I

He would drink by himself
And raise a weathered thumb
Towards the high shelf,
Calling another ***
And blackcurrant, without
Having to raise his voice,
Or order a quick stout
By a lifting of the eyes
And a discreet dumb-show
Of pulling off the top;
At closing time would go
In waders and peaked cap
Into the showery dark,
A dole-kept breadwinner
But a natural for work.
I loved his whole manner,
Sure-footed but too sly,
His deadpan sidling tact,
His fisherman's quick eye
And turned observant back.

Incomprehensible
To him, my other life.
Sometimes on the high stool,
Too busy with his knife
At a tobacco plug
And not meeting my eye,
In the pause after a slug
He mentioned poetry.
We would be on our own
And, always politic
And shy of condescension,
I would manage by some trick
To switch the talk to eels
Or lore of the horse and cart
Or the Provisionals.

But my tentative art
His turned back watches too:
He was blown to bits
Out drinking in a curfew
Others obeyed, three nights
After they shot dead
The thirteen men in Derry.
PARAS THIRTEEN, the walls said,
BOGSIDE NIL. That Wednesday
Everyone held
His breath and trembled.

II

It was a day of cold
Raw silence, wind-blown
Surplice and soutane:
Rained-on, flower-laden
Coffin after coffin
Seemed to float from the door
Of the packed cathedral
Like blossoms on slow water.
The common funeral
Unrolled its swaddling band,
Lapping, tightening
Till we were braced and bound
Like brothers in a ring.

But he would not be held
At home by his own crowd
Whatever threats were phoned,
Whatever black flags waved.
I see him as he turned
In that bombed offending place,
Remorse fused with terror
In his still knowable face,
His cornered outfaced stare
Blinding in the flash.

He had gone miles away
For he drank like a fish
Nightly, naturally
Swimming towards the lure
Of warm lit-up places,
The blurred mesh and murmur
Drifting among glasses
In the gregarious smoke.
How culpable was he
That last night when he broke
Our tribe's complicity?
'Now, you're supposed to be
An educated man,'
I hear him say. 'Puzzle me
The right answer to that one.'

III

I missed his funeral,
Those quiet walkers
And sideways talkers
Shoaling out of his lane
To the respectable
Purring of the hearse...
They move in equal pace
With the habitual
Slow consolation
Of a dawdling engine,
The line lifted, hand
Over fist, cold sunshine
On the water, the land
Banked under fog: that morning
I was taken in his boat,
The ***** purling, turning
Indolent fathoms white,
I tasted freedom with him.
To get out early, haul
Steadily off the bottom,
Dispraise the catch, and smile
As you find a rhythm
Working you, slow mile by mile,
Into your proper haunt
Somewhere, well out, beyond...

Dawn-sniffing revenant,
Plodder through midnight rain,
Question me again.

A satisfied appetite is a simply joy

Overlooked and simplified

Like a growing urge, a salivating need

That is entrancing and glorified.



Everlasting for moments we call meals

Forgotten in time, lingering above

But the taste, the lonesome lover pushed aside

Gazes afar and near wanting to be enjoyed again



The young lady with a tongue of raspberry delight

And the matured widow with darkened cacao lips

Ripening nectar of a sliced peach center

Halved and topped with mascarpone crème



The man with a skin of caramel glaze

Caressing and savoring

With a fragrance and scent

Of hazelnut coffee indulgence and sin



In the pursuit of a brief love affair

What oral sensation did my taste buds want?

My odyssey of gustatory endeavors await

Through the seas of lined people and waiting staff



Generous portions and humble pies

Decadent desserts so rich you’ll die


Vine cherry tomatoes sliced and sauté

Over al dente rigatoni in a roasted cashew sauce

A robust aroma and savory appeal

Basil leaves with garlic strips

Olive oil to top the surreal


Hubristic meatball aborigine  

Elysian cuisine or many dreams


Teasing the senses, warming the pit

Of flowing pleasures

And tingling fingertips

Without moral measures

And succulent wines

Rotisserie lamb falling of the bone

Seasoned with Sicilian herbs

And paired with broiled asparagus

Drizzled with lemon juice


And a glass of Merlot

Spices I hardly know



Lachrymose apologies beside a bottle of faded sorrows

With love there is pain, passion endured through the names

Thin soups, flavorless and dull, feeding street-thrown bums

Breathing hard against the delicatessen glass


Hickory smoked hams, pepper-seasoned pastrami

Vinegar cultured pickles and hard dried salami


Unpleasured, without measure, at one's leisure.
Forever my endeavor

Blackcurrant tea laced with slivers of gooping honey
Layers of cinnamon hair atop olive skin

red-painted doors with cedar trim
crushed almonds mixed with hazelnut butter cream spread

devilish rounds of crumbling ***-swirl bread

Smells and wonders, tastes so ...

oh god

Divine and sublime.

My Mom, she was well versed in the Old ways
I remember in the late summer and autumn time
She was always making jam
Blackberry jam, strawberry jam, gooseberry, raspberry, blackcurrant, apple, plum, damson
I don't even think we had any damsons
But still she could make damson jam, such were her powers
So one day she said to me "Go on down the fields there and get me some blackberries, and I'll make some blackberry jam", she gave me a plastic bag
So I looked over the fence, checking to make sure the farmer wasn't around
I don't think he liked us walking on his land,
So I go down to this field and I look over the gate
And as far as I can see, there's nothing in the field, no animals at all to be seen
So I jump over the gate and walk right across the field to the bottom ditch
Where there's loads of blackberry bushes and I start picking my blackberries
It's very quiet in the field, eerily quiet and there's this strange sense of space, that you're very small in a very big field
After about five minutes I'm getting kinda bored so I stop and turn around to take in the  view
And straightaway I see in the very corner of the field, under some overhanging tree branches
This big white horse and he's watching me,
(You wouldn't have been able to see him from the gate
There might have been a little indent there in the ditch where he was hidden)
I said to myself "God, you're lucky, lucky it wasn't a Bull or you'd be in real trouble, Bulls can be vicious, they can **** you, I'd heard stories
And I'm no matador"
Anyway suddenly the horse he starts galloping towards me
I say to myself "Well, nothing to worry about, sure it's only a horse"
Well he gallops right up to me and then he rears up on his hind legs with his front legs pumping and him whinnying like crazy
And I'm shocked thinking "What the ****!"
And I start backing into the ditch 'cos I'm afraid he might kick me or something
Then he goes and drops his big hooves about two inches from my foot
And I'm thinking "Wait a minute, you could have broken my foot there if you had have landed on my foot, with your big hooves"
I was going to tell him "Look Mr.Horse you're starting to cross a line here man"
But he's not finished, he moves in closer to me
And with his big head and his big long face
He starts nudging me further and further into the ditch
And he has these big teeth that are clenched, their almost grinning at you
I'm nearly afraid he might bite me
So I'm now there in the ditch, I've long since dropped my blackberries
And I don't know what to do, I know nothing about horses
What am I, John Wayne or something
What am I gonna do, shout "Help! I'm being molested by a horse"
And I wonder "Why don't they teach you this at school Self Defence against horses, something feckin' useful for a change,
Then I think of that Mel Brooks film Blazing Saddles and the mad guy Mongo punching the horse
But I say to myself "you can't punch a horse, that might really make him angry, god knows what he'd do then, he probably would kick you"
So I'm there practically in the ditch at this stage and very traumatized by the whole experience
Suddenly the horse he seems to tire of me
He turns around and starts to slowly trot back to his corner
(It was probably a territorial thing),
So I pick myself up out of the ditch and  tentatively start to try and cross the field back to safety, to where the gate is
But I'm half afraid he might turn around and come back and catch me out in the open,
But no! He keeps on just trotting back toward his corner...
So when I judge he's far enough away I suddenly clandestinely take off in a sprint across the field back toward the gate
But still there's no reaction from the horse, he's just not interested anymore,
It's a funny thing about human nature but once you know you're safe you kind of get a bit brave
I remembered I'd been on Summer holidays a year or two before
And I'd gone for a walk in these woods on my own
And I got attacked by a swarm of ******' bees, I must have disturbed their nest
I got stung 5 or 6 times in the head, the ******* nearly killed me
I remember passing some tourists and me screaming like I was a man on fire,
Now I'm thinking, Jaysus I just go down the fields to pick a few blackberries and now I get attacked by a ******' horse
What's goin' on, the feckin' Universe seems to have it in for me, I should stay at home in my bedroom where it's safe and lock the feckin' door.
And I'm quite angry now, in fact I'm really *******
And of course, now I know I'm safe, I know that if he runs at me I'll get to the gate first and can hop over it
So I start walking toward the horse and I start taunting him
"You ******, you ******' horse", I give him the finger or the fingers, then I put up my fists like I want to fight him,
"Come on you ******, come on out and fight, I'm going to McDonald's tonight, gonna get myself a nice big horse burger, yummy yummy,
Lots of onions and ketchup, you'll taste lovely,
I'll be licking my fingers over you baby,
The Knackers Yard that's where you're going to sunshine
Then I think I'll insult his mother, that's what I'll do
Your Mom, yea! She was a tasty little snack
A nice little snack box
I hope you're not gonna be too stringy now.
I turn around and start shaking my ***/bottom at him,
"******'horse! ******! you're a ******' ******"
Then I make a run toward him with my fists flying, "Come on you ******, you white c**t!"
The horse just stands there looking at me, he doesn't make a move.
Then I start to think better of my actions "****! You better watch out, better be careful, someone might see you, you might get into trouble
Imagine if the farmer was watching he'd be saying "There's something wrong with that kid, he must have some mental health issues, Look! he's abusing my horse
Well Farmer your feckin' horse abused me ,
I'll probably have PTSD Post Traumatic Stress Disorder after this
I should take him to court, that's what I should do.......
Then I thought funnily, ..."Mr. Ed anyone ?"

waiting, counting, the hours are rhythmic
timed and passed by the slow bruising
of dried-peach skin to sick blackcurrant
ringing metal beats out the hours I'm losing

although, is my time gained, as others are
sleeping; immune to the gloried stars
swimming in my eyes, and one more blow
eyes closed, mind draining to the dark

I see the dawn in all its false hope
out of step and keeping my own time
dullish aching through bones to heart
with sluggish veins powering a body's decline

sickness is sick; I am not in health
nails blueishly giving away my failure
to guard my sanity, its repercussions
leave me lying broken, bent, impure

tear-stained minutes tick disjointed
I'm underwater: airless, trapped
around me they fly, I sink, I die
now watch me fall off the inky map.

*© Tara India.

The morning, good; the morning, relentless—she tip-toes
out the front door in her ex-husband's brown patent leather shoes.
Outside. Walking again. On her own two feet but not in her own
two shoes. It's a Monday. It's an autumn. It's a neighborhood
with tricycles strewn in front lawns, with spent confetti in the
gutters, with Japanese trees, with Greek columns, with the reliable
sound of the working class commute in the distance. The shoes, four sizes too big, nearly slip as she half saunters, half staggers on
her way to the bakery on Bellevue. She's hungry for predetermined conversation, an exchange between a patron and a cashier. There's a young boy playing with a water hose. He waves enthusiastically. She matches it with a wave of her own as she passes by. The boy turns away, runs toward his home. She feels self-conscious and there's something in the pocket of her ex-husbands linen suit jacket, a bottle of cologne.

The door chimes as she walks into the bakery. The cashier says good morning before looking at her. The cashier's eyes quickly scan her and dart away. She's a child in her ex-husbands clothes. She orders a coffee. She asks for a Splenda packet. "I like my coffee like I like my women," she says. "Hot and artificially sweet." Pity laugh. Nervous laugh, maybe. It's not even her joke. He tells her the price. She hands him the money. Thank you. No, thank you.

She sits alone by a window. She's an alien doing normal people things. She's tired and whatever spark got her out the door may not get her home. A man seated at the table behind her sneezes once, twice, three times.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I think I'm allergic to your perfume."

"Me too," she says.

The blackcurrant words
     seemed grotesque to you
     on the vast tarnished landscape.
Letters curling as October leaves
     pricked your old silver eyes,
     slapdash lines
and glitter thoughts
     splurged upon your paintings.
     You were a poppy,
a dark, minute dot,
     but every idea burst in gaudy red
     from you.
The poems would arrive,
     would come eventually,
     leap from your fingers,
punch onto the page
     and would it be good enough?
     Your product, complete.

I carry the runes of you in my pocket
Smoothed while recalling
Your blank walks

A wash of blackcurrant and
Holly in your hair

Wandering aimless by shorn clapboard
and storm kestrels overhead.

I think of your eyes
While watching Venus blink,
Tiny speck of green popping

Out of the witching hour’s emptiness

Distracted by a sweet orb only daring to show itself
in time-lapse Morse code-

City firefly’s shy hesitant glow
of phosphorescent luciferase
Impermanent tattoos in the humid air

Asphyxiated by the hum
of flowing electrons by wayward wings
Vintage and neon.

I sweep your edda into the hearth
Ashen mingling of myrrh
and incense sprinkles its cinnamon

Onto bare exposed brick.

The lightning-scarred tree
with its bullseye of char
Burned inside-out,
Cindered base,
Reminds me of our concatenated dreams.

I touch the ghost of you
Roaming the paths of King’s Chapel
and Granary Burial Ground

Farsick and windtalking to yourself.

I still taste the ozone on your lips
After you rained all night.

I throw the bait of you into the water
and the sunfish of Northwood Lake nibble the worms
of your toes.

And I watch the sawing motion of your thoughts
on DVR over and over
Hearing the fibers tear

Knowing the damage of blades and friction

How your heart will always bear
All ninety stone
of Hunters Lodge.

evolution of music
that lives and grows inside me
generation that takes up after me
no word for music, to make this rhythmic

that beat flows into my vein
like a bulb flashes with unstable current
the smile sprinkles in, with no vain,
as if i am eating a blackcurrant

I stand there, just to watch it bloom,
into me, like the music flows
that flower to show me its true fume,
hands in blush, eyes in rush as it glows.

I sit,think,walk,see
never stops the blue magic
such a clown of sea
as all fly like it does in pelagic.

I made jam,
rhubarb with redcurrant,
rhubarb with raspberry,
strawberry,blackcurrant,
but the rhubarb with apricot,
it was just the best jam ever
ne plus ultra
mmmm.............

Swimming
No

Treading
Yes

Above
Tornadoed

Deep dark hole

Unusually
Below

Wine-Dark-Sea

Turbulent
Blackcurrant

Cur­rent-which way

To
Go-

Kick or slow?

in tescos tinned rhubarb is 70p at present

while six pots of varied flavour yoghurts are 85p a pack

two blackcurrant

he says grape

two with gooseberries

the others are rhubarb of course



i likes rhubarb a lot

i likes that the assistant calles me miss

& packs my bag neatly



saying that i noticed that theirs is already growing

in blaenau ffestiniog

peeping through wet earth



while someone on facebook says theirs is growing too



i ordered some from ebay & planted it last year yet

mine does not show  like theirs



i shall worry & fret about that whilst i eat my yoghurt