They Say My Mother Was a Mermaid
That she left me on a morning beach for
sun-worshipers, with their towels and picnics.
Did she dream of being a walker? I have swam,
deep-dived searching this coast for signs
of other life – nothing. I think of her dreaming
the sky. We wonder at the stars, if there will ever
be explorers out there; I’m tempted but caught.
Saving for a glass-bottomed boat to try
peripheral vision, looking for trinkets, or
structures, or something beckoning me home.
I have webbed feet, and suspect my fingers
were surgically freed. Am I a hidden being
disguised, awaiting the rise of a super power?
They say I’ll never be satisfied with the lack
of proof. Fantasy's in art, movies, books, ballet.
I exist; so must others. If I met and loved one
could we throw our child into the sea within
hours of its birth? Hoping it’s legs would fuse
into a fish-tail. Would someone come then?
Faces flash teeth, lean in to preach, teach, stretch possibilities into well-polished facts as if their sooth was worth saying. Damaged/short intellect builds a glut; in-roads, out-roads, roundabouts, Tarzan rope swings. Have we collapsed into a race of tragedians? Basic intelligence gone, MPs, crafty characters in dystopian horror… are we unaware that Ride of the Valkyries is playing overhead? Sleepers in doorways feel the lack of cash, will witness a king on smart plastic paper. We walk on top of surf crashing, assisting wild wind, deafening us, promenade, swim in outside seating, music bombing into you until your head's alight. Star in a fiery sunset, promise yourself there’ll be more. There was a bomb; it wasn’t smart; The Grand is grand indeed, salutes the sea wearing its best white. Air and wind catch us on corners, curved, ready for scooping, to fly free.
THE ACTION of GOING
for Fabia
Lady Midwinter watches kites dribbling tails,
trailing, waving at the past way down below.
Sky wants her up there, draws a tether to lilac,
fuses into purples, fluffs up, puffs of white to
show bruises, old hurts until they fade. Now
she feels the blue, directionless, uplifted in
thermals, thrown down to find new skills, curve
& swell, twist & bend in thrills @ spilling time
in trippy interspatial tropicality. Palm trees bow,
offer long fronds to cool eccentric passions.
Her wolves are cooly confident, quirky in kind
inclusion – not killers for gain other than food;
they see her as a fairy tale – not Cruella, more
the good witch of the west, woodland Galadriel.
They’d walk the streets of London with her on
a leash, if allowed in City-world, be fan-beasts
posing for selfies with fangirls and rough boyz.
Brighton hasn’t been paying attention; she needs
more than it's offering, but its long stretches to
promenade keep her here; its regency buildings
hold history in the heart, pleasure in gaze-worthy
creams and creamy lemon. These streets knew
pomp & presence of the rich, famous and royal,
now house food-tours from almost everywhere if
we could all afford to eat out. Every night would
take us around the world in spicy, flavoursome
faux tradition… but slipping out of the ordinary
is a journey not so far but deep in fantasy art.
The undecorated can be beautiful too, in bright
enthusiasm; animating force expresses how being
alive doesn’t depend on gold or rubies fused
in your teeth; it’s the art of casual/impulsive flight.
A GODDESS COMES CALLING
She waves a mantle of dismissal is a god bearing invisibility.
We’re ants small enough to irritate be an infection are less
than are failure successful only to make others sneeze
swipe off surfaces. She peers not curious. Sad as if
she knows everything a witness compelled. We should be
careful where we walk the world is littered with landmines.
The race is still occupying the atmosphere signals disrupting
digital biography. She only sees resulting annihilations sparks
glittering like space-rain. Perhaps she waits for a clear board.
The little folk are leaving planting footprints on everything.
They’re walking up walls across my art tip-toeing around
the ceiling following Artex patterns. It’s fine. I’m trailing after
them with spray varnish to prove their existence if a need arises
but it won’t because no one believes. They’ll think I’ve gone
way over the top slipped down the pipe. I appreciate the Farewell.
It’s very personal which is why I won’t say a thing to anyone.
They must’ve had a ball all last night in my living room and hall.
My bedroom is left virgin as comparison as if they recognised
naked walls kept distraction back persuading sleep to come.
The house sparkles in sudden flashes of colour. You can see their toes
printed flurries of dots to match my mood this morning. Outside
people are running a marathon. Inside I’m tripping to Irish fiddles
and bluegrass jazz windows open keeping me alive in the moment
muslin curtains wafting making the day spin in anticipation of new
ventures and tantalising risk. Though I worry the garden will be lonely.
It perched on a low wall, all teeth and jutting jaw, feet swinging, clacking back at brick. You want to dance? it said, sweeping me off my feet. Heat distorted my vision as we waltzed, quick-stepped the zebra crossing, twirled down a side street, round a swing-park, along canal paths and over a bridge until I was wiped out. It sat me on a wall, and I caught sight of my legs; shoes were gone. You see, she said, sucking my body to old bones. Hers were now covered in pinking new skin, thin but altered. Sad that we disregard former bodies on their echo trail. Even ancient shadows belong to us, entertain through leavings of living; in scars, rubble unearthed, mythologised to include vengeful old gods. And modern hauntings knock our walls, scaring those left behind, giving birth to philosophies, flutters on the edge of notice in peripheral corners. Wouldn’t we wish them or the fragments of their being a few last strolls through our space in the world?
Irene Cunningham has had many poems in many magazines and anthologies over the decades, was nominated for the Pushcart Prize, won Autumn Voices memoir competition, and once won a week at Arvon with Roger McGough & Libby Houston. 2019 Hedgehog Press published, SANDMEN: A Space Odyssey, a poetry conversation with Diana Devlin. 2020 FIONA WAS HERE, Amazon. In 2022 Dreich Press published, No Country for Old Woman. 2023 Amazon: Talking to Walls, and Up@Ground Level.
A wonderful, magical collection from Irene. Writing is her DNA. This is a well deserved publication.
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