Tell Me

how much more
is there
than all I know

if
I’m not thinking of it
could it ever exist

tell me
how
I know these things
© 12 November 2008, I. D. Carswell

If They’re Still Around

by
contemporary standards
I’m alcoholic

no point challenging
assertions – I like a drink
nothing’s changed much in six decades
though I drink a lot less

it’s said I’m statistically
identifiable by a set
of behaviours dating back
to my teenage years

back when they called me a wowser

somewhere twixt cup
and lip those other laid-back buggers
must be incorrigible pisspots

if they’re still around...
© 11 November 2008, I. D. Carswell

Dead Trees

can’t see a Hall of Fame
mirror with my screen
shot face reflected ‘tho
displaced right to left

can see a Lycos search
making much more sense
than a line in someone’s
illusory bibliography

hey, so it takes 27
books nobody read
to rate dusty space
in said pantheon

it means –
whichever way ingested
a whole lot of
dead trees
© 13 November 2008, I. D. Carswell

Sad Wednesday

rain since Sunday
brought a damp relief
from brutal heat yet
you are on your way
again – going far away
this saddened Wednesday

I just became your Gran

in scant two weeks
you managed to
dissemble my beliefs
dissolved an incredulity
which harboured
sweet addiction

how dare you leave?

while grandeur of
grandparenthood
survives the fast
I’ll pine so grievously
for sanction
of your smile
© 18 November 2008, I. D. Carswell

Freja Jean departed for six months
in Sweden on this day...

Last Supper

every meal is now a
last supper of sadness 

I will not wake before the
last guest leaves

without your countenance
to bless it there is nothing 

on the plate but
sombre melancholy 

© 19 November 2008, I. D. Carswell

Yesterday’s Washing

folding yesterday’s washing at
3am may not convey the right
sentiment, I need sleep, tiredness
intervenes but I am captive to the
neatness you always expressed

tidy piles rest on the side of the
bed you left vacant to rediscover
joy in your life – which lost its way
with untold love in every fold
© 22 November 2008, I. D. Carswell

Where You Are

awake to emptiness

another day begins
again less promising
than sham, of hollow
innuendo, of happiness
so badly bent

had you meant
this be while seeking
joy in space that flew
away I would agree

I know you feel the
same as me, to bear
too much has lent
a voice to discontent
which counsels misery

yet all the issues
aired resist redress
in tepid distances
you’ve thus expressed

remember this forever
then – where you are
is where I’d rather be
© 27 November 2008, I. D. Carswell

Saved To Savour

the luxury of taste
abundant bound in
titillating flavours sings
beneath a supple skin

she wears a misty smile
for him, a grin of knowing
where she leads immaculate
the reaching hand

words she breathes
are exhalations lost in
timelessness, gauzy puffs
of angel dust caress

breathlessness devours
the man whose eyes embrace
this fruit he shrewdly
saved to savour last
© 2 December 2008, I. D. Carswell

The Breeze Whispered Salty Promises

Getting there was half the fun, Whale
Beach on a Saturday and a Son’s
wedding – the Bride a dream in bare
feet on sand and a ceremony to leave
you gasping. I kissed Deidre before it
began, an omen to vows as simple as
the sea, to love as love is meant to be.

We came dressed like suburban seaside
Bedouins, met in the sand and stood
shoulder to shoulder facing the sea.
The best Versace were words worn chic
telling tales of our simple sameness,
an urbanity which neatly proclaimed
who we were and why we were here.

Even the tall Lanark men stood
comfortably in tartan, smiling in
clothes beachgoers eyes played games
with – tho’ as the Bride walked through
rose petals to give herself away the sighs
of the fledgling surf stole the beach and
the breeze whispered salty promises.
© 13 January 2008, I. D. Carswell

Meant To Leave Us Wondering

It might have been the alarm blurring empty air
with raucous nonsense, or the semi-comatose
guests seemingly unruffled, unimpressed by a
fuss they cared less about than taking morning
showers – dressing for a day that took primacy.
But a strange dissonance descended.

Call it surreal if you must but there was
nothing to suggest we were moments
away from a fate we may have deserved.
No footsteps running or calls of fear, no
widespread foment; instead the sound
filled in where we took no heed.

Eventually it ceased; just as abruptly as it
had begun it disappeared. Silence had no
use for the vague sense of unease which
reclaimed space without relief. Perhaps we
survived something we never could understand.
Or perhaps it was meant to leave us wondering.
© 11 January 2008, I. D. Carswell

A Murky Afternoon In Camperdown

The roar of traffic
coruscates at best
when wind is westerly
– leaves no muted
guess to sordid origins

doors attest the beast
is not restrained
by solid walls
or innuendo double-glazing
billion dollar views

the sea
of sound crescendos
with each wave of planes
descending through
the murky afternoon

no place for peace within
this sphere constrained
by noise that oozes
freely from the cities’
seeping pores
© 7 November 2008, I. D. Carswell

Staying Away

Too easy to excuse
a sheer sense of
massiveness; the big
and complicated – too
huge to comprehend
in single glance

you cruise empty
on blind aspirations
accept this impetuous flow
without question as natural
the rumbles, the bumps
the sirens, traffic lights
interminable delays
the crazies

but you decided long ago
there is no way you
are going to join the queues
the scramble
the pseudo-race
or drive those roads instantaneously
looking both ways seeking
a small gap to pull into
with safety

beating them is not
the game nor would they see
a victory in the way it’s done
by you staying away
© 7 November 2008, I. D. Carswell

Dangerously Beautiful

 

anticipating taste
to titillate
a palate’s geste
expressively as
“awesome”
soubriquets an urban
tamarillo’s parable

or had she
merely meant
it as a compliment
– for me?

I only said
I’d keep some fruit
for her next week

– the menace
of her beauty
kept in check
yet words undressed
in grateful smiles
embraced her
ardently
© 27 October 2008, I. D. Carswell

Real Nail Clippings

real
nail clippings
collect neatly in a pile
on a corner of the desk
uselessly next to the phone’s
truculent silence

computer screen’s baleful
stare cowers inspirations
engenderment, there’s no
miraculous escape
– a bleak bludgeoning
to death of creativities’
incipience breaks moods easily

isn’t always this way
clipping nails once lent dignity
insight-seeking, a catharsis in
letting go

but I already did that...

...yesterday
© 30 October 2008, I. D. Carswell

The Hang Of It

can’t get the hang of it
this philosophic
moving on
from yesterday’s mess

I am mired in
intangibles which impeccably
intermesh with static neurones
still firing blanks

...there is no
disorientation
quite like the bared walls
of blunted rectitude
© 31 October 2008, I. D. Carswell

All Hale

For Tara & Ezra Slobock

“I want it strictly understood
Though fond of fun, I'm never rude
Though not too bad I'm not too good...” *

ta-ra-ra boom-de-ay,
all ye should know today
what good souls Hale with glee
now Slobock eternally

our Mme TMcS
oustered hack with no regret
caramelising haute refute
engenders new repute

drinks rich sak so easily
a role with her certainty
fished from an endless sea
of fabulous serendipity
© 3 November 2008, I. D. Carswell

* version sung by Lottie Collins in London music halls in 1892

Freja Jean

regardless of popular opinion, this
week the main event was not a
bloodless contest for US President

nor was it a famous victory on the
sporting fields, or at best anything
to do with wilful contest

nor was it driven by media think-
tanks or ubiquitous polls suggesting
what a hesitant future may bring

it was instead a thin cry rising to a
full-blooded howl as Freja Jean
made her entrance into the World

and we are reduced to an adoring
silence at how one so small can
easily command all she sees...
© 3 November 2008, I. D. Carswell

On the birth of granddaughter
Freja Jean, 26 October 2008
Congratulations Frida and Chris!

Home

a week’s grace
from an insidious
though not unsolicited
hug of belonging
and the thin light of dawn
says of the chill – here
take this thin drape
wrap it around you
feel the warmth rising

it is there – both the sense
and the heat pure
a panacea cleansing a week’s
worth of deranged dissonance;
there is no going away where
one is lost forever
– not
with this
home
beckoning
© 11 November 2008, I. D. Carswell

Those Were The Days

... grandson’s thongs
he says foot raised
with unrepentant grin,
a mug of beer salute,     
mine died yesterday –
they fit okay so I don’t
feel guilty wearing them;

and why should I
as a reasonable exchange
for the troubles we’ve seen!
Seems like yesterday
I had to wipe his bum
– filled his pants
while we’re driving.

So there we are
stopped on the roadside
when you happen by, him
pants down, bending and me
positioned with tissue cleaning

you pull up and make another
of your famous remarks – though
of course it wasn’t yesterday was it?
More likely the thicker end
of five or six years – and he’s
already grown so I fit his thongs.

Those were the days...,
© 9 October 2008, I. D. Carswell

False Laurel Leaves

it is fatuous
inane and meaningless
but you think it vital
to maintain a
breathlessness in being

in those words you say
nothing really – to me it’s
cruelly insincere, worse than
dredging dishonesty for
karaoke greetings

sing along with duplicity
make a pretty pair
primping and preening
in vanity’s mirror – faking
false laurel leaves
© 11 October 2008, I. D. Carswell

Indigestion Tax

the source of this indigestion is
traced easily – Hungarian salami;
it wasn’t gustatory after-thought 
embraced in a flourish of dill pickle,
the last burp confirmed untruth of
that fable; nor the water crackers
or for that matter the beer labelled
bitter but really fine dark ale

aftertaste lingers in early morning
contemplation; those rambunctious
farts punctuating tranquillity are
our forward fees on future gain.
The dyspeptic assessment of Income
Tax as bureaucratically guessed
provisional tax demands are paid
gladly by eructions of frivolous gas
© 13 October 2008, I. D. Carswell

A Dream Interrupted By Sleep (rev)

Strange images, not threatening –
though vague tension tinged
margins where colours merged.

Faces blurred, names changed
yet greetings seemed genuine.
They were friends – talking
hieroglyphs I did not understand
instead I read their graceful
body language. Easily.

What am I doing here?

Silently they moved away
leaving me vaguely outside –
but there was nothing there.
Intrigued I lay down again
returned to restive sleep.
© 5 January 2008, I. D. Carswell

A Dream We Can’t Sustain (rev)

there is even less
room here since you left
walls encroach, creaking
in their eagerness

they fill a space once
radiated with your charm 
I hear their whispers
the real poet is no more

this ersatz kibbutz has
no real defences left

we’ve failed you where
you left us with a dream
we can’t sustain – the
crush is killing us with
aching emptiness

Life will never be the same...
© 26 May 2007, I.D. Carswell

A Fragile Strand Of Unity (rev)

Whereas I should have been
exercising my mind mentally writing
I was captured by a preening bird
– thoughts ignited in its beauty.

Half concealed by a golden cane
it addressed feathers meticulously,
one eye on me, cagily watching
the watcher.

That it might have been a barred
cuckoo-shrike served no cause
for me, we were eye to eye in
sympathy – it and me.

And I lay in the bubbles of the
spa luxuriating, bird contemplating
which feather to preen, between us
a beer in frosted glass waiting

we were connected
in a fragile strand of unity
bound by its ability to leave
as and when it chose.

And it stayed and preened.
© I.D. Carswell 2007

Smiling Faces (rev)

Formerly: Achievements Measured In the Grace Of Smiling Faces

On the first day we came we knew that here
was where the Fates intended we should be;
the subtle bludgeoning about the ears
besmeared an easy truth, we did not see
the hours of work required as reason to
desist. We worked for many months possessed,
restrained from rest by what we had to do,
imbued by ancient mood in truth obsessed.

Our forebears knew no less than we about
the trials we’d surely face when we embraced
their simple need to make the difference shout
with joy; achievements now are by the grace
of smiling faces at each work-day close
like petals of a scented bloodwood rose.
© 2 July 2007, I.D. Carswell

Liquid Eyes (rev)

Formerly: Adores Him With Those Liquid Eyes

It clings in his memory
like fine dog hair he finds
on clothes unused for years
sparse white strands
are always there – never too
obvious, never absent,
and he wonders why.

We share a muse who cares
he concludes, and thus
the fount of our daily inspiration
– but could it be a dog
with fine white hair
that plays the literary genie.

Nothing changed with the
momentous revelation – hair
still clearly seen on the pullover
muse still patient at his side
and at his feet a dog who adores
him with those liquid eyes.
© 2 February 2007, I.D. Carswell

Something I Missed Yesterday

been spending
a lot of time lately with trees –
talk to them
when needs arise
talked to them
today

they
don’t say
in words
what’s on their
mind

– but eyes and ears
tuned eagerly
discern the signs
the moods
the tenor of their
graven thoughts with
subtlety delayed

I learned
they’re less inclined
than taciturn
but show their joy
in simpler ways

today
I learned

it’s Spring...!
© 16 October 2008, I. D. Carswell

Death In The Afternoon

first hurt of feeling leaves you
grievously bereft; tiny bodies
random scattering with missing
heads expressed unnaturally

worse to charge yourself with blame
for Nature’s ways – or foully curse
an opportunist cat* presumed its
architect, plan a grisly fate

you’re dead, you mutter darkly
in your abject state – but yet
find tenderness to bless survivors
left amongst the ravaged carcases

two survivors of this wanton spree 
© 20 October 2008, I. D. Carswell

* This poem tells of the aftermath of a 
domestic cat's deadly incursion into a 
new hatch chicken coup

Submissive Angels

are you secure in your belief
fundament precepts are indeed
the same ones others see?

you know superficially
nothing is the same
from one instant to the next

yet you balance the rigour
of certainty on a pinhead
with submissive angels
© 6 October 2008, I. D. Carswell

Faces Graced In Stone (Rev)

The audience was full of thieves,
their steely eyes appraised
the pickings as they gazed with
calculated stare, assessing where
the treasure lay.

Their silence was a form of praise,
naive and blind to fits of rage that
surged within the massive faces
graced in stone.

I’m not alone tonight, he sighed,
I’ll make them smile,
I’ll light their eyes and lift their hearts,
calm the waves that sank their boats,

steal their dreams in words sung
dark and low, words that float in tears
they’ve cried – and when they’re dried
we’ll leave for home.
© 29 March 2007, I.D. Carswell

All She Had Left (rev)

Formerly: Experiences Were All She Had Left

Experiences were all she had left
yet even they were threatened
by this catholic desire to scrub
the castle clean.

She had clung to a thin thread of sanity
in belief it was all that mattered –
by not denying what had happened
she would somehow be pure and
clean tho’ never innocent again.

It was agony to let the past relive
itself in her poems; never cathartic –
humiliation and resurgent pain
flooded recumbent veins, drained
her of rebellious energies.

She thought time and again to cut
and bleed and be free of it, to take
the scars apart, oust the memories.

Shame revived in meeting gaunt and
haunted eyes staring from a mirror
reflecting pale ghosts and spectres
of heart-rending, unremitting doubt.

There was a glimmer of hope – the hand
of a kindred soul whose words seemed
to know a way, raised faint hope but even
they couldn’t fathom degrading depths of
incestuous rape – and the light went out.
© 7 June 2007, I.D. Carswell