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On Acting

The butterflies are waiting in the wings.
The curtain of the sweaty palm opens.
There’s a flutter in the hall
that fans the cloud. In that moment,
                      lines are lost,
           then crossed,
then recalled.

A step onto the stage
and the danced
of the director’s tune,
begins.

The manners of a stranger
are familiar now,
and you finger the faux pearls
that you wouldn’t really wear.
Say the words
that you wouldn’t really say.
Shoot someone….

Dedicated to all the wonderful folk at Radyr Drama Society

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Fun? Fair?

Chewing on sticky candy floss
I watched Dad and his five fiery brothers
get drawn to the Wall of Death.

They went in.
Ready to die.

Mum and me watched from the balcony,
spun sugar sticking my lips.

We saw the spinning drum accelerate,
heard the heavy rumble,
as the floor fell away.

Centrifugal force stuck the puppets
to the wall
and left them magically hanging,
limp with broken strings,
and silent screams.

Soon the drum slowed.
Their feet touched the muddied ground,
and they spun their way out
with staggering bravado.

They didn’t die.

My candyfloss almost gone, I watched
my youngest uncle vomit
a pool of blush.

Then, with my hook,
I won a golden fish.

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Poets Silenced

The Poets are silent today.
Nothing left to say.
No clever arrows
released above the world,
dropping truths
into troughs of expectation.

Not even the laureates with
their liquid pens
can find the flow
to describe the suffering
that distant butterfly creates
as he fans the flames of chaos.

Yes, the poets are silent today.
Their pages unsullied
as their gaze falters,
and their mighty hands
lie motionless
at the sound of distant fire.

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Cast

On Saturday it was drama,
reciting lines and finding the right place
to stand and say our piece.

We talked about the context.
He with his historian’s eye
and me thinking of the costume,

the intrigues of make-up;
the tragicomedy of it;
the confined stage of it.

He spoke of the plot
as if it were simple,
as if there were no other scenes;

no second or third acts;
no love trysts or histrionics;
no heroes or villains,

while I wept copious
onion tears
as all good actors do.

Yes, it was just a rehearsal.
But I’m sorry to say,
that play is all but done.

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Fugu*

*Japanese poisonous fish also known as blowfish. A delicacy.

Don’t just stare at it, eat it. Go on.
Do not be afraid.
It lies there in that perfect handmade bowl
yearning to be eaten.

That is its purpose.

It is why someone went out on a grey morning
and fished on the wild water,
enticing it to bite with a flick of a line.

It is why it was left to die gasping on the deck
seeing the unfiltered light of day for the first time
through a single upturned eye.

It is why it was stored in ice colder than the Siberian sea.

Brought from the market it warmed by day until its flesh softened,
its glassy eye melted, and it lay on the slab
under harsh electric lights,
waiting for somebody to fillet it with sequinned hands,

discard the poison,

cube the soft pale flesh, toss it into hot oil, fragrant
with garlic and spices, then gently lift it from the pan
and place it into this handmade bowl.
Garnished with herbs and a little black pepper,

it is a work of art

you must eat.

Place your life in that artists blade.

Grip hard with your chopsticks the flesh will try to slip
your grasp. Bring it to your lips,
accept its threat like a kiss.
Trust it.
Savour its sting on your tongue.
Feel the warmth of the melt and the release of juices.

The morsel will not last long, but the taste,
well, the taste will linger in your memory

for as long as you might live.

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Homing

When he bought the first birds
home, and left them gently cooing
in a cage in our living room
mum was livid –
‘better not make a mess on my carpet’

He held one, passive in his hefty hands,
smoothing down the feathers
with his thumb. He passed it to me like a prize.
It was light and soft as sponge cake.

He cut up a cupboard to make a loft.
Replacing the roses in the garden.
Painted dove in that grey town,
‘It stood out like a tanner in a sweeps ear’ole’,
as dad would say.

We ferried the birds to their palatial home,
where the sun pearled their feathers,
and through the grill
they could watch the sky
and hear the taunts of the thieving sparrows.

Our fleet grew,
and on Saturdays they raced and flew
for miles, and almost always
found their way home because
of my determined rattle of a tin of grain.

I would watch the flock
circle as they spied their palace
between the dull bricks of London.
Dad won rosettes, well, his pigeons did.
Displayed them on the living room wall.

Mum complained about them
gathering dust. More often I had her to myself
and we snuggled on the sofa watching
Corrie on the telly before bed.

While at the pigeon club in the pub
Dad spent the evening getting drunk
and softly cooing at the barmaid,
holding the bird in his hefty hands.

Before long, those homing pigeons were gone.

And so was dad.