I don’t feel Saturday

 

Read the review section tonight;

books I’ll never read  fully

probably;

contradictions like Denmark –

Denmark has the happiest population,

and they’re all on prozac, too.Don’t you see?

There was a  new poem by Fiona Sampson;

Mein Kampf is being republished.

Then the complete works of a poet  I’ve never heard of,

a school teacher

The TV shows a silenced film of murder in a castle.

I look at email

delete most

And eat my supper  from the laptop.

protected by a perfumed spicy mat

my nephew sent from the USA;

it’s patchwork.

My mind is on Furtwangler and the Pastoral

Should we judge artists for their political sympathies?

I ask my distant brother in my head

I won’t mention it when I phone him.

He looked like my twin but I don’t know him

He was always running away so fast, I lost him;

now he’s run down, his clockwork broke.

We mention Krystalle Nacht 1938

He seems surprised I know the date.

He doesn’t know I can’t spell it when I say it

[It was my mother in law’s birthday too]

Now I have lived precisely half my life motherless;

I can’t imagine how being mothered might have been.

I’m lonely.

My libido is dead too.

Maybe I should become another gender,

Or species.

I don’t….

What?

I miss  it all.

Conkers and warm cobbles

Playing rounders in the road

Uncle Vince’s car

Cousin Frank could have been a butcher

Threw it up for acting

Played Hitler and a Jewish man in Warsaw

And an incestuous father,barbed wire.

Now he’s dead

He still had thick hair;

But it didn’t matter.