Author: nelsonandemma

Seeds, Water, Light, Love

F and I were having a competition – who could grow a chilli just from a seed? Needless to say mine failed almost immediately but his absolutely flourished. I asked him how he did it and his response of ‘seeds, water, light, love’ was so beautiful I made a note to do something with it. I chose a Shakespearean sonnet structure because it seemed fitting.

Gather them up in your chapped then enfolded warm hands –
those buttons of beige, those buds full of life.
Let them fall through your fingers like grains of fine sand,
fall deep in the furrows that were cut by a knife.
Lift high up the can with its cracked funnelled spout,
hold the weight of the water as its drips fall astray
fill up the old can, fill it up like a fount
then watch as the rainbows dance up in the spray.
Move gentle the box into beams of sunlight –
keep it warm through the days
keep it covered at night
then see how the stalks appear, tender and fey.
But keep watch through the hours, give care from above
because life only thrives when it’s lavished with love.

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Untitled by FWA

I find myself in an unusual situation. After 12 years of writing poems about other people, somebody has come along and played me at my own game. What follows is a Chaucer inspired account of Francis and I stumbling across each other in Amman back in April. I’m beginning to let myself wonder, just ever so slightly, whether the broken record that has been the last decade or so of my life might finally fix itself and start playing a new tune?

I

Younge Francis flewe into Olde Amman

(Proff’ring not the slightest of damn

about COVID laws and STDs)

beganeth his campaign of sleaze

to search amongst valley plebeians

tor the most callipygean maiden

(for once she’s found and unfurled

must proceed to rock his world).

He spakest with the greatest of urge

To the Four Seasons concierge:

‘Where does one in the Levant begin

to find fair girls to ply with gin?

I’ve tried the souk, the ruins and the mall;

where’s my bikini model haul?’

To this the concierge blinked and thought,

‘I’m not surprised he’s so unsought,

he’s clearly an ass, a clueless Brit

who see-est himself as Brad Pitt…

But give an answer slick and nifty

maybe then he’ll tip me fifty?’

‘Sir,’ he said, ‘it vexes me to hear

maidens giving you the ‘All Clear’

burning that heart into cinder.

Tell me sir, hast thou tried Tinder?’

‘No,’ the boy said, ‘adult friend finder,

Bumble, Craiglist – even Grindr –

I join-ned them all except this one

soon, one hopes, I’ll be over-run!’

He sprant upstairs with breath and a cough

and swiped right til his thumb fell off.

And so beganneth his Tinder quest:

eyeballs rating each smile and breast

like judges at a gymnastic show:

‘Ooh that will do, that’s gotta go;

where’s your bio, you absolute crow?

A chick with a dick? Good God, no!’

It’s said there’s plenty of fish out there

but a few meetings thence laid bare,

a truth must known, sacred and devout,

this ocean’s all catfish and trout

who have perfected their angled phots

to hide third eyes and wide ass bots.

Date number one arrived in a truck.

Number two solely down to f**k.

Three was fun for a minute or two

until she said ‘i will find you

if you leave me for any of your reasons…

I know you’re in the Four Seasons.’

Her eyes were wild, convincingly so

to persuade the boy not go

right there and then.

Three hours did chime

he bolted just pre-business time.

He returned to his room, chained the door:

‘Never fucking again!’ he swore.

Ten minutes passed and feeling the horn,

the addict pricked by Tinder’s thorn

swiped away like a furried creature

and stumbled on the most hot teacher!

Her name was Emma, her photos…weak.

Her bio? Oh so tongue-in-cheek!

The boy was enchanted and wanting

to go arrange some restauranting.

Soon, still pondering on expressage,

there came from Emma a message

asking just what a ‘real doctor’ meant;

the temerity! Such dissent!

Now the boy was mildly conflicted.

This girl whose photos depicted 

nothing special obsessed with a harp…

Yet her messages seemed so sharp?

Emma was funny, smart and cool,

oh to be a kid at her school!

A date was made a few floors above

twas this the scene where he’d fall in love?

II

Thence came date night, the scene was set

(and being a real martinet)

the boy spent hours sorting his hair

hoping he might just get somewhere

for this just wasn’t your standard minx

speaking more riddles than the sphinx.

Emma was diff’rent. Humour and brains!

She seemed smarter than JM Keynes.

Despite the substandard profile pics

her brain alone gave him the kicks.

From his chic room he soon departed 

nervous, what had he started?

Would Emma like him? How would he know?

Would she fall for this average Joe?

He entered the bar, how people did look

As Norm No-Mates appeared with a book.

The girls next door in the subt-lest way

reached into their bags for pepper spray.

The hour did strike and yet still no sign

of Lady Hamilton’s behind.

He worried that she’d done a runner

but then his eye glimpsed a stunner.

He turned and saw amidst the fauna

something fine sat in the corner!

‘Forget Emma,’ this buffoon then thought

‘This hotty in the corner ought

to replace her. Let me try my luck’

And so with his bum seat unstuck

he walked over and smiled and said

…(alas that memory was shed)

due to overconsumption of red

that rendered my brain almost dead.

Apologies dear reader, but here

by dementia this story’s steered).

But I digress…back to this lady.

Though the corner was quite shady

this girl sat sublime, smiling supreme

‘Christ,’ he thought, ‘this must be a dream.’

This fox was named Emma, don’t you know?

(and the old Emma failed to show..

Thank God! Can you picture the wrong bride 

turning up hither alongside?)

Books were compared, the boy’s most lacking

the product of years of slacking

‘Through boring English classes my dear.’

The boy declared with cheeky jeer.

They smiled, they laughed. The world was righted,

The boy couldn’t have been more delighted!

Time flew fast and before he knew it

twas time to know if he’d blew it.

He walked Emma back to her home place

and tried for the full carnal embrace

but Emma was pure, wise and shrewd…

blaming a car for killing the mood.

She vanished upstairs, that Queen of Hearts

(he skulked home and iced certain parts)…

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In Santorini

For Francis

Wake languorously for we should all be spent

but what is not sidereal makes time spin

so the sun is near but its rays are faint

on my fingertips trailing swirls on skin.

Near to the window the Hibiscus blooms

swelling and unfurling a stamen’s tongue,

looking to fill up thickening catacombs;

we become like Calla Lilies unstrung.

When the motes of dust begin to settle

and we lie supine on hot, rumpled sheets, 

the Shaggy Ink Cap and the slippery petal

limbs like vines, twisted pink and complete.

No words need be spoken, glances say all

Will we drift apart or keep with the fall?

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Locked down in Amman

I moved to Jordan in 2019 excited to explore the Middle East but apart from a trip to Beirut to celebrate turning 40 last November, I’ve experienced nothing beyond this tiny country because of COVID. Jordan has had some of the toughest restrictions globally. In March we weren’t allowed to leave our apartments for weeks on end; they instead sent round buses with bread and water to prevent starvation. Every week since this lifted there has been disruption. Lockdown here means just that; you don’t leave your apartment for any reason. Friends and family in the UK complaining of lockdown whilst still posting images of their daily walks around the city or countryside sometimes bear the brunt of my wrath. I’m not leaving though; I’m determined to see this through and see what the Middle East has to offer. It has to get better.

I wake to nothing but the wilderness. 
There’s a dove chittering forcefully; 
sitting fat and free amongst the fig tree’s branches 
that explore the terrace by my bedroom.
Inside, I lie detained in a mound of rumpled hot sheets.

Warrior pose. Child’s pose. Savasana. 
I try to shake off passivity and focus on my weary breath
but give up to lie comatose on the squeaky purple mat.
Listen instead to the whine of the mosquito
whose unfettered wings prance and taunt.
Beside me the cat yawns and stretches luxuriously.
And the clocks tick on.

Upstairs the neighbour lights up a shisha 
so pungent apple and blackberry fumes can
waft outside and spread their tendrils wherever they like.
The blinds upstairs screech as they’re pulled up
and Umm Kalthum slides through the air from a distant radio. 
From somewhere a dog barks lazily.

Mid afternoon and the mosque cranks up the adhan 
but it sounds torpid from the tower.
Even the Muezzin speaks his monotone indolent
casting adrift his haunting chant echoing over the wadi.
‘God is the Greatest.’

God. Is. The. Greatest.
Is he though?
Inside my silent penitentiary lie my yardbird
plans and crossed out post-it notes, 
diary entries scribbled over in blue biro;
the drawers bear witness to crumpled plane tickets.
My passport slumbers in a cupboard.

And the clocks tick on.

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When Life Continues to Give You Lemons

Let me take a moment to survey
all the Lemons from my Lemon Tree.
There they hang  – polished and gleaming
As though the buds produced them new.
The oldest is eighteen, that sunshiny globe
hides a bitter tang of unwanted seduction
and sits beside it the smaller lemon
that was my broken engagement to a silly young boy.
The largest lemon is static at ten;
borne from a union I should have kept hold
and above them sit the collection of citrus
that’s produced the most sour fruits of all:
there’s duplicity that still looks so full of promise
yet spits a taste that still makes me cry.
There’s the one for a sexual assault
that hides an embittered old flesh
and then there’s my most recent ‘friend’;
his is an acrid disappointment;
the most recently spiteful and sharp.

Let me take a moment to survey
all the Lemons from my Lemon Tree:
In darkest hour I pluck them one by one
and make them an embittered lemonade
and I’m sure with such a poison made
t’would be a fitting way – to make it all just go away.

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A Bar of Soap

Another one inspired by ABL. Not sure why he had such an impact on me but he certainly has given me lots to write about! I last saw him on Gili Air in 2016 and it was after this I finally decided enough was enough and walked away. I remember quite vividly this soap incident and also remember thinking at the time how the anti-climax of what was hidden on the bottom of the soap really summed up the friendship/relationship.

Strange synchronicity; we holidayed on the very same isle
I was there with friends, you were solo you said with a smile.

You couldn’t find a room on Gili Air so you’d have to bunk up with me;
I should have said something sarky but was too full of glee.

So you stayed and I loved it but like the shells on the beach
You’d cut and then tear; let’s face it, you’re a leech.

You found me too gentle when I patched up your finger
And at the end of it all, when I hoped you would linger

You told me again you were happy just to be my old friend
But I craved you and felt rage that just wouldn’t mend.

One night, you went out, I wanted to feel you, to capture your scent
So I found your soap in the bathroom, saw your fingerprints feint.

I wanted to use it, trace marks on myself with soap trails of you;
I wanted to feel you, to smell you; pretend you wanted me too.

I’d always hoped our friendship would morph into something far more
But you’d always pulled and then pushed; kept my self-esteem on the floor.

Anticipating joy, I turned the soap over and found…
Clumps of sodden black hair in that great soapy mound.

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I should have been in Berlin

My friend Josette, whom I love dearly, has (and she would say this herself) the worst luck when it comes to travel; weird and wonderful dramas abound whenever she tries to head off somewhere. This month she went to Berlin and her suitcase didn’t arrive. In fact it took an age to arrive; most of her trip to be precise. When we spoke about it I said I’d love to be able to speak with objects when things like this happen and started to speculate about what the suitcase would say about its journey…and sat down to write this silly poem. 

Ah Columbus, you never had these issues
your bag rode high on the tumultuous seas
it couldn’t get lost inside pesky air fissures.

As for me, we’d said goodbye at old Gatwick
she’d seen me off and gone straight to the bar
(I knew the routine, it was all pretty slick).

Stuck with a tag that was bound for Berlin,
imagine my surprise when I arrived in…
Lisbon, Tallin then finally Turin!

All those unexpected places and curious faces
I was vulnerable, alone, weighed with the guilt
that I had all her clothes, her make-up, shoelaces.

Oh for a pair of legs to get to the gate
I’d not have left it to the hapless air staff
I’d not have left it to God and to bloody old fate

but as it was I was stuck
(just another holiday drama)
all the while knowing she’d feel like a schmuck.

Josette, if I’d could I wouldn’t have seen
(this my apology to you, my blonde queen)
all those old cities and silly bland bits in between

because quite honestly it was all a bit boring, mundane
I didn’t see anything at all to be fair, to be sure
just me and the dreary old back of a plane.

I thought of you often, you must forgive me my sin
that I left you with just the clothes you stood in
I came when I could, even if it turned out
that I was too late; you were already leaving
that beautiful city we all call Berlin.

 

 

 

 

 

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Notes from Sierra Leone

As part of my MA dissertation research, I spent four weeks in a town called Makeni that is situated in central Sierra Leone. I obviously knew about Sierra Leone’s history of civil war and Ebola so I wasn’t sure what to expect. It was a strange experience really, I’ve never been somewhere that had such a scarcity of ‘things’ nor was so difficult to explore due to its lack of infrastructure. There is such beauty to be found in its landscapes and people I really hope that Sierra Leone’s future is peaceful and prosperous. 

Waterloo junction sweats grease and thick dust;
the Kekes, they dip and then swing round ocadas
dodging trucks as they spew out their dense puffs of grey.
Graffitied, the taxis crawl like kaleidoscope beetles
edging their way through the hot traffic tangle.

The verge of the road is just splintered shop fronts
painted primary bold colours, peddling wares of all sorts.
There’s a boy with a toy made of string, cans and bottle tops
who runs through the car park trailing ash in his wake.

Urban roads of tarmac are quickly short-lived –
beyond the town boundaries it’s red, rock and mud.
It feels medieval out there with wood burning stoves,
women sweep swiftly with brooms of old twigs
whilst beside them palm fences grow grey in the sun.

Back in Makeni, a man walks with painstaking poise with
a basket of shoes perched heavily up on his head;
he traverses the traffic down Magburaka Road and
down here, the verges offer bellies green veg
while the feral dogs lie recumbent in the gutter, roadside
their pus-filled eyes and their open top sores
are just like a devil’s halo that throbs, the flies gnaw
at the wounds like a buffet –
It’s repulsive and shocking but you can’t look away.

The produce is scarce but the cigarettes are cheap
it’s where puppies die hot beneath the tall Kapok trees
while their parents howl and call out at the night;
insomniacs lie restless, soaked in their sweat
as the roaches traverse across sound asleep faces
and the worms make a home in the wells.

The pastor comes back,
He wants just to talk – just to talk?
And then you feel bad for thinking like that.
Abdul waits patiently wanting a job
and the bored khaki soldiers stand guard
beside the banks that don’t have Leones.

Up Wusum Hill, there’s a boy in a tutu following you
who gives a sassy answer or two
when you ask him to go, shoo, go far away.
Mary, so cold who shows strange sweet compassion
to dirty legs sprayed brown by the rain,
she cups her dark hands to help wash them clean,
as a teen, you learn, she got pregnant and ran away
from Kamakwie and suddenly you understand
her moods far more empathetically.

In Freetown the diamond dealers grab your hand at the parties because
you’re an Oporto*, an insipid white alien that everyone wants to point out and shout at
and you can’t wait to leave for where everything is clean, where you’re left all alone,
where the shops are filled with delicious smart things…
and then the guilt sets in because this is a trip, a sort of vignette,
a short-lived dream to be dipped in and out of,
for us it’s a choice but for them this is life.

 

 

*Oporto or ‘white man’ is literally shouted at you by pretty much everyone you walk past. Endearing at first, it quickly becomes pretty irritating!

 

 

 

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Reclining on the Bitumen

I was with a couple of friends this weekend and we were laughing at a photo taken on the 31st December 2015 that subsequently went viral. It depicts Manchester at New Year and was described as a ‘beautiful painting’ on twitter by the BBC’s Roland Hughes. When I first saw it, it reminded me of Bruegel and his depictions of humanity in all its messy glory. The slightly tongue-in-cheek article described the man in blue as ‘reclining on the bitumen’ which we all found extremely comical. As is sometimes my way, I decided to use the line to write a poem based on the picture. I guess I ought to credit Michael Safi from the Guardian for his wry description and, of course, Joel Goodman for the photo.                                            

In my addled mind I was laying on a palanquin
Weary limbs adrift on the roily grey
A right royal slut reclining with legs akimbo
Flashing unashamed a sumptuous pale belly –
but then I glimpsed you.

Polyphemus; a hideous void of an eye
Fixated on my blue butterball frame.
I struck a coquettish pose for you,
for you, it was all for you
my telltale glassy sneak.

Nauseating lurid yellow flowers
Wavered in the corner of my eye
Joined in cacophony by a wilting tulip
All of them bent double over a writhing mass
Of dung heap brown wrestling quick to the gutter.

In this Roman arena of curious bystanders
It was in a half daze that I realised
I was reclining on the bitumen,
on undulating cushions of lumps of hard gum
spat rebelliously from pink fleshy tongues.

So, like the proverbial moth to a flame
I extended an arm and like a sentient squid
Wrapped my fingers around a glass full of promises
To shake hands with Old Bacchus,
to shake off your reproach.

New Years Night revellers

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Ribbon

My voice has closed as the winter’s drawn in,
snapped shut like a thorny oyster
dying in self-imposed asphyxiation.

Outside it’s brooding, always dour
with sombre drab and dreary murk.
December mists bring biting frosts –
salvation for me is not coming.

The bedroom’s gloom is orange shot
by the street light bent double outside
and within these ruinous bleak four walls
heavy with the black dog panting I see

the only thing left from you to me:
a shot of lime green ribbon
that you tied to my suitcase
on the day that I left to come home.

It lies, supine, still wound round the handle,
slinky with the secret of your fingerprints
like a record showing that you used to care.
Sort of; in your own indecipherable way.

The only thing left is a strand of lime green
connecting the dots; a line from me to you.
There’s been no call, no message to say:
you’ve been thinking, you’re sorry,
you understand what you did.

I know I should hold it and pull full apart
its stubborn and cold-hearted knot.
Should throw it away,
like I threw everything else all away;
there’s nothing of use there no more.

It will spew micas of dust when I shake it,
when I come to untie its cruel core.
And I know there’ll be chills when I hold in my palm
the prints of your fingers, invisible traces
that held me so dearly, once more.

 

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