Natural Alchemy

NATURAL ALCHEMY

  56 poems by

  by J M Forrest

  Copyright 2014 J M Forrest

  Jane Merrill Forrest is a novelist and has two books published: a humorous fantasy called ‘Orders From Above’ (under J M Forrest) and a supernatural drama called ‘Flight of the Kingfisher’ (J Merrill Forrest). For information about Jane and her writing, please go to https://www.jmforrest.com

  The paperback version of ‘Natural Alchemy’ has black and white illustrations to most of the poems. It is available from Amazon.

  THE POEMS, in alphabetical order:

  AGORAPHOBIA

  Each morning

  Outside

  taps gently

  on my door,

  calling me

  to come

  and play.

  Oh I would,

  if only I could,

  but Inside

  pins me to the floor

  I have to beg

  Outside

  to go away.

  ANCESTOR

  You will never know my name,

  but all the same

  I see that my scattered remains

  intrigue you as you bag and tag

  what the earth has preserved.

  Take care as you lift up

  the precious beads

  my loved one gave me.

  Treat with respect

  the betrothal cup.

  Oh, I remember how

  we made our vows

  as we walked around

  the sacred tree.

  How we clasped hands

  affirming that I took him

  and he took me.

  But that was…

  when?

  Perhaps such knowledge

  is in your keeping?

  So I will stand and watch

  as you carbon-date my bones

  and analyse the stones

  of my burial place.

  I shall patiently wait

  while you reconstruct my face

  in wire and clay,

  bringing my yesterday

  into your today.

  For I am as curious as you

  to know if I was beautiful

  and how long

  I have been sleeping.

  ASTRAL TRAVELLERS

  Flying at 35,000 feet,

  we wave

  at the planes

  passing by.

  Startled faces gape

  in disbelief,

  oval faces framed

  by oval windows,

  round eyes

  above round mouths

  asking why

  and how this can be.

  We clasp hands

  and laugh aloud

  as we soar away

  to our destination.

  They are prisoners

  of tin tubes

  and timetables,

  but we fly unfettered

  as high

  and higher

  than they,

  joyous and totally free.

  BELIEVER

  The man told anyone

  who would listen

  that his day job was

  too down to earth

  for someone destined

  to meet aliens face to face.

  He worked in a warehouse

  just to earn the money

  for what he needed

  to gaze into outer space.

  He heard tell of a sighting

  over Romney Marsh,

  saw a grainy home video

  of an object of light

  hanging stock-still in the sky

  as if sitting for a portrait.

  He set off with a map

  and hot coffee in a flask,

  certain that his time had come,

  that his friends would wait.

  His car was found the next day

  on the outskirts of St Dunstan’s,

  its engine still running.

  The investigation went on for days,

  probing scorch marks on the ground

  and inexplicable traces of radiation.

  People came and spoke to camera

  as if they’d seen a hostile invasion.

  The man was never found.

  BLITZ

  The shop offers empty shelves.

  Where once were jars,

  tins and myriad things,

  mice skitter amongst old cartons

  gathering dust.

  Coins dropped from a careless pocket

  lie camouflaged on a floor

  the colour of rust.

  Mavis stands behind the counter,

  pinny in place, smile pinned on face,

  waiting for her customers.

  Old Fred needs a box of matches

  to keep his pipe alight.

  Mrs Jones wants fish paste

  for Arthur’s sarnies;

  he’s on watch tonight.

  “They gotta keep their wits about ’em

  the blitz ain’t gonna end any time soon.

  You should shut up shop, Mavis,

  it’s gonna be real bad tonight.

  They’re cursing this full moon.”

  Mavis stands behind the counter,

  pinny in place, smile pinned on face,

  waiting for her customers.

  But no-one comes through

  the boarded-up door.

  There’s no Old Fred, nor Mrs Jones.

  People passing by outside

  barely remember ’44.

  CARING

  I’m sorry I couldn’t cope,

  that my temper was sometimes short.

  I tried so hard to look after you,

  but you didn’t even remember my name.

  I’d give you lunch at one o’clock

  and at two you’d ask me when we’d eat.

  I made scrambled eggs

  when you complained the meat was tough.

  I made endless cups of tea

  that you said you wanted but never drank.

  I’d ask if you needed the toilet

  and you’d crossly say No,

  and then fuss a few minutes later

  because you were wet. Or worse.

  I tried to be gentle when I bathed you,

  but sometimes I wanted to bruise

  those frail old limbs,

  punish you for growing old

  and losing your mind

  before your body was ready to go.

  I tried not to moan when night after night

  I had to get up to stop you wandering

  half-naked around the house.

  Once you even got out onto the street.

  I’m sorry I couldn’t cope,

  but this is a lovely place

  and the nurses will take care of you.

  I promise to visit whenever I can.

  I know you don’t believe me

  but I’m doing this for both of us.

  CHAOS THEORY

  I am not fragile.

  You may think it impossible,

  but I really can fly in the rain.

  So powerful am I

  that the mere fluttering

  of my paper-like wings

  can cause a hurricane.

  CLONE

  A hundred cows

  with the exact

  same markings

  A hundred noses

  that look and feel

  like slimed silk

  They may be cute

  They may be safe

  But there are questions

  their existence poses

  and I’m not sure

  I want to drink

  their milk

  CONCEPTION

  As we lay

&nb
sp; in love

  entwined

  like clinging

  climbing

  flowers

  another heartbeat

  throbs to life

  not yours

  not mine

  but ours

  COUNSELLOR

  I wait,

  counting the silence in seconds,

  waiting for it to begin.

  A deep breath in,

  and the marionette memories

  come jerking into the room

  as if nothing else matters.

  An aching heart shatters

  like brittle glass

  struck by a spiteful stone.

  I help to gather up the shards,

  arrange them

  into different patterns.

  But they’re still too sharp,

  too painful.

  I push tissues across the table.

  Sympathise as pastel shades

  are shredded in damp,

  embarrassed fists,

  mopping up a lifetime of defeat.

  The clock on the wall is discreet

  but ruthless.

  I uncap my pen

  and open my diary.

  An hour is never enough

  to solve a crisis.

  CULTURE SHOCK

  Sit here they said

  Music came from a silver box

  and when it stopped

  there was a parcel on my lap

  Expectant eyes looked at me

  Someone whispered

  and they all stared

  When the music began again

  I was told to pass the parcel on

  and soon we would all have cake

  I do not understand

  your initiation ceremonies

  In my tribe

  boys of my age

  are sent out

  to hunt lions

  DAISY, DAISY

  Have you ever

  pulled the petals

  off a daisy

  one

  by

  one

  to find out

  if he loves you

  or loves

  you not?

  Well

  instead of

  dismantling

  a harmless flower

  why don’t you

  just

  ask him?

  DEAR JOHN

  Of course I noticed the weight loss

  and the change of hairstyle.

  My pals said to ask her outright

  why she was so late

  getting home at night.

  But I didn’t ask.

  I was in denial.

  She bought new clothes

  and underwear in black and red.

  Once she would have paraded them,

  a fashion show just for me.

  But not this time, and it’s been a while

  since we had a tumble

  in our perfumed bed.

  In the pub an hour ago

  my pals nudged me,

  said they’d be worried

  if their women behaved like that.

  I left early,

  my pint glass still half-full,

  my heart empty.

  After loud music and conversation

  the silence hits hard.

  There is a plain white envelope

  on the mantelpiece

  and I know without opening it

  what I’ll find inside.

  It won’t be a birthday card.

  DECLARATION

  I love you

  so dearly

  I declare

  I’d walk

  on hot coals

  for you

  You love me

  so dearly

  you declare

  you’d not

  ask me to

  The soles

  of my feet

  are thankful

  that your love

  for me

  is so true

  DOMESTIC

  [poem with sound effects]

  [child crying]

  come on now, be a good boy for mummy

  stop messing about and eat your dinner

  God I’m tired,

  I don’t think there’s a bit of my body

  that doesn’t ache.

  It’s at times like these

  I think my life has been

  one big bloody mistake.

  Had a real job this morning

  covering up the bruises,

  but my man can be so nice

  when he chooses.

  I tell him, One of these days

  you’ll go too far,

  one of these days you’ll kill me.

  Still, I do love him when he’s sober.

  It’s when he’s drunk

  and I tell him it’s over…

  I don’t mean it,

  but he lashes out,

  we scream and shout

  and…

  well,

  isn’t that what marriage

  is all about?

  I won’t tell you again

  STOP MESSING WITH YOUR FOOD

  I couldn’t leave him.

  I believe him when he says

  he doesn’t mean to hurt me.

  And then there’re the kids

  and the baby.

  OK I do worry that one day maybe…

  No, let’s be realistic.

  I’d leave him if he ever

  laid a finger on the kids.

  I don’t want us to be just a statistic,

  yet another dysfunctional family,

  so there’s no way

  I’ll let my marriage hit the skids.

  My broken bones will heal.

  It’s broken homes

  that do the damage.

  [child giggling]

  [spoon banging on table]

  oh look at the bloody mess you’ve made

  [slap]

  [child screaming]

  DOOMED LOVERS

  You live your life

  in the cool of the moon

  I cannot survive

  without the sun’s heat

  We could be lovers

  you and I

  if only we could meet

  But you are a night child

  a midnight delight child

  And I am afraid

  of the dark

  END OF THE AFFAIR

  In the beginning

  the harmony of skin on skin

  reached the skies

  where Beethoven

  smiled to hear it.

  Now you fear it,

  flinching at the touch that once

  heated your blood

  and brought a blush

  to your surrendering face.

  Surrender is now a cold place.

  A grey room

  that once held a rainbow.

  All those hopes and dreams

  gone rotten.

  The dance steps are forgotten.

  You freeze beneath him

  and he turns his face away,

  his desperate, despairing body

  shrinking.

  Everything is sinking,

  drowning in what

  might have been.

  The symphony is over

  There is always silence

  in the end.

  EXHIBIT

  I hang in the gallery.

  Crusted blood and rust of nails

  bloom on my limbs like lichen.

  In the crowd of spectators

  there is a man

  clutching a claw hammer.

  Did he drive in the nails

  or has he come to prise them out?

  I cannot read his conscience.

  I see a woman,

  pouring wine into a cup.

  It seeps unnoticed

  through porcelain cracks,

  beading like mercury

  on the cold stone floor
.

  When she tips the cup

  to my parched lips

  there will be nothing

  but love to quench my thirst.

  There is a child,

  wide-eyed with wisdom,

  who reaches to touch

  the signature on my skin.

  As the darkness comes

  I am content to know

  that he understands

  the message,

  and my sacrifice

  will not be forgotten.

  EXTINCTION

  Man kept killing ’til there was one, just one.

  He had no concern of there being none.

  So man followed the trail,

  tracking, tracking,

  telling himself boastful tales

  of the others he’d taken.

  Man wasn’t mistaken,

  there was indeed one, just one.

  The final meeting was a surprise.

  Man found himself gazing into eyes

  of gold-flecked contempt,

  hating, hating,

  knowing that it was man’s arrogance

  that had taken everything

  and now wanted him,

  the last one, the only one.

  Man didn’t tremble as he raised his gun,

  as the beast faced him and began to run.

  The first shot thundered,

  booming, booming.

  But the creature didn’t fall.

  His own shocked and angry cries

  battered Man’s ears, watered his eyes,

  as the beast knocked him to the ground.

  It was a shame that man hadn’t thought

  that what he did was far from sport.

  He heard the beast’s breath,

  rasping, rasping,

  as claws slashed at skin and bone.

  Then with a mighty despairing roar,

  the one, the last one, surrendered

  and something wonderful was lost.

  Man had expected to strut and boast,

  to tell his story from coast to coast.

  He’d not expected guilt,

  burning, burning.

  Had not expected to mourn the lost glory

  of a living, breathing thing.

  Sorry too late that those noble eyes,

  once fire, were now cold ash.

  Too late, Man suffered the realisation,

  the freezing, ice-cold realisation,

  deep in his claw-ripped heart,

  aching, aching,

  that he had irrevocably taken

  something unique from the world.

  He’d hunted to extinction;

  now the creature was no more.

  FALLING

  there is no such thing

  as love at first sight

  but one day you see a stranger

  across a crowded room

  such a cliché

  but there is no resistance