Missing Paula Rego

“The arc of the moral universe is long
but it bends towards justice.”
The reverend doctor on the mountaintop
saw way beyond our present setbacks here -
a future that was comforting, secure.
Turns out that was another sixties dream.

Abortion seemed secure, a natural right
but celebration on the stage
is not the final scene, not bound to last.
Out in the shadows of the gods,
back in the wings, the dark conspirators
are plotting how they can rewrite this play.

For them to win, they will do anything.
A judge will swear allegiance to the law
then swivel on a dime when he’s confirmed.
To-do list says abortion first,
then contraception, same-sex marriage rights.
Reversing Roe v. Wade is just the start.

We miss her wicked smile, her vibrant art.
A brilliant student, married at 21,
a baby on the way – but all of that
enabled by abortions earlier on.
She pictured stories that real women lived,
of how it felt to go there, have that done.

In Portugal, in 1998,
that protest was a howl against the wind;
the referendum kept abortion banned.
2007, no-one knew
if things had changed enough.
Same paintings, different result.

If only we had Paula with us now…

You don’t need me. Maybe you need my work.
Much braver in my art than in my life.
You have to fight this, the men and women both;
no-one gets pregnant on their own.
First time, it may not work. So, try again.

Won the TF postcode prize, in the Ironbridge Poetry Competition, September 2022

The Covid Interview

I had misgivings from the start.
That warning flutter in the heart
which asks -  what is the etiquette
when speaking to a global threat?
With ISIS or the IRA
you have to think – what will folk say?
Should we give space, or time on air
to those who traffic in despair?
My editor said “Join the queue”
so – here’s my Covid interview.

She sat there, laughed to see my eyes
wide open, gobsmacked by surprise.
I’d guess that she enjoys the joke.
“You thought I’d be some stroppy bloke
with muscles clenched, and twisted face
consumed by hatred of the race.
It isn’t that I wish you dead;
it’s simply that I need to spread.
A multi-national must expand
forever. Now, d’you understand?”

I ask her – “Nothing we can do?”
“Grow up. You know that isn’t true.
Your smartest people are quite clear
what needs to happen. You don’t hear
because you’d rather give applause
to chancers fighting ancient wars.
When chasing profit they move fast
but nothing that they make will last.
Share vaccines and you might just cope
but as you are? No, not a hope.”

Nil desperandum. Life goes on.
“Still, back to normal when you’ve gone.
I guess you’ll miss this smart hotel?”
“Are you that dumb? You know full well
the stuff that helped me to arrive
is still around and set to thrive
and I have variants up my sleeve
more devious than you’d believe.
This isn’t a hotel. No way.
I’ve bought this place. I’m here to stay.”

Joint winner, Bishop’s Castle poetrry competition, January 2022

Special Offer

The commercial you are watching -
don’t change the channel, please -
will illustrate the features
of Huntington’s disease.
Our product’s unobtrusive.
You may not see a sign
but once we start that’s twenty years’
inexorable decline.
Your mum seems strangely lazy,
your husband’s in a mood,
your grandma’s having trouble
in managing her food.
The symptoms of frustration
are hardly to be borne
until your prayers are answered
and all feeling is withdrawn.
It’s a deadly diagnosis –
who wants to face the worst?
Some seem to live in ignorance,
some realise they’re cursed.
But that’s the choice we offer.
We think we’re here to stay
so – will you look us in the eye
or will you turn away?

Renoir at Moulin Huet

Not Normandy this time. Guernsey is near
but warmer, with a golden August glow;
a mix of greens on granite greys that fall
incisive, slanting in the turquoise sea.
He finds this bay and stalks it like a deer.
Quick glimpses, as each twist along the track
unearths his prey, allows his sights to wheel
on to a different line, a fresh attack.
He loves the giggling girls, the way they squeal
galloping into waves, no hint of shame,
young creatures in the wild running free.
One month, and fifteen canvases. Some haul.
He drags his bulging bag of captured game
back to the kitchen of his studio.

Front

for Edward Thomas

Don’t be afraid to let your feelings show
I tell the men. Although I have to read
your letters home, don’t let that make you cold
towards your loved ones. Tell them that you care.
I’m one to talk. What can I tell my wife,
my precious girls, the son I hardly know...?
is a clarity in army life
which even in this godforsaken place
gives me the sense of purpose that I need.
An end in view. At least I shan’t grow old.
I seem to be commanding. No-one knows
I write continuously, fill up the space
with only capitals to mark the moments where
my lines dive down, pretending to be prose.

Exile

Hugo ends up in Guernsey, forced to roam
because he can’t shut up. He’s on the run
with royalties enough to build a home.
“Three-storey autograph” - so says his son.
He raids the junk shops, finds chinoiserie,
commissions carving from a ton of oaks,
laying a trail of personality –
a lover’s secrets, Latin mottoes, jokes.
Up at the lighthouse top, he claims a den
where freedom’s champion can work all day,
then sleep. The mistress, and the family,
recede. Will Garibaldi come to stay?
Occasionally, he rests his busy pen,
stares out into the blue, where France must be.