Nothing Seems to Fit
Just a poem about rain.
Wearied by wine and cheese
Oh, and washing sherry,
I headed West and further West
Driving cracked-road miles
Till settling in Dunquin
To live out my days.
My days are silent days.
I speak no Gaelic
I decline to speak English.
Rumours abound
I’m ‘on the run’
Some say I’m Latvian
I’m inclined to let them.
When banks of storm clouds scud the Blaskets
The villagers cluster Kruger’s Bar,
Drink too much ‘black’ with Paddy chasers
Fiddle jigs and sing soft songs.
I set my rattan on the strand
Cup my ears to catch the keening of
The Sisters of Constant Precipitation
In their ageless celebration.
I listen to deathless tales
Of lands beyond Antarctica
The ocean lapping Samoa
Babies drowned off Ithaca.
Soaking a watercolour
The painter’s anger?
Unrepeatable.
Hitching a ride on Larkin’s brolly
Shaken off at the ‘Welcome’ mat
Of Brynmor Jones’ library.
Drenching lovers on Glastonbury Tor.
Wetting rubber neckers at royal parades
Raining off a Test Match to save the Ashes.
Kissing the ground of a rubble slum
For a daisy to grow where no one goes.
Swamping a gutter-splashing ragamuffin
His socks soaked through the holes
Of his brother’s Meltonian white plimsolls.
Tumbling Betjeman’s nose,
Trapped on his tongue,
Cascading his throat,
Discreetly expelled,
Via fumbled zipper.
An amber stream
Trickling the wall of
British Rail, Slough.
I set my rattan on the strand
Spying raindrops’ headlong dives
Into see-saw sea
They swoon into the sea
To become the sea.
The clouds roll past
Sun warms the waters
Vapour rises to kiss
The rainbow dome
The lightness of cloud
Will darken heavy.
I hump my dripping wicker
Home beyond the village.
A boozed up neighbour,
Salutes me,
“Tá sé in aghaidh an lae mhór anois tá sé ag cur báistí stop.”
Having no Gaelic
I nod
A nod’s enough.
My chair drips on the step
I crane my ear for casual gossip
But all is quiet.
I wonder what slanders
The raindrops conjure
The minute my back is turned.
© coolhermit 2023
Views: 2163
Delightfully descriptive poem enjoyed from drip to dry. You are fast becoming one of my favourite poemisers 🙂
Thanks again, Keith. I debuted it yesterday afternoon at a poetry do. There were a number of interpretations – I was not sure what to make of the character until perhaps in the penultimate line (in performance) I changed ‘stories’ to ‘lies’ and the poor guy’s disintegration came into focus – one correspondent described it thus; “I like to think he has some form of dementia ….a genius of a man renowned for his intelligence… lived on his wit…. but aware of his rapidly deteriorating brain function. So he runs, hides, shuns, keeps his secret… cannot face people finding out…… Read more »