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James Anderson, 1813 - 1877, Capri, woman carrying jug,
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Woman’s head as jug
(after
a title by Jane Fordham)
Today she pours the Water of Life – green
walnuts picked in June, beaten with a pestle.
Tomorrow, Melancholy Water tasting of gilliflower,
damask rose, musk and gold leaf.
She steeps pounds of rue for Plague Water,
and to clear ‘mists and clouds of the head’
infuses peacock dung and bruised millipedes
in spirit of lavender. Bending over a bowl
she might empty a reservoir, reveal the valley it invaded.
Her head is fired from the same earth.
First published in Agenda
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| by Wilma Cruise from her Alice series |
Gyratory
On Friday nights the cycle lane disappears
beneath a line of waiting cars outside Wine Me Up,
Booze Factor and Perfect Pizza. Men criss-cross
the pavement with padded bags and cool boxes.
You can always buy a beer on Lewes Road.
And when the cycle lane appears again, the cyclist
looks towards the gyratory. She knows the gyratory
has its own rules, governed by a stranded pub
and petrol station. Not even Sainsbury’s has influence –
customers backed up into the car park, refused entry.
More than a crossroads, cars meet from six directions,
split off into seven lanes - left to Five Ways, Lewes,
up the hill of death, into a dead end or round again -
to town, to town, to town. On the gyratory, the cyclist
tenses her arms, looks straight ahead. The rope
she balances both tyres on is held between poles
by enormous carabinas. She must ignore the 49b
revving behind her, the Big Yellow breathing out
chip fumes, the concrete mixer, silver van.
She cannot think of herself as flesh on the gyratory,
where the cycle lane no longer exists. She must be as sure
as time that it will reappear just after Shabitat,
the second hand superstore. She must be as sure
as faith, as the AtoZ or a 24 hour delivery man.
first published in The Echo Room
On Friday nights the cycle lane disappears
beneath a line of waiting cars outside Wine Me Up,
Booze Factor and Perfect Pizza. Men criss-cross
the pavement with padded bags and cool boxes.
You can always buy a beer on Lewes Road.
And when the cycle lane appears again, the cyclist
looks towards the gyratory. She knows the gyratory
has its own rules, governed by a stranded pub
and petrol station. Not even Sainsbury’s has influence –
customers backed up into the car park, refused entry.
More than a crossroads, cars meet from six directions,
split off into seven lanes - left to Five Ways, Lewes,
up the hill of death, into a dead end or round again -
to town, to town, to town. On the gyratory, the cyclist
tenses her arms, looks straight ahead. The rope
she balances both tyres on is held between poles
by enormous carabinas. She must ignore the 49b
revving behind her, the Big Yellow breathing out
chip fumes, the concrete mixer, silver van.
She cannot think of herself as flesh on the gyratory,
where the cycle lane no longer exists. She must be as sure
as time that it will reappear just after Shabitat,
the second hand superstore. She must be as sure
as faith, as the AtoZ or a 24 hour delivery man.
first published in The Echo Room
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| William Kentridge |