The M Pages Read online

  Colette Bryce

  The M Pages

  Contents

  Death of an Actress

  A London Leaving

  Cuba

  Perfect Smile

  Needles to Say

  Drum

  A Final Day on Earth

  My Criterion

  The White Horse

  Hire Car

  Fungi

  The M Pages

  Apartment

  21 Westland Row

  Slander

  The Family Reunion Show

  An Amendment

  A Short Commute

  A Last Post

  Notes and Acknowledgements

  Death of an Actress

  She has, as chimney sweepers, come to dust.

  And bitten it. She has given up the ghost

  and lies in cold obstruction there to rot

  where angelstubs perfect untimely frost,

  now she. Frights me thus living flesh

  does yield soft saply to the axe’s edge.

  Has gasped her last, pegged out, gone west.

  Mislaid the future like a set of specs

  or a loop of keys. Has booted the bucket,

  dimmed her light to the glownub of a wick

  and snuffed it, passed unto the kingdom of perpetual

  night, hooked up with darkness as a bride.

  Shuffled, mortal. Crossed the Styx into

  history. She has joined the great majority,

  sloughed off her body like a costume coat

  discarded on the carpet. Dearly departed

  sleep, bed down with beauty slain

  and beauty dead. Black chaos comes again.

  A London Leaving

  Out of breath I spot

  the polished lozenge of a hearse

  pull beside me,

  beetle-backed,

  nose towards a church.

  I quicken foot, I fall in step,

  frightened, but of what?

  The fear of god is not

  the fear of god but fear

  of fungi, rot.

  Open-arsed it then

  from which the surgeons

  ease a planky box.

  Six, before the entry arch.

  Danny Boy, How great thou art.

  A husband’s silver stubble.

  Baritone at the earhole.

  A fiddle-thumbed

  accordionist from Brecht,

  into your hands, O Lord . . .

  Grave politeness,

  blot appearing underarm

  at seams of shirts.

  A poem fished from Google search,

  Do not stand for it, she’s dead.

  We, instead. Tapered heels

  of ladies

  sinking into earth.

  Athenry: a man recalls

  a drubbing at a rugby match.

  ‘Sorry . . . trouble.’ Loosened knots.

  Uisce beatha,

  two fingers, stop.

  Smokers in the parking lot,

  ashes to ashes,

  ‘yes, we must

  in happier . . .’ Some awkward hugs.

  Glitter webs on the railings.

  Travel apps and Uber cabs.

  Splash dispersal on a map.

  Cuba

  1

  Each classic carapace cruising on the Malecón

  each buffed up candy-coated shell

  with back seat sizzling for half a century

  like a steak

  appears beyond a veil

  a shimmer screen of heat on asphalt.

  Each billboard grievance propa-propaganda

  Each teetering theatrical colonial façade

  would fold like a losing hand of cards

  they said

  (think Buster Keaton, squared

  in a window frame)

  and yet it didn’t.

  2

  An aperture

  in the throat of a beggar

  hole bole in the bark of a tree

  in which a tocororo might hole up or huddle

  in which a guerrilla might stash a cache.

  Reach in if you dare with tweezer fingers

  draw out a voice

  a slim streamer of words

  like the ribbon of an ancient typewriter

  held to the light

  on which is embossed

  in mirror type that bold assertion

  regarding history’s absolution.

  3

  Standing in line at the breadline pharmacy

  standing in line for half a century

  the next cashier will see you shortly

  rest assured.

  ‘La ultima?’ Sweat is tickling

  sweat is trickling down your spine.

  If only a pen you would write this down.

  If only a Bic or a Biro refill

  Our Man in Havana

  The Writings of Fidel

  if only a party pin for your lapel

  a beard and a cap

  and a manual of manoeuvres.

  4

  A twenty-two foot Che at Santa Clara

  in silhouette

  we are wilting at his boot.

  Is that a rifle or is he pleased to see us?

  The triumph of fist and gun over

  fist and gun.

  Such monoliths now recall Saddam

  alas mid-fall (you quash that thought)

  a world at tilt and the law of entropy.

  Under armed guard

  this monumental Che

  ensures the military sensibility

  prevails alongside Christ-face ubiquity.

  5

  Two cockatiels are trilling from a cage

  in piercing voices

  (greasepaint cheeks

  complete the impression of a Punch & Judy),

  are swinging topsy-turvy from the perch.

  ‘It’s hard but not impossible to get a visa out.’

  On a box television circa 1984

  (the tube quite bust

  its vintage distortions

  take you back in time the retinas adjust)

  a Brazilian soap might strike the right note

  but the bathroom sort

  remains elusive.

  6

  Rum, rumba! Rumbo in the jungo

  is a killer cocktail

  (we mustn’t grumbo).

  Rumdumb meaning drunkard or drunk

  is a pleasant condition

  and you think Ron Collins

  sounds like someone you really might have known

  back home. Miguel Alfonzo Francisco

  Wilfredo skinny old-timers in the Plaza

  soft shoe salsa for a couple of cucs

  and the rattle of maracas or begging cup

  (guaranteed bona fide

  Buena Vista Social Club).

  Perfect Smile

  The time has arrived again to attend

  to my bite, now that my bark is perfected.

  Time to attend to my toothstones, chisels,

  choppers, nippers, laughing gear,

  my string of pearls, my wolfish incisors,

  molars, mashers, porcelain shelves,

  ‘a newer Sèvres pleases, old ones crack’.

  *

  Three teeth, he says, holding up three fingers.

  Jaws sink down into warm putty; the soft

  fwap of removal, muttered approvals,

  Paris attacks on the news, before

  some asinine pop that takes you back.

  ‘Okay?’ Fine. The shrill malarial

  whine of the drilling enters your brain on

  burning threads as your grip on the armrests

  tightens, jaws widen, ache

  like the jaws of a python measuring up

  to the unexpected breakfast of a goat.

  *

  Eyes shut, you retreat to a tropical island

  far away, perhaps that very one

  where Selkirk was kinggovernmentandnation.

  The snake will require a longish siesta

  after this, while you retrieve your coat

  from the hook on the door and slink

  through reception with its ad campaign

  for Invisalign, ‘the clear alternative

  to braces’, into the aircon cavern of your car

  to inspect each fang in the rear-view mirror.

  Needles to Say

  The stitched mouth

  of censorship.

  The numb lip and cheek

  of anaesthetic,

  slurrish diction

  Ishhouldliketomakeaspeesh.

  Needles to say,

  painful to articulate.

  Drum

  There’s a broken pane in the window of my ear,

  the act of a vandal: a black triangle.

  The pigeons are in and it will take a renovation

  to reclaim. Alas, there are no plans pending

  and a grey dove peers out early most mornings

  through the murk, surveying the street below,

  harried commuters slanting to their work.

  Where the pigeon retreats to, I don’t know,

  but often the window holds only unfathomable

  dark, and the flag of a black triangle.

  It may be, in fact, a succession of pigeons

  playing the bird at various points

  of its life; like the hair wash scene by Almodóvar,

  where a woman bows down over a basin

  then emerges from the towel a different

&n
bsp; actress than before – older, sadder, lined –

  like an early photographer rising from the cloak

  of her machine to a world devoid of colour.

  A Final Day on Earth

  A shrunken sack of bones

  a swirl of fur

  he sleeps beneath the sum

  of all his years

  while flies detect the scent

  of death and sketch

  a spirograph of interest

  round his skull

  delicate

  as the eardrum of a whale

  you held once

  in a peninsular museum.

  From time to time

  he flicks his old striped tail

  a half-spent reflex

  failing to deter them.

  One crisp ear

  forested with crosshairs

  manages a twitch

  defunct divining dish

  while sunken darkened orbs

  (now flecked) would seem

  lately to have blown

  their frazzled filaments.

  Lifted – gently

  underneath the oxters

  he concertinas down

  to twice his length

  a slinky spring

  paws prissily en pointe

  and unimpressed

  at this last inconvenience

  the long zone

  of his underbelly feathery

  soft as fledglings

  cradled in his mouth

  when Jaws that

  two-note theme was once

  his erstwhile soundtrack

  round the verges.

  So long tomcat

  thanks for all the mice

  we’ll miss you

  though you were grumpy

  always pernickety

  to the bitter end

  old foe old friend

  old tightarse Moriarty.

  My Criterion

  She writes New Englandly.

  How do I?

  Derrily? Verily.

  Irelandly? ‘Northernly.’

  Emigrantly, evidently.

  The White Horse

  after Adomnán

  When the saint’s old bones wouldn’t journey

  any further, he paused for a breather,

  sat down by a verge

  that was humming with the unfinished business of spring

  and there, the old workhorse approached him.

  The animal nuzzled its long white skull

  to Columba’s chest

  and wept, softly,

  tears from its pale-fringed eye blotting

  the shirt of its master, weary by the roadside.

  Diarmait, embarrassed, tugged it by the rope

  instructing the animal back to its duty,

  but the saint shook his head

  and mouthed ‘Let it be’

  allowing the white horse to pour out its grief,

  stroking the salt-soaked bristles of its muzzle,

  the two of them kindred

  in the knowledge of his death.

  Blossom in the hawthorn, tiny lights;

  a halo of flies around both of their heads.

  Hire Car

  Later, my iPhone delivers up the name –

  Fend Flitzer – this snub-nosed rental calls to mind:

  Invalid carrier and direct precursor

  of the Messerschmitt, which famously vroomed

  on billboards by Saatchi in the late nineties,

  around the time you finally quit,

  quietly, against all expectations:

  too late, Mammy, your lungs already shot.

  For decades that was your brand, Silk Cut.

  What was that advert’s message all about?

  I can vaguely remember a spike or fin,

  as we ease you from the wheelchair, bend

  your hinges into the hatchback (memory foam

  on the seat for your sore, score brittle bones),

  fasten the belt across you with a click.

  Not forgetting your tank, ‘Jacques Cousteau’:

  the soundtrack in your house is the slow whiissht-coo

  of the oxygen in the downstairs bedroom’s

  constancy, its breathing for you.

  These days, the smallest excursion is a win.

  Unreachable inside a room / the traffic parts

  to let go by, we’ll go for a spin as far as Grianan,

  stop in at Doherty’s on the way back

  for a sugared cappuccino and a Derry bap.

  Nozzles in your nostrils, tubes about the ears,

  hearing aid: we untangle your glasses.

  Handbag, blue badge, paracetamol . . .

  His hands on the oar / were black with obols.

  Are we right? All set? I remember now

  what it was about that car: no reverse gear.

  Fungi

  In the time-lapse

  footage of the

  decomposition

  of a pear,

  a light lace crust

  appears

  and devours

  the fruit

  which collapses

  in on itself

  like a beast

  brought down

  by a pack.

  Always, fungi

  is feasting,

  working

  its quick

  saprotrophic

  magic on all

  matter, even

  this seasonal

  litter I’ve just

  finished clearing

  from your grave,

  your shelf

  of the earth,

  yes you,

  who don’t

  even realise

  you’re dead.

  The M Pages

  Golden lads and girls all must,

  As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.

  Shakespeare, Cymbeline

  There’s nothing doing here, you know that, don’t you?

  first response paramedic, July 2017

  i.m. MB, with love

  1.

  M has disappeared and that’s final.

  That’s final: the ultimate words

  in a reprimand when we were small.

  ‘You are not going out, and that’s final’,

  calling an end to the argument.

  All I wanted was for M to be okay:

  a circle of family, friends, the drop-in

  centre, the basics to sustain. To be,

  if not happy, then happy enough.

  Day 1. Nothing doing. I wish

  there’d been a warning, a scare, a chance

  to show more love, to change

  the course of events.

  But ‘No’, scolds the universe,

  ‘It doesn’t work like that. Final

  is final. And that’s that.’

  2.

  The great nothing breached like a whale

  and submerged again, just to remind us,

  or rather inform us it is always there,

  all times, all place,

  monstrous in the depths.

  M is no longer.

  M is no longer.

  No not never non M.

  *

  ‘She’ll be back in no time’, we used to say

  to indicate an imminent return, but now

  it is literal, fit to apply

  to our pre-human position, condition, and hence,

  post-life, to be back in no time once

  again, alone, and eventually nameless.

  *

  When all of those who know to attach

  the word for your person, picture or voice,

  to you, are consigned

  to no time, too,

  your name will unfix like a limpet from its scar

  and birl away

  in the ocean’s eddies,

  a waltzing teacup, and you, dear M,

  plus all of us, will become unspoken.

  *

  I’m nobody, who are you?

  As nobodies, we do not do.

  A greeting from the other side, the ether side:

  Are you nobody too?

  Are you not, like me? I could use some company.

  The dead ‘forgets her own locality’.

  Have you forgotten us, M?

  Do you know the way home?

  *

  Dying is an art you were not very good at.

  You brought the element of surprise,

  at least, a bumbling unpreparedness.

  Caught in the act, one could say, messy.

  A take-me-as-you-find-me

  sort of style.

  You shucked off your body like a winter’s coat,

  discarded on the carpet.

  Dearly departed.