Given the theme of "Dough" for the (Skye) Reading Room Anthology II Competition in 2014, I sat by the Willamette River in Portland, Oregon, to where I had wimped and limped from the UK upon exile. With a certain amount of rebellion in my heart, I leapt to the occasion in the summer heat of that beautiful city, and thought, "I'll just have some fun." These four poems are my harvest from the pain of leaving Scotland.
A lull in the fighting or had they gone?
‘Filthy Welsh,’ she thought, at dawn,
relieving her head of the helmet she wore
with the courage of all men she’d slain.
Witch they called her or bitch for short
nothing less than a sorceress could
manage a sword like her husband she swore
would be back for his wine and his food
to roar, This carnage is a stinking mess
and couldn’t you put on a dress?’
Ogre of Abergavenny, her lord
baron of England’s King John,
had watched the monarch choke the life
from Arthur, heir to the throne.
His coffers fattened, his power thrived
while the secret in private survived,
De Braose was second only to one
if he kept his silence but blew it
telling Maud - his vixen wife, his love -
what his vile liege had done.
Thus Circe raised her cup to decree
a chill on the house of de Braose.
A hostage was needed in deals with the king
- for trust was not his style -
but William junior was too fair a prize
for mother to lose her child.
She swore to kingsmen too loud, too clear,
‘What? and trust mon fils to a king who killed his heir?’
Ah Maude, too late to cry remorse!
John’s queen refused your fine gift cows
for your impromptu faux pas de Braose.
The baron took French leave of King John’s wrath,
fear ferried Maud and William to Irish shores.
Enroute to Scotland, Circe’s cup poured forth
binding chains and kingsmen wild with scorn
for the warrior woman and her first-born.
Corfe Castle
dungeon was the final stake
the king
struck to the pair; hollow bellies,
shrunken
flesh, Maud watched her darling perish.
She held him
close to breast and heart, and though they say
she et him, the first bite was not for food but love,
to assimilate and transmute him.
She chewed his cheek, with failing thought
‘…like bread pudding, my dulcet fawn, my pride…’
buried tears into his hair
with one fare well and shattered sigh,
she swallowed, as she died
She lies dead on the floor.
The inventory around her seems relevant:
shrunken heads, tribal masks, shields,
paraphernalia that reek of rancid butter,
animal skins and sweat;
batiks smelling of swamp mud;
beads pigmented with earth hues and blood.
Garments sewn by us workers upstairs
are steeped with her three packs a day.
All of these embellish the spectacle that lay
felled gracelessly by a worthier despot.
Another effusion seeps like the rising of a question,
though, for now, attention cleaves to the verdict:
weighted by tarnished silver and turquoise,
Dragon Lady has met the Hunter.
Primitive Afghan Kuchi cuffs, choker and belly belt,
anchors attached to her corpse, ensure it stays down.
No mourning on faces of employees,
hovering over remains on the ground
like survivors of the Holocaust who, at news of freedom,
moved like zombies with the shock.
No, no mourning,
though it might be proper to assume courteous regret
with Husband present and us still on the clock.
Yet, standing like this for many minutes,
no one is compelled to move.
Husband scratches his head,
what to do with the ripening carcass?
The elusive scent crescendos,
pervades the room steadily, redolent
of – what? – oh yes, newborn’s poo,
oven-warm and yeasty, gracing death
with evocations of birth and sweet, rising loaves.
‘My blessed God,’ Catalina breathes, ‘she’s evacuated.’
I can’t help myself; ecstatic beyond control,
I begin to sing to the amazement of all,
the (oh rapturous glory!) Munchkins’ freedom song –
‘Ding dong the witch is dead…!’
All eyes move dumbly, beyond dazed,
toward me and I leave the room,
but in glee re-enter with a leap –
‘…she’s gone where the goblins go, below, below, below, yo-ho!...’
Glenda, the hoary crone’s assistant,
for twenty long, dreadful years of youth,
towers over the crowd, six-foot-three, a glint in her eye.
I know she will die of mirth if I don’t get out of here.
With a wink, I exit that door for the last time
to celebrate my freedom with drink and bad rhyme.
Ways and Means
“It goes” is all they say, beneath Spanish sombreros,
bulging bags, unwieldy piles rattling in carts through town.
One tiny pauper hobbles on pretzel-stick legs
that end in rag-stuffed dress shoes.
He haggles, furtive, lynx-eyed
scattering swear words like cottonwood fluff.
Juan is the other diminutive man,
relentless bite of fight in him, pugilistic dickering,
spatting over aluminum cans,
who will pay for the drink tonight,
que van a comprar the fried
chicken fingers?
The language they speak is the
toll
of a California mission bell
dark-timbered, graveled,
the cadenced chink of a censer chanting
sweet, woodsy frankincense and calming myrrh,
sanctifying scent and prayers to heaven,
pierced by urine-stained cloth, old sweat and body oil.
There is nothing of Hispanic languor,
the lilt and slide of sensual hip glides,
joyous grace through provocative dips -
silken form is relinquished to percussive discord.
They sidle out of the way
beyond tricksters and covetous gentry like me,
evade the dim light,
grunt and lift the carts across the road
into their world of doorways and fraternal solitude.
(or, Life is too Short to take without Salt)
She wraps her hands around me.
Midriff gives to pressure, spreads,
I am rolled over and here comes the part I dread.
Honoring Judo principles, my path is clear -
her aggressive moves are met by thin air;
I am not there but here, where energy flows.
Infused with chi, my life force energized,
her intention triumphs over my passivity.
She covers me as babe in crib,
leaving me to contemplate
love ions and my existential essence…
if I am freshly made
where does my facticity begin?
and where will my becoming end?
can self denial be circumvented then?
and can I resist being devoured by angst
in a life where nothingness consumes
the beginning and end of a very brief existence?
With a few more minutes until my bath,
I’m on to matters more consequential:
what do people like on their bagels -
hummus and jalapeno? avocado and red onion?
ale chutney atop grilled Kintyre sharp cheddar?
The way is set for me,
I follow my path with no resistance.
One thing, though, that I won’t tolerate –
there’ll be no namby-pamby cream cheese for me
when
I hit the plate.
