Poems from the edge of black

How dark is your black?

I’m still fighting the dark a little at the moment, for reasons I won’t go into.

I banked so much upon September. If I’d been a gambling woman, I’d have placed big bucks on that much loved horse to come romping home. But so far it’s proved a little lame. Has spells of speed then freezes.

Although these poems are blacker than I’d like, I remind myself that even black has shades. Mascara and eyeliner taught me that much.

One of my favourite lines from a song is in Buffalo Springfield’s ‘I am a child’ when Neil Young asks;

“What is the color, when black is burned?”

Wow. Love that. Always gets me pondering.

Soft charcoal, jet, ebony, ink. Each name we give evokes a slightly different meaning, doesn’t it? What’s yours called?

Then, there is texture, too. The ‘tell it as it is’ gut kick of matt with no shine. By contrast, gloss holds up a sneering mirror. If you can observe the tones and texture of your black, that’s something, isn’t it? Like an artist you can then attempt to smudge it to best effect. You can consider how to enhance, define, disguise, showcase, contour.

Maybe yours has faded to grey. If so, is that good or bad? Well, that’s a whole different substack, eh?

I’ll put the meanings at the end. Photos are my own.

Alright

Will be alright….. until it’s not

Cause something’s got to give

I feel my strength evaporate

A waning will to live

An insular peninsula

A jutting ledge of time

A cutting kiss with cruel abyss

A peace I never find

Where have my pleasure gardens gone?

When did my cities fall?

The passing days all but a maze

A trudge to curtain call

Eroded as a stepping stone

Yet anchored to the deep

One day, the rock will loosen grip

I’ll drift to final sleep

The Birds

The birds on the wire were pigeons, today.

Sometimes they’re swallows or starlings, restless as preschoolers, twitching and dipping.

Sometimes, an ‘unlucky’ magpie.

Today…….pigeons.

Mundane. Plain. Same.

Unfazed, unflinching.

Huddling, inching.

Casually idling, like no-one ever told them brooding is a crime, waste of time.

Looked down on me from up there, but not condescending. ’Cause wires aren’t pedestals, and pigeons are not eagles.

No, it was the comforting gaze that angels that reserve for babies.

From up there, they saw all of me.

Front

Back

Sides

Clothed in flaw.

Raw.

Turning like a world, problems my satellites. Conscience wrestling.

And still, they stayed.

Watching me drag my feral barrel of worries ’cross tenterhooks taut as their wire.

My searching eyes engraved the lane with self-made mud, thick-skinned heart unravelling. Travelling like a kicked pebble.

Furry shadow licked ground, loyal dog.

They didn’t move. Those birds.

Just stayed.

Weren’t bored, confused, shortchanged, mad……

They didn’t expect. I didn’t disappoint.

They didn’t interpret. I wasn’t too hard.

My starved, bloated entirety simply existed.

Blended…..started, ended.

Could we be friends?

They cooed, it soothed.

Clay chests pumped up, looked like they’d each lit a cigar, were in no hurry.

I dropped guard, inhaling the fresh breath of indifference.

Filling me, a hearty supper.

Bland as dumplings, thick as stew.

Hue changed, doubted.

Cloud clouted.

Stain and satin of my shadow wolfed by dusk.

Last shreds of amber and grey sky forges

And yeah, I’m merging past and present.

’Cause don’t you find……time bends?

Smokes, escapes, hides and lends.

Confides.

Braids.

Spends.

Spends.

Spends.

Observed by those birds, static on that wire.

Came to me, that’s all any of us want, isn’t it?

To be seen from all angles in all lights.

Flattering.

Unflattering.

Dewy.

Harsh.

Seized in our coal beds by the fiercest beam, all bodies in the basement revealed.

And still, have someone stick around like those unperturbed, consistent birds.

No-one fly away.

Carry on smoking their cigars, nonplussed. Unmoved.

Intermittently throwing out those looks, that angels reserve for babies.

The hat pin

I owned a pearly hat pin, once

My grandma gave it me

“Used to be my mother’s, this”

She said, with reverie.

My mum said “Why d’you give her that!

She’ll only go and lose it!”

Gran liked my velvet, floppy hat

And thought I ought to use it

Imagined Laura in her cloche

The pearly pin, her feather

I wore family reunion

Both she and I, together

My mum was right, got home one night

Said heirloom disappeared

Retraced my steps and scoured my room

Was just as mother feared

Expect it fell off on a bus

Or in somebody’s car

Lay in some spangled tangle

In the back room of a bar

Yeah, grandma could’ve kept it safe

An antique in a drawer

But if young girls can’t flaunt fine pearls

Then what is beauty for?

In timeless youth, you seldom think

Of anything ’cept fun

No need to treasure trinkets

In the flush of your first sun

And what’s a life not fully lived

Lamented as time passed?

If sparkle of you dims and fades

Behind some pane of glass?

So show your lustre as a brooch

Be proud to put it on

If locked away or on display

Regardless, it’s soon gone

Winter

How comforting will winter be

Our smartings swathed in snow

Bathing wounds in silent fleece

With salt we don’t yet know

We’ll ice our woe like Christmas cake

Smooth over crack and error

Then celebrate that we survived

All that a life delivered

Meanings

Alright

This was the first poem of this batch. Written at the end of the school holidays. Those “where did it all go wrong?” feelings. Sometimes you feel so close to cracking that it feels inevitable, a boulder hurtling down a hill. But it’s a long hill. And stuff can intercept boulders, right? Land can slide.

The birds

I observe birds a lot. Always more in awe of the winged than those without. I admire their freedom and lightness. Pigeons are so often labelled ‘ordinary’, the dullards of the bird world. People get pissed off by them. But ordinary is comforting, reassuring. I like to see them. I began reflecting on this. How sometimes it feels like the pigeons are your only friend. Evergreens. I didn’t get a good picture of them on the wire. But the picture is of another I took of one on the ground.

The hat pin

This actually happened and I think about it a lot. Wish I’d not lost it. Started thinking about the bigger picture. How people daren’t use ‘precious’ things for fear of losing them, damaging them, but aren’t both youth and beauty meant to be enjoyed? Otherwise, what’s the point? I like to think that poor old Laura who had a hard life, joined me briefly via her hat pin to have a few laughs. I also like to imagine someone else found it and it had another six of its nine lives, after Laura, grandma and me.

Winter

A change of seasons always makes me contemplate the seasons of life. Started thinking of all our failings and successes as a fruit cake; rich, zesty and nutty. The way snow blankets leaves and litter has similarities with icing covering ‘our’ imperfect cake. The ‘salt we don’t yet know’ is further pain we have to come. I wonder at the end, what we’ll make of it all? Did appearance matter? It’s all about how it tasted, right? Whether or not we savoured life. Shared it.

And yeah I know this final photo is purple. It’s my favourite shampoo. My friend’s mum always spoke about a ‘Black Tulip’ hair dye she’d used in the 60s. Always like to think it looked like that. The edges here appear black, too. Just shows you, right? How looks can be deceiving.