Tom Roder
Poetry
1962 - 1997
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A lever her twinkle [1986-88]
A lever her twinkle
pulled the unsure to
her downy ear which
joined perfectly her
head behind a twist
of silken hair.
Their breath was warm;
it warmed, then cooled,
then dried, leaving
stars of moisture
long the down of
the perfect ear
which harboured all
entreaties quite
unmoved and white.
Eventually
the peanut tray
would call and they
would filter back
preferring now
a ready salt.
Dry mouths,
a trick of tongue
in the corner,
hot embers that
drool over
landscapes;
a windmill of
embarrassment shifts
its tangent of
shadow about
their faces fixed
in country smiles.
Encountering her
thigh by the
tractor he pushed
his stiffness to
a conclusion;
her hair fanned
out among the
furrows: the gold
and the earth.
I.
'Let us roll all our strength, and all
Our sweetness, up into one ball:'
Yes! That's how the story should end ---
Although let me say, 'coyness' I wouldn't allow :
Snaffle, snuff, lick and bite it out,
Play a tattoo on her creamy breast,
Or bounce my nose about her lower belly ---
That's the way I'd play it.
There shoe would be laid out before me,
Not like a rug but like
A dinner table---delicacy here, tasty morsel
There---something for me to crumb my lips with.
'Codpiece full of straw'---a fib!
'Sick taper winking'---who you kidding?
II.
Let me tell you I'm not sick!
As I stand in the bucketing rain,
Pockets full of water, head full of gas,
I'm noticing things.
Look I'll make a list.
Item one: there's a blackbird over there,
It's up a tree---on a branch you might say.
Item two: the ground is wet and shiny---
It's the rain. Each clod of earth, each
Pebble seen.
Item three: that garden wall divides me from
My neighbour. Good! (He's got a dog.)
Item four: Pearls of rain in my hair.
III.
Let me say now---I was not always like this---
I used to have the public respect. But
Went to the coffee bars, read the papers,
Smudged my thumb with ink as I
Glanced the contact columns, transferred the
Black to my nose and people used to cry :
'Look at his big moon face and dark, inky nose!'
I just sipped quietly, spooned away at my cheesecake.
I tried with people but they'd end up pointing
At my out-of-date buttons, my unfortunate moustache,
The thick lenses of my spectacles.
I decided to become an animal.
IV.
Let me describe my fish-tank,
Packed with my one fish---good as gold.
Good as gold! (Unfunny.) Goldfish. Enough
Space to stretch its scales into a plaintive
Bend, and skim the detritus of better days,
Shovelling the swart water through
Thrifty gills. (Ha!) It's cased the glassy joint,
Fixed its mind. Fish. Goldfish. Content.
V.
Let me describe my bird-cage---
Full of budgerigar. Nameless.
Its sulphurous kak sticks neat.
Hop.
It worries its bell.
Hop.
Makes you cry to see its happy little face.
Little happy bird.
VI.
Let me describe myself now---
Periwigged, ornate--- the big body struts
Forward on fibrous legs
Negotiating with certain wonder
Obstacles.
The head stutters to the ground worrying away
At a bright seed, enjoys agitated
Smoothing of shoulder feathers. The mouth is an
O, a compressed slit, an O again.
'Fish face! Bird face!' They cry indignantly.
But I move out of danger.
VII.
Let it be known: When I arrived my
'Letter of Introduction to the Famous London Brothel'
Was taken by a doorman.
And the madame
( After looking at me and receiving
An affirmative to the question---
'What are you? Neither fish nor fowl!?' )
Procured me a lady who looked like a swan.
VIII.
Let me be. I'm alone in the garden now
Tired of the rain which makes the flowers bright but
Bends me down, rots my anorak, won't make me grow.
The dog next door did growl directing my emotions---
'Shut up neighbour's dog---I'm angry with your noise.'
---But now is locked indoors and I'm left with the pitter-patter,
The withered slime around my boots and, cold around my neck,
St. Christopher.
I stay put.
Like back to back men
with a nonsense of hate
in their veins, you
cherish the inturned
potential of
yourself as if
that cake which
dissolved on your
tongue wasn't puzzle
and rapture enough.
A complex network of comforts must support
My fat muscled body.
The steel chair which swivels
Is kind to my back.
My head is wrapped in flannelette,
Kind women stuff my gorging mouth,
Watch my eyes bloat with lechery,
My nose creases prettily, my head loll lazily!
Of course they'd like to platter it, jam it on a silver dish
Garnished with acorns, smelling of garlic---
But I'm too strong and snappy,
Control the pension scheme,
Have friends.
I'll show you my plush queen, draped is her pristine
Thigh with velvet pile. Rich lagged
My beauty so softly she pads around the lounge parking
Her innuendoes in my satin ear.
Pedicured,
Bright teeth,
A shock of hair which wafts past the door jamb.
But often when you ask her a frightful not-thereness:
'What is that you say? O no I didn't do anything today.'
Later when tea is served; piping hot, sugared, her little pale
Hands playing about the tray, praying for eyes to play about her
I let rip a poem to round off the day.
She calls me here 'troubadour' and I call her 'fig' plonking my
Hands all over the soft of her, pulling her open, tumbling down.
The morning after
The water has left the white basin,
My fingers nudging down the tiny black hairs,
A new day has to be faced and completed.
I. The Pyramid
I sent her thoughts in cardboard boxes
Beribonned and bejewelled,
So she might-as-best apprehend
Without the pleasure or the pain
Of glances, smiles, kisses, roses.
She built a Pyramid of Thoughts on her bedroom floor,
Each replete with its
Alembic of wit,
Cross-hatch of reminiscence,
Portion of good taste,
Pittance of pity.
A monument to our discretion,
A quivering castle sealed with glue.
II. The Plum Tree
We finally met beneath a plum tree
With twist and curl of leaf and heavy fruit;
Her hands were still as silver in moonlight,
Her fingers clasped a little cardboard box.
Words escaped but neither of us heard them,
A moving mouth would be a violation;
Old Netherlandish was our only style,
Caught up in our minds was no denial.
She wore her wisps of lazy hair tied back,
Her face-glow jumped out like a quaking bird;
Crumbs of light lit the bent down twist of branch,
Her quietness played about me like a dance.
I prised from her the little cardboard box
And wandered dreamily unto the rocks;
Green, pregnant, clogs---she stood unflinchingly,
I opened slow the box unthinkingly.
A howl of unclean soul rang past wrapper
Tattering my poise, blowing my felt hat;
A mirror in the box fell and shattered,
The shards caught the moon, I felt deruddered.
My heart pierced like a pin, its juice runs out,
My eyes torn-back and fleeced of filt-ring gum;
I pick the glinting pieces off the ground
And recompense them into a cracked sun.
I.
A perished wand this life now to me is
For everything I touch is fixed in grey---
The gillyflowers and daisies are sapless,
The tree an epigram, the wood a word.
Just like a serge suit crossing a concrete bridge,
And mist and carparks everywhere I look.
An undertaker's feeling for his lunch
Is all I have.
II.
Mouthes loose hinged---poised to speak,
Fenestrations of their morning thoughts.
God's signature resides in them
And on their ridges fingers.
A sharp nose and a blunt nose bob
To make an entry,
Eight o'clock juices glisten on their teeth,
Satisfaction could be gained with a whisper
But only their breath fills the room.
III.
Really. The renaissance of your smiles---
A pantaloupe of chocolate, cabal of wit.
Jouissance. Tigerish.
And your red lipstick planted like a kiss,
Your Chinese vest, fishermen rowing from
Breast to breast.
Their oars dip lightly.
IV.
A prettiness assailed me
It broke my body down,
It whipped me in the long grass,
It thrashed me with its frown.
Worms travel with rhythm.
Go to the svelte grass,
Lay these down in cool waters,
Bathe the hot head in the sound of cows.
In terms of pure wit
your peacock-feather gate
clearly outstrips my
monday morning notions.
A twist of light lights
a twist of branch lightly;
the gravel path curlews
under our fleet wheels.
The backseat of our car
is littered with fruits;
a suspension of
berries and citrus.
An orange was offered;
its segmental balance
reminded me of
our winds-wept residence.
A house is a shell
with many implements
for making the waking
and the sleeping easy;
it cases us against
the breeze and other
marauders who slit
into our eyesight.
Finally your wicker
baskets will ingest
the dirty linen
placid against our sins;
but before you talk
the dog into madness
Lady Brach must stink
before the fireplace;
the fender twinkled
like a page from 'Tess';
Inevitable,
Hardy would have said.
I struck a false note,
Bought a hard plastic-moulded case
For documents, pencils, file and things.
I caught buses,
Went on circular journeys,
Struck-up conversations.
But all the time the people had me sussed---
One eye on my moving mouth,
One eye on my case.
I want to be locked up.
My toenails cut. Slipped into a box -
For the splinters to weave into my flesh,
My eyebrows rub against the lid.
But let there be a hole of light to
Dazzle my good, descriptive eye,
Bleach my lashes, burn my nose.
And slip into the hole
A Strawberry, a Buddhist riff, a smell -
So I feel like a dissident with
A visiting wife and a foreign news clipping.
The Draughtsman, Lover, Host and I
I scuttled past the Perfumed Post
Lost in thoughts at Mine Fine Host
Who whistled Songs and warmed the Tea
Engirdled in Simplicity.
The Clock tolled out, the Chaise was rolled
Prinked and Pronged and Flecked with Gold;
I sat Me down and smoothed my Lap
And felt the Morning's Strength and Sap.
My Lover lounged with Buttered Toast,
An Image that I've never lost,
Among the Folds and Sprays of Gown
With Leaves of Grass and Dewy Lawn.
She fixed her Face unto the Day
Composed, Replete, with Warmth she lay;
Upon her Thigh a Mandolin,
Upon her Arm a Violin.
As Darkness now had filtered past
And Sunrays licked the Drinking Glass
We rang the Draughtsman who might try
To hold this Scene with all his Eye.
The Draughtsman, Lover, Host and I
Interchange Glances Firm and Spry,
A Quadrangle of Living Thoughts
Gilded Crosses, Gilded Noughts.
Expectation
(Lear rages in sundry weeds and saxifrage)
Expectation is a cunt
I prayed to end in clover,
But everytime I see the end
He points the way to Dover.
Love without ambition is like
a delver with an empty hole;
a war of attrition pares us,
pares us down to fleet, neat bones.
A scarecrow with a powder keg---
effective with the birds but blows
ruinous holes into the fields;
as for the birds, well, they come back.
A mantlepiece hoards objects
like my brain hoards caterpillars;
both have a fire underneath.
Unfortunately; gone out.
The night was biddable
But cut with tergiversation;
A whipped black cream.
The clock jumped from its perch
Leaving a dark oblong kiss
On the sideboard.
We were passengers
Watching our televisions
At the mercy of the maids.
Where were we going?
Captain Obvious would not say,
His coral teeth glinted on his table.
Our nakedness on bedspreads;
Portholes of starlight;
high waves like steeples.
Our pens rolled off
The writing desks and
Landed on the poop.
Joshua Jaguar, first mate,
Turned the scary page
And fell asleep.
Hawed under, slip-shod
Our perpendicular lovers in
Pantries.
They rip yellow leaves
From yellow books;
Their breast breath
Flutter past the milk.
Occasionally bending,
Mild eyes reflected
Set in polished shelves,
They dig and delve,
For number four eggs.
Mediterranean Men
( For the painter E.R. )
To salute your small-headed men;
Twisted marks of thumb-smudged charcoal
performing on the beach their quiet
Harlequinades; still minstrelsies
On busied guitars and fussy mandolins.
A fine hand feels the fretted neck,
Bends the string into repose.
Are their mute exertions self-
Celebrations; flourishes to
Charm sand, make a variation
Of the sea?
Sicilianoes to engross
Moon ( a quivering cuticle
'Gainst cerulean hue)?
Their gothic ruffs and scroll-work suits,
Casual belted, dozen buttoned;
Neat stitchery does nothing to
Pretend out Giacometti
Forms which gain fresh empathy with
Parched berry bushes dotted in
Middle distance.
French knots at elbows do not plead
No accessories.
The obvious object is big there
Before me, shaming the moon to
Bless as spectator;
The arm of a player curves
Into the foreground, revealing
A lady with zigged pantaloons;
She stands half abstracted but
Half self-admiring, praising the
Curves which won her the tune.
Remember crawling down the stairs for grapes,
Eyes too bitter pressed for tears,
Knees against my face.
'Why did you do it Adam?
I could have been happy always
In this dusty house with Nagyi'
Snailish we form an odd couple,
You jailbait, me a surveyor's clerks;
Our anoraks are bent double
As we convey our faces in the dark.
Stylish was the answer once, but
We came to find the mystery of our way;
Now cool limbs on gravel are put---
The urban forms of making love on hay.
My head an item of pornography
My shoes squinting Japanese,
My face a wood-block of calligraphy
Poised against my estate's breeze.
I met him in moonshine in leather,
He said my face was like a fender,
My bondage is my only stigma,
He loved me true, he loved me tender.
Occasionally we crease our Sun
With our thumbs tear out the nipples and bums;
Fast through the clippings thus we run---
Sad, clasping, waving, disembodied puns.
(Hurk kolba'sz szalona,
Pastoroknak jovolna,
Ha volna.)
Things aren't what you might expect;
the mountains have bruises,
the plains sag with rainwater,
withered ladies carry pails.
Today Paul ate a burger;
the sauce printed his face
a Goya mezzotint.
He charged at us in anger.
A policeman drives a panda,
his lips buttoned fast;
the glove compartment holds
a daffodil.
Quiet Nathan lived with Charlotte,
his penis fluttered over her
belly; she sobbed when she
remembered Stockhausen.
An aircraftman does a loop
over the spectators;
an ambulanceman stands by
hot with glory.
Carole wrote a shorthand diary;
Edna took care of the sprouts;
the dirty leaves collect
in a boot-shaped ashtray.
A judge coruscates,
his evening career;
he confects meringues
in his lady's chamber.
Endre drew an embarrassment
of nudes with a green brush;
country-wise they squat to
violin noise on heather.
A priest welcomes his flock,
he wears shiny brogues;
his cassock swish-swashes
concealing them.
While father sold lithographs,
sheep in snow, sun glow scenes,
William made plastic boxes
baroque with imagination.
A fireman slides down his pole,
neat on his seat his clothes;
with helmet and axe
he rushes into a dream.
Thomas took a drug,
the world fell into patterns;
an egg : the universe
broken to completion.
In a Hungarian song:
If the peasants had more
sausage meat they wouldn't
starve as often.
Whips
On linoleum.
A bandstand of possibilities
Glaring through my head.
The hoot and honk of trumpet,
Clink of timbrel,
Firing the drapes of my skull-room,
Burning the shadowy problems away.
Like pressing the right buttons,
Kicking a drear path to a brilliant isle,
Kinging it over the mind.
Whips (leather thongs, wooden handles)
On (the green) linoleum.
Flick.
Good.
I sent a word into the World
Pearl, Perfect, Clear as Glass
To Calm my Foe who Twisted, Twirled
In his Anger on the Grass.
He wore a Mask of deep black Woe,
Thoughts scraped backwards past his Ears,
A bitter Branch his Mind did grow
Doubting Sadness, doubling Fears.
The bitter Branch did Bloom and Fruit
Pushing Tendrils thro' his Hair;
I plucked upon a noisy Lute
To Banish all the Outgrowth there.
He bent my Nose, he blued my Lip
He split my skinny Body down,
He spat my Word out like a Pip
And sealed his conquest with a Frown.
I gave him basketfuls of Love,
He gave me tuppence worth of Spite,
I drew a turquoise Turtle Dove,
He Frets and Fumes with all his Might.
I sat sharp down upon the Lawn
And stroked his Arm, his Back, his Head,
He scratched my Face 'til it was torn
Dripping wild Tears as I bled.
I took my Word and ran and ran
Thro' dark Forest, up dark Hill
While he pursued me like a Pan
As the World stood Stark and Still.
In the End he found me there
Plucking sprigs of Fern and Weed
And rolled my Hands with Foxy Flower
Chanting 'gainst his Cruel Misdeed.
I sent a Word into the World
Pearl, Perfect, Clear as Glass
To calm my Friend who Twisted, Twirled,
No more Anger on the Grass.
Gracious!
You done it again;
Took the words right out of my mouth
bent and forged 'em into something bright and new.
How many whispers on the wind you transfix,
Anaesthetize, meld and milk as if the world
Was one huge cow with myriad udders
Strewn on the paths.
Published by Physiology of a Fly, at 50 Clifford Rd., Sheffield S11 9AQ
Designed, Typeset & Printed by Open Township, 14 Foster Clough, Heights Rd., Hebden Bridge, HX7 5QZ.
Copyright © Tom Roder 1988.
ISBN 0 9513998 0 2 Purchase Price £1.50
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