficiency that belied her sixty two years, humming to herself as she worked. She put a dish of raw beaten eggs into the microwave, four minutes on ‘low heat’ and then began to cut the smoked salmon into strips. Wonderful things microwaves. Julia never took modern technology for granted. DVD recorders, washing up machines, mobile phones and computers. How on earth did we manage without them? The microwave pinged, signalling the completion of the eggs. She stirred some double cream into the scrambled eggs then began to shape the smoked salmon into rolls. As she waited for the kettle to boil for the tea she cast her mind back to when she and George had first begun their affair. They were both married to other people in those days which gave their affair that exquisite frisson of excitement. Then, as luck would have it, Roger had a massive heart attack as she was driving him home one night. He had been hopelessly drunk as usual. However, her bereavement had been softened by a substantial inheritance. Roger, ever the pragmatist, had been heavily insured and there had been several weeks of retail therapy. Poor Helena had succumbed to breast cancer leaving George hysterical with guilt and grief, but she had been there to comfort him, naturally.

Their relations had been sexually charged rather than sensual. She had to admit that she was rather highly sexed and somewhat demanding in that department. This suited them both however, although as time went on Julia realised that there were ‘others.’ Her shrewd blue eyes narrowed to cat’s pupils as she remembered the lies, the subterfuge, the silent phone calls and the nights when George failed to come home. Well, they were both in their sixties now. The bloom of those fabulous fifties long faded. She ran her liver spotted hands down her body. She was no longer quite so slim, but her breasts were full and heavy. In her youth she had longed to be tall and statuesque but only reached five feet four. She supposed that they were now both past their best. Now George stayed at home writing articles for the university. Now she knew exactly where he was.

Julia poured boiling water into a large white teapot with a bamboo handle. She arranged the food on a tray and took it into the dining room. She went to the foot of the stairs to call George. Pausing at the central heating controls she turned the settings down to the minimum. Then she stepped lightly into the dining room humming gaily as she went.

* *
The evening sun began to slip down behind the hills. The air was heavy and oppressive There was no breeze to stir the dusty foliage of the trees. It had, in fact, been an exceptionally hot day and had exceeded record temperatures. The newspapers and TV were full of speculation about the weather. People were dying of the heat in France and Italy. Really quite bizarre. Everything in the garden was wilting except the lavender and Rosemary borders. The purple flowers were smothered in bees and the scent of the Rosemary wafted in through the open conservatory windows. It really did have quite a Mediterranean feel. They needed another gardener now that Potts had decided to retire.

The last rays of the sun lit up the surrounding hills painting them a delicate rose pink and casting long shadows in the meadows. The heat rose up from the scorched earth and wrapped the house in  a steamy warmth.
Julia sat staring listlessly into her dressing table mirror. Downstairs, a telephone was ringing somewhere in the house but she didn’t seem to hear it. She leaned towards the mirror and her small piercing blue eyes examined her face with studied care. She ran a finger down her rather large nose thoughtfully and then patted her newly peroxide hair. Beads of sweat be-jewelled her upper lip. A bottle of Gordon’s gin and a glass stood on the dressing table. She carefully poured a small amount of the liquor into the glass and sipped it reflectively.

Roger was late. That must have been him ringing just now. He was probably drunk and wanted her to come and pick him up from the White Hart. Roger’s drinking was beginning to intrude on their lives. The pub was becoming a second home. Perhaps the business wasn’t going so well. She couldn’t tell. Roger never discussed the business with her. Not that she cared one iota as long as she had free rein with her credit card. She loved shopping. Drunk with the power of spending. She adored staggering out of the stores, weighted down with numerous bags looped round her fingers, her face flushed with pleasure. Besides, if anything happened to Roger (perish the thought) she inherited everything. He was heavily insured.

Julia had always enjoyed receiving gifts and in the early days Roger had been especially generous and had showered her with expensive presents. She was not personally familiar with the act of giving to please others. It was more in her nature to receive.

When she was a child her father always brought home some little trifle for her delight. She remembered the china doll with golden hair that opened and closed its eyes and cried ‘Mama’ when it was turned over. Then there was the little bracelet, glinting gold, with opals flashing their mystical green fire. Her eyes darkened as she recalled the puppy he had  once brought home for her and her sister when their mother was in the hospital. It had been a little golden Labrador with huge eyes of velvet brown. She had never been comfortable with animals. They always needed something; feeding or taking for a walk or stroking. Sometimes she had forgotten to feed it. Her father was busy at the hospital with their mother so when the puppy fell into the fishpond one winter’s day and got tangled up in the netting used for catching the falling leaves, Julia could only watch its futile struggles and whimperings as it tried to scramble up out of the icy water. When its useless scrabbling and whining ceased, Julia stared curiously as the small body suddenly released its hold on life and floated out, belly-up, into the middle of the pond. She let out a great sigh and blew on her freezing fingers. Then she turned and ran toward the house scuffling through the dead leaves in her pretty fur lined boots.

She found her sister in the music room practising a song with Miss De Mielle the music teacher. She sat listening politely as her sister’s voice flew round the room like a swallow, dipping and soaring and finally coming to rest, vibrating on the low notes. It was a song full of tenderness and sadness and made Julia think about the puppy whose stiff little body had sunk into the waving tendrils of the underwater plants. She felt her face grow hot momentarily with guilt but then her discomfort quickly receded at the thought of the gifts her father might be bringing that evening. Without waiting for her sister to finish her music lesson she ran up the stairs two at a time to her room.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *
Part Two: Roger and Julia

They were going to be late for dinner with the Huntington-Smythes. Julia rose and walked over to her wardrobe. It was stuffed with dresses and outfits for every conceivable occasion, some with the labels still attached. They had never been worn. Rack after rack of shoes was revealed in another cupboard. Laid out neatly in gleaming rows.
‘Imelda Marcos eat your heart out’, she murmured out loud.

She finally selected a close fitting black velvet dress with a low neckline and shoes to match. She sat down again at her dressing table and began to rifle impatiently through her drawer until she finally extracted a velvet choker with a large diamond like stone attached to it. She put it on and then leaned back to admire her reflection. Just a dash of red lipstick and a wave of her mascara wand and she was ready. The telephone began trilling again but this time it was answered by Mrs. Overton, the housekeeper.

‘Mrs Huntley,’ she called ‘ Mr Huntley’s on the phone. He’d like to speak to you’.
She sighed exasperatedly, ‘ Alright, Ill take it up here’.
Julia picked up the receiver of the white telephone on the bedside table.
‘ Roger where the hell are you? You know we’re going to dinner with the Smythes. We’re supposed to be there at eight.’

‘Yes, I know that old girl, no need to panic’ slurred Roger good-naturedly.’ Just been having a few bevvies with Godfrey in the White Hart. You remember Godfrey Palmer? We were at prep school together’.

‘You’re drunk!’ hissed Julia. ‘How predictable!!’
‘Yes, I s’pose’ I am old thing’ chuckled Roger amiably. ‘Come and get me there’s a good girl. We can drive directly over to the Smythes. Should be a barrel of laughs’, he said dryly, ‘At least I’ve got a head start’.

She snorted. ‘Oh for God’s sake! Just stay where you are and I’ll meet you in about half an hour’
Roger giggled, ‘That’s my girl’. The receiver clattered loudly in her ear then suddenly purred in monotonous silence.

She replaced the receiver and glanced at her watch. It was 7.45. She ran downstairs snatching up her mobile and car keys from the hall table. Outside the air felt stuffy. She got into her little blue Polo, and scattering gravel over the flowerbeds she drove off down the road.
* * * * *

As Julia drove along she glanced at the evening sky. Wisps of dark grey cloud began to form into billowy thunderheads. The air suddenly became heavier and torpid. Lightning flickered across the glowering sky.

‘That’s all I need’ she fumed inwardly. She pressed her Manolo Blahnik harder on the accelerator and the little car shot forward obligingly. The heavens opened just as she pulled into the car park of the White Hart pub. She stopped at the front entrance and peered through the windscreen. Through the curtains of rain she could see Roger weaving about unsteadily in the doorway. She leaned across and opened the passenger door and hissed at him
‘Get in the car for goodness sake!’
Roger flopped into the seat like a landed trout.
‘Cant do the seat belt up’ he muttered.
She sighed impatiently and grudgingly helped him with the belt.
‘Just look at you’ she snapped.’ You look as though you’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards. You knew we were invited to the Huntington-Smythes’, she wailed, her voice ending on a perilously high note.
‘Oh bugger the Huntington-Smythes! Terrible snobs! Haven’t got a personality between ‘em let alone a brain!’ snorted Roger. ‘Anyway. I’ve got the mother and father of a headache! Started as soon as I woke up this morning. Like a bloody sledge hammer in my head’

‘I’m not surprised’ she commented.

‘Have you got any aspirins in your bag?’
‘You’re such a fool Roger!’ Julia said, ignoring his request. ‘Bertie could put a lot of business your way if you played your cards right. But you never could play cards could you?’ she said grimly. Her knuckles gleamed white as her grip tightened on the steering wheel. She started the car and drove on through the now torrential rain. Thunder reverberated round the hills and crackled in the valleys. Visibility was almost impossible. She strained forward to see through the windscreen. A squally wind came out of nowhere and began to buffet the little car.

Suddenly Julia was aware of some strange, animal noises filling the interior of the car. They were coming from Roger.

‘What on earth’s the matter with you now?’
There was no answer.
She looked at him quickly and saw that his face had become contorted and had a blue-grey pallor. He was drooling.

‘Oh my God!’
But no human sound came from Roger’s quivering, slobbering, open mouth. Only a snoring, chuckling sound. Through the gloom she saw a lay by and quickly pulled over. The road was deserted. The rain bounced noisily on the bonnet of the car. There was no one to help them. She undid her safety belt and turned to Roger. She touched his hand gingerly and drew it back sharply, as if it had been burned. It was ice cold and his fingernails were a pale lilac. A flash of lightning lit up his face. His lips were  now blue.

With remarkably steady hands, Julia reached for her mobile. She must ring an ambulance. They must have a doctor. They must get Roger to hospital!!! He was very ill. It was a matter of life or death. He could die. He…. Then, her mind suddenly emptied and she became calm. She stared at Roger with a certain curiosity. She had never seen anything die before. Only that useless little dog daddy once bought for her. As she continued to look at him his eyes opened and fixed on her face. He couldn’t talk or move, but those watery blue eyes begged and pleaded for help. She didn’t speak. Only Roger’s supplicating blue eyes sparked the silence. As she continued to watch,  tears slipped down his frozen cheeks. His eyes never left her face. Precious minutes ticked by. He  seemed to be weakening. There were long pauses between the greedy, gobbling gasps for air. His face had  also now become  quite blue; the hands pale and immobile lay lifelessly by his side. Julia picked up her mobile and keyed in the numbers.

‘Emergency! Which service please?’ The calm, flat tones of the operator spoke into her ear.
‘Hello! Hello! I need an ambulance quickly. My husband has collapsed. I think he’s had a heart attack!!
‘Is he breathing?’
‘Yes, he’s very blue and cold.’
‘Can you feel his pulse?’
‘Yes…no..Oh! I don’t know! Just a moment. Yes, it’s very faint. Oh please come quickly! We’re in the lay by on the dual carriage way, just about a mile from the White Hart pub in Hillsfroom’.

‘Try not to panic. Loosen his clothing. The Paramedics will be with you as soon as they can’

Julia put down her mobile and turned to Roger. He was slumped awkwardly in his seat. He lay there quietly now. His face seemed twisted to one side. The frantic noises had stopped. She undid his top shirt buttons then put her ear to his chest. No sound or movement came from that stilled heart. She rummaged in her bag for a little mirror. She held it to his open mouth. No mist appeared. Then with a shuddering sigh she sat back in her seat in the eerie silence and watched the rain pour relentlessly down the windscreen.

The Inheritance Powder: Part 3

George and Julia:

Autumn
After supper George decided he felt well enough to go downstairs. He washed and shaved but kept on his pyjamas and dressing gown. He glanced at his watch. It was 8.30pm. No point in getting dressed now. Odours of the Shepherd’s Pie they had had for supper lingered in the hall. He shuffled downstairs and went straight into his study, his refuge and his sanctuary. The floor length , burgundy velvet curtains were pulled back to reveal intricately patterned, Art Nouveau, leaded windows. Books from floor to ceiling lined the walls and a large, upright Steinway piano stood shining in the corner covered with family photographs. On the wall above the piano hung a large oil portrait of a beautiful woman. She gazed down through blue eyes, fringed with long, dark lashes. An all pervasive air of sadness seemed to surround the painting. A thick, deep red, Turkish carpet caressed his slippered feet.

For a moment he sat at his desk and looked out of the front window at the rain soaked garden. A tall holly tree stood sentinel near the gate and mature rhododendron plants huddled together to form an impenetrable screen obscuring the flower beds and the gravel drive. The headlights from passing cars flickered across the window as they swished through the puddles at the roadside, throwing up great sprays of water. In the twenty years they had been in Dearing, he noticed that the traffic had got heavier. A sign of the times. The excellent airport connections and only one hour from London by bus and train made the little redbrick town a very desirable place to be. He switched on a green angle poise lamp and directed the light downwards towards the desk, so that he was less visible from the road. With a sigh he slid open the bottom drawer and took out a bottle of Glenmorangie. He poured himself a measure of the amber liquid.  He could hear the muffled sounds of a TV programme from the living room. It sounded like ‘Gardener’s World’. Julia would be riveted. It was one of her favourite programmes.
Good old Julia! They had been together for nearly twenty years now. For a long time their relationship had been very physical. Julia was highly sexed. Even now the sight of her erect nipples straining against the fabric of her blouse turned his bowels to water. Some things never die. In the early days they had made love anytime and anywhere. Both trembling with haste and a desire to achieve release and put out the fires of their burning lust. Of course he had the odd fling here and there. Casual, friendly, sexual encounters. He had covered his tracks well. She could never have found out. He smiled involuntarily, delighted with himself and the power of the secrets he held. His whole life had been predicated on deception and secrecy in his intimate relationships! He excelled at conspiritorial games and thrived on subterfuge. He thought how shocked Julia would be if she had any inkling of his affair with Erica. He sat back in his chair and allowed his mind to drift down those crowded halls of memories so rarely visited.
When Helena died he felt empty, bereft and sick with guilt. His sense of loss was palpable. For the first time in his life he felt alone and abandoned. Without her he was nothing. She was the one who kept him from falling apart. She sensed and soothed his moods. When he sneaked back home in the early hours stinking of another woman’s scent, babbling lies and weak excuses, she would reward his shoddy behaviour by cooking him a delicious snack! She gave him her unconditional love but he repaid her loyalty with betrayal and humiliation. She took him back without question over and over. He had always been weak where women were concerned. He seemed to need their constant attention and approbation and was lured to them like a moth to the flame. So many lovers lost in the conflagration. He loved their feminine paraphernalia. The perfume bottles and myriad of msyterious jars and aerosols cluttering up the bathroom cabinet. The coloured hair ornaments and glittering trinkets spread in disarray over the dressing table. Their very female scent set his nostrils twitching like an old dog fox tracking a vixen. He knew he would never leave her. However, he was to be denied that privilege, for Helena lost her long and painful battle with breast cancer and died a quiet and convenient death. A cardinal chapter in his life was closed for ever.
He poured himself another drink and tossed it back quickly, feeling the fiery liquid sear his tonsils, almost making him retch. As he bent down to replace the bottle in the drawer his eye fell on the little key he kept taped to the upper part of the drawer and not immediately visible to the naked eye. It lay winking at him in the bottom of the drawer in full view. The tape must have perished and it had  come unstuck, he surmised. He inserted it into the lock of the last drawer, opened it stealthily and took out a photograph. An attractive woman with shining, shoulder length red curls laughed up at the camera. Her dark brown eyes crinkled up at the corners echoing her wide-lipped smile. He absently caressed the glossy image with his forefinger and allowed his thoughts to drift. It was hard to imagine now how he had managed without Erica in his life. Theirs was a clandestine relationship of snatched kisses and furtive rendezvous. Erica was married. Yet another one of life’s little ironies. She was sympathetic and understanding when he got drunk and cried shamelessly for Helena. Julia  had curtly told him to ‘pull himself together’.
He had felt wretched when Julia took down Helena’s portrait and replaced it with a portrait of herself that she’d had painted by a local artist. Ever shrewd and cunning, she made a great show of packing it carefully in bubble wrap and putting it in the wardrobe, but days later George discovered it concealed behind an old filing cabinet in a dusty corner of the garage. He had said nothing. Julia pandered to his every whim and she really was a marvellous cook and hostess and much admired by his friends. He needed her. Their affair had begun whilst Helena was still alive. He squirmed inwardly with self loathing as waves of remorse washed over him. He wondered if she had known all along.

George reached for the bottle and poured himself another drink. He stared thoughtfully into the glass. Recently he had sensed a change in Julia. Nothing concrete, nothing he could put his finger on, just little things. He noticed that all his books and papers he kept on their bedside table had been tidied away. Cupboards had been emptied and the garage had been cleared of the packing cases containing his ‘collections’
‘Really George, those packing cases were taking up so much room. There’s hardly any space for the car and anyway, it’s just a lot of old junk you’ve had since the year dot!! It simply had to go!!’
George sighed heavily. There was no point in arguing. She had made up her mind. There were so many memories in those boxes. The whole of his past life lay slumbering in those containers. In fact she seemed to have embarked on an unseasonal spring cleaning session. Only yesterday he noticed there were hardly any of his clothes in the wardrobe. He couldn’t find his old cardigan with the leather patches on the elbows.
‘Oh that old thing! I put it in the Oxfam box and they came and collected it this morning. It was so dirty and smelt terrible! Besides’ her voice dropped, ‘You won’t need it’.
‘What do you mean? ‘you won’t need it’. Of course I’ll need it. Winter’s coming on. You know damn well I feel the cold,’ said George crossly.
Julia raised her head and smiled sweetly, ‘ I simply meant that you’ll need a new one darling’ she purred, but just for a moment he was caught in the ice blue glare of those unsmiling, cat’s points eyes. It was then that he suddenly became aware of how cold and calculating Julia’s eyes could be. He wondered why he had never noticed this before.
His thoughts were interrupted by a cacophony of applause and laughter coming from the TV. George stared at the red telephone on his desk for a moment then he snatched up the receiver and keyed in a number. A female voice answered guardedly.
‘Hello!’
‘Hello’ murmured George softly. ‘It’s me, is this a good time to call?’
A rush of exhaled breath. Then, ‘Yes, you’re in luck! Paul is giving a lecture in Birmingham tonight. Glad you rang though. I was thinking of giving you a sneaky call myself’.’
George smiled. ‘This is going have to be a quickie. Julia’s watching TV.’
‘My God! She’ll hear you!’ gasped Erica.
George gulped some whisky and gave a liquid chuckle into the receiver. ‘Not a chance, she’s going deaf. She’s got it turned up so loud you could hear it in Hyde Park!’
‘How are you feeling today?’
‘Lousy! I had a terrible bout of pain this morning. I honestly thought I was going to die!’
‘Oh you poor thing!’
George’s hand trembled as he poured himself another measure of whiskey, the glass clinked against the bottle. He paused. ‘You know Erica I think that Julia is trying to poison me’. It came out in a rush. There was a shocked silence at the other end. Then, in an artificially calm voice, ‘Oh! Come on George darling! Don’t be so dramatic!’
‘Look! I’ve been healthy all my life. Have you ever known me have an illness in the ten years you’ve worked for me? No’, he went on without waiting for her answer. ‘Of course you haven’t. I’ve been subjected to a barrage of tests. Some of them very embarrassing I can tell you, and the doctors still haven’t come up with anything.’
‘But darling! Julia dotes on you. She adores you. She…..’
‘She will inherit everything when I die. The house, the money, my pensions!’ George hissed fiercely.
‘But how….I mean when does she….’ stuttered Erica.
George lowered his voice to a whisper.
‘I just can’t pinpoint when exactly but…..’
Without warning the study door opened and a triangle of light formed on the blue chinese rug. Julia stood quietly in the doorway. ‘Im making some Horlicks, can I tempt you ?’
George replaced the receiver carefully and without turning round said, ‘No thanks dearest. I think I ‘ll have an early night. I didn’t sleep very well last night.’
Julia turned to go into the kitchen then stopped in the doorway, ‘It’ll settle your stomach’, she persisted.
‘Who was that on the phone?’
George stood up and yawned hugely. He gazed at her steadily. ‘Ah! It was one of those cold callers trying to sell us double glazing.’
‘How odd,’ she muttered and bustled into the kitchen and began clattering cups and plates.

The Inheritance Powder.

Part Four: The Legacy

George’s eyes flickered and twitched. He was dreaming. He was walking up a long flight of steps that didn’t seem to be leading anywhere. It was dark, except for a tiny pinpoint of light that pricked the blackness at the top of the steps. Then, without warning, a disembodied hand reached out and gripped his arm. He felt something or someone tugging him from behind, trying to pull him backwards down the steps. His mouth opened in a soundless scream. He tried to hold onto the rail but the hand prised his fingers off and he began to fall back into the dark nothingness. Down, down into the abyss.

George’s eyes flew open.

The curtains were closed and the light in the room was dim. He felt dizzy and disoriented. Still hovering in the no man’s land between sleeping and waking, he thought for a moment that he had moved onto the next stage of the dream. Outside he could hear the magpies cackling in the trees and the distant hum of the traffic on the main road. An icy breeze rustled the curtains and stroked his sweat streaked face. He rolled over onto his back and stared at the ceiling, mulling over the conversation he’d had with Erica the night before. Perhaps he was just being paranoid. It could just be a figment of an over active imagination. He passed his hand over his forehead. His head ached. Anyway, what if it was true and Julia really was poisoning him, who would believe him? He had no concrete proof of any kind. It was a preposterous idea but deep down he just felt there was something, he just couldn’t put his finger on it.

Bravely ignoring the tantalising scent of sausages cooking mingled with the smell of fresh roasted coffee, he tried to focus on recent events. The gripping stomach pains often erupted in the early hours. The onset would be a strange metallic taste in his mouth and the pains would go on in varying degrees of intensity throughout the day, his body wracked by vomiting. By the time evening came he was weak and washed out. It seemed to come on in phases. There were weeks at a time when his body functioned normally. Julia was wonderful. She was always so caring and considerate. Always there with a hot milky drink or a restorative cup of strong coffee, sweetened with honey and crowned with a dollop of clotted cream. Julia’s voice broke into his thoughts, calling up the stairs.

‘George darling! Breakfast is ready! Shall I bring it up or are you coming down?’

‘I’ll come down’

He swung his legs over the bed , went to the window and opened the curtains. The rain had stopped but strong gusts of wind shook the trees roughly and blew the remaining leaves against the glass. He sighed and then putting on his dressing gown he went down to breakfast.

George shuffled into the kitchen. It seemed warmer this morning and filled with aroma of coffee and toast. He took his place at the table near the window that looked out onto the garden. The Guardian newspaper was propped up on the reader and his boiled eggs nestled neatly in their twin cups. A cafetiere of rich Mocha coffee stood near his plate.
Julia leaned forward and poured him some coffee. ‘You look better this morning darling. Did you sleep well?’

He gulped down his coffee. ‘Yes, I slept much better. I feel much more energetic this morning. As a matter of fact I was thinking of taking up Edgar Frinton’s invitation to a round of golf this morning.’

‘Well, if you feel up to it’ Julia inclined head sideways like a weasel looking at it’s unsuspecting prey. ‘More coffee darling?’

‘Mmm! Yes please’, mumbled George through a mouthful of toast. ‘By the way dear, take care if you have to go down the cellar for any reason. When I went down there yesterday to replenish the wine rack I noticed the stair rail has come loose. I’ll fix it later on today. We can’t have you falling down those steps’, he grinned. The trilling of the telephone interrupted their breakfast. Julia jumped from the table. ‘It’s probably Patti. She said she’d ring me this morning about the arrangements for our shopping trip’.

She disappeared into the living room. George brought his coffee cup up to his lips but did not drink. Better not have that second cup. Bad for the blood pressure and guaranteed to get the old ticker jumping all over the place. Instead, he quietly poured the contents into the plant on the windowsill. He couldn’t help noticing that the lovely lotus shaped leaves of the pink cyclamen had started to turn yellow and some of the leaves had made a premature exit onto the compost. Julia had over watered it. She was never very good with plants. Plants needed looking after and nurturing. She was an excellent planner and organiser but he had to admit her caring side wasn’t very well developed. Helena was the gardener. She loved her plants and he often found her sitting among the towering spikes of blue Delphiniums she loved so much. In fact he had insisted that the garden was left pretty much how it had been when Helena was alive. He owed her that much. Julia wanted to change everything after she’d seen one of those gardening programmes on TV, but he forbade it.

Julia’s voice broke into his reverie, ‘George, I’m off now. Patti has just arrived. Be a dear and stack the dishwasher would you? Mrs Tudge is on holiday in Benidorm for two weeks!’ She kissed his cheek briefly, then she was gone. He heard Patti’s car churning up the gravel in the drive as they drove off for a rendezvous with Manolo Blahnik and Jimmy Choo.

After he breakfasted and had a leisurely read of the paper, he rose from the table and started to load the dishwasher. Then, without warning his body was caught in an agonising vice. He crashed backwards onto the tiles struggling to breathe. Saliva poured into his mouth but he couldn’t swallow. His body jack knifed as a violent seizure gripped him, then darkness and merciful unconsciousness.

* * * * *

After he’d rung the bell several times Edgar rattled the door handle and was surprised when it sprang open. Assuming that the door had been left open for him, he walked into the hall and called out, ‘George!’ There was no answer. The house seemed strangely still. He walked towards the kitchen. ‘It’s me George, I…….’
The door to the kitchen was slightly ajar. Edgar pushed the door open and saw George writhing and jerking around on the floor. He rushed forward, ‘My God man! What’s happened to you?’ but George couldn’t answer him. His eyes had rolled up into his head and his entire body was convulsed in rigid contractions and thick strings of vomit flowed from his mouth. Edgar snatched up the phone and dialed for an ambulance.

The rain began to fall again just as Julia stepped out of Patti’s car heavily laden. She put down her designer bags and waved goodbye to Patti as she drove off down the road. The house was in shadow. No welcoming lamps lit up the sightless windows. The rain suddenly came on heavier and she was aware that her feet, so daintily encased in strappy Jimmy Choos, were getting cold. She rummaged in her bag for her key and fumbled it into the lock. George must be in bed sleeping off the effects of her breakfast. She could hardly suppress a smirk as she walked through the house snapping on the lamps as she went. She ran upstairs calling ‘George! George darling! I’m back’, but there was no answer. She went into their bedroom but it was empty.

She sat at her dressing table in the dark and looked out over the Rododdendron hedge into the street. Shimmering raindrops swirled round the streetlights. A brisk, chilly wind blew down the almost deserted street and an empty tin can skittered along in the gutter. It was only seven o’ clock in the evening but the grim weather had driven the Saturday night revellers from the streets. George must be having dinner with Edgar she surmised. She had expected to find him at home. This time she had been so sure of the outcome. She shuddered involuntarily and felt a wave of fatigue wash over her. ‘What I need is a drink’ she said out loud and went downstairs to the kitchen.
She noticed that the dishwasher was only half loaded and the table was still littered with pots of marmalade and honey and butter smeared tea plates. She sighed, exasperated that George had left her to clear up the breakfast things. She took a clean glass down from the cupboard but noticed that there was only red wine in the rack. She had decided to drink only white wine, it seemed to have less effect on her diabetes. There was bound to be some in the cellar. She switched on the light and cautiously made her way down the steps . Out of the corner of her eye she thought she saw a movement of a small shadow cross the floor. She shivered! A mouse or worse, a rat! As she grabbed a couple of bottles of Chablis and turned to go back up the steps, she heard the phone ringing. She was halfway up the steps when the light began to fizz and splutter and finally went out leaving her in total darkness except for a slice of light from the open cellar door at the top of the steps. She went up quickly clasping the bottles under one arm and holding the stair rail with the other. She had almost reached the top when her spiky heels slithered on the smooth stone steps. She clutched frantically at the stair rail which immediately came away from the wall. Losing her balance, she fell backwards, arms and legs flailing and plunged down into the blackness, striking her head on the corner of the last step. The wine bottles smashed and splintered into a thousand glittering shards. Julia lay there, eyes closed, the lids a heavy purplish blue. Her face was ashen. One leg awkwardly under her body, her arms lacerated by the broken glass. Her blood mixed in with the wine staining the concrete floor.
Upstairs the answer phone had picked up Edgar’s message. His voice boomed out into the empty living room.
‘Julia! Are you there? Please pick up the phone………Look, it’s Edgar here. George has been taken very ill and he’s in Royal Dearing hospital. Seems like he’s had some sort of poisoning. They’re keeping him in for 48 hours. They won’t let him see anyone just yet. They’re doing a lot of tests. I’ll ring again soon. Bye for now!’
The machine whirred and clicked again and a clear female voice filled the room. ‘Hello Julia! It’s Patti! I’m afraid I won’t be round for coffee tomorrow. Bertie has just rung asking me to go up to London to baby sit for him. Bit of an emergency, so I’ve got to go and play grandma. Anyway, we’ll catch up when I  get back. By the way, what did George think of your new shoes? See you when I get back sweetie! Bye’
The house sat in dust filled silence with all the lights on. Down in the dark, dank cellar Julia regained consciousness and discovered that she could not move . A creeping paralysis had spread up the left side of her body and her limbs had become heavy and numb. She opened her mouth to call for help but it was as though her jaws were locked and her lips had been sewn shut. Her eyes tried to pierce the gloom. She could see a fuzzy light at the top of the steps, but the effort of trying to maintain consciousness was too much and she slipped back into a comatose state.
* * * *
Bright sunlight streamed into the bedroom where Julia lay propped up on a bank of snowy pillows. George sat quietly watching her pale face for signs of life. He noticed the mouth seemed twisted to one side and spittle flecked her lips. He reached out and touched her hair, now turned completely white. She seemed to sense his nearness and opened her eyes.The bright blue eyes he remembered were dimmed and full of rheum. She tried to speak but only a drooling mumble indistinct from human speech, came out. Her left arm lay useless by her side. The doctor said she’d had a stroke brought on by a blow to the head. Her speech centres had been destroyed and the stroke had left her paralysed down the left side. She gazed at George, mute and helpless. Her eyes pleading and tormented.
He leaned forward and patted her lifeless hand. ‘You don’t have to worry about a thing old girl. We’re going to look after you. Everything is going to be all right, isn’t it Erica?’ He smiled up at the tall, red-haired woman standing with her hand on his shoulder. Julia blinked and two huge tears slid slowly down her withered cheeks.
FINIS
This story is a work of fiction and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, is purely coincidental.

The right of Rusty Gladdish to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patent Act 1988.

The Sloth Diaries: Summer Daze

The great British weather has taken a another dramatic turn and the melting tarmac and third degree burns meted out to an unsuspecting public has finally abated. The collective sound of whirring electric fans has ceased and driving standards have become less fractious.
Thankfully there’s no sign of Patrick. He’s obviously in dialogue with his duvet, sleeping off his hangover!

Last night our little cottages trembled and cowered as thunder and lightning crackled in the valley and horizontal rain lashed the windows with unleashed fury. Now a new day dawned fresh, cool and clear. A wonderful day for some plein aire painting. The Sloth and I decided to drive to Rhossilli Bay with my easel and paints and spend the day communing with nature! The Sloth exercised his spatial skills by packing the equipment into the boot, paying special attention to the little picnic basket containing a couple of bottles of St Emilion, his favourite red wine. I noticed that my bottles of Perrier were missing and dived into the house to get them. I emerged clutching two large bottles of perrier and a carton of mango juice and discovered the Sloth engaged in an animated conversation with our neighbour Angelina. Angelina is a single mother with two children. A boy and a girl of eleven and twelve respectively. She teaches art to people with learning disabilities at the local community college. Very commendable!

The Sloth is a great admirer of the female sex, believing them to be morally superior to the male of the species and often refers to himself as a ‘feminist’ and in that moment he was demonstrating his ’solidarity’. Angelina was wearing very short shorts exposing a great deal of tanned , long legs. ‘It’s a lovely day for a picnic’, she grinned, showing rather long, equine teeth.
‘Yes, fabulous’, giggled the Sloth. She leaned casually into the boot giving the Sloth the benefit of her abundant cleavage. He is totally mesmerised by the discreet tattoo of a dragonfly on her exposed  bosom. ‘Looks like you’re going prepared ‘, she said indicating the wine bottles. The Sloth bravely tries to keep his eyes on her face. Clearly enjoying the attention she’s receiving she tosses her rather dull, mouse brown hair and pushes out her her bosom under the quivering nose of the Sloth. Flirting shamelessly in front of me.
I gave the Sloth a meaningful look and climbed into the car. He followed sheepishly, waving a limp hand through the car window at Angelina as we drove off down the road.

The Sloth Diaries: Barbarella and Kenton

Barbarella and Kenton
I get back all sweaty and tired from feeding my friend’s cats and walking his dog only to catch the last trills of the telephone as I come down the path. I kick off my shoes in the hall while it sputters into answer phone mode. A high female, child -like voice fills our tiny living room.

‘Hello you two!  Just a quick call to ask if you’d like to go the beach today.  It’s such a lovely day, we’ll call in and pick you up in half an hour,’ she said breathily. I stare at the phone warily and decide not to interrupt the message. Blast! I know it will be almost impossible to get out of it without offending her. The machine whistles and clicks to signal the end of the message then falls silent, its red eye winking conspiratorially. 

 She is right though. It’s a fabulous morning. The sun shines on the kitchen windows lighting up the streaks and smears and the thin layer of dust on the bookshelves.  Glancing up I can see a skein of cobwebs festooning the ceiling.  I don’t really feel in the mood for housework. Does anyone?

Don’t get me wrong!  Barbarella and Kenton are a lovely couple. They’re so generous and kind and full of fun and have been described by some in the village pub (rather unkindly) as the oldest swingers in town.  They make a very handsome couple when out walking together. They are both diminutive, but immaculately dressed. Barbarella in her gold sandals, toenails twinkling with purple pearl nail polish and her long, straight hair dyed a fiery red. However, a lifetime of heavy smoking and soaking up the sun has taken its toll. Tiny lines criss -cross her face, deep creases run from her nose to mouth, so often turned down in repose. The watchful green eyes behind the steel rimmed glasses are rather faded and crow’s feet nestle in the outer corners.
 Despite her pint sized appearance Barbarella is a feisty lady and has been known to give rein to some pretty spectacular rages if she believes she’s been crossed. (Which is pretty much all of the time!!?) Paranoia strikes deep!

   Naturally Kenton is very proud of her and doesn’t seem to notice these tiny imperfections. He is fiercely protective whenever there’s an altercation with anyone who doesn’t quite agree with her opinions.  (It’s more than his life’s worth!!) Tradesmen, shopkeepers, villagers and friends alike, and there lies the rub. They just don’t seem to have any friends. He’s got masochistic tendencies and is brutally tactless and she tends towards Sado- hysterical paranoia, ‘Nobody in this village likes me! I’ve never done anything to them!!’  Well! A desire to indulge in cunning game playing and absurd, inappropriate flirting with unsuspecting husbands is no pre-requisite to a lasting friendship with female friends. Loyalty and respect has to be earned.  Ah well!

Kenton loves sports clothes. Smart navy polo shirts and matching navy tracksuit bottoms are the order of the day. The whole outfit complimented by snow- white trainers.  Although, actually taking part in any kind of sport is against everything that he holds dear. All that pounding the pavements in the pouring rain, and getting home soaked stinking of sweat.  Collapsing with fatigue and covered in mud. What does it really achieve except make one feel terribly ill!  Besides, Kenton doesn’t have to worry about his figure. He’s slim but not muscular. For a man pushing 60 he reckons he looks pretty good with a full head of thick, coarse black hair, courtesy of Grecian 2000 (well who’s to know?) and a heavy moustache on his upper lip as thick as a stork’s nest. Besides, the ladies like a moustache.  He thinks it makes him look romantic and macho. You know what I mean,  a bit like Charles Bronson! Or Vlad the impaler! Take your pick!

Poor Kenton! He’s such a sensitive soul. Living under the cosh of a controlling wife isn’t doing him any favours at all.  He once confided to the Sloth over a couple of pints of Guinness that when Barbarella’s on the warpath he takes to his bed for days, pleading  depression. He threatens  do a runner one day. That of course, takes a lot of cojones and the Sloth isn’t  completely confident he could pull it off!
‘Why don’t you stand up to her?’ asks the puzzled Sloth.
 ’It’s not that easy. She’s got ways of getting back at me. She’ll hide all my booze and fags. I used to talk to this bloke in Birmingham on the internet y’know. He’s an electric train freak like me. He came with his  wife for a visit last summer. We went
 to an electric train fayre and we all got on famously. Barbie was charm personified and we said that we’d keep in touch by email. Well time went by and I realised I hadn’t heard from Billy for a while, in fact there were quite a few cyber friends I hadn’t heard from. Barbie said he must be busy. Then the other day Billy appeared on the doorstep. He was on his way back home from a conference in our area so he thought he’d pop over and see us. Very sociable chap is Billy’
Kenton Pauses to take a deep draft of his Guinness, taking care to flick the cream off his moustache.
‘Anyway’, he continues, ‘Billy wanted to show me a new website on the old computer so we went in to my cubbyhole to check it out. Billy’s a bit of a whiz on the computer. Not like me! That’s why I call him Billy Whiz!!  Geddit!!’ He then proceeded to laugh uproariously at his own joke. The Sloth nods encouragingly.
  ‘Anyway, after a bit of fiddling it didn’t take old Bill to realise that his address was on the ‘block sender’ list, along with a few other mates of mine.

The Sloth shakes his head in disbelief and sits staring  glumly into the depths of his Guinness
‘I don’t know how you put up with it. What did she say when you tackled her?’

‘Not a lot really. Made some excuse about not wanting people to trouble me and make me anxious’
The Sloth gives him an old fashioned look and holds out his hand, ‘Gives us your glass mate, it’s my round!’
******************************************

  I can hear the sound of the front door slamming shut and a clumping of trainers falling onto the floorboards in the hall. The Sloth is back from his morning jog.  Large dark patches stain the back and under arms of his blue T shirt and strands of gingery hair are plastered over his head.  Fine droplets of sweat run down his face, pink with exertion.  He grins good- humouredly and bends down to kiss the top of my head.  I breathe in his scent. Sloth is such a  tactile soul! Part of his charm!

‘I’m going for a shower’ he mumbles into my hair. Then, over his shoulder as he heads for the bathroom, ‘Did you put the sausages on?’

‘Er….. No. I was just going to tell you. It looks like we’re going out for lunch with Barbarella and Kenton.’

His face darkens. ‘Oh God! Can’t you ring her back and say we can’t make it?’

‘No, it’s too late. They’re on their way round here. Now go and get in that shower!’

‘But I’ve got plans for this afternoon…I…..’ he trails off  miserably when he sees my face.

A day out with Barbarella and Kenton is often both eventful and exhausting. This morning, the  men sit in the back of Kenton’s dusty old Ford, circa 1989, like naughty schoolboys, farting nervously and competing to see who can tell the dirtiest jokes!  I sit at the front with the driver who sits on two cushions so that her gold sandals will reach the pedals and so that she can see over the top of the steering wheel. After barking orders sharply to the men in the back seat we set off for the great Welsh seaside adventure.

We arrive at the little seaside town of Mumbles. I always used to wonder why it was called such an odd name and speculated it was because of the sound the waves made as they lapped the shore or the echoes round the bay of the foghorns from the fishing trawlers in the winter.  Its name is in fact derived from the French word ‘Mamelles’ which means breasts, well, it had to be didn’t it!  It refers to the two islets that rise from the sea and are quite visible from the terrace of our favourite restaurant on the hill. In his lifetime,  the famous poet, Dylan Thomas, referred to it with much ironic affection. However, I think this piece of local culture has passed Barbarella by and she is frantic to find a shop that sells her favourite lipstick because she’s left her lippy at home!

 The whole town has an aura of the 1950s about it. Low key and still relatively un- spoiled.  The beaches are empty and the ice cream seller looks rather forlorn. The children have deserted him and have returned to school. No doubt this will come as a relief to Barbarella.   Children are a total anathema to her.  She could never see the point of them let alone understand why women give birth to them. Such a messy and humiliating business. Then there was the sheer drudgery of bringing them up, not to mention the expense.

She has the privilege of being an only child. Spoiled and petted,  attention was  lavished on her by adoring parents. She has become addicted to it and as an adult continues to crave it. She certainly doesn’t want children vying with her for attention.  She wants to be the total focus of everyone she meets. Everything must revolve around her. She is after all, unique!
 However, all is well with our  princess Barbarella at the moment.  She’s in a good mood as she  swings the big unwieldy car round those tight bends. The sun is shining and everything is under control. Her control!  She slips a CD into the player and the voice of Elaine Paige fills the car at an ear-splitting volume. Barbarella immediately begins a  duet, her pitting her thin voice tunelessly against  the strong vibrato of Andrew Lloyd Webber’s most illustrious musical star. Never mind that Barabarella is tone deaf and is incapable of carrying a tune in her head. The boys applaud timidly from the back seat anxious to keep our very own diva sweet.

We all heave a sigh of relief when the restaurant heaves into view.  It’s perched on top of a hill overlooking the sea.  The sunny terraces are facing the glittering ocean and have wonderful views.  Our usual seats on the terrace are available so we seat ourselves under the gaily striped parasols. The Sloth clearly has designs on the bar and probably on the little waitress in the revealing top with her bottle blonde hair falling seductively over one eye, gazing quizzically over at our  group. Barbarella is already issuing orders at Kenton who meekly stands to attention.

‘I need a drink after all that driving! Go and get me fizzy lemonade Kenton, and don’t forget the ice and lemon like you usually do’, she snaps. Kenton sighs, shoulders now sloping dejectedly. ‘Right away my precious’
 The Sloth puts a supportive arm round Kenton’s now drooping shoulders and gently guides him in the direction of the bar for some much needed alcoholic therapy.

Barbarella and I decide we’re definitely feeling peckish and each of us chooses a meal from the menu. In spite of her slender child’s frame, Barbarella has the appetite of a brickie on a building site! She chooses several pasta dishes and a large sticky desert to follow for both herself and Kenton.
She leans back in her chair, yawns and stretches luxuriously, sticking out her well padded bosom obviously enhanced with ‘chicken fillets’!  Kenton, she confides, loves ‘breasts’ and she of course is rather deficient in that department. So she enlists the help of one of the latest accessories for the discerning woman and treats herself to some very realistic inserts for her bra!! Now, voila! Instant pneumatic success.

‘But you don’t have that problem, do you?’ she chirps. I smile enigmatically.

‘Mind you, my mother was a big woman like you. She always got so depressed when she couldn’t get clothes to fit her’
I bare my teeth in what I hope looks like a grin.
The men come shuffling over to the table each bearing a wobbling tray, heavily laden with bottles of beer, glasses of Guinness and the soft drinks for the ‘ladies’.
The men sit down arms  akimbo and legs stretched out for any unsuspecting  waiters to trip over. I notice that they’re are smirking furtively at each other and divine they’re sharing some dirty joke or have been comparing notes about Angelina!!

 Barbarella smiles sweetly at the Sloth and keeping her eyes on his face puts her short legs up on the nearby terrace wall and raises her skirts in what she believes to be a seductive manner. She reveals enough cellulite to recoat an orange and varicose veins that stand out like bunches of grapes.  The Sloth smiles at her weakly then leans forward in my direction.
‘Have you ordered yet?’ I ask.

‘Well, no. I don’t know what you want.’

I’ll have the fish’
‘Me too’
The Sloth waves the menu vaguely in the air and this is the signal for a tall, gangling boy to come over to our table. He brushes his fair hair out of his eyes and with trembling fingers takes out a little notebook and a stub of pencil.

‘Yessir! What you like?’ He blurts.
‘We’d like Haddock and chips please’ said the Sloth gently.
He scribbles own the order and turns to go. Then suddenly Barbarella takes off her enormous sunglasses and calls over to him.
‘I want to change my order. We’ll have the fish too!’
The waiter’s youthful brow becomes as furrowed as a ploughed field.
‘Yes, Madame’ he murmurs.
‘You’re not English are you?’ She drawls
‘No Madame, I from Poland’ He stands proudly to attention when he says this.
The Sloth looks up and asks him, ‘Where is your town in Poland?’
He gives a little bow and says, ‘Krakow sir’
‘It’s a beautiful city’, says the Sloth ’Wonderful architecture’
‘You can go there sir?’ the boy says excitedly.
‘No, but I’ve seen it on TV’
‘You spik Polak sir?’
‘No, but I speak Russian……’
‘I too….’
To the waiter’s delight the Sloth then engages in a little Russian conversation. Although the Sloth has extremely long fingernails (the envy of many of our women friends) and hair to match on occasions, he is possessed of a gift for languages. He can converse with ease in Russian, German, French, Spanish and Welsh too, look you!

Barbarella however, is totally unimpressed with the linguistic abilities of the Sloth and sees them as an unnecessary interruption to her lunch. She begins rattling her knife and fork on the table like a couple of swords.
‘Are we getting any food today?’ she asks pointedly.
‘Very well Madame’ says the waiter and blushing profusely, hurries off to the kitchens.

Barbarella has just reached the punch line of an extremely long winded and confusing joke, when the food arrives. Kenton and the Sloth fall on theirs like a couple of starving wolves. She picks over her food, irritably moving it around with her fork.
‘This isn’t what I ordered’ she growls. ‘And it’s stone cold!’ Her eyes sweep around the terrace like a heat-seeking  missile trying to winkle out the hapless waiter.  Her strident voice rends the air as she yells ‘Waiter!’ Some diners glance up from their plates and gaze curiously in our direction. 

The waiter comes to the table and bows. ‘There is something wrong Madame?’
‘Barbarella wastes no time. ‘This isn’t what I ordered’ she pipes.
‘But you ask for the fish Madame’
‘Tell me’ she says, ‘How long have you been in this country?’
The waiter hangs his head unhappily. ‘Three weeks Madame’
‘Three weeks! Don’t they have fish in your country ‘cos this isn’t fish, Oh no! It’s bloody pasta!!! Her voice rises to a high pitched shriek that gets everyone’s attention.
  Our table is now the focus of the entire restaurant.  Kenton stops, his fork loaded with food halfway to his mouth, clearly struck dumb. The Sloth and I keep our heads down, concentrating on our food as if our lives depended on it.
‘I change Madame, no probs!’ The waiter whisks the plate away and rushes back to the kitchens before Barbarella can say another word. A murmur ripples round the terrace from the other diners who sensing a showdown, no longer see any reason to be discreet and have downed their cutlery. They now sit looking over at our table expectantly. They don’t have long to wait.
The waiter returns to the table and with a flourish,   places a plate of piping hot food in front of Barbarella. ‘It is good now Madame, yes?’ 
She bends her head towards the plate and sniffs. ‘This fish is off’
‘Off?’
‘Yes, Off, O-F-F off!! Smell it for God’s sake’
The waiter bends down beside her and tries to sniff the food, he jerks back, somehow bringing the plate with him and depositing the hot food neatly into Barbarella’s lap! She gives out a high pitched shriek as the heat burns through her skirt and scalds her thighs. She leaps to her feet.
‘You stupid idiot!  Look what you’ve done! This is a designer skirt. It cost me a fortune and now it’s ruined!’
‘Oh dear! I so sorry Madame! Plis! I help you!’ the poor, harassed waiter tries to mop her skirt with his cloth. Kenton rushes to her aid with a paper serviette and begins to dab ineffectually at her skirt. The Sloth meanwhile, is making a superhuman effort to remain in control, although I notice that he’s very pink and his shoulders are shaking in silent mirth. I on the other hand try to be  helpful and throw a glass of mineral water onto the affected part. This at least will cool down the burning sensation. However,  Barbarella is incandescent with rage.’ Get the manager. Get me the bloody manager now!  I want compensation for this’ she mutters menacingly!
The waiter stands by helpless, powerless but philosophical.
The commotion has attracted the attention of the owner of the restaurant, a tall figure,  who comes rushing to our table all false smiles and useless offers. He listens patiently to her angry explanation. ‘, and I want him sacked. He’s useless! He brought the wrong food, with the wrong sauce and then he tipped it all over my designer skirt!’ she ranted.
‘Why the hell can’t you employ English waiters?’
The manager gave her his best and most oleaginous smile. ‘This is an Italian restaurant Madame; most of the waiters are Italian. They speak good English, but we do employ a few Polish waiters. They are so much more respectful and reliable than English waiters.’
There is no answer to this. The manager is however, magnanimous and clearly believes the in the old adage, ‘the customer is always right’  ‘Allow me to bring an a la carte menu Madame, and you and your party can choose anything you like with wine. The compliments of the house.’ This seems to pacify Barbarella. This and the sight of the manager taking the poor Polish waiter roughly by the arm for what was obviously going to be a king size bollocking.   I expect the poor chap was on the minimum wage too! Life is too cruel sometimes.

This story is a work of fiction  and any resemblance to  actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental

The right of Rusty Gladdish to be identified as the author of  this work  has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
 

Seasonal Affective Disorder (Simon R Gladdish)

SEASONAL AFFECTIVE DISORDER

An extended meditation on the
Nature of time and its effects
Inspired by Edward Fitzgerald’s
Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam.
By  Simon R. Gladdish

DEDICATION

For my much-missed mother Enid and father Kenneth (fellow author), my brother Matthew and his family, my sister Sarah and her family and last but never least, my wife Rusty, without whom there would have been nothing.

BIOGRAPHY

Simon R Gladdish  was born in Kampala, Uganda in 1957.
His family returned to Britain in 1961, to Reading where he grew up.
Educated at Oxford and Cambridge Universities, he trained as an English Language Teacher, a profession which enabled him to live in Spain, Turkey, Tunisia and Kuwait for a long time. He now lives near Swansea, Wales.
His poetry has been warmly acclaimed by many other poets including Andrew Motion, the present British Poet Laureate.
He has published nine volumes of poetry so far: Victorian Values, Back to Basics, Images of Istanbul, Seasonal Affective Disorder, Original Cliches, Torn Tickets and Routine Returns, Homage to Edward Lear and The Tiny Hunchbacked Horse and The Poisoned Tunic jointly translated from Russian with Vladimir and Elena Grounine.
 
PREFACE

‘The moving finger writes; and having writ,
 Moves on: nor all thy piety nor wit
 Shall lure it back to cancel half a line,
 Nor all thy tears wash out a word of it.

 With earth’s first clay they did the last man’s knead,
 And of the final harvest sowed the seed:
 Yea, the first morning of creation wrote
 What the last dawn of reckoning shall read.’

(Extract from ‘The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam’)

                ********************

SEASONAL  AFFECTIVE  DISORDER

Experiencing contrition
Like a weak prison warden,
I sit in my kitchen
Overlooking my garden.

The season is April
(The cruellest of months)
Aries the psychopath
Swaggers and flaunts.

Tell me, my darling
What can the matter be?
Is it the daffodils
Under the apple tree?

Is it the ivy
Hiding in the branches
Or is it the hyacinths
Huddled in bunches?
 
Is it the primroses
Proud on parade
Or is it the foxgloves
That make you afraid?

Is it the river
Which winds like a snake
Or fate’s blind indifference
That makes your heart ache?

Time is a river
Or perhaps it’s a lake.
Time makes us shiver,
Accelerate and break.

Time is a stream
On its way to the sea,
Leapfrogging the waterfalls,
Untrammelled and free.
 
Time is an arrow
Or perhaps it’s an axe.
Nothing protects us
Against its attacks.

Time is a goldcrest
Trapped in a cage.
Time is the palimpsest
Under the page.

Time is our ancestry,
Sad and forlorn,
Tacked onto a tapestry
Before we were born.

Time is a tinderbox,
Time is a tangle.
Time’s a pair of tawny socks
Twisted at an angle.
 
Time is a treasure
Placed in a chest;
A pleasure to measure,
Waste or invest.

Time is a pyramid
Lost in the sands.
A peculiar liquid
Which runs through our hands.

Time is a tragedy
Performed in a palace.
Time is Jack Kennedy
Murdered in Dallas.

Time is the bullet
Tin-opening his skull,
Unravelling the cortex
Like soft cotton-wool.
 
Time’s Freddie Mercury
Dying of Aids,
His diamonds as useful
As handle-less spades.

Time is Bohemia
Preserved in a rhapsody.
Time is a prisoner
Dissolving in custody.

Time is the tune
To a popular song.
Time is the hand-over
Due in Hong Kong.

At a small country station
When it’s pouring with rain,
Time is the tedium
Of missing your train.
 
Time is a telescope
Trained on the track
As life’s locomotive
Comes lumbering back.

Time is a telephone
Oppressing the room
With ambiguous messages
About a princess’s doom.

Time is a talisman
Tied to a mast.
Time is an also-ran
Coming in last.

Time is a treadmill
Of worry and work.
The second world war
Was when time went beserk.
 
Time is a parcel bomb
Winging its way
From here to Hiroshima –
Unwrapped the same day.

Under Victoria
And Benjamin Disraeli,
The Times was the thunderer,
Thundering daily.

Time is a coin
In the mouth of a cod.
Time is theology:
Is there a God?

Time is a healer
Or so we are told.
Time is a stealer
Of simpletons’ gold.
 
Time, like necessity,
Mothers inventions.
Time, like anxiety,
Smothers intentions.

Time is a mirror
That smashes in two;
A heart-rending sorrow
That lashes us through.

Time’s a haemophiliac
Like my best friend Trevor.
(Time’s a necrophiliac –
Better late than never!)

Time is a necklace
Of dates and events;
A gift from a magus:
Gold, myrrh, frankincense.
 
Time is a challenge,
A chance to make good.
Time is the dry-rot
Asleep in the wood.

Time is latitude,
Time is longitude;
A poisonous attitude
Perfected in solitude.

Time is the padlock
On Pandora’s box
Portentously opened
On Opportunity Knocks.

The dreams that the sirens
Dragged on to the rocks
While the hero Odysseus
Was attending his flocks.
 
And Orion the hunter
Outwitting the fox
In the midsummer solstice
And spring equinox.

Time prevents everything
Happening at once;
A vulgar procession
Of days, weeks and months.

Time is a tortoise
Encased in its shell;
A shiny sarcophagus
Shaped like a bell.

Time is a tableau
Of a team playing cricket;
The static white figures
Grouped around the green wicket.
 
And Joan Hunter Dunne
In the Aldershot sun
Gently thrashing her partner
By three sets to one.

And insouciant punting
On the Isis or Cam.
Is there honey for tea?
More like strawberry jam

To go with the crumpet
We toast by the fire
(Until she complains
She’s about to expire!)

Time is a temptress,
A tart and a tease.
A hard-working sempstress
Attempting to please.
 
Time is a con artist
Readily bluffing;
A tired taxidermist
Unsteadily stuffing.

Time is the lease
Running out on your flat;
Your belongings in boxes
And disconsolate cat.

Time is a bucket
Containing a hole.
A trek from Nantucket
Towards the North Pole.

Time is the error
Of abusing our cooks.
Time is the terror
Of losing our looks.
 
A bald-headed man
Whose appearance is pleated
Has debated with time
And been roundly defeated.

Time is a teacher
Burnt out in the class;
The Sunday night dread
Of the Monday impasse.

Time is the tarot deck
Path I have trod
(Banged up with the hermit –
The miserable old sod!)

Time is a joker
Whose jokes we enjoy;
A prattling prankster
Who’s apt to annoy.
 
Mephisto Magician
(Mountebank from Milan)
Is astounding the masses
With legerdemain.

Time is the high priestess,
Cool, unassailable,
Beautiful, brilliant,
Quite unavailable.

Time is the empress,
Fragrant with hope,
Seductive, maternal,
Smelling sweetly of soap.

Bellowing orders
In a bass-baritone,
Her husband the emperor
Reclines on his throne.
 
Nearby is the heirophant
(Beard overgrown)
Blessing the populace
And invoking Saint Joan.

Time is an oyster
Incubating a pearl.
Time is a boy
Making love to a girl.

The lovers embrace
At the end of the pier
As time’s winged chariot
Is hurrying near.

Furtive sex in a climate
Of worrying fear;
(A fumbling coupling
Then straight home for a beer.)
 
Time is the strength
That we need to endure
The sea’s cruel contortions
As we swim for the shore.

Time is the hermit
I have mentioned before
Who rots in his hut
And won’t answer the door.

Time is Dame Fortune’s reel
Solemnly spinning;
The glamorous roulette wheel
When we happen to be winning.

Time is the hanging man
Caught by his foot;
His arms are a rhombus,
His hair is a root.
 
Time is our lifeblood
Liberally spread
Over the fields
Where the poppies have bled.

(Instead of just forgetting,
It’s time for us to talk;
Wherever there is blood-letting,
The devil loves to stalk.

In Bosnia or Ireland
The narrative’s the same;
The guns and bombs exploding
In history’s dreary name.

Corpses stuff the alleys,
Justice goes unheard;
Truth’s a major casualty,
Morality is blurred.)
 
Time’s gentle temperance,
The need to refrain
From committing new errors
And causing more pain.

Time is the tower
Whose structure’s unsound;
The East German Mauer
Swiftly smashed to the ground.

When we wish on a star
We expect to pull through;
The nightmare will end
And our dreams will come true.

Time is the sun
And time is the moon
And time is the morning
Returning  too soon.
 
And judgement and justice
Are what we must face
If our lives have been selfish
And lacking in grace.

And time is the world
As we’re all well aware
With which we have nothing
At all to compare.

Time is the flower
Making way for the weed.
The farmer and lover
Both broadcasting their seed.

And time is the books
I’m still planning to read:
The Cloud of Unknowing
And Venerable Bede.
 
(Time is the price
Of dividing the cost
Between All’s Well that Ends Well
And Love’s Labours Lost.)

Time is the blues
When your lover has gone;
The insatiable muse
That won’t leave us alone.

Time’s sibling rivalry
Ever since Cain and Abel;
The decaying cadaver
Stretched out on the table.

Time is the feel
Of a courtesan’s flesh.
The foul-tasting milk
That we thought was still fresh.
 
Physicists laboured in vain
When they tried
To prove time successional
And not side by side.

But mediaeval mystics
Knew to a man
That time slowly unfolding
Was part of God’s plan.

Time chisels the milestones
Towards our salvation
Like petals gradually opening
On a rose or carnation.

Time is the stanza
The poet has read.
Time is the spider
Ascending his thread.
 
Time is a chrysalis
Glued to a leaf,
Giving birth to a butterfly –
Taking off like a thief.

Time is the railings
Surrounding the park;
The planets abseiling
Their way through the dark.

Time’s a conundrum
Wrapped up in a mystery,
Shot through with controversy,
Repackaged as history.

Time is a lorry
Burnt out on the road;
The dinosaur skeleton
Of metal and wood.
 
Time’s the deceased
Leaking blood through his skin;
The last rites of the priest
Reeking whisky and gin.

Time is the tunnel
Hollowed out by the mole;
The unbridgeable gulf
Between substance and soul.

Time’s my aunt Rosemary,
Riddled with cancer;
On her knees praying,
Demanding an answer.

Time is a terrorist
Out on parole;
His victims still anguishing
Body and soul.
 
Time is the cross
Between matter and space
Upon which our Saviour
Hung for three days.

Time is astronomy
(Son and heir to astrology)
Political economy
And bio-technology.

Time is the lamb
Crucified in a circle;
The crowd uncontrollable,
The emperor in purple.

Time is the bull
Slaughtered under the sun;
European directives
And rotting meat by the ton.
 
Time is the twins
Such as Janet and John,
Castor and Pollux,
Reginald and Ron.

Time is the crayfish
Abandoning June,
Surrendering sideways
To the silvery moon.

Time is the lion
(The king of the beasts)
Defender of Zion
And arranger of feasts.

Time is the virgin
Whose control is sublime.
(The hard-hearted harlequin
Is wasting his time.)
 
Time is the balance
Precariously poised
Like Damocles’ sword
Till our verdicts are voiced.

Time is the scorpion
With its treacherous tail.
The tower struck by lightning,
The dreams doomed to fail.

Time is the archer
With his bright-coloured bow
Drawn across the green valley
In a glorious show.

Time is the goat
Contemplating the sky
With his conservative coat
And rectangular eye.
 
Time is the water-bearer
With a jug in each hand,
Refilling the sea
And refreshing the land.

Time is the sign
Of the mystical fish;
The prophet and dreamer
Imprisoned in flesh.

Time is the actual,
The past and the future;
A fractured black vacuum
Stitched up like a suture.

Time’s the refrain
In the midst of a song.
Time is this poem
Which has gone on too long.
 
Time is a bat
Upside-down in its cave.
Time is a sultan
Asleep in his grave.

Time is an illusion,
A present from our Maker
Which tucks us into coffins
Like a cheerful undertaker.

TAMAM SHUD   (It is completed.)

The right of Simon R. Gladdish to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright,  Designs, and Patents Act, 1988.