Mária is pronounced with the accent on the first syllable. This sequence began as just the single poem "A Sea Shell." The actual sequence of "relationships," should anyone try and work out the chronology, is "Friendship," "The Smash Up" and "A Sea Shell." Not a glorious life achievement admittedly.
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1.
A Sea Shell: Mária
Plucked
thoughtfully from her hoard of shells
This
glowing whelk shell, cream and whorled,
A
gift from little Mária,
Displayed
by me on shelves
Though
years have tolled,
Insists
that now she’s grown,
Forgetful
of her one-time gesture,
She’s
gone to make her life her own.
So
end such friendships, time takes
all;
Lovers
depart and take their young;
That
sea shell had a rock-struck flaw:
Old
Adam’s taint, that quail
Of
lust, more fun
Than
love but cold as rain;
Her
mother fled, I never saw
Sweet
eight-years Mária again.
She
picked her shells on Penzance beach,
Lightly
dodging the grey-mood waves,
But
oh her child’s-truth plaint, “I won’t
Be
seeing you so that’s
My
gift;” such troves
Of
pathos, harsh like salt;
And
now, these twelve years gone, that
hurt
Still
stings, that memory, that fault.
2.
Friendship: Grace
But
first, in search of love, or, truth
To
tell, of body’s ravishings,
I
gorged a two-years’ tryst with one
Who,
hard-pressed, cut her cloth
From
bargain things
To
feed and dress her child;
Life-hurt,
she thought I lacked élan,
We
clashed, I left unreconciled.
Her
daughter, Grace, at eight was bold,
A
shock of warmth and trustfulness;
She
loved her breakfast egg but fussed
Long
if the yolk came spilled;
One
night a cress
Of
winter snow fell deep;
Next
day, her hand in mine, she plashed
In
slush but, chilled, began to weep.
After
I’d gone I somehow heard
She’d
cried, when told, “But he’s my friend.”
So
soon, the woe of loss! My ache
For
kinship, bed and board,
Intrigued
an end
To
trothing by too great
A
lust to wield control, which broke
Affection
with its drag-foot weight.
3.
The Smash Up: Nicola
And
last, my Nicola, my own:
What
rage of passion stirs a heart
When
one’s own child begs warmth and sup;
Sap
of my loins though prone
To
throat-stop doubt,
A
mouse and golden-haired;
At
night I mused beside her cot
As
brute rain at the window flared.
When
two blindsided parents fight
There’s
terror for the tear-wet child;
At
eight that child was pale and jump,
Shuttled between my grip
And her mother’s hold;
One
night she started up:
“Do
you love me?” Her brow was damp.
My
mouth froze like an ice-filled cup.
A
woman now, she keeps apart,
Unheard
from, and her Facebook page
Conveys
a person barely known –
My
nose, her mother’s port;
But
of that midge
Who
nested in my lap,
Agape
to read and laugh, there’s none.
Life’s
fool, life’s Punch, I’ll wear the cap.
====================
© November 2015
