two stockwell poems

The Foot On The Stair

Just outside my door is an iron balcony.
Which you reach by a spiral staircase.
When a visitor arrives, you hear the clank
Of boot on metal, long before you see their face.

Sometimes you hear people who never arrive. You
Wonder who they might have been, which long-lost
Friend whose spirit hesitated then turned,
Rather than take up the tangle of our untied strings.

Billy Parham rode South three times across the border. The last
Time was the only one he got what he was after,
Though it wasn’t what he wanted. He learnt the dead
Have more power than the living, even before they know they’re dead.

He visited me just now. Creeping in silently through a
Back door we haven’t got. Like an old testament
Prophet, singing songs of the past to remind us
Of the future. He dug up their bones and brought the ghosts to life.

They never rest. He’s been teaching me. They’re but a footstep
Away, out on the ironwork, peering through the
Door, threatening to come in. I hear their step and turn.
Then they disappear. Never far away. But never very close,

Neither.


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Untitled


Someone leaves offerings at our front gate almost
Every morning. They must come between the hours of
Three and seven. The nightjay serves up all kinds of
Dishes: frozen burgers, potato peelings, sliced
Bread. We don’t know their name or motive. We don’t know
If they watch from afar, waiting for the moment
The door is opened. Perhaps they don’t care: the door
Has been selected as a random point in a
Universe, leading to a god long forgotten.
It reminds me of the Playa by the gasworks,
Where I was told not to disturb the candles or
The food left to Jemanja, the sea god. To touch
Would be to conjure a curse, for only the sea
Should claim what is left for it. I kick our leavings
Aside, or skip daintily over the latest
Prayer of red cabbage, garlanded with carrot peel.

27.03.97

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