Valentine Poem

Love’s scary;

I never looked

so far down before,

nor up, for that matter.

These eyes

that fell from the blue

see better, deeper, wider

than ever.

This new heart beats faster.

Like an orchestra speeded up,

starting with jazz and jive,

we’ll invent a new ragtime era.

Sidestep voices that whisper:

“what if the music stops?”

or cracks that appear in

the dancefloor

before the last waltz.

I’m not a seismologist,

but don’t shout ‘San Andreas’

too loud.

The earth might move

further than expected.

World Wide Web

The lines

we spin

are silken threads,

so enticing,

flies have been talking

about them

ever since.

Ours is a poetry

born to die:

The lightest of winds

destroys all trace;

yet, each resurrection

takes us back

like victims

to the spot

where fate wears

a party hat,

just like the first time.

Snow

I’d like to know

what snow is for;

whose footsteps those are

leading out of the garden.

Bird trails and cat tracks

cross

without ever meeting,

On the lawn,

a snowman waits

for news from the sun.

Gather me up

into a ball;

hold me close;

whisper me

your secret.

I will not tell

why snow falls,

how cold will end;

and why each year

still finds us dreaming

of a new beginning.

Journey

It’s not the journey,

but the age it takes.

The miles

are years spelt out,

but seem like hours.

Time to reflect

on all those trips

you meant:

each station a wish;

or measured out

in fate:

prophetic distances,

passing through

junctions of doubt.

Journeys

you planned to make,

but didn’t;

lost in transit

or escape.

And now:

watching London fold

like some great plan

back into place;

landscapes that stray

beyond a traveller’s reach.

Knowing that this time,

you’ll make it.

Questions

That hole in your sock,

is it old or new?

Do laces freeze?

If you stop,

you’re late.

Questions mount up;

and the week hasn’t

started yet.

Cross the bridge

when you come to it.

Is that steam or mist

from the canal?

And then there are

the ducks.

Do they feel the cold,

like us?

A point few would make,

except for the odd

snowflake

swirling by;

but, then.

it's Monday.

Checkout

He waits

by the checkout,

collecting baskets,

as usual.

My nod brings a question:

“D'you know what

autistic means?”

We wait as if time

will conjure an answer.

“You can’t see it,

they say.”

“That’s right,” I smile,

placing a divider

after my groceries.

He shuffles off,

wheeling his stack.

Not much to go on,

really.

Some days,

that’s all there is.





Nazar Boncuğu

For Eve

I must have stopped

before I felt her gaze:

an old dame squatting

in the sun,

by Sultanahmet.

Her hand reached out,

pressing a nazar bead

into my palm;

then motioned me to go,

back where she thought

I’d come.

Lost all day,

I couldn’t say,

not speaking her language.

The blue bead hangs

above my daughter’s bed -

an amulet or nazar boncuğu,

left there

and probably discarded.

Maybe she knew that too,

the lady in Istanbul;

but gave me the nazar anyway,

as proof against

malochhio,

matiasma, ayn al-ḥasūd

the evil eye;

trusting that it would find a home

when one was needed.

It winks out from

a trove of other gifts:

pendants and bangles,

charms and rings;

a Pippi Långstrump doll,

barbies and beanie-babies.

Beside, in pride of place,

a poster of Edward Scissorhands,

proving perhaps,

in London Town, as anywhere,

that innocence

must stand protected.