Poems

The Labour of Mrs. Hercules

Not having seen seven o'clock in bed For years and a natural light sleeper, She cannot find the time or strength to dread The coming of her fifth child, or weep her Anguish for the other four's grubby hands. The police have been round twice since Christmas Because John, the oldest lad, always lands Himself in trouble. 'Shouldn't see that lass So often,' according to Deidre- And she has had three of her own grown up Long since. Someone said he ought to see A psychiatrist but the choice was up To John and it was her problem rather Than theirs. She must expect one of the five To be reckless and just like their father Who—although unwelcome now—will arrive In a drunken state eventually. Telling herself that they're not the only Couple who have to sleep separately Reminds her that it can become lonely At nights and the waterpipe needs mending. By the close of another day, those tasks That must still be done seem never ending: She knows why she does them but no one asks. Ian Rayson

New York, New York

Dusk is grey in New York. Light comes slowly, painfully, revealingly. The joggers circle Central Park. The in-crowd have just got home, And Time Square is full of pigeons. The air has no smog, has no noise, has no humidity, yet. Quickly the streets fill: organised, habitual, chaos: Workers going to work, Drinkers going to drink, And the whores on Fifth Avenue are going to bed. Coffee is served: hot, black, sweet; It ends with the traditional: `Have a nice day, y'all.' On the streets below `Don't walk: don't walk' Is spelt out In blood-red neon. The sun hovers above the river— Melting in exhaust fumes. The moon watches the concrete blocks below. Julian Wilson 40

Cool Poem

`So this is love' I thought, Fumbling with the seat recliner, face a painfully concentrated display of ease and confidence. Courage gathered I advance along an exposed ridge of thigh, sink into glib military metaphors. And then the stalemate, sprawled across the gearstick, waiting for inspiration/anything to distract her from me here until a growing awareness of self of tightening muscle and explosive God cramp my thigh. Outside, all around, the night closes in with winks and nudges hidden laughter and I try to see the funny side. `You do love me, don't you ?' At my mumbled reply even the strewn clothes cringe. So you're driving home later having laughed it off and put it down to experience: you don't feel ashamed only sorry and maybe you'll see her again someday .. .

Tim Raylor

Little light is shining

Little light is shining as we walk Endlessly in front of our own harsh tread. Little light is shining when, all talk Forgotten, we take comfort in your bed. It is, perhaps, a realisation Of a kind. We have what we take And take no heed of a situation That surrounds us in the morning when we wake. I amuse you, I can tell by your Smile. I too laugh when you mother Me and accept this for Those moments when we amuse each other. Thinking back on your alibis For why our cloud has no silver lining Only saddens me. Coldly I realise That inside, little light is shining.