Delilah

'And when Delilah saw that he had told her all his heart, she sent and called for the lords of the Philistines, saying, Come up this once, for he hath shewed me all his heart. Then the lords of the Philistines came up unto her, and brought money in their hand'- Judges 16:18

You’re not the sort of girl I’d stake my life on,

and I know that you could never call it trust.

We know, my love, we know the foregone outcome—

we breathe it in; we even found it fun,

those daily games of glib betrayals and lust.

You’re not the sort of girl I’d stake my life on—

but I was young and lost and needed someone.

This heart is yours so take it if you must.

We know, my love, we know the foregone outcome—

and maybe we both needed them to come

to lay my broken body in the dust.

You’re not the sort of girl I’d stake my life on—

but who can wait to stake on sure foundations

when your sullen smile means more to me than trust.

We know, my love, we know the foregone outcome—

and I longed for it. My hands stung by the stone

that shakes and breaks and blisters at my touch.

You’re not the sort of girl I’d stake my life on.

We know, my love, we know the foregone outcome—

this heart is yours so take it if you must.

And here's a reading of this revised version, in my best approximation of a weepy Ben Wishaw voice:

Eurydice & Orpheus

I

Eurydice and Orpheus

are seated at the bar,

hands nested in each other’s palms,

and pupils knit like yarn.

Their lips are restless, wandering,

to soak the other’s cheek,

but disapproving glances force

them teasingly to leave.

She’d love to fuck him endlessly,

but it’s a weekday and it’s late.

They pull apart unwilling,

as his stiffy starts to chafe.

The morning after Orpheus

confides to his guitar.

He charts the agonies of love—

the trials of his poor heart.

He tries to frame Eurydice

in bland acoustic pop,

and clings to clichés carelessly.

He frets. Then sighs. Then stops.

The trouble is he cannot start

to praise her peerless mind,

when all his inspiration is

for wand’ring eyes to find;

and though the marriage of true minds

was always his ideal,

a bodiless and senseless love

is difficult to feel.

II

The next day brought a dinner date

and promised true romance.

They’d booked a table, called a cab—

not leaving things to chance.

The waiters hurried to their side.

The wine was flowing fast.

Their fellow diners grimaced at

Eurydice’s violent laugh.

Three courses later Orpheus

claims he must foot the bill.

They stumble out the restaurant

and stagger up the hill.

The bedroom beckons, Orpheus

swiftly fumbles at her clothes.

He grinds on her mechanically.

She tries to fake a moan.

When he comes she thinks, ‘thank God that’s done!’

and says she must go home.

It seems she’s drunker than she thought,

as she struggles with her clothes.

The morning after Orpheus

arises with a groan,

surprised to hear the troubled tones

of Jason on the phone.

A deafly silence clouds his ears.

His insides sink like lead.

‘I don’t know how to say this, mate,

Eurydice is dead.’

III

In the hours after Orpheus

is madly writing songs.

He tries to capture his despair,

served up three minutes long.

The neighbours shudder at the sound

of his caterwauling wail,

as sobbing for his sweetheart’s death,

he dreams of album sales.

The funeral comes and Orpheus

sings his love an epitaph.

The mourners grimly clench their teeth

and struggle not to laugh,

aside from someone at the back—

a woman in a veil.

She giggles softly to herself

at her boyfriend’s deafening wail.

Eurydice, see, faked her death—

life’s too short for bad sex.

He only loved her carnally,

but was a bloody bore in bed.

Besides, his songs were pretty shit—

he could hardly hit a note.

So she softly feels the purple marks

of Jason on her throat.

And Orpheus, that ghastly man,

was soon in love again.

Persephone craved his hellish shriek—

you can’t account for taste.

Perseus & Medusa

When Jo and I were bored, we decided the best form of entertainment would be to challenge each other to write sestinas based on random words selected from the Wikipedia page on Medusa and the OED word of the day (which was fall-back, bizarrely). Whilst Jo's was obviously better, and featured romance and death, mine is just Medusa moping about her cave for a bit. Here it is:

Still crawling out of infancy,

you closed your eyes, remembering

the stony stares of silent gazers.

They thought they’d peered behind your mask,

and they froze you with their force. Fall-back

to where each shadow soaks the echoes of your name. Medusa.

The echoes of the arms that sheltered your name, Medusa,

the hiss of the lisp of your infancy.

Arms out—the shadows overlap—fall-back.

Let the darkness cushion your remembering.

Let the darkness lick the outlines of the mask,

of the stone-cold ones you’ve overcome, your gazers.

“Ash-back eye-holes swallowed me on the street. Gazers

reframed me in the spit of their hiss. Medusa,

sitting in the shadows and stroking each death mask

with the tip of her leathered tongue. So many boys

who’ve shared their lips since infancy;

the texture of each tongue, the friction, worth remembering.

Arms out—the shadows catch my skull—fall-back.

“Fall-back, and fuck their understanding, fall-back

away from the ash-black eyes of gazers,

and later I will wake from this remembering,

but now the cave cocoons me with my name. Medusa.

This stone is the shelter of an infancy

come again. Child of darkness. Girl with the Halloween mask.”

So you spoke. “Don’t come close. My last mask

has worn through. Could you fall-back

just a little? Here, in my den of infancy,

each ash-black stone will smother gasping gazers.

My rules. My statues. The playthings of Medusa

weep blood with the force of their remembering.

“Do I see you trembling? Or am I just remembering

the man who came here last? See his death mask.

One of my best. Crying for his Medusa.

I still trace his tears. But fall-back,

this place is not for you. Your eyes are not cruel like those gazers

who’ve shrunk me since my infancy.”

I rose and put an end to her remembering.

I kept her head and stroke the snakes sometimes to mask

my guilt. I took it home. Already stone, I killed Medusa.

Webster

And when I kissed your painted lips

the climax was ungodly.

Devotion dredged my cold canals.

The poison pitched me strongly

down to the floor, where writhing I

felt bone beneath the skin

and tousled hair. Caught unawares

I felt the pain begin.

My brain’s on fire. Body’s numb.

My veins stretch to be free

in ridges, sharp and angry still,

on a thin, unsettled leaf

of a poison Bible. Damage done,

I go I know not whither.

This kiss of death steals all my breath

and sends it to my killer.

Where murderers kill murderers;

where death is set in wax;

where hairs dig deep beneath the skin,

we pick conceits to set our sin.

Happiness

Monday. 8th February. Durham.

I found solitude where the hours expand

In the stale blood stains of coffee cups.

As when the pendulum

Swings past perpendicular

My increase was exponential.

Then the City

Opened its jaws

In a long, contented sigh,

And I walked in the valleys of its molars,

And I felt the warmth of its tongue.

And you know

That this cathedral

Is false hope.

Its tyrannical spires

Stretching everywhere higher.

On the way back down we passed the graveyard

And talked about death in eager voices.

You know rotting's such a bore—

I’ll stain the air with dust.

But what to choose?

A bench?

A tree?

A black smear in the sea?

'Twere now to be most happy.

‘I am happy’ is always a quotation.

The word arose

Before the cold stone

Of St. Mary’s College.

Before I was:

Giddy?

Emotional?

Not particularly sad?

But then:

Happ-eee.

So now that’s done.

But all happy families

Are not alike,

And you are not

That lost Venetian girl.

Today I wanted to ask

If you trust me.

I wonder if you know

I am of those

Too happy in their happiness

That monster their peace

With full-throated ease—

'Twere now to be most happy,

Like a train on a track,

Like a roofless room,

No turning back,

Or halting soon.

'Twere now to be most happy?

When you walk out in the morning with the sun beams on your back

And the dawn says you’re not breaking yet you still detect a crack.

And here's a performance of an earlier version of the poem (with a heavy cold!):

The Parable of the Talents

'England is mine, and it owes me a living,'

-The Smiths

Joe totted up his net worth on

A dog-eared restaurant napkin.

His date was twenty minutes late

And he was hardly happy.

Joe totted up what he could give

To a vast indifferent world.

To woo uncaring multitudes

He totted up his worth.

And writing on the napkin’s right

In a cramped and nervous scrawl:

His virtues, talents, modest skills.

On the left his faults and flaws.

He started with the positive;

The things that he could do;

Like mediocre portraiture.

He used to play the flute.

But he quit karate needlessly

In a fit of childish rage.

The novel he was born to write

Never stretched beyond a page.

His French: no more than a bald Bonjour.

His verse was pretty bad.

He felt like the man who must multiply gold

But instead hid his charge in the sand.

His heart kept time in a sickly thump.

The sweat sprang from his skin

And left damp marks on the feeble start

Of his feeble offering.

He crunched the list in his clammy hand.

‘This isn’t all of me!’

‘But,’ said the absent place of his absent date,

‘This is all that I can see.’

Palm Sunday

Sunday.

The trees swallowed me up

And cogitated me softly,

With the leaves falling down in a vertical march,

Like the weeping of trees, a procession of palms.

They were not gold

But pale and brown,

Though far away

They shone like stones.

So as you were sinless you cast them at me

To bloody my body with loss of belief.

Now nothing remains of the lies that I weaved,

But I don't want to see.

So I shed my skin with muffled cracks

A constant, gentle breaking

And shift this flaking, wasting corpse

In one painful act of waking.

Now turn your eyes away from me

For I don't want to see.

And take your tongue and bury it

My covered ears still bleed.

And take this light away from me

For I don't want to see.

For I don't want to see.

Preacher

The preacher mounts the pulpit, wipes his brow;

He starts with an amusing anecdote;

Then shortly with a dancer's practised steps

He heads for hell, and shyly clears his throat.

With sweeping gaze and gaining confidence

He tells them they're all damned and dead inside.

Augustine watches, proud, smiling in stone;

The sinners stare: there is no place to hide.

Outside the violent air cuts through the skin

As if to catch a glimpse of soul within.

The leaves are rustling, murmuring dissent;

Yet winds of guilt rush them off to repent.

The preacher burns with triumph to his core

He knows he's left them weaker than before.