List of Writers - Further information

Distances

The lies she tells, the insulting useless lies,
When she comes home at last from another date,
Sated and triumphant, she has been with him.
‘Something I just had to finish,
Darling.’ She dares me to attack.
‘What was it this time?’ I note the slightest pause,
Before she offers me her newest fiction.
She saves her best material for me,
At least I can say that.

Infidelity is one of her successes,
And there have been so many. When we lie in bed,
Embracing silence, avoiding contact,
I shall rehearse the accusations
I cannot bring myself to utter.  And she will sleep,
Composed, impeccable, beyond proof or answer.

Living With History

A band breaks into ‘Tipperary’
On the city centre’s trampled patch of green.
Brass catches fire in a November sun –
Breath freezes.
The audience are mostly refugees,
Like me,
From the Saturday afternoon shops.

But one of the crowd, at least,
Is transformed by the music.
Face lined with age
And complete happiness
He stamps and claps and sings:

‘It’s a long way to Tipperary,
It’s a long way to go…’

I cannot say what myths and heroes
The tune recalls for him
Or how much he has chosen to forget.
We others, bemused, embarrassed,
Weighted down with carrier-bags
Are intruders on a fierce communion
Between this man and the past.

I move on before ‘Tipperary’ ends
Picturing the ranks of marching soldiers,
Young and dutiful, yesterday and tomorrow:
They are all singing.

Miniature

The sky is velvet.  The old moon traces
Light to a figment in the artist’s eye.
Slightly out of focus, the foreground holds
A human figure I know to be you,
Your breathing life, the yellow shock of hair;
Absurd to place you in this tiny frame.



All poetry copyrighted to Tony Lewis-Jones 2008.