The Strength of Cups
Full
I am the deep-cupped bloom,
called dranculus, dragon arum
or, commonly, stinkhorn.
I rise waist-high in Crete’s May heat
open a crimson throat as long as your arm
to hold you in my wine-dark centre
my sparkling sailor of the wine-dark seas
my man behind the mast
my mast, my thick stamen
I draw you into where there is no space
only the strength of desire to be filled:
(a strength I find no name for
in my Thesaurus)
that seals us both hermetically to pleasure -
Hermes and Aphrodite
become one flame.
Broken
The limpet hold tightens when knocked
the baby’s jaw locks fiercely on the nipple
the lingham is anchored
where the depth cannot be fathomed
and currents draw from the core.
You can’t just pull it like a carrot from the ground.
We cannot be untied by banging on the door.
Somehow we surface like whales, call out
but the banging goes on.
Prised apart to show its secret
a fist hits out
‘Fuck off!’ I shout.
‘Do you want this ‘phone call or not?’
We should make velvet tasseled cords
strung with silver hearts
to hang across our doors....risk ribaldry.
Sitting at breakfast, words wore suits:
‘I don’t appreciate being told to f--- off!’
A hurt that will not speak its name
dons uniform
the hammer falls on the bargain
I lose
retreat to my room like a woman
to weep.
We both apologise
we laugh and hug.
All day grief seems to bruise an inner skin.
Empty
All day grief seems to bruise an inner skin
though we eat lunch at the harbour
expensively, off starched white linen:
the milky flesh of to-day’s catch
with soft poached vegetables and cold white wine.
We return to the mountain
to look for the purse we’d lost.
Yesterday’s irises are shrivelled and black
like inky pellets boys threw in school.
The sullen little goatherd at the cross roads
scowls past us as if the road were empty.
Climbing the tall, locked gates to the ruins of Lato,
my skin is spiked with the thrill of forbidden entry.
I retrace the meander of walls and steps
to the silent, sacral court, empty of purses.
The afternoon fizzes and crackles...
cleansing, leavening fire burns out the hurt
leaving - nothing - a vacuum of years
clean stones, a distant view of the sea.
Minoan
The strength I find no name for
in my Thesaurus
I see was celebrated here
in the sacral knot
the spiralled pot
the snakes that slither and glide
the octopus that clasps and sucks
where the throat of the crocus,
the mouth of the cave,
are invitations to enter
the labyrinth’s path
be drawn in
sweet body of the dark
to source the scent...
of a woman stood taut-waisted
breath drawn up, chest filled with fire,
bare breasts flared:
holder of power
holding
golden serpents
arched from her arms
arched upwards
poised: the power of poise
not pounce
it is the power of holding
not the strike
not the strength of the sword
held high, but of cups
hand moulded
of baked earth
strong with the heat of the sun
and great bellied jugs
strong bellied
breasted
strong bodied
beaked
the body thus strong
supports the voice
the voice rises
gives song to the stars
and all is held
in a strong web
a strong fine web
finely designed
hand made
divine. |
