The Visit

Low-slung, hunched the houses hug

the other side of the tracks.

She’d been warned not to go but

the Ministry of Education decreed that all

ten-year-olds must be in full-time education so

when he didn’t show up for the third week to her class

when she saw that no one else noticed or cared

when the emergency phone number produced no results

she put on her rubber boots and braved

the mud across the divide.

It took many nervous side-looks and stumbles

to find the house.

There was no one wandering about, a midday

stillness of any commuter town

except it was dusk.

Herbs in pots, geraniums winked red and white,

all in earthenware, nothing rooted to the ground

in fear of rapid decampment.

A woman worn transparent and thin

was taking down the washing from the clothesline.

She startled when the teacher spoke her son’s name.

She shrugged when asked why –

no shrug of indifference this, no convincing cool.

She was too young to be adept

at arguing the merits of the Roma ways.

She missed her boy and did not want

him to beg on alien streets.

She never saw any of the money sent home anyway.

She spoke and spoke

and the teacher could not begin to comprehend

why she was so disloyal to her tribe

and wondered if she would have done the same

to someone who thought of her child

as something else

than danger and scum.

I’m linking this attempt at narrative poetry (based on a real-life situation) with the Open Link Night at dVerse Poets Pub. Join us there for some poetic fun and a wide range of styles and topics!

Narrative Poem: Moonlight Madness

For Kelly’s last appearance at the dVerse Poets Pub (as a bartender, I mean, we hope to see her as a participant every now and then), she has asked us to write a narrative poem. That is quite a challenge for me, as I tend to be introverted and elliptic in my poetry. So here is my attempt. 

We left the chalet that evening,
my lover, my best friend and me.
We’d imbibed mulled wine to warm up,
we’d joked about improving our slalom under the influence.
We thought we could see in the dark
with the fire of our youth and hearts to guide us.
The full moon shone brazen above the trees
and had us howling at it, in-between singing ‘Stand by Me’.
No one but us on the pistes,
nothing but the swish of our magical skis in parallel,
then the faint catch-up glide of my friend.
More singing, more racing,
burning thighs and tired knees forgotten in the turquoise fire of his eyes.
‘Let me jump over that ramp!’
‘Don’t be crazy!’ we protested but he was macho among the girls,
a professional among amateurs, aiming to impress.
We made our way to the end of the piste to see his arrival.
We heard his yell,
we saw him flying,
we felt the ground shudder at his landing.
His face pocked by fine gravel, I wiped his blood
with snow and tissues.
I kissed his wounds
until I felt
a bitter smell,
a putrid glance.
My friend’s eyes burning patches in the snow,
her jealousy darting ice on my cheeks.
Her love placed on his altar in offering.
My friend no longer.

Moonlight skiing, from
Moonlight skiing, from