John Muckle

 

Sleeping and Waking Up

 

 

Where were you when the train left the shed

As the last morning stars shone down on me,

Two foxes tussled in the street, hind legs,

Hissing and biting, black smoke puffed up

Behind the houses, a boiler screamed, blowing off steam,

Hammered sleepers, as if in a film or a dream.

 

Where were you when my fingers tingled so

My arm dropped off to sleep before I could even

Kick away a pair of damp winding sheets; who

Taking flash photos at the bedroom window,

A council official, a local MP or the paparazzi.

Seen through a glass wall, unbolting the taps.

 

Why did I rise up only to engage in talking,

Negotiate an impossible peace, befriending

A strange plumber, led him to a lower room

Where my parents slept. Who swept it so clean?

They did, they did, or else they wouldn’t stay.

Black and gold zigzags, prow of a trireme.

 

The room is gone now, sealed doors existeth not

Foxes break off suddenly, part and run along

A fork in the two roads; train chugs to its buffers.

This house I am living in is somewhere else

Weeds in a front yard speedily chopped down,

Tools returned quickly to a neighbour’s armoury.

 

 

Who wants to know if I know of an Irishman

And would he marry a Jamaican girl for money

Who listens patiently to this illegal proposition

Who feels truth keenly, doesn’t know exactly

An old rhythm and blues song on the radio.

Woman you need. A rack from where it sprang.

 

 

 

 

People Who Don’t Want To Be Remembered

 

 

Some people don’t want to be remembered.

They swerve, blanch under your look, and if you

Seem too insistent will go out of their way

To drop poison into your well; maybe they are

Simply trembling in their own present, unaware

How deep is your well, or how your patented

Cleansing system will eventually flush them out,

Eventually purifying itself, no blame, no blame.

All this takes a long time though, a long time,

And everybody knows it really isn’t worth it

To make some stuffed thing out of the past. Who

Cares anyway? Better, if you can, to avoid accumulating

Memories: check out their eyes, and any other self-

Betraying moves. You are the one who will be

Living with it forever and the survival instincts

Of those not wishing to be remembered are good.

Discard whatever you can; the rest is dross

You will be carrying around for the remainder of your term.

Ask not why people are so mean; just accept it

As one of those thrills of the road: that some people

Are determined to leave you less than nothing,

Also that such people are generally likely to be

Amongst those most successful and most admired.

Forgetfulness is indeed a high blessing and all these

Great drugs and techniques to enhance memory

Are, in the end, more ways for the past to prey upon you.

Believe me brother, sister, those loop earrings and

That crooked nose you so much liked were there

For a reason, to rob you of yours; things not worth having,

Not even for a moment, because living for a moment

Is bad news; there’s no such thing, really, nothing

Ever comes out in the wash, nothing heals properly.

People who don’t really want to be remembered

Will be remembering you: count on it, like thievery.

 

 

                    copyright © john muckle

                                2010