wb :

on the porcelain tiles
tending to the bougainvillas
i'm inside making flowers into necklaces
later she tells me they're pretty; she wears one around her neck
and gives me a little laugh

she's outside pulling weeds
i'm inside with the herbicide of youth
angry at the walls;
my tears are to her
garden shears

like rain to butterflies
(where do they hide until the showers have passed?)

she's outside watching television
in her old wheel-chair
I am inside
dreaming of airplanes and skies

I am outside dressed in drabs and grey
walking around the wooden box
I bend as if to confide
but now she's fast asleep, inside.

Labels: poetry

you and I have no chemistry. Henceforth
we are dissociated, I my own
entity. I cannot comprehend
your spontaneous flares;
insoluble mysteries; variable states,
golden dust motes floating
precipitously -- the facts stand as this:

when I count the ways I know thee,
the technicalities fail me.

Labels: poetry

He stood and waited as he tried to imagine what it would sound like if the train passed by him without stopping. it was a faint humming in his head that grew as sudden as a bolt of lightning, then faded just as quickly into a low moan, leaving behind empty air and a trinity of rails.

Perhaps he had been waiting for too long; when he waited, he thought, and when he thought, he thought of such things. in the distance, he heard a thud-thudding, accompanied by a light shuffle of shoe on tile. he had found a seat long ago, all of them empty anyway. everyone had boarded the previous train in their hurry. though the trains ran in a loop, and the last one was not due for a few more hours at least, the station was empty nonetheless.

Then more people started to fill the platform. first it was one, then they came in two by two, all manner of men and women. so many people flooded the floor- almost threatening to break past the line meekly painted into the tiled floor, and overflow onto the rails. ever they came with no end, all manner of brilliantly boring people. some in riches, some in rags; most oblivious, a manner of metal mated to their ears. there were those in clean suits and tie, immaculate hair on white shirts; there were those whose white had grown yellow with age, but who still fumbled to tuck their shirts in and keep a crease in their pantlegs; there were those who carried great bags, bent over, with no care for the stained patches adorning their clothes. all of them jostled and scrummed, sounded and laughed. so many. he had not thought there had been so many to live. the sensory confluence reminded him once of a movie he watched of a slow-motion magnified frog's leg twitching upon the application of galvanic force. like so many cells they twitched, hemmed in on all sides by fellows; then there was a great flash, and they lunged!- they flailed in one direction, moving scarcely a nailsbreadth each but drawing the entire leg with their concerted power.

Then two of them caught his eye. they were surely together, his arm about her waist. whispering sweet nothings into each other's ears. perhaps he recognized them, and there is nothing like recognizance to bring recognizance. perhaps they were the same couple yesterday, but then she was in a shorter skirt and his hair gasped at the ceiling, frozen in picassoesque spires. or perhaps he knew them from two days ago; then she carried a red red rose newly sprung, and he had a smile more sincere than the sound their feet now made when they stumbled, giggling, across the floor. now he was in a great suit, coat hanging on the other arm, and she smiled coyly in a pretty blouse and lipstick.

Or perhaps they were all different couples. clinging on together in their happiness perhaps, and both men and women flickered glances thence, perchance gently jealous.

Then he heard the announcer on the sound system. a breeze blew past his ears, whirling with the static-garbled words.

"For your own safety, please stand behind the yellow line. thank you for your co-operation."

The thud-shuffling continued even as the rumble of a steel behemoth waxed in the distance. as though a lion sensing prey, the thudding hastened for a few moments, then it resumed its old pace. perhaps that was the tail of the lion; the rest of its muscles coiled in anticipation, the muffled roar stifling itself, and countless cells readied to spring. then the train- he dreamt then, so vivid, that it had stopped to graze or perhaps drink from a water-hole- the lion sprung! then its lifeblood poured out onto the tiled floor, and hundreds of people walked through the doors, as many as in, and the doors closed, and the train was off.

That was not his train.

The shuffling in the distance finally reached his ears. a sickly old man, bent over crutches, hobbled over and took the seat next to him. no word passed between the two. the old man had a beard, perhaps, and might have once enjoyed the dubious honour of having hair. teeth were perhaps only a faint memory now, but certainly the love of walking had stayed with the old man, past the loss of one leg beneath the knee; crutch held erect beside him like some fantastical scythe, watching the people as surely as himself.

And then it was silent again. there would be a short lull. he knew more people would come and the station would be crowded again. as sure as from nostradamus' lips, they arrived, filling the painted floor and leaning on all the pillars. some watched the rails playfully, most stood to themselves. then a few strains caught his ear. someone- a boy, young, was singing some russian song, music filling his countenance even though his ears were not stopped up with rubber. the words reminded steinbeck of the time he was back in moscow, working as a doctor then. in the stifling heat, in the press of a thousand souls upon a lonely one, he yet managed to feel the solitude in the cold russian winter, and the warmth of a drop of the miracle liquid, the lifeblood of the proud rus. strange, how a young boy's uncertain notes could evoke his memory of a hundred men delivering their anthem; and strange, how he could think of vodka in the middle of summer.

And he was happy. music in his blood, joy was in his face. no need had he for gels upon his hair, nor neither suit nor pants nor pinstriped hat. like some rogue atom vibrating at absolute zero, or the last rose of summer, refusing to go, he stood out; pricking those who came near him, yet drawing just as many to be hurt. all about him smothered the blacks and whites of business garb, the grumbling noise of music faked too loud. perhaps again the spring would bloom in red, but not ere winter struck the lone rose dead.

And then they heard it, like so many flies catching the scent of carrion in the air. the same voice- the same sound, exactly as it had been for so many years, so many trains-

"For your own safety, please stand behind the yellow line. thank you for your co-operation."

And then there was the rumbling again, like the great hunger of a greedy emperor. this time, the train came at the other side, disgorged its vile, squirming load- like a bloated roman patriarch, taken till his stomach's protest at the table, gone to throw up a viscous bile, then shovelling just as much into his gaping maw again. as much went out as went in, an infinity of peoples chewed on and spat out in some grotesque orgy. in the middle- lost in the noise- the faint words hung on the air, trepid, then were lost to the toothless metal maws, tens of them along the steel snake like some homeric monster, snarling at the masses that yet pushed themselves into its jaws.

He shuddered. the jaws snapped shut, forcing rubber lips together. the song was lost, its notes still playing in his head, and there was a glimpse of the boy's smile- did he look into his eyes?- and it was gone.

Again it was solitude alone with solitude. the old man beside him turned to face him, and ventured a question.

"You've missed both trains. aren't you taking any one of them?"

There was only the uncertain reply:

"No. these- none of these is my train."

Labels: prose

The idea that the landscape of Mars is red is a commonly-held myth. Photos from the first martian probes in the 1990s showed a panorama of red but those were really colour-enhanced - for scientific purposes, for sensation, who can say? Having discovered another uninhabitable grey rock in space would not guarantee NASA's budget - after all, we already had the moon and as far as the average voter was concerned, that was enough. In reality, the martian landscape is almost uniformly grey, punctuated by canyons, but these are grey canyons studded with grey rocks on ancient grey riverbeds. From space, the planet looks red because of iron oxide in the atmosphere. From the ground, the sky is grey, but the ever-present iron oxide dust looms nevertheless.

It was dark on mars. That was how it always had been, the shroud of night almost perpetually drawn over the red planet not by the presence of clouds (she had none) but by sheer virtue of distance.

Above the spaceport the sky was a deep grey. It was night-time. The daytime came and went with whimsy but each cycle brought no more than a tinge of brightness to the otherwise twilight surroundings. Six billion miles was a long way for the warmth which sustained green earth to travel.

It was also one hell of a long way for a spacecraft to travel.

That day, the spaceport was crowded.


Mother held my hand as we thronged with the crowd; pulled and pushed, seeping our way like rivulets of water between the cracks of parched earth towards the wire fence. I felt myself being pulled upwards by her muscular arms. Mother hoisted me to a perch on her shoulder so I could get a good view of the spacecraft: at seven, i was tall but most of the rugged colonists were taller: it was water day, there was to be a spacecraft (we didn't know what it was to look like), and it would come like rain from interstellar space to our dry little hole in the middle of our desolate solar system.

The first we heard was not the rush of the sonic boom or the parting of the sea of reddish clouds like a crack in some divine firmament to let in the first rays of a new sun, shedding brilliant light on the small pack of cold colonists and filling their eyes with a spiritual fire. Standing there I could fathom a small wet throng wading through the river Jordan; a crack in the sky; a deep voice of command.

The first we heard was not the torrential pour of combustion engines flaring in gigantuan struggle against the pull of the planet, lowering the silver spacecraft first by metres, then by feet, then by inches. When the ramp was extended, a man in a half-spacesuit stood at the doorway framed by a halo of brilliant, cutting but that is an image for later. Before there was light there was sound...

...and the sound was the word. A baby crying. It was little cousin Zechariah, nobody could hear anything of the spacecraft let alone see through the dusty haze, it was night-time, it was Mars, it was the spaceport; and he had had a brief premonition, the sort only available to the very very young, of the grief that is our birthright.

Labels: prose