Loose Cut Poets – Mary

Loose Cut with Michael Lasky and Dean Parkin. Those two. Such a funny and kindly dance they have together.

Mary

She rocked up Quebec Road
In a Triumph Stag, hood down.
Ear phone platted grey hair
wound around each ear
somewhat loosened in the wind
Still wearing her pinny that
Merged her breasts with her waist
Her fingers, still naked of any ring,
Hardened with labour delicately
wound around the sporty wheel
‘Are you comin’ for a ride then’
She asked, her eyes twinkling,
her face amused at my surprise.
Mary, my next door neighbour,
By hazard my unofficial nanny
who’d been in service all her childhood
And long life, manifested into
My re-occurring dream and thus
I remember her still.

The world is…

The world is, they say, all in an apple
with it’s tempting rosy red-green-russett blush skin (Eden)
Yellowish fibre flesh fruit
Firm to bite into, brush clean teeth (poster in the dentist)
eaten to the core, thrown out of a window
of a Mini Minor car
into a hedgerow, for a seed to land and grow into a
sapling then tree (Mondrian apple trees abstracted)
birthing blossom attracting bees to fix and mix
to become the fruit with the tempting rosy blush skin
that we pick or press or just leave fall to rot into the ground
round and round.

(Dean – I was permanently blushing between the ages of 13 to 29.)

Baby doll blouse, blue and puckered
Bunny onesy

Fruit

I was 35 when I stood
In an Indian kitchen and opened
My first pommegranet
How sweet, I thought then,
(Enjoying the labour of extracting
Each red seed from its bitter pith),
at my age to still have firsts.

There have been many since,
surprisingly more than imagined,
More firsts than lasts.
The first sight was a projection
On to a Class VI white wall
Mrs Hall, History of Art
‘And here we have Cimabue,
Madonna of the Pomegranate
Observe the Chiaroscuro,
She holds of the fruit
prominent in the centre
Then too proud to ask what it was
Now too foolish not to ask

They say the pomegranate business in
Afghanistan could
Effectively challenge that of the Poppy
Were it not for the politics
Of power or is it power of politics.
Oh to be addicted to pomegranate juice,

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