InsIde Cover

Sixteen

A collection of poemsby Karen Rydings

Design & typeset by edward Webb,

under the Canopy | www.underthecanopy.co.uk

Printed by tandy Group Ltd.

All right reserved © Karen Rydings, 2012

A young woman rushes up some stepsclutching a bag of plums.Those plums, being over ripe, spill their sweet juiceonto the brown paper bag encasing them.Inevitably, the weakened paper splitsspilling its contents.Plums fall, leave her hands, bounce down the steps she is running up.She stops, stoops to gather them,torn between her desire to retrieve the fruit and her need to catch the ferry home.A young man witnesses her distresstakes time from his day to help her.Together they collect the fruit,both catch the ferry.And I am thankfulfor that bag of plums;spilled by my grandmother,witnessed by my grandfatherhalf a century before my birth.

[ 1 ]

A Meeting

[ 2 ]

The bus came through the village twice each week;on Wednesdays for marketand on Sundays to take the faithful to prayer.Her father always remarked loudly thatone journey fed their bodies,the other their souls.

Her clothing indicated which bus she expected,Sunday’s best hat and glovesset aside for mid week practicalities.A small purse containing only her lace handkerchief and a meagre offeringfor the collection plateleft behind on Wednesdays in favour of sturdy baskets for produceand weekly housekeeping money wrestled from her father’s pay packetbefore it disappeared, with him, down the pub.

He stood there waiting every weeksometimes standing close to her, drinking her inher smell never wholly masked by the fresh smell of soap.Other times he stood apart, admiring her from a distancecreating an imagined life for them, together, in his headeach detail mulled over and lived repeatedly.But he never spoke.

Unsaid

[ 3 ]

She was methodical in her search,timing her arrival as the tide turned at its lowest point.Even as winter approached, her feet were bare.She seemed unaware of the cold, and of the pain of sharp shingle under foot.She was searching, but never once stooped or knelt to examine more closely,just walked, head bent, eyes darting from stone to stone. Her search ended with a stone;a dull grey stone, the size of her fist.The walks continued, up and down the beach, their purpose lost,the stone held fast in her hand. Only the boy witnessed the switch, but none questioned the truth of his words.Standing still, close to the angry breakers, she ripped her heart from her chest,pushing the stone firmly into its place.

Stone

[ 4 ]

It is usually the strongest swimmers who drownpuffed up with their prowessthey skitter across the sand andlaunch

Her husband was not a strong swimmer justarrogant with little concernfor those he may leavebehind

She understood very quickly that he had goneknew that she would never again have that moment of relieffrom her vantage point on the ruga baby asleep on her lapthe otherscross and hotflinging sandimpatient for him to come back and take themto the cool sea

She had always recognised him first by his walkfrom far far down the beach

It would be three days before hisswollen bodywashed uptwo miles south.

Riptide

That was before my father bought us our red bikinis and Inearly drowned in Durban.It began with the map, spread on the kitchen tabledirty crockery pushed asidemy eyes, level with the table’s edge, watchedbeer bottles collect as the men planned our route. We set off early and headed southand south and further south.The men, my father and grandfather, alone in their car.My mother and grandmother following behindwith us three girls thrown in the back.We sang, my grandmother insisting we sounded better than the Osmonds andI believed her.

The men kept the map, decided when and where to stop.My grandfather, I later learned, taking a hidden slug of whisky at everystop.Our drinks came in lurid colours and clear plastic containers shaped as cars or robots or rockets (my favourite was a dog).

At the game reserve, I pretended to see the monkeysswinging in the treesunwilling to admit I only saw the trees.

But I did see the sea firstknowing that it heralded the end of our driveas there could be no moresouth.

I nearly drowned in Durban that daymy father confused by the red and yellow flags.I knew, even then, not to tell my motherleaving the words, for once, unsaidLen, you are a fool.

[ 5 ]

Bulowayo to Durban

[ 6 ]

Last night I was fifteen againas we stood in that Soho doorway,ostensibly to escape the rain,baby sitters momentarily forgotten.

I smoked one of your cigarettes,more for companionship than any real need for nicotine,the taste mingling with the lingering flavourof soft shell crab.

We kissed; your mouth welcomed mine,your hands exactly where I felt they should be.I laughed for the sheer joy of it,and you had a gun in your pocket.

First Kiss

[ 7 ]

1

She sighedI missed youin my bed last nighthe saidthe sky is very bluetodayshe saidI thought about youall morninghe saidjust bought a papershe saidcan’t wait to see younext weekhe saidlooks goodthat film with thingyshe saidI love youhe sighed.

2

He sighedI love youshe saidthat film with thingylooks goodhe saidnext weekcan’t wait to see youshe saidjust bought a paperhe saidall morningI thought about youshe saidtodaythe sky is very bluehe saidin my bed last nightI missed youshe sighed.

Conversation

[ 8 ]

Our post coital limbs thrown like jackstraws on the bed

Carefree, I made you laugh.‘You are funnier than me’ you statedyour laughter giving way to silent tears.

This realisation hung between ussignalling the end.

In bed with the Fat Man

[ 9 ]

Already he knew her well enoughto have had no expectation of receiving a card.But don’t think that there was no Valentine greeting that day.

A week before(knowing he would be sharing her bed that night)she carefully chose him a passion fruit.She put it in a bowl in her kitchen.

Several times that weekshe saw it there, watched it shrivel,anticipated the secret sweetness she would share with him.

At its wrinkled, unpromising bestshe broke it apartand squeezed its fragrant seeds onto his breakfast.

Passion Fruit

[ 10 ]

Departed this lifegone to a better placepassed onpassed overpassed awaypassed into the lightgone to a higher placecalled to restcalled homecalled too soonin the arms of Jesusborne away from sin and sorrowleft this worldnot lost but gone beforekicked the bucketbrown breaddead

Highgate Cemetery East

I imagine us in a formal dance,you, dandified,me, smiling serenely, despite the complexity of the steps.

We meet, bow,palms almost touch; then part,weave ourselves into the rest of the room.

The invisible thread connecting ustightens and slackensas you retreat and reappear.

I can never be certain that the slow, graceful movementswill deliver you to me againbut I remain upright and dignified in whalebone.

The Pavane

[ 11 ]

He has gone.

The pillows, though left as he positioned themthe better to eat the breakfastyou had prepared,do not denote his return.

He has gone.

Note to Self

[ 12 ]

They were the king and queen of the futuretime was theirsstretching before them

They stood hand in hand, shoulders touchingequal, open, honesttogether yet separate

She took their beautiful, fragile kingdomhe let her hold ittrusted her to cherish it

She held it aloft, above his outstretched handssmashed it carelessly down as he looked on

He had no time to shield himself the shards pierced himleft their scars

The Future

[ 13 ]

A crowded tube train, early eveninga woman, sitting squarely opposite me, defiantly catches my eye, challenges meher gaze steadywatching me for signs of a reactionas she slowly, provocatively, lifts her many layers of skirtsrevealing her nakedness below;red and full as a rose so overblownone gentle touch would causeevery petal to fall to the ground.

I glance, look away, glance again,look away.She, seeing my discomfort,points directly at melooks around to gain support from fellow passengersshouts, distinctly and with certainty‘You. Stop looking. Stop looking at my cunt’ I leave the train.

Bakerloo

[ 14 ]

[ 15 ]

Forget Tracey’s embroidered tentI would have a marqueea full blown, intimate gathering of two hundred of my closest friends, wedding marqueeand the letters needn’t be six feet high to fill the spacenames would crowd the interiorsome would be accessible only in the darkest reaches of my brainsome known, briefly, and then forgottensome etched in permanent inkinsignificant, loved, the result of a dull afternoononce only, two occasions separated by years, a few times, too many to countknee tremblers, over before I had begun, loving, empty, lustful, with sorrow, are we nearly there yet?

And you

Tracey Emin’s Tent

[ 16 ]

Ice skatingI spot you, JamesBehind the glassI approach, and wave a greetingYou smile, breathe your hot teenage breath onto the glassIt forms a mistOn which you write your messageThe first letter reveals your sentimentFTransfixed, I watch the remaining letters appearFormed by your purposeful right index fingerF u c k o f f !Stung, I glide away.

Sixteen

Karen Rydings is especially interested in the performance aspect of poetry, and she can frequently be found in small rooms above pubs in NW London.

It is the spur of a performance deadline that most inspires her to write. She came to writing poetry via teaching, motherhood, acting and the NHS. This heady combination has given her a variety of rich experience to draw from in her writing.

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