It was the duck earphones
that permanently endeared me to your soul,
bright yellow, water resistant and plastic
feathered…I saw you semi naked in a mirror, steam
driven as you changed for a party
at a fellow student’s house and I closed my eyes
quickly, snap shut, blocked my ears and
forgot to breathe until you tapped me
on the shoulders and enquired to what
I was hiding from, too old to admire
but young in heart to love you.
The duck earphones fitted like a glove,
I fancy a week just sat in the English sun,
perhaps in Scarborough or Whitby,
the beauty of the timeless
only peppered by the taste of chips
and fish basked gently in beer batter
crisp and juicy and the sound of seagulls
from the top of the Captain Cook
and the sound of cricket,
signalled through the haze and the brush
of leather upon a willow skin;
I fancy a week in English sun.
I fancy going deep rust, my skin
turning English pale
I wonder what happened to the woman
who once claimed
with moral authority
that it took over a hundred hours
to get ready for a date.
I never did understand
what the hell would take so long
in a society where the expectations
are high and the results
are often low.
Clean my teeth, that takes time,
I hate having bad teeth, wash my hair,
grew a beard so I didn’t have to shave
and kept it unruly
like my hair, knots in which the hairdresser
It might appear to be a suggestion
but even in the most dire distress
do not take exceed the stated dose,
the small print on the packet
which can stop
your day turning…well turning.
When the Senakot packet
cautions do not take more than two
of these little pills, then for your own
sake, pay heed as you would
a big scary sign, admonishing
the feeding of squirrels, birds,
furry creatures or even hippos
on park property…take heed.
When the notice all the way round
Her E-Mail was polite
but damningly self shaming,
as she flattered herself into believing
that the world was alright,
perfect blue on the horizon
and not a rain drop
in sight to spoil her view.
I don’t know why we ever stopped
talking, she wrote with several
emoticons displaying insincerity
in her thoughts but to whom
the coy yellow smile sensed an opportunity
to gloss over the past, to paint
herself in a glowing light of reconciliation.
She signed it off with that annoying letter t
I wish I could capture the sound
that is playing just out of reach,
over my shoulder and delicate,
I can hear it,
flowing and full of crescendo,
full of vigour
and then in one sweeping gesture
it changes to the most beautiful
resonance of melancholic desire
and moody day;
I hear it and it gestures love to me,
I wish the other noises
were as kind.
Ian D. Hall 2016
Inside the space where the thoughts
are your own, where the brief
space between wondering
who the fuck we are
and what does it matter to anyone else,
in that cubicle, in that closet
and holding tissue to wipe away
the fear of passing
out when others demand to know
why you are using the toilet in Carolina,
surely all we should have to say,
all that needs to be said,
I am a girl,
I am a boy,
I identify with one,
The sun streams through the glass
as if trying to set the paper doilies
on our wooden bench
alight or at least spark into life
the broadsheet news that lays between us
and the sway of information,
the language barrier breaking down,
between the forties and the roaring
twenty-something who between them
understand that love is not
an emotion that signifies sex.
The sound of belly-ache
laugh ripples untidily
across the rip tide of tea
and the thought of cinema
going on overhead;
The last words of the girl
as she laid herself down to die,
to drown in water,
lovelorn, love sick, driven mad
by an indecisive soul and one who
dismissed her and urged to attend
to more saintly needs, more virginal attire
and to praise a God that let her down,
these words were unheard
except by anyone who cares to listen
with intention, with thought in their minds
to hear quietly, the silent
mutterings of one driven
to the point of death;
hush now as she lays down
Do not temper my ill-reason
and allow the sharpness of my tongue
to mean anything less or be unequal
to the storm of cramp that binds my legs
in the middle of moonlight favour;
for in those spasms, in those dark pities
and muted screams for fear of stirring
from any dream bestowed by Morpheus,
I feel alive, rage forces me to seek the dawn
and shake my fist in furious attachment.
I must see the dawn, for the dawn brings hope.
Ian D. Hall 2016