isawhitney

[isawhitney]

Cancer is a gift.

And I hear you pause. Your shirt cuffs come unstarched. You hold your breath. But what I meant to say is:

Cancer is a gift. It slows you down. You have a moment over life now, hovering in the air above your body. You feel your breath. You take a day. You breathe. You take another day off work. You forget your appointment at the dentist. You breathe. Maybe, before quixotically returning to the office, you spend a week in Rye. You watch the dogs on the beach. You press your feet into the sand. You breathe. You visit the hospital. You visit your uncle. You visit your uncle in your hospital from your sacrosanct chair. You breathe. You fold him tumours out of origami paper. You blow up the tumours like balloons. You breathe: you think about tumours in lungs, blenching, beating.

Cancer is a gift. It slows you down. You put a pause on life and rather breathe, waiting for the day of cancer’s second, greater joy.

[isawhitney]

If Alan Bennett Can Do It…

There were a call for her last

Friday. Afternoon,

I think it was, but I don’t know really. The day’d kind of

Blurred out like.

Somebody called her.

Of course, I say ‘Wrong number,’ and I hang up

Sharpish, but there it is.

Somebody called. Just out of the blue,

Just rang her up in the phone. Well,

There was bound to be somebody

Eventually.

I even told her about it,

You know. She seemed pleased. Mind,

She never seems pleased now.

Always frowning, never

The lady she used to be. I say to her, ‘Buck up

A bit with your smile, love.

Show us your teeth,’

Only she never does. But,

Like I say, she smiled at this. Says,

I should bring the phone ‘round here for her,

But joking as she says it, and I chuckle,

And as I leave I get to whistling.

Fade.

Reckon I might disconnect that home phone. Never

Anybody calling me,

But the ad men, and the council

With their ‘Mr Grady’ bloody bull language.

They call me up every Saturday,

Right when I’m in the middle of my tea:

‘Mr Grady, just a minute

Of your time. Oh, Mr Grady,

Just a moment to discuss

that new edition

You’ve tacked on to your attic.

Not quite up to code,

and there’ve been

Complaints from the neighbours.’

They always will complain

But it won’t do much good now,

If I make up my mind to shut it off. Shut

Up that prank caller too.

Called us a few times now, always

Asking after her health, fitness.

I’ll pull the bloody wires out.

Fade.

Got another call

On her birthday, of all days.

We were having our own celebration,

When the phone starts off

Like a mad dog, barking.

Now, I’m alone

In the house: the boys

Are in Marbella, and Ruth’s gone too,

So for a bit of a treat

I’ve given her the run of the place.

Gag on, of course,

But we’re down in the bedroom

And the phone starts off.

Well, it’s back upstairs

And down again for me,

And at my age that’s no mean feat.

I answer the phone and it’s that same voice:

‘Can I talk to her? Are you hurting her?’

Silence on that end again,

Then: ‘Is she still alive?’

‘I’m so sorry.

It’s a wrong number.’

[isawhitney]

Out in Edinburgh

Me and my skinny white dykes, we’re hitting the town. They give me authenticity; I give them panache. Who doesn’t want a little high yella fever on a psychotropic jaunt, something to spice up an anorexic fantasy? Pills or poppers, the ladies nod as my hair curls in time to the music, frantic beat: Dizzee Rascal’s my best mate, I speak facetiously, turn my head and flirt with the butchest one. It’s been a night to remember. The night breeze hits me in the stomach as we walk out the club, each breath of air a truncheon to the gut.

[isawhitney]

Walk in London. Walk,

And while you are walking

In London remember that

Centuries have walked in

London just as you have.

Your walk is the same as

All the years who have been

In London. A walker in London

Walks with a millstone

‘Round her neck, just

Walking under weight. A

Decade walked in London,

On a London street, and

Still walks there, and you,

As you walk in London,

Walk with it. You can walk

Without the weight - but not

In London, and if you’re not

Walking in London, well, why

Walk anywhere?

[isawhitney]

Woman Friday

What you mean,

Civilisation? I’ve

Got the soup pot

Over the fire (no

Help from you!)

And a chicken in

Its feathers still

Waiting plucking,

And you want

Talk to me about

Christian moral

Structures? Look

You, Robinson -

Man, if you really

Think an English

Education can

Improve a heathen

Soul like mine, I’ll

Sit down here and

Contemplate the

Bible while you

Make us a meal.

[isawhitney]

There is too much emptiness in my mind and it is full up

i cannot think;i am in

nothing deep; the breath

breathes out of me;i

cannot think;i am not

here but in the fog; it

weaves me;i cannot

think

[isawhitney]

Carol

“I guess

cremation’s

the fashion now,

but I don’t know.

There’s something about

the

spread

-out

dustiness

of it that doesn’t sit right

with me.

When I’m dead, I want to grow worms like

rosebuds.”

[isawhitney]

Sort-of Sestina (I am Answering a Phone Call from my Mother and She is Having OPINIONS)

Yes. Yes, I understand that, Mum, but really-

Yes. No, I do see what you mean, it’s just-

Uh huh. Right. I guess that’s reasonable.

Oh, isn’t it? Well, like I say, I don’t know exactly.

Right, and so she- Huh. Well, that seems rude.

I’m sure she’ll come say sorry by and by.

I’ll tell you more about Moira. She’s said bye

To the suburbs and moved to York. It’s really

Bold, especially at her age. I’m not being rude,

But if I were going on for sixty-nine, I’d just

Sit where I was and grow mould. Well, exactly!

But we all know she’s never been reasonable.

Speaking of: Tania. Now that’s a reasonable

Person! Lord knows how or why, but by

His will I guess they’ve come together. Exactly

How their marriage works that well, I really

Can’t guess. Some kinds of couples just

Give up on fixing each other - but that’s rude.

So, Tania’s tenure in York! Well, she’s in rude

Health as usual, but the very reasonable

Steps she typically takes for Moira just

Aren’t that practical up there. You can’t buy

Vegan milk at a dairy, you know. Really,

They should move into the city. There’s exactly

Moira’s brand of nonsense there - exactly

The linens, exactly the beeswax wraps. Rude?

Well, possibly - but the fact is she’s really

Out of her element now! Unreasonable,

To suddenly choose rurality. She’s all by

Herself there, but for Tania, and I just

Worry about her on her own, with just

The wind - Tania too, of course. I’m not exactly

Sure what I’ll hear when I come and pop by

Next Wednesday. Maybe another rude

‘We’re doing fine on our own.’ It’s reasonable,

I admit, that they want some time, but really!

I’ll say bye now, sweetheart. You just

Get on with your real life. Our chat has been exactly

Right: being rude with someone reasonable.

[isawhitney]

My Sympathies Lie With Bosie

And his surfeit of love. To be fair

Is a monotony; the lover acts,

Straining, eye trained to the crowd.

He weeps damascened tears, and

His audience weeps alike: while

The fibreglass beloved waits

For the cue to a hand-raise, or

The grime of their sacrosanct

Smile. When the lover looks,

She summons Helen, Paris

Cressida in nylons and a tan; love

Smothers her darling in antiquity,

So that a man may be Achilles

And no longer any of himself but

A picture frame. Women have been

Swallowed whole by poems, sonneting

Their dead virtues as the love-

Predator grows sleek on feeling.

Bosie knew it. Knew it, and so spake: if he

Would go to Hell for me, why wait?

[isawhitney]

Well, what is it like?

I am reading a book. and the man who has written that book has raped me. or a girl like me and the pages are cream still, not red and sticky round the edges. just cream. they rustle cream round the edges when I turn them and laugh. at this joke he’s made on chapter twenty three. and while I laugh a girl is raped. or I am, laughing, raped. my throat is sore with it. and for all that the joke is a good one and I cannot help but laugh. with him? I am the girl, raped, laughing. I am the voyeur, stooping to catch her half-drunk cries and pickle them in laughter. laughing, I pin her down myself. as I pin pages, folding back these Rohypnoled pages, laughing all the while. I am reading with my teeth.

[isawhitney]

A Day Out At The British Museum

all we gather here, to honour

this gilt and marble idol at the antique altar

with its worn-down face.

with its dead blue eyes.

[isawhitney]

History

Has masticated me. Cobblestone teeth

Have ground me up. I am palatable,

My body crushed under the same sky

That savoured Roman ruins, reduced them

To rubble. Still hungry, this beast city

Seasons me with its overburdening time.

When it swallows, I am gone.

[isawhitney]

Spring coast, and the gulls

That follow instinct fly: wings

Beating like our hearts.

[isawhitney]

It is the devil!

And he mocks himself at us!

And he stretches out his feline neck

And his ermine bracelets

And his wolf throat

And he laughs at us!

And he grins like an ape

(And his teeth are yellow like an ape’s)

And we can feel his breath on us!

And he winks,

And he winks often, and lividly, and well,

And our proper sensibilities are maligned!

Whatever shall we do?

[isawhitney]

I hold my poem in my hands

And spit on it, and shine it well

So it can stand the world’s demands

And give ‘em hell.

[isawhitney]

Mandarin

I peel it back:

Paring skin, tearing chalky tendons,

Baring orange flesh under my cat o’nine tails.

All I seek is wisdom:

Some small insight into the seasons’ turn,

How rot can bloom at the core of an orange.

All I find is silence:

My ripened stoic keeps its secrets

And the bureaucracy of nature breathes out.

[isawhitney]

Freed from the burden of writing good poetry, I choose the superficial. I am writing poorly. I will use idioms if I care to, and similes like a bridge to my meaning. My words may not move your soul, but you will hear them and appreciate the logic in my saying so. “The woman,” you will think to yourself, “has sense. So few poets nowadays have sense.” Because I have stopped at mediocrity, perhaps we can talk to each other. Maybe we can even have an honest conversation. I, in my plain little way, will speak my nothings and you will reply with banality, and so we shall proceed: saying nothing, wording all.