Out of the Blue Read Free Page A

wanted her to learn
    the law that what he said, went,
    and that was the end,
    and because she was slow
    she had to learn
    over and over.
    He was an old-fashioned teacher,
    he taught her hair to lie straight,
    he taught her back to bend,
    he taught silence
    but for the chink of coathangers
    stirring in the wardrobe.
    He kicked the voice out of her.
    There were no words left to go
    with the seven-year-old girl
    soiled and bleeding,
    marched along the corridor
    by this man, rampant
    with all he had learned.
    Later, locked up once more
    she called through the door to her mother
    ‘ It’s all right, Mum, I’m fine .’
    But she was lying.

The rain’s coming in
    Say we’re in a compartment at night
    with a yellow label on the window
    and a wine bottle between your knees,
    jolting as fast as the sparks
    torn from night by the wheels.
    Inside, the sleeping-berth is a hammock
    and there I swing like a gymnast
    in a cradle of jute diamonds.
    Outside, the malicious hills,
    where to stop is to be borne away
    in the arms of a different destiny,
    unprotesting. Too sleepy to do anything
    but let it be. So, that oak, lightning-cracked,
    shakes where the flame slashes
    and kills its heart. Swooshing up air
    in armfuls its branches unload
    toppling beyond the rails’
    hard-working parallels. Say you join me,
    say your eyes are drowsy,
    say you murmur, The rain’s coming in,
    pull up the strap on the window,
    the rain’s coming in .

As good as it gets
    She comes close to perfection,
    taking the man on her thigh,
    sweeping him home
    in a caress of glitter, that way and this,
    that, this, each muscle stripped
    to bulge and give. See how her hair
    streams in the firmament,
    see how the tent
    jutting with spotlights
    puts one over her, then another,
    another, a spurt of white
    that slicks to her thighs
    while the crowd claps time,
    faster and faster, wishing she’ll fall
    wishing she’ll plunge for ever
    licked all over with glitter
    love-juices, spittle.
    Back she comes on herself,
    her bird costume flaring.
    As she lets him down
    you see the detail: the rosin,
    the sweat that follows her spine,
    the sly, deliberate spin
    with which he steps onto land.
    But the crowd won’t stop clapping.
    They want her again,
    they’ve been translated, they’re Greek,
    shouting Die now! This is as good as it gets!

If only
    If only I’d stayed up till four in the morning
    and run through the dawn to watch the balloons
    at the Festival ground,
    and seen you as your balloon rose high
    on a huff of flame, and you’d waved,
    and a paper aeroplane had swooped to the ground
    with your mobile number scrawled on the wings.
    If only I’d known that you were crying
    when you stood with your back to me
    saying that it didn’t matter
    you’d be fine on your own.
    If only I’d trusted your voice
    instead of believing your words.
    If only I hadn’t been too late, too early,
    too quick, too slow, too jealous and angry,
    too eager to win
    when it wasn’t a game.
    If only we could go back to then
    and I could pick up your paper aeroplane
    and call you for the very first time.

Mr Lear’s Ring
    Mr Lear has left a ring in his room.
    Is it of value, is it an heirloom?
    Should we pack it with brown paper and string
    And post it after him?
    He hasn’t the air of a marrying man
    He hasn’t a husbandly air.
    No, his gait is startled and sudden,
    And is he quite all there?
    Poor Mr Lear has left a ring in his room
    And it’s not of value, it’s never an heirloom,
    But we’ll pack it with brown paper and string
    And we’ll send it wherever he’s gone.

Fortune-teller on Church Road
    Two of us on the tired pavement
    with the present pushing past
    into the pungent smoke of the coffee-shop,
    carrier bags stuffed with cargo
    from Wal-mart and Tesco.
    A tree of heaven, bright yellow
    spreads its leaves above the peardrop
    solvent scent of ASNU VALETING SERVICES.
    She looks where I’m looking
    this woman who asks