Thank you to my cousin, Ben Wain, and to Marianne Arnot for naming this poem I wrote at our writers’ workshop!
Hikokomori
The light plays
I play with light
light envelops us all
and ensnares us
I hide
in the lush velvet curtains
of the mind
I get lost in my bed
Here in the emptiness
Light cannot get to me.
(c) Becky Deans 2014
Night Sounds
I may have been reading too much Norman MacCaig when I wrote this…
The late night radio
Hums a grave slave rave.
The old set cackles,
But will not give up.
And the central heating
Heaves around pipes and boilers.
Each flat chime taunts my ears.
My pillows won’t plump up enough.
Rain falling off the roof
Utters names of far gone places,
Forms new blankets.
Geese creak.
And I can’t hear your night sounds,
Still my eyes cannot close tight enough.
(c) Becky Deans 2014
What happened when Thomas told William Wordsworth about his new wife?
Mrs Thomas de Quincey
‘Not quite the right sort’
The report of the poet with a Phd
In snobbery, the Lakeland straight man
William Wordsworth.
‘What are you thinking, giving a ring
To a milkmaid? Affairs are one thing,
Marriage something else,’ he said, pacing
Around the room on elegant feet.
‘I mean, just think where her hands
Have been,’ he protested, dabbing his
Troubled forehead with a finely starched
Handkerchief, wringing it out
Onto the ice-sleek polished floor,
Watching the sweat drip, flicking
A lock of hair gone stray back
To the left, then right again.
De Quincey paced the room around
With his eyes, surprised by the
Reaction of his friend, so keen to
Lend his voice to the meek and poor,
To champion the cause
Of the idiots and the mad, then
Thomas became glad, because what he had
What he had raised mountains
Stopped streams in their tracks
And made his blood run hotter
Than the sky. He had his life
And would let the others write.
(c) Becky Deans 2013
My writing aim for this year has been simply to write, and it looks like I have done that. I have, recently, written oodles of bad poetry as well as workshop pieces. I even wrote a play when I was on holiday.
My writing aim for next year will be to build the writing group, maybe perform again. How I miss performing work I have just written. And I’d like to highlight an issue or two. But anyhoo, it’s nearly Christmas so have some poetry that still sticks in my mind (from 2003).
Fast People
We’re fast people – we’re
Too busy to stand
Behind people on escalators – we
Run up the stairs, burning bright.
We don’t go out at night.
When it rains – we just
Go out there and get wet.
We’ve got no time to wait. We
No longer understand the difference
Between early and late.
When the work’s not finished
We borrow time from sleep
And use caffeine or crack to plug the
Gaps. Necessity is our energy.
©Becky Deans 2013
At a recent PDP session with Cathy Grindrod I resolved to write more poems, so here’s one that came to me in Sainsbury’s car park recently.
I can’t remember when
The invisibility cloak went round us
The time the line was drawn
And I was to stay inside.
I think the shutting off was
Quick, humane
I never slipped the trap
Enough to feel it bite.
Now I jump the circle
You try to draw me back, but
The taste of freedom is stronger
Than anything you can give me.
(c) Becky Deans 2013
Here’s another poem I must have written between 2000 and 2011. Sorry to share old poems, but I am finding myself writing more and more at the moment.
Cows
I’ve always avoided them.
Perhaps it’s their udders. The heavy, plump with milk, proud
Shit-stained udders. The way
They look at you all wrong, their lashes fluttering.
I know all about cows. Their four stomachs, their manicured hooves, the shit
They eat nowadays. The way they are always forced to do it against their will
(And it never lasts long enough) and end up barefoot and pregnant,
Boundaries always changing.
(c) Becky Deans
A piece that came out of a workshop recently.
The storytellers hands are lined. Lines upon lines upon lines. So much to read from them. Time encrusted fingers, nicotine stains. He doesn’t smoke. That is from another him. The storyteller has lived lives.
I am holding his head now, on the bench. I feel like I am taking something from him. Can stories transfer through touch? Can the grip of your fingers really tell me so much?
Suddenly I’m in a forest. Trees bear down on me. Mists fall down. A battle cry. I want to move. I cannot. I see the penants coming. I wonder at the first of the men. Two armies come together. I quickly climb the tree, arms pulling me up urgently. I have never felt so strong and yet so weak. Here I will see legends.
But I’m back on the seat again, holding his hand. His eyes are closed. He’s trying to speak to reassure me. I stroke his white hair. It feels a privilege to touch the storyteller.
Suddenly I’m at a court. The castle is so damp and it smells. The rushes on the floor are damp and I realise it’s piss. There’s food on the table, covered with flies. Something is rotten here.
Again I move out of the way. Witness what I can. There is a throne set out at the end of this magnificent room. Tapestries behind it. When they have finished their fetid feast, a bugle sounds.
The crown falls down on him. He cannot take it off. It has become part of him. He tries to move it as soon as it goes down. He looks at me, alarmed. I didn’t realise anyone could see me. I like to observe.
The storyteller is weaker now. I hold his hand but it is me doing all the holding. I go once more. This is the last time I will leave.
I’m on the banks of a river. It’s all concrete and there’s a terrible modern factory. I’m seeing a man in a hooded top and bright white trainers taking something from another man. A packet. Why did he have to take me here? The second man turns around, looking for me. I wonder what else is posed at me. I dodge behind a concrete tower, choking at the effort. It’s hard to breathe because of the fog.
The storyteller grips me one last time. And he is gone. So much is lost. I have taken on so much. I stare at the park at all the people, playing, walking dogs, walking children and wonder how I will serve them.
(c) Becky Deans 2013
Waste
I drove miles lashed by winds to come to you.
Negotiated every turn of your secret pass
Drawn by the red lights of the city.
And now you walk away.
The sad fires of the mind burn stronger.
I laid the land to waste.
I hope this destruction will fuel a new life.
(c) Becky Deans 2013
I went on a fantastic Novel Writing Workshop with Emma Pass last Saturday and here are some of the pieces I came up with from the exercises. All writing (c) Becky Deans 2013
This is the door
This is the door. Step outside it and things will be different. I’m sure.
It may look to you like a beautiful door, but I can assure you it has been keeping me prisoner for years. For time.
I turn that phrase around in my head, as that is what you said, ‘I will love you for time’.
Is it better to be kept prisoner behind a beautiful door? I am not sure.
We’re not talking concrete blocks in this prison. These are old, old bricks forged in this country. This wonderful country we call home. You can see the toil in those bricks. The sweat. The tears. The clay of the ground burnt up into a crisp. The clay of the ground somewhere else but here.
I like the individuality of each brick. I feel them with my fingers. Slightly damp. It is a connection to somewhere else.
I like the old glass in the door, thicker at the bottom as the liquid gloops downward through time. I like the way the blue paint is cracking and must be old. It probably contains lead. All the better to poison you with.
A fascinating door I will keep with me forever, but still I can’t get out.
Someone will come for me soon, I am sure. I am looked after. They will bring exotic fruit, pomegranates, perhaps. This is not meant to be a prison, but it is.
I have looked up at this ceiling so many times. Counted the fruit on the Jacobean plasterwork. Tried to sketch the cherubs on the floor with a stone. This is the ceiling. They took it from a 16th century hall, no less, when they ripped it down. This is the ceiling.
And this is my bed. Sumptuous. Comfortable. Satin sheets and many scatter cushions. All in shades of red, scarlet, ruby, aubergine.
Let me tell you about the shell.
Xxx
I am Si. I sigh. I sigh and look. Look and sigh. Sigh is the noise I make these days. I need to go back, need to find that place, but I can only travel forwards. It’s all one direction these days.
What I can see in front of me is the future, projected onto a screen. It is lies. They tell you what to think here. What to say. I am one of the ones that doesn’t listen, but someone will find me soon enough.
I’m outside my house, but it’s not a house. It’s a shed. It should have a number. It’s almost hidden. I made it myself, cut my hands to shreds carrying piece after piece of MDF and old floorboards. The tacks dug in. I didn’t know about taking nails and tacks out. I was assigned to be a brain.
I feel some rain on my shoulder. It is exciting. Noises start. Celebrations. But that is all. One drop. It dies to a sigh that will never go away. A simmer.
I watch the future. Even the colour is a lie. I picture a piece of concrete block, ready to throw my future into the past.
XX
I hate the nettles. The dog-shittiness of them. You have a wooden sword. You push them back for me. They still sting.
It’s called the brook. Something stops here. Something ends.
You know how this goes. You’ve heard this story. I am not going to let it happen.
My name is Cy. Well actually it’s Cynthia, but don’t tell a soul. I am old enough to have been here before but I have not.
‘Follow me,’ you say. I look into your eyes. Those bright blue eyes and I can only follow. I know I am being an idiot. I know how this goes too, you see.
The light is going away, and I am stepping over the condoms, dodging the fag ends. Trying not to get stuck in the chewing gum. This is how it goes these days. No one has pride. No one cares.
The brook is down the gitty from my parents’ house, but I have not been here for years.
You hold my hand. I love the way you move your fingers in my palm. I have to follow.
You put your hand up, and do I wince? But you pull it through your hair. I love that hair. It is so sleek. And yet I hate it.
The sun is not yet gone. Birds chatter a bit about the days that have gone.
I am going to do this. I am going to regret this.
We enter the shed together, hand in hand. I am here. I am over.
xx
(c) Becky Deans 2012. I wrote this a couple of weeks ago!
The Road
We the undersigned
Shall patiently wait
For someone to die on this road.
We may
Check your speed in
Florescent jackets. But you will speed past.
Bollards to that!
We will
Listen to your revs of
Frustration, the tuneless thud of your
Music, the irritating buzz of your moped
And say nothing.
People will park
All over us. Box us in. And we shall
Squeeze down with pride.
We are the road now.
beckydeans 