Two Poems by Paul Demuth

 

VANISHING POINT  

 

I’m sitting on my sister’s balcony. 

She’s watering a row of flowers. 

 

For years I've brought Mum here  

to stay with Sophie at weekends,  

but drove today alone. 

 

Osmosis is the word for it. 

The roots begin to fidget in the throat.  

You feel the tension in the stalk and stems  

as water floods the irises  

and vision blurs. 

 

I am reminded of the early years  

when Mum would go out to the shops 

and leave us for an hour. 

 

If she was late, I’d fix my stare 

on where the two sides of the lane converged, 

while Sophie did her best  

to reassure me she would soon appear. 

 

 

 

HAPTICS 

 

Before I left, 

Mum asked me to shave Dad, 

which I had never done before; 

 

And as I turned and tilted his large head, 

I read his cranial morphology, 

 

acquiring a much more precise 

relief map of his lineaments, 

transmitted through the blade’s caress, 

 

than through my eyes 

in all my filial years. 

Bold sculpture there. 

 

And when I’d bathed and dried his face, 

whose haptic image I’ll always retain, 

 

I kissed him 

and left to catch my plane, 

assuming I would soon see him again. 

 

 

 

Paul Demuth - I like the sound of my name ‘Paul’ because it chimes nicely with whoever I am.