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Lorca's piano was a grand one,
as you would expect. In a grandish
house, on the plain, below Granada.
You could see the Sierra Nevada
from the windows. I thought of him
looking at those white peaks
and loving his view, while he picked
oranges in his garden.
I thought of him playing this piano.
He might have been a musician,
but events turned him into a poet.
It was a bright house, of course, the sun
filled it. Glorious.
I wondered when he knew
what would happen. He must have known,
he took such risks.
The custodian said I could play it.
'What, Lorca's piano!' I said.
'Why not?' He said. I could
think of a thousand reasons why not.
'Go on,' he said. I sat at the stool
where Lorca had sat
and my hands touched the keys
that Lorca had played
and later I cried
as if I had shaken his hand.
Rosemary Wagner
Published in 'Weyfarers' No 101, December 2006
When I used to weep
from my soul
knowing my world was at its end -
great racking sobs -
he would nuzzle up to me,
pushing a slippery
black nose
under my tight arm,
and look up into my eyes
from the mirrors
of his dark
pools
like a lover, then lift
his sad head and whine
to the moon
of my outrage.
Rosemary Wagner
Published in 'Weyfarers' No 101, December 2006
Nowadays I measure my envy in hands:
I look at the young men's sharp-boned digits
or the white, fluttering pencils of girls;
I notice the labouring, dust-skinned
tools of workmen slumped in the tube,
or the businessmen's tight-strained
triangles knuckled on their newspapers;
I inspect the plump fingers in women's laps.
And I watch, cat-like, to see how they make
those effortless moves: the young girls' darting
hither and thither, a dance of butterflies
lifting and pausing, random as the shrill
of their laughter into their phones;
while the lean men's open and shut, point
and twist, underlining the dramas of thought;
and even old women's fly with every stitch.
But mine, mine do not dance any more:
Mine are becoming witches' claws,
gnarled and knobbled like the split-patterned
boles of grand old chestnut trees,
in- and overlaid with growths and warts
and goblinesque protuberances;
they barely move: they want to curl up
into themselves and nurse their pain.
I do not like being envious. I will
spend more time contemplating
the drawing of those grey-blue hands
Albrecht Durer made so carefully:
they are not particularly straight,
but they are human, beautifully
veined, and in the pose of prayer
so calmly, contentedly still.
Rosemary Wagner
Published in Weyfarers, No. 99, December 2005.
Lay its crinkled body in your palm,
assess its light weight:
look at its wrinkled tan like the skin
on an ancient face.
Study the dents, the curves,
the darker hollows:
ponder its conception
and development.
Prise the shell open
with the metal heart from California
that came in the bag -
there should be a satisfactory
crack
(recycle the halves with a matchstick
mast and paper sail to make
boats for the kids).
Marvel at the convoluted folds
and umber membranes within:
pluck the two raw sienna
sections gently out
(try to keep them whole).
Set them on a white plate
to show off their sclerotic brains
and draw attention
to the repetition
in nature's patterns. Bite. Crunch.
Taste the bitter edge, the wholesome
thickness, the crisp bits in your teeth
as they give up their goodness
to become you.
Rosemary Wagner
Published in Weyfarers, No. 99, December 2005.