Trampling Her Camellias And Other Poems

Trampling Her Camellias

And Other Poems

Poetry

By Sissy Jerrard

Acknowledgements

My family, for keeping me here to do this

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Table of Contents

Poem 13 Fae Keepers

Poem 14 Homing Instinct

Poem 15 Notes To Self

Poem 16 Lady I know

Poem 17 Les Platanes

Poem 18 Everlasting Coffee

Poem 19 Machine

Poem 20 No Happy Ever After

Poem 21 His Muse

Poem 22 Two Flights Of Stairs I Bled

Poem 23 Call Me Her Mother

Poem 24 Yay

Trampling Her Camellias

Rows of swaying flowers dance, happier to see me in contrast to the aggrieved faces behind the door. Petals, sepals, stamens; stems; bending and waving uncomplaining of their backs and arthritis. I get it! I do, like my reckless purpresture— So I'll stay with nature, tiny, invisible to the eye and flutter by and cast a spell; that will make him love me more than her his hypervigilant wife. And if there's a hell then I am going as I walk inside trampling her camellias.

He annoyed me with his words, his birds, his cable stitching wife.

Where everything looked nice— Tea laid at four with cakes; home bakes and M&S coleslaw. Sugar coated plates hiding rattlesnakes that bite. And it was her way of saying ‘look at me, I do it all’ to make me feel small. Like looming over an ant watching, waiting with her magnifying glass, to burn away at my soul.

The tea was bland, as always, like the decor. Floral mugs, too thin like her body, a slim knife slicing through the butter of me. Clumsy, awkward me in a sea of faces, nieces and nephews, sisters and mothers, unrelated to me. Fragile heirloom pieces, trinkets, places they’d been, traces of their life without me. How could he have let this be? And I'll play the good daughter taking knocks on the chin but be sure to trample her camellias on the way in.

Look, how sweet, he’s singing her praise, and I join in outnumbered, unheard. And I am a little bird pecking for his scraps, his crumbs his encouraging words that never come.

I am nothing— I am everything to him— The Adam of his labours abandoned by my creator his sanguicolous parasitic hater. And to her I am fimicolous, and that's where I belong, in the dung. So i'll take my hysterias instead, And on the way out trample her camellias.

Chill Out Mama

One minute you’re squishing tiny arms into woollen yarns, sleeves too long; woollen; fussy. Next she’s asking you for money and tells you to chill out mama, take a pill or something. And I do because nature’s kind and hands you menopause perfectly timed with adolescence! Make up your mind mother nature, one or the other, I can’t do both, I’m losing my mind. Imperfectly timed I’m feeling hot; She is not; She is Cool.

My Smell Of Sex

I remember sitting with him, at least more than once, back when you could light up on the black line. We’d stop and kiss before we’d stray, the air thick from a bouquet of brands and my smell of sex from earlier that day; demanded to follow into the daylight that beckoned.

And he wasn't the type to say no, but he wasn't the type for attachment. He’d needed his space to think and his erections were his only link to me. His kinks with me, his sex with me was the best it could be and I was putty in his hands. But he’d had other plans that didn't include me.

And I don’t see him now, and smoking is banned underground.

Lover’s Eyes

I don’t know why he wants to stare, with lover’s eyes, at these pendulous things. These cockroaches I call breasts, hide by day. They’re beautiful, he’d say, tongue searching nipples at night, greedy for more he’d explore their density with his hands. And

I a whore in our caliginous place, embrace my limits of day. ‘My tits are sagging’ I say. And he is blind to my prudence of light, my transgressions of night, the folds of my skin, the loathing within. And in the harshness of day he still looks at me the way he did the first time, regardless of my distorted twin, twisting in her gutless knife. “Let’s go to a nudist beach” my Zoar suggests, knowing our unwelcome guest will always win, tenanting me, perpetually; we will be three. Always.

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Out Of Tune Spinet

My nerves are exploding with excessive emotion, call it hysteria or call it an out of tune spinet, and a recalcitrant neighbour. And my head is hurting as I untangle the ends of my wits, as the fruits of my labour join in. Hijacking my space, the dog in my face, I walk out

And sit, where too little is too little and too much is too much. Where night draws its veil on the shadows of dusk.

Where my fingers are tracing the shape of the stars, the curve of the moon and where a piano untuned spills its ethereal tune and jasmine’s sweet blooms ease my stress.

Among The Dead

A hare’s breath on my neck, a snail’s trail where my eyes bled tears on clothes, torn from a clay, embosked among the dead thorns that scratch my body. And snowdrops, heads bowed in sorrow – among the leaf mould the spines and the stipules.

Not buried – discarded like a doll from the hands of a baby. Dumped and forgotten, until found by a lady walking her dog, among the dead leaf litter of winter. My body a dispersion of horror, a complexity of sorrow that will never leave her.

And I’m sorry for your distress lady I didn’t want to be here. He placed his hands around my neck and please tell my mum I love her, my father too. Take my hands, heliotrope blue and hold them. I didn’t know him, tell them that too.

And in this my dying place, lay flowers family, don’t be sad. I am with the lost girls before me. We are the birds and their poetic song. We are the sea, the moon, the sun. We are a moment in the corner of an eye, we are a memory that will never die.

The Unconnected

I wait for the train, and glance at the scene, commuters tuned in to their phones, connected. Glued to their tips, even babies on hips, have a mum with a screen. But mostly unseen are the ones without, the unconnected.

Staring at faces, into far places, logic effaces their folly. Folding a Stowaway Raleigh, checking delays. Slipping in stairways as they rush to the front of the connected lump of the flock. They dock. Tick tock.. They’re connected.

Fucking Me Anally

Texted and sexted for weeks, months even.

Talked of tits and dicks and cunts even, and other such things like fucking me anally. But there’s no cup of tea with your name on it beside the bed. And I don’t even have a name for it my breakdown. And I could die from the shame of it, except I enjoyed you fucking me anally.

Your Furious Song

You’re stuck behind the blind in panic like this manic being in the vagueness of the early morning haze. I don't belong is your furious song, your stridulated hum almost demonic; thrumming. My tragicomic attempts to flap you out, amuse passers-by. Your mixtape of sounds more prominent than your odourless pheromones or a purring sonnet I haven't heard. Your furious song drones on. I have no ally. Each failed attempt you make to escape triggers my negligent kins spheksophobia and our inherent panphobia for everything. Thank you for that. Wasp

That’s Love

Inside out a heart is turned, Can’t count the beats anymore as a heart adores to pieces. Churned and turned, shaken and beaten until its weakened. That’s love.

Buttered-Muslin

Vomit like ectoplasm, foamy clear, curls around my fingers and then drips to the floor like a message from the dead, incarnating. This is not joy, this is unseen, and “others just get on with it” he said; “like your sister”. And I think of a place I’d rather be than here and it looks like hell, and it smells like carbonara on a plate. My deathbed a paradoxical weight upon the shoulders of others; no buttered- muslin here, just an arbitrary struggle. And there’s a blot on your scan they say and she tells me ‘stop your crying’ and she squares the corners of my bed and reminds me I’m not dying. This is not joy; this is between, and “others don’t complain” he said, “like your sister”. And I’m wishing I was anywhere but here and it looks like heaven and smells like buttered toast on a plate, conjured to attenuate the old school air; no pious fraud here, just a

Miraculous conception. And a ghostly apparition tells me that he loves me and haunts the corridor each night, he is joy, this is love. ‘And others blossom’ I say, ‘like my sister’. And there is no other place I’d rather be than in his arms, until another ectenic force bombards. And we picture our life as a unit of three and it looks like home, and it smells unwonted; no evil here, just all we wanted.

And So

And so, I saw you, autumn shaded leaves of gold and brown crunch beneath our feet as we’re walking.

My mind is already licking the plate clean before you knew where we’d eat, your treat you say. And before the last crumbs are wiped away, you tell me why you’re crying.

Is there a limit to how long you can stare at your coffee as words flow like proud, recovery and all that you ever wanted was for me to be happy?

I have a problem meeting eyes but I try but I can’t find the words to reply.

And so, this scenario lives in my head because these were words you never said.

Fae Keepers

My throat sores are hurting again, pain ensuing from the girl within, unhealed from a bearing rein of violence.

And the pure redolence of roses, where unbeknown to you we’d pick and stir the petals like an impromptu stew of blitheness, remind me of you.

And I thrived in your kindness, your sustenant care, as I bloomed like the flowers you grew in the frangipane air.

And you told me I was safe, watched by numinous fae keepers and you told me I was loved as we read beneath the cedars.

And the skin on my fingers feels raw from my sin, pain ensuing from the child within, unhealed from an infecting wall of silence.

And like the Horae you knew of the seasons and as I grew you would heal all the lesions. And lilac sweet violets remind me of you.

And I hear you still in the mornings, preparing your best for the show; and I scattered your ashes with the roses; to help them grow.

Homing Instinct

In the quietude of my pause, time passes slowly, alone with my thoughts and a sickenly sweet latte, I’m stirring. My spoon thick with ingredients not needed, but there, like dead flowers rotting in a vase; tangible memories that last; but are dead. And my thoughts are baited by the shrill of my phone, realising again I'm alone but not alone. I ignore the call. And a pigeon aligned with the curb, lays dead, half eaten. Gone but still there, iridescent feathers tinted and stuck to the verdigris tones of the wet paving stones. Splashes of blood frame the head. It rings again, but I’m watching instead a pigeon that’s lost another, sit undercover can’t leave the other; alone. This spiritualistic ostend feeds a heart discerped and torn in duality; a soul that is weak and lost in dismality. Does a pigeon ask more from the other; can a pigeon love more, take more, give more than the other? I look at this casualty and see my reality. Like a pigeon I want to take flight but my homing instinct ignites. I take the call.

Notes To Self

I write notes to self.

Self be kinder, self eat, find a hobby; don’t be boring self; get out more self; don’t be hard self; you can do it self. And self can’t you see?

The notes written by me?

Self take your meds, self go to bed, self wake up early, feel the sun on your face, self meditate, self create. But self can’t see, self can’t hear, self is near to dying.

And no one can save self but me. I must find my self, hold my self, love my self, heal my self, put back together my self.

To become truly myself to be free.

Lady I know

My wedge shoes click and slide in my rush to get to the front of the oncoming bus, queue. The lady speaking trouble was a first that day, and as such, I knew— I didn’t want to be the one to say ‘why me’ in the face of a stranger’s emotional debris. And she follows me like an impassioned acolyte of tattoos, comparing hers to mine. And when somebody tells you ‘it’s up to you’, is it really up to you or is it just dereliction on their part? And she has this bovine drawl, and she was abused, and she hates them all and she tells me all— of this on the number 10 bus. And I have a box where my heart’s locked up. And lady I know,

we’re on this journey together. She loves to hate and I hate to love, and each of us is alone on this bus. And I can’t forgive him for his selfish part, so in the box it stays and she can only hate them for their part, they played—

And she drinks to blur her days and I purge to clear the haze. And lady I know, we have a way to go.

Les Platanes

We sit beneath their umbra lungs in the punishing heat of the August sun, these giants of Occitanie, impress; and every year that we senesce my American friend

And I, (as I manically swat the flies), loiter beneath. She talks of her journals and I of my words, and she drops the ‘H’ when she speaks of the ‘erbs’ of the Garrigue – lavender, sage and wild thyme and how New York City skyscrapers

compare, to les platanes and the Guggenheim and Magritte’s lumières, of the Albères, at night.

And there’s a man on a bench, he looks like he’s dead! He’s sleeping instead in this pyrexic heat, and I wish I had wings to fly in the wind; with the starlings, but the spring migrators have long since flown, and I am reminded again this is no longer home. And the towering platanes of great noblesse, will continue to thrive in my absence. And who knows what they’ll hear as they continue giving shade for a thousand more years.

Everlasting Coffee

How is it then that everlasting coffee appeals? I’m writing a book and the relentless pouring steals my time. And hydrangeas that I pass on the way, I’m allergic to! And I hate house plants; they suck you in with their waxy ways, green strays pleading to share your space. You think okay, well, normal people do. I say ‘not today mother fuckers!’ I know how to play them, I just don’t entertain them. Troy has a sister she kills them too! And by the coffee pot is a photograph of you. It's not a problem but still, give me everlasting coffee.

Machine

I’m a machine on autopilot malfunctioning at the store, loading up my bag with more food than I can eat. No cognitive effort is needed. No programmed telemechanics can steal me away. My pulleys are on overdrive and every nut and bolt inside needs feeding today.

I’m a Gynoid, straying from my soulless path, terrified to face the past with healing. My wired mechanics and galvanic parts need feeding. My hidden endoskeleton concealing a system fully wired for eating more food than is required.

I’m interleaving, and dead inside my connected parts long since deprived need feeding. There’s a servo cable deep inside drip feeding, with more food than is required. And in an hour my parts are fired My glitch is fully satisfied. with more food than was required. I’m Breathing.

No Happy Ever After

There they go, where confetti sticks to graves that lichen claims its own. Where frozen, thready leaves of winter weave like lace into the cracks of fallen tombs. Where sorrow looms as silence as her hands search his for guidance, as they tread a poisoned path; that seeps into the marrow of their happiest of hearts.

Where no braveheart stands beside them to fight the fog of gall. Where no parent walks beside them into the dated hall, heavy; weighted; with solid empty chairs at tables. Paper plates with labels, sandwiches with crusts laid to beat the rush — to the bar. And here they are in print, with just a hint of their child. Her hair set and styled dwarfed beside my father, no happy ever after.

His Muse

Where to begin, her hands hold a comb carved from Jade and ten coins of gold are laid near her face.

Her gown is woven from mysterious threads and her slippers are as soft as a whisper. And I feel his hand brush mine, intertwined fingers- as he pulls me away to Matisse's Bouquet with its firework of flowers mauve, silvery-grey. And I pray this day never ends. And I am his muse, his Françoise Gilot. His expressionist nude, his on the bed with his insalubrious taint. And with no rules or restraint, he’d orchestrate a subtle palette. Then paint me in red, fragmented shapes; abstract in form; slightly subdued and then we would screw. And I pray

this day never ends. Her hand holds a dagger, carved from stone 30 pieces of silver, fire and brimstone. Her gown is shredded, splattered with red smears on her slippers from the blood of the dead. And I feel his perfidious hand try to take mine, narcissistic fingers, evermore damned as surrealism shatters away. And I pray this day will end.

Two Flights Of Stairs I Bled

Two floors up, in the middle to the right, two flights of stairs I bled. My body rejecting our miracle in a swimming pool of rage red blood; seeping on blue. I’m grasping in the dark as I think of other mothers and my path I now tread. And, am I still a mother if my womb has hung its head? And am I still a mother, if my baby’s dead?

Twenty five years since I bled and you can have another plays like a vignette in my head.

Call Me Her Mother

We’re awake, listening to the breeze and heat fornicate as our sundered hearts drift away with the remains of our marriage. We’re caught in the emotionless yarage of waves of despair, I am not there, he is drowning. His torment inherent along with the will to forget whilst I’m humbled by the sound of my breath as I wait, despising the routine of morning sex, a fumbling farce, its all over fast! And I hate these prosaic fucks, inordinate fuss, for nothing.. He’s gone late morning and I savour the space, and play music that castrates the hostile air. And like the good wife I’ll eulogise all the lies he throws my way. I know where he goes, with no diminution, his sordid affair, his absolution. And I pass my day with my mind distracted, breathing the scent of her matinee jacket, filling her void with these tangible threads, the love as her mother deeply imbeds in my soul. Is there ever a time when she isn’t in my heart, taking space? And my body aches where she once grew, to feel the quickening I once knew, and the golden hour where our skin cognates serves as a memory only to bate, my empty womb. And he’ll tell me there’s no room for this; that there’ll be another, but I’m her mother! I am a mother! Call me her mother!

Yay

Frequented park, a blackbirds retreat a runner's maze of paths I beat.

Bicycle posed branches scattered with leaves. Morning light dances Mother earth breathes. No pod in my ear here.

Sequined park, grizzled grey. An abundant display of flourishing branches pathing the way.

My distance decay, weakens my spiritual path deepens. I finally outrun the demons. I’m here to stay. Yay.

Sissy Jerrard

Women of a certain age should read women of a certain rage!

Illustrated By Grace