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- Raoul Izzard, Sr
Night Caller Page 2
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Page 2
"No, I'm not a stalker."
Hand in the first day's work covered in coleslaw.
Our team is here to help you help ourselves,
to hide away when counsel’s needed most.
Boys,
fear classroom shrapnel,
intense emotions, felt
tip pen stains that
never come out.
Be your own hairiness,
your scritch-scratch junk-
yard scrotum, the chink
of torn-out pin-up.
No need for clown noses,
just ruby with drink.
Soon, skin will hang
like a clown's baggy pants.
Enter your life here
Through blinds, dark is thinning back
to day - like your hairline. Cold shave.
Microwave the day-old coffee, cornflakes.
Watch the sky live on the morning news
then put the umbrella you will never use
into your rucksack. A voice says
someone somewhere is opening a door
to opportunity. Remind yourself that
they only mean money, to double-check
the house is shut before you leave.
The self-help your grandad gave you
recommends actualisation,
not to sweat it. You wipe off
the shaving foam you missed, grab
your charging smartphone, unfriend
a stranger. Click, then click again. Switch off.
Under the sheets, you stirred
like the first time twenty years ago.
Now, you sit on the bus
you are not driving, and feel
empty like a camel long time gone and no way home.
Passengers
Your hand in mine, sand-
grit hot, as the lights went
down in the rolling carriage.
The thoughts we spent
in touch, stroking an idea to
fire, love. Buttons uncoupled;
hands clasped tight. Too
eagerly we sought a suture,
groping. Damp from the surf,
lacquered in suncream,
shedding skin, shorts
like papyrus to the touch.
As the lights came on, we pulled
apart, not wanting to flesh out
the line we had scrawled, firm
a route from hope to ground.
Lovers are but strangers just
waiting to happen. When the train
arrived, we were at different stations.
Jane, 16
Cropped, her crown
makes a nosedive
off the block, off
the scaffolding,
hewn.
The axeman, alone
takes a butcher's,
no bodkin tight
against his crotch,
no thrall of throats,
no locks liberated
whose ardor burns
his conscience,
nor a swooning
of ladies-in-waiting.
No breast-beating.
He inches out his
axe, swoosh, scoops
up the little runaround,
holds it up for gloating.
Politics, luteplaying,
downfalls over bread
and God, bloodlines
don’t whet his appetite
like his wife’s one pastry.
No-one will remember him,
nor record his sentence.
A fullstop in sack cloth,
is flung into the chapel pit
with the other nameless.
E&K Verse
They think us sisters
because we speak alike,
“the toffee-nosed pair”.
They guard their seats,
‘het up’ terse, no time
for double-barreled
names. K saws hers off.
No more of the hotel
we gave up or past lives,
only life in lodgings,
factory work to help
the war effort.
After packing and tea,
the fall of Singapore,
clocking on, one of many
women beating all hell
out of Spitfire, bomber.
All into noise caskets
are clasped, wed to
crisis, resounding tattoo
of spanners, animal
cries from the men
and the boys. Howls
from the jockey who
traversed five weeks,
the Channel, the fall
of France, now sailing,
on the night shift.
At dawn, the lathe
is at sea, rocking and listing.
The Czech boy is silent, head
bowed, chubby hands
barely up to the metal,
all fifteen years of him.
K bends her back,
spinster to the lathe,
crick in her bones.
She’s bent double in the slips
at the Oval for the King.
In command, she straightens
her back, relaxing, turns
the lathe slowly, one of
many rude mechanicals.
Her only trial, boredom,
she recalls five acts of
memory, A Midsummer
Night’s Dream, she learnt
when 16. Repeats scene
after scene. Sound
engineering practice
as looking around one
sees everyone’s mouth
is moving. E is in talks
with the bosses, she
always emerges
triumphant.
K intones lines aloud
to the lathe. 'Now,
fair Hippolyta'. No
moonlight to be ill
met by but neon that
bathes each soul in
ghastly green, bleeds
all blue a violet hue.
No magic but the Lord
of Misrule at Yuletide,
mistletoe, kissing pecks,
lubadubs and bear hugs,
up behind the machines,
a swig of cocktail out
of a medicine bottle
to lay the love juice
on some worker’s sight.
Not a scrap of work done.
We get on with it,
rationing, browned
off, the smallest
double bed in our
second cell, composed
of bumps, a lumpy duvet
and a nice little fire
that toasts the legs,
a withering Geranium,
a portable wireless,
coffee in a flask.
Give me your hand
and Robin shall
restore amends.
Welcome to the Cheap seats
In the classifieds, I found it:
A four-room one-floor flat with garden;
the applause of passing commuter trains;
a lodger-landlord.
He lorded the corridor in his dressing gown,
in his one room-cum-bedroom-cum-study,
holding tea and rehearsals for plays,
other times, we split beers.
I slummed it in the rattling of
a dying career, a journalist too nervy
to pick up the phone, too unsure to
check the facts, I drank.
His world of regulated wakeful hours,
the designated dose of washing liquid,
the his and mine divide of musky rooms,
lost to our bickering.
In the classifieds, I found it: a dead career,
hope in booze, and a struggling actor,
bit parts for all to the tune of failure.
A tune we all sometimes whistle.
Laika comes home
I remember Galin
a's glee coaxing her,
that trembling animal from under the sofa.
The dog, a mottled mane of hairs, shone.
"How light she is," you said. Dmitry thought
her heroic, and I laughed. "Dogs can't be heroic."
Yuri got her to chase the yellow ball,
her lashing tail gave the radio a spin,
and it launched, spitting white noise. How
quickly Laika turned, spiking up, and
and into my arms, she ran. Darling, you
called that trust, and I corrected you,
"That is training."
One of the assistants packed
her away like I did the radio, silent,
into her container. She kissed
her wet nose, and said Bon Voyage.
We know this is it, this glory
we hear in the news, and her
barking, barking, studio laughter.
Tonight, she will be barking
in Soviet space, a Soviet dog awaiting
orders, pointing to the moon, ours
for the taking. Barking and pointing
to the one man who will watch her smiling,
the hermit, hapless, and uncaring,
we call the man on the moon.
Can we call him comrade now?
Will he protect her now that we cannot?
I know I am just being foolish,
now that Laika has begun her revolution.
Pincushion heart
Love plump, sat
on the lap of
the seamstress,
a pincushion heart
lies stuck full of needles.
Fattened with
towelling, chastened
with ribbon, the heart
of a woman - the heart
of the seamstress.
Plucked out by
his wit, cast from
his reason, the threads
of her stitching
now lost to love's leavings.
Learning a 2nd language
Between us lies the stretch of pool
I suck in jagged breaths and gulp,
the water ripples infinite
and tensing up, I go to dive.
As I submerge, you see me clear.
Enough, you say. There is no board
from which you dove, no pool to plumb,
nor liquid to immerse into.
And flapping helpless, I see true
the cold deceit, and ridicule -
the heavy length to go alone -
I let words sink like rock and drown.
John Doe, drowned
He liked his books, I guess.
Among the waterbound, the paperbacks
'The Greatest Batman Stories';
a faceless Thomas More's Utopia,
property of West Glamorgan County Council.
His words on cardboard:'Sleeping rough, thank you';
a black sleeping bag; his London
Shopper. So many letters, yet
no name, only the Queen's head
glinting in pound sterling.
###
About the author:
I am Raoul, a tutor who lives in Barcelona, a husband to Susana, a daddy to our baby, Pau, and a sock-provider to our dog, June. You can find more of my writing on the blog, Inklings and Devlings.
Thank you for reading books on Archive.BookFrom.Net
Share this book with friends
Hand in the first day's work covered in coleslaw.
Our team is here to help you help ourselves,
to hide away when counsel’s needed most.
Boys,
fear classroom shrapnel,
intense emotions, felt
tip pen stains that
never come out.
Be your own hairiness,
your scritch-scratch junk-
yard scrotum, the chink
of torn-out pin-up.
No need for clown noses,
just ruby with drink.
Soon, skin will hang
like a clown's baggy pants.
Enter your life here
Through blinds, dark is thinning back
to day - like your hairline. Cold shave.
Microwave the day-old coffee, cornflakes.
Watch the sky live on the morning news
then put the umbrella you will never use
into your rucksack. A voice says
someone somewhere is opening a door
to opportunity. Remind yourself that
they only mean money, to double-check
the house is shut before you leave.
The self-help your grandad gave you
recommends actualisation,
not to sweat it. You wipe off
the shaving foam you missed, grab
your charging smartphone, unfriend
a stranger. Click, then click again. Switch off.
Under the sheets, you stirred
like the first time twenty years ago.
Now, you sit on the bus
you are not driving, and feel
empty like a camel long time gone and no way home.
Passengers
Your hand in mine, sand-
grit hot, as the lights went
down in the rolling carriage.
The thoughts we spent
in touch, stroking an idea to
fire, love. Buttons uncoupled;
hands clasped tight. Too
eagerly we sought a suture,
groping. Damp from the surf,
lacquered in suncream,
shedding skin, shorts
like papyrus to the touch.
As the lights came on, we pulled
apart, not wanting to flesh out
the line we had scrawled, firm
a route from hope to ground.
Lovers are but strangers just
waiting to happen. When the train
arrived, we were at different stations.
Jane, 16
Cropped, her crown
makes a nosedive
off the block, off
the scaffolding,
hewn.
The axeman, alone
takes a butcher's,
no bodkin tight
against his crotch,
no thrall of throats,
no locks liberated
whose ardor burns
his conscience,
nor a swooning
of ladies-in-waiting.
No breast-beating.
He inches out his
axe, swoosh, scoops
up the little runaround,
holds it up for gloating.
Politics, luteplaying,
downfalls over bread
and God, bloodlines
don’t whet his appetite
like his wife’s one pastry.
No-one will remember him,
nor record his sentence.
A fullstop in sack cloth,
is flung into the chapel pit
with the other nameless.
E&K Verse
They think us sisters
because we speak alike,
“the toffee-nosed pair”.
They guard their seats,
‘het up’ terse, no time
for double-barreled
names. K saws hers off.
No more of the hotel
we gave up or past lives,
only life in lodgings,
factory work to help
the war effort.
After packing and tea,
the fall of Singapore,
clocking on, one of many
women beating all hell
out of Spitfire, bomber.
All into noise caskets
are clasped, wed to
crisis, resounding tattoo
of spanners, animal
cries from the men
and the boys. Howls
from the jockey who
traversed five weeks,
the Channel, the fall
of France, now sailing,
on the night shift.
At dawn, the lathe
is at sea, rocking and listing.
The Czech boy is silent, head
bowed, chubby hands
barely up to the metal,
all fifteen years of him.
K bends her back,
spinster to the lathe,
crick in her bones.
She’s bent double in the slips
at the Oval for the King.
In command, she straightens
her back, relaxing, turns
the lathe slowly, one of
many rude mechanicals.
Her only trial, boredom,
she recalls five acts of
memory, A Midsummer
Night’s Dream, she learnt
when 16. Repeats scene
after scene. Sound
engineering practice
as looking around one
sees everyone’s mouth
is moving. E is in talks
with the bosses, she
always emerges
triumphant.
K intones lines aloud
to the lathe. 'Now,
fair Hippolyta'. No
moonlight to be ill
met by but neon that
bathes each soul in
ghastly green, bleeds
all blue a violet hue.
No magic but the Lord
of Misrule at Yuletide,
mistletoe, kissing pecks,
lubadubs and bear hugs,
up behind the machines,
a swig of cocktail out
of a medicine bottle
to lay the love juice
on some worker’s sight.
Not a scrap of work done.
We get on with it,
rationing, browned
off, the smallest
double bed in our
second cell, composed
of bumps, a lumpy duvet
and a nice little fire
that toasts the legs,
a withering Geranium,
a portable wireless,
coffee in a flask.
Give me your hand
and Robin shall
restore amends.
Welcome to the Cheap seats
In the classifieds, I found it:
A four-room one-floor flat with garden;
the applause of passing commuter trains;
a lodger-landlord.
He lorded the corridor in his dressing gown,
in his one room-cum-bedroom-cum-study,
holding tea and rehearsals for plays,
other times, we split beers.
I slummed it in the rattling of
a dying career, a journalist too nervy
to pick up the phone, too unsure to
check the facts, I drank.
His world of regulated wakeful hours,
the designated dose of washing liquid,
the his and mine divide of musky rooms,
lost to our bickering.
In the classifieds, I found it: a dead career,
hope in booze, and a struggling actor,
bit parts for all to the tune of failure.
A tune we all sometimes whistle.
Laika comes home
I remember Galin
a's glee coaxing her,
that trembling animal from under the sofa.
The dog, a mottled mane of hairs, shone.
"How light she is," you said. Dmitry thought
her heroic, and I laughed. "Dogs can't be heroic."
Yuri got her to chase the yellow ball,
her lashing tail gave the radio a spin,
and it launched, spitting white noise. How
quickly Laika turned, spiking up, and
and into my arms, she ran. Darling, you
called that trust, and I corrected you,
"That is training."
One of the assistants packed
her away like I did the radio, silent,
into her container. She kissed
her wet nose, and said Bon Voyage.
We know this is it, this glory
we hear in the news, and her
barking, barking, studio laughter.
Tonight, she will be barking
in Soviet space, a Soviet dog awaiting
orders, pointing to the moon, ours
for the taking. Barking and pointing
to the one man who will watch her smiling,
the hermit, hapless, and uncaring,
we call the man on the moon.
Can we call him comrade now?
Will he protect her now that we cannot?
I know I am just being foolish,
now that Laika has begun her revolution.
Pincushion heart
Love plump, sat
on the lap of
the seamstress,
a pincushion heart
lies stuck full of needles.
Fattened with
towelling, chastened
with ribbon, the heart
of a woman - the heart
of the seamstress.
Plucked out by
his wit, cast from
his reason, the threads
of her stitching
now lost to love's leavings.
Learning a 2nd language
Between us lies the stretch of pool
I suck in jagged breaths and gulp,
the water ripples infinite
and tensing up, I go to dive.
As I submerge, you see me clear.
Enough, you say. There is no board
from which you dove, no pool to plumb,
nor liquid to immerse into.
And flapping helpless, I see true
the cold deceit, and ridicule -
the heavy length to go alone -
I let words sink like rock and drown.
John Doe, drowned
He liked his books, I guess.
Among the waterbound, the paperbacks
'The Greatest Batman Stories';
a faceless Thomas More's Utopia,
property of West Glamorgan County Council.
His words on cardboard:'Sleeping rough, thank you';
a black sleeping bag; his London
Shopper. So many letters, yet
no name, only the Queen's head
glinting in pound sterling.
###
About the author:
I am Raoul, a tutor who lives in Barcelona, a husband to Susana, a daddy to our baby, Pau, and a sock-provider to our dog, June. You can find more of my writing on the blog, Inklings and Devlings.
Thank you for reading books on Archive.BookFrom.Net
Share this book with friends
Night Caller