Instant Changes

He knew I was watching
I knew he knew I was watching
he knew I knew he knew I was watching
he watched too.
I knew all that
and so we went on
knowing,
watching,
in a silence
broken
only by the gentle drumming
of his black chipped, painted fingers
on the taught,
string bound hide.
Purple decorated eyes
not daring to meet
my own plain brown ones
which flickered
over his many layered
multi-coloured form.
Where, I wondered
was he going to play?
and where would I see him again.
One word
one word of courage
"hello"
could have changed my life
"hello"
could have been the key,
the key to eternal happiness,
I grew shy
timid and muted,
fascinated
to the point of dumbness
by the rhythmic movements
of his long tapered hands.
I stood to leave;
I had no choice
His soft beautiful lips opened
issuing, with a gentle lilt
one word
the word which stopped my life
as abruptly
as the station had stopped the train
"goodbye"

As he pedalled hard, head down, against the solid wind,
the moon eclipsed behind a gold-edged scudding cloud,
unseen, a speeding driver wrapped in a rain-blind screen
did not see him, caught his back wheel such a glancing stroke.
The driver barely felt it, but he went spinning wildly across the road.
Another car then tossed him free of the buckled frame.
He bounced again and landed slumped against a wall.

Except,
that night, he started on his journey home one minute late
so by the time he reached his fate it had already gone.
The driver of the car, unseen, too fast, with rainswept screen
did not see him, was some distance past. One minute on,
as he pedalled hard, head down against the growing wind,
a glorious moon climbed bright from angry storm-grey clouds.
And he reached home complaining of the wind and biting rain.

Jelly Baby Continuum

OH OH… Out of Rizlas… Out the house… Corner shop…
Oooooooo… Jelly Babies… Mmmmm… Scoff…
All the way back… Home… Empty pack… Time…
For a fag… Out with the baccy… Rizlas… Reach in pocket…
OH OH… Empty pack… What!… Er… Jelly Babies…
Scoffed… Packet in pocket… Cig papers….
In bin… Damn… Back to shop…
Ooooooo… Jelly Babies…

I Need No Ducks Nor Pigeons

I need no ducks nor pigeons
To bring me rhymes, cooing and quacking to my hands,
Nor black-necked Japan geese,
Spatulate-footed, tame by the tame waters

The wind has made a harp
Of my thin bones, of the wisps of nerves and veins,
Of the dry straw of my hair.

Oh, when I was young
I could pluck down jewel colours from the light,
Great chunks of ruby, sapphire, emerald,
Out of the ambient air.

I have not grown old in the way that men tell age,
Have not grown grey, rather have I faded
Into the thin, dry golden whispering
Of paper-petalled everlasting asters.

© Vera Rich
First published in 'Florida Education'

La Vecchia

bulging belly
bow legged black
squats in the corner
spitting sparks
crackling strips
of chestnut bark
lei, si chiama
'La Vecchia'

dance of the shadows
warmth of the wall
curl of the smoke
and the leaves in the hall
split to the seams
and the cackling sides
lei, si chiama
'La Vecchietta Nera'
lei, si chiama
'La Vecchia'

lei, si chiama
'La Vecchietta Nera'
lei, si chiama
'La Vecchia'

The Insensate Flicker Of A Pulse

She turns heads in the underground
….which isn't hard to do
……..except she does not seem to notice that it happens

but it's the way she wears her skirt
….slightly higher than her boots
……..and just the slightest distance higher than her stockings

and it's the way she's merely staring
….at that little tubeway map
……..as if she's only slightly lost or maybe losing

and it's the way she runs her fingertip
….past her eyebrow and her hair
……..as if she's unaware of the movement

and she thinks about his hands
….about his fingers (how they glowed)
……..and she feels a tiny vacuum slowly growing

and she thinks of masturbation
….and she thinks about the rest
……..and she knows that if she pauses now she's broken

and she knows he thinks he loves her
….and she thinks she might love him
……..but London's crowding in around her shoulders

and she thinks about the day job
….and she thinks about the rent
……..and she thinks she's thought enough and now it's over

and, yes, the letter's in her pocket
….but she does not have a stamp
……..and then the train pulls up and meets her destination

and she steps out of the carriage
…..and the platform greets her feet
……..and she makes her way through crowds into the station.

Quail Are Tricky (found pantoum)

Quail are tricky.
Having plucked and trussed these long beaked birds,
make a small hole in front of one leg of each.
Pull out the stomachs and intestines (guts).

Having plucked and trussed these long beaked birds,
leaving the remaining entrails undisturbed,
pull out the stomachs and intestines (guts).
Skin the heads and remove the eyes, claws and outer skins,

leaving the remaining entrails undisturbed.
Bend the heads round and ease out those beaks,
skin the heads and remove the eyes, claws and outer skins.
Push the beaks through the thighs at one side.

Bend the heads round and ease out those beaks.
Split right through them and the heads and tuck back in place.
Push the beaks through the thighs at one side.
Cook for five minutes. For service flame the birds.

Split right through them and the heads and tuck back in place.
make a small hole in front of one leg of each
Cook for five minutes. For service flame the birds.
Quail are tricky.

After the Chief of Nyos went to Europe

For days the old volcano's crater lake
has churned and spat
swirled rust-red
smelt sulphurous as if
the ancestors are angry.
Village people talk in bars
make offerings, keep their distance.

One morning no-one wakes. No-one
rises before the sun to light the fires.
No cock-cries echo dawn.
Dogs in doorways rest like noon
cattle in the fields lie still as if
some sleeping-spell is cast
or time is waiting.

Mid-morning some outsider comes
finds everybody in their beds.
Two thousand dead without a mark as if
the air has flown.
The soldiers come from Wum, then doctors,
journalists from Bamenda,
and government men who stare, talk quietly.

Then foreign experts come with crates,
equipment to investigate how gas
might gather under water
might silently explode,
come to pronounce how gaseous lava,
heavier than air,
has rolled down Nyos mountain into lungs.

In villages around, people wonder
at the ignorance of experts. As if
they've never learnt that ancestors
will take revenge by any means
in dead of night
when western-minded chiefs ignore
the ancient rites.

An Underpass

Dead between where you've been
and where you want to be
traffic buzzes the flypast:
cars breathe in, hold
then breathe out at the lights,
brakes sharp as toothache.

Someone with business to conduct
once stayed an hour, heard nothing
but the usual laughter, an unspooling
cassette that fades to the end of the track.
No forwarding address, no phone, no fax,
just his boots still ringing in my head
like the pre-history of an echo.

Underwater as usual, I swim
in my own leaks; lights flicker
at the weight of mule, brogue,
cracked sole or well-healed:
who meets who, who signs his name
in silver paint then leaves
his muttered curses on my wall.

compiling editor: Helen Clare
associate editors: Terrie Relf, Joe Warner 

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