In The Poetry » E A Markham

Cracks

admin — Sat, 18 Sep 2010 11:17:03 +0000

Then one morning you’re tying your shoelaces
And there they are, two more-than-cracks in your favourite shoe
Which couldn’t have been there the day before; or are you past
Observing details so close to home? And, yes,
For leather suddenly to give out without warning is unsettling
(Though, on reflection this is how things happen; for how terrifying
To base your philosophy on anticipating surprise and Accident!)
Nevertheless the unease will not confine itself to shoes.

So of course you go back to the bathroom mirror
(Remembering the betrayal in that hotel room
When an unaccustomed arrangement of glass caught you unawares,
Showed you shapes your vanity never knew):
You go back to the mirror and test your courage
On a safe bit of self. Not quite as before but it knows – surely,
Something: the god of biology knows – this can’t be replaced
As easily as shoes. So what to do? You vow to take more care of the shoes.

To My Mother, the Art Critic

admin — Tue, 30 Jun 2009 07:52:10 +0000

I suppose, just two words that one might draw attention to. One is Anancyman. Anancy is the spider god that came over from Africa to the Caribbean, and informed so much of our literature; the weakest creature in the forest, who had to get his way by subterfuge and cunning rather than by strength and power. The other reference is to a couple of the art galleries in Paris that we know and love.

To my Mother, the Art Critic

I put it down, I say, to my mother, my first art critic.
Back then, oh, in another country, a woman in her prime
Nicely contained in that dress we know, its modesty protesting
Those The Lady at her piano snaps for the album. But that was Before –
Yes, we’ve had too many images of After –
That was when, on a Sunday afternoon after church,
Anancyman came to the house and arranged a sitting:
In the drawing-room a detail of her dress is out of place.

No, of course, you do not understand. I come back to this scene
Decades later on a day in Sheffield laid out to be painted.
I pause in mid-stride, the rinsed landscape too clean for February;
The bruised sky of yesterday clearing up, a scent of elsewhere drifting
Indoors, from the garden. I think of men in berets and cravats
At the salon – of a provincial Degas whose aim was to trap you dancing,
Or an island Renoir with no fear and hatred of women;
Of your afterlife drawing suitors to worship at Orsay and Marmottan.

iii

So, yes, I’m thinking back to the small accident in the churchyard
(Sermons do not prepare you for the dangers of uneven ground);
And then to your pampered ankle after lunch, caught on canvas,
Along with the vicar an d the headmaster providing the conversation.
The boy with the made-up name was praised for the likeness
Of the bandage on the lady’s foot; he could have been a medic as well
As artist. Not bad, you said, the sternest judge. And then you asked:
But how are you going to paint my other shoe, over it?

A Verandah Ceremony

admin — Sun, 28 Jun 2009 04:07:01 +0000

I read this poem in Uganda and I presented it as a lament for my sister’s cat, a little kitten that was trained not to go downstairs in the yard because it wasn’t safe, and one day it escaped, went down into the yard and was torn apart by wild dogs. The poem is of course informed by the war that is going on in the north of Uganda, the wild dogs in fact are tearing children apart who call themselves the Lord’s Resistance Army. It’s called A Verandah Ceremony.

This is where the kitten died
This is where the kitten died
In the yard below, unfenced
The wild dogs came as if on horses,
Or a Lords Resistance Army
With machetes, with spears and rifles
The wild dogs came all claws and barking.
This is where the kitten died.

This newnew kitten three weeks old
Must avoid a kitten’s fate
Must clear the house of lizards
Bugs and insects and not stray
Beyond the safety gate where the dogs
All tooth and claw still lie in wait

Where the dogs still lie in wait.

Hand and Eye

admin — Wed, 10 Jun 2009 08:26:04 +0000

This is the burning-pot, last time the rice.
Tonight, it’s the specially-bought organic potatoes.
So, time to sit back and ponder why it’s gone wrong.
You never were a ball-player, a Sobers, a Beckham.
Even juggling with Latin embarrassed you with its spillage
Of meaning. So why persist in thinking, after a life’s experience,
You could better what the Americans said of one of their Presidents
And try to chew gum and scratch your arse at the same time.

To cook the meal and write the poem is the issue:
When will you give up this fantasy? You recall the young
Shirley Temple at the piano announcing to the audience
That she would play and sing at the same time.
And you think, all these years after Temple; all these men
In the world maintaining two families at the same time;
The politicians conducting war and peace at the same time;
Is it too much to ask yourself to these two things at once?