Five Wonderful Poems by Chris Campbell

 

Windows

 

You wake, flitter between shirts and skirts, 

pick your uniform. I listen 

under thick covers.

No lipstick, cross-legged in 

front of a full-length mirror,

you grab your lanyard, 

a medal to me.

 

I steal glimpses behind pillows, 

curtain holes like spotlights.

You leave the room to make breakfast,

the TV whispers; coughing headlines. 

Porridge hangs off hobs; 

bubbles, bowl clangs. 

Our cat meows and kneads. 

Birds congregate at the door.

 

You go to work; study, placate patients, 

collect stats, prowl hospital wards, 

bring home owls after dark.

Then spin webinars, working groups, panels; 

eat dinner and live life in small routines.  

You long to operate again, 

after taking time out for a PhD,

so we clap, count down the days, 

let weekends brim with data,

thumb through our wedding anniversary album.

 

Ambulances fly in blue past our flat; 

we salute the drivers, 

pray for patients through our square windows.

Stay inside but for daily chores;

bins dragged, post collected, sometimes

my only face-to-face chat is with delivery drivers.

 

Before bed; yoga and sleep meditation, 

only surrendering the duvet to get up for the loo, 

collecting bedposts along the way. 

Feet like shot-puts, I toss the cat into twilight–

after another accidental trip along the hallway. 

Tonight we’ll lie longer, but there are crinkles

in bed sheets, the alarm suddenly cries,

my pillow too vertical for comfort.

 

You burnt popcorn the other night; 

bitter, 

while still sweet, I liked it, you didn’t.

Burnt again next time, days apart, 

maybe weeks, I saw remnants in the bin, 

we ate bowls of it anyway. 

The TV now turns on by itself, 

stars tune in, morning waits; watching.

 

Death figures are frequent, 

my watch ticks

so we left it outside the bedroom.

Some days I wear it, others I forget,

did I forget today? It’s powered by 

movement, shall I purr on this sofa, fixated

on the wall. Or bury my eyes, into their lids,

is our garden overgrown?

 

Is this space shrinking; does everyone 

move in a series of loops?

Even those nursing others are stuck in a cycle. 

Let’s wind watches–listen to millions ticking.

Did you know waves of silence can break eardrums;

foam up thoughts, crack memories like shells? 

Linen baskets spit; voices are creasing, 

we find endless odd socks, watch washes through the window.

You head out again; all wrapped up, 

we hug with arms as soft as scarves.

 

Calling my mum today, she’s had a jab, 

so’s my dad,

you’ve had two, I like knowing that.

I have a tiny nephew, I’ll find him 

at Easter, but he’s not used to me holding him.

Coming home, in the morning, or late, 

we’ll laugh–properly–

we’ve laughed more recently, at our little routines.

Maybe there’s nothing else to do,

or you’ve just got funnier.

And when the days become brighter again,

You’ll dance in beautiful shirts and skirts.

 

 

Catch light

 

We soak up rays; the last of evening light in

A small corner of our courtyard garden,

 

Our restless cat at the window pawing at greenflies.

A flowerpot in sunshine guards the back door

 

While our well-watered hedge slumps into the neighbour’s

Garden like a nuisance guest who’s overstayed

 

His welcome. In the quiet, but for the sound of traffic,

I imagine the hedge shouting profanities at neatly-pruned

 

Wall climbers who were minding their own business.

The buttons on his drink-stained shirt popped,

 

Like mini corks, revealing a pale pot belly.

Our flowerpot reaches to the heavens. I envisage her

 

Rolling her eyes, all high and mighty on top of her clay,

Ordering a taxi to speed up the hedge’s exit.

 

The cat has left the windowsill and preens.

I look for shears.

 

 

Mister Painter

​

Houses rub shoulders,

Paint falls like peeling skin

And I ask where the sea is

 

Amongst the rubble and the dirt: a small face–

School kids back off the bus. They joke,

Skip and dance, and the hills roll in

 

The background like silent guardians,

Waiting for the rain.

 

An old man grips a rubbish bag

Like a painter needs his pots,

'Paint this part, Mister' say the kids,

 

Pointing at gaps in the houses. And he sweeps

His brush, coarse as a wave, heavy

As rain. This too will age.

 

​

Chimney snorkels

 

We reach a corner and catch a couple

Hand in hand–keep our distance,

 

Fingers away from our faces.

The light has faded, unveiling

 

The moon; a crescent with a single star

Below–as if they arrived to a night’s party together.

 

The canal glistens, narrowboats like guards on shift,

Replacing daytime geese patrol.

 

From thin, black chimney snorkels,

Smoke invades the crisp air, putrid and thick,

 

A woman sits in a saloon, back to the open door,

Asserting a point to male companions.

 

The cafés and pubs look empty, but in the

Distance a ‘Pizza’ neon sign bends the horizon,

 

Who has the dough for electricity while

No one bakes and not a soul visits?

 

Underneath a bridge, a man waits by the path,

His coat is zipped up tight; he seems bemused,

 

Anxious. Flashing an impatient look, his eyes

Brighten in the dark. He lets us pass in silence.

 

I gesture a thank you–his mouth looks like it opens,

But it hides behind a mask.

 

 

Dawn

 

When exhausted birds have flown away and tweeted their last breath

that’s when I’ll close my eyes and say there’s more to life than death.

 

For when they call, they call with heart through feathered chest

and as they go, they fly with hope that after song they’ll rest.

 

And I in bed as next day looms and dawn begins to stir,

think back before this sombre place to sunlit gardens far.

 

A silent bird that sings no more may have no song to make,

but as I lie in deepened thought, my bitten nails, break.

 

As once it sang, brought the day and closed it with a verse,

now every time I think of it, my anxiety gets worse.

 

Take my clothes, my pillow too and place me by the tree

where these poor birds once posed and sang and breathed relief to me.

Chris Campbell, born in Dublin, is a former national and regional journalist who worked for newspaper titles in London, Bristol, Bath, South Wales and Gloucestershire. Chris, who lives in Bristol, has published two poetry collections, ‘Bread Rolls and Dresden’ (2013) and ‘White Eye of the Needle’ (2021), both through The Choir Press. The latter, published in April, is available from Amazon and all major retailers. He currently works in PR and judges young writer competitions in Swansea. Chris recently won the Portico Library ‘Poetry Prize’ and has contributed to several anthologies. He graduated with an MA in Journalism from Kingston University and a BA (Hons) in Economic and Political Development from the University of Exeter, with a year’s study in Uppsala, Sweden. Visit his website at: www.chriscampbellpoetry.co.uk