For The Rain

From The Grave

12 Poems of Defiance

And

12 poems of Loss

By Vincent James Turner

Defiance

Contents Of Defiance

• Dress Rehearsal• Group Therapy • To be Left Behind• Selecting The Spot • The Anti Urge • Bird Song • The Retreat • To Sea • Candle • Moments Of Balance • Bed Bound • For The Rain From The Grave

“Put me down like a dog I’ve got a family who’ll pay.Place me gently on the table; let me go my own way.

There is a fly it darts in and out of my open windowWinter is approaching; I wonder who will be first to go”

Dress Rehearsal

White had always served me well: Improving the faults of my genetic code

De-sizing the breasts, that sat upon my Chest defeated and tired.

Harold said he loved every inch of me He died a happy man.

I married in white, never considered myself to be angelic; colour has such a transforming effect.

The tube of toothpaste, squeezed into limpness hangs meekly over the rim of the holder;

The apple sits shrivelled on the sill The sun which once enriched now beats

Down upon the furry crumpled globe That sinks from within, a mirror of decay.

What to wear? Such Vanity? Neither silk nor velvet can mask this skeletal horror.

Should I shawl my form just to lessen the impact Ask someone to cherry my cheeks?

I first made love in a dress of sleek darkness I remember how come morning it lay on the bed

Like a naughty child that had just broken a vase. Yellow is surely to bright for inside a coffin

Red is blood, is this not a little ironic? What of pink? - Shade of pony tails, and first crush.

I go with white. Today it is sympathetic: It falls over me like a just spent lover, loose, but loving.

Tomorrow may see a change; Harold would wait hours whilst I dressed, patiently perusing the papers,

Humming or happily watching. I hear no sound from death, and I fear he shall not wait.

Group Therapy

Tim, the man appointed to help the remaining months Of gradual wilting, incessant pain and greying of skin

Suggested group discussion, so not to feel alone“Follow the footprints of those akin to your journey”

And I did. The promise of death and whisperingsOf premature bereavement, can do funny things.

Around an unmarked circle we sat, as though in School on plastic chairs, discussing a future project-

Only now, the future immaterial-

Bob speaks of how he buries his worries deepInto the soil, daily he speaks to the flowers.

Margaret likes to scan her face, wind flushedAnd young, her favourite the one on her wedding day

Susan, the most skeletal of us all keeps muteContent to surround herself in the echoes of

Similar fear. Daniel “takes each day as it comes”Absorbing the sky, the clouds, even a crisp packet

Swirling, “it as though I am a newborn” Harry has compiled his memoirs in storage boxes

They sit by the front door, ready to go, when he….I do not speak; I have nothing beneficial to say

Cancer is a cunt, I want to pound the face of everyGirl who gripes about the size of their tits.

I am nothing but rotting interior, whose thoughtsAre scripted with bitterness and fear.

If nothing else, the group has helped meRealise that I am neither ready nor willing.

To be left behind

On the breakfast table my combCurled around its teeth- loose dry strands.

Upon the sink sit my teeth frozen in permanent smile, Contradicting the reality, and emotion.

Inside our wardrobe hangs “that” red dress I wore before the long fatigue.

Beside me he sleeps. Above he hangsFrom the wall, happier, younger.

There is a new morning look in his eye.

Sleeping hands shroud my left breastI am thankful for the warmth.

As he twitches in sleep he grasps meI look at him fondly, as though my child.

The soft folds of his flabby stomachOverwhelm me.

When we were young I lusted hisTautness, yet now in his faded

Blue pyjamas it is not my thighsWhich throb but the walls around my heart.

Selecting the Spot

In the shade of the silver birch where the birds greet with drawn out reply

they return, yielding grief as though only Yesterday the scattering of soil Echoed below.

In the foreground bearded with green time Cracked slabs wilt

like vacant buildings in a disaster movie-nothing but scarecrows of cold grey.

I have no place here; I am dying but not yet dead

When we holidayed in Biarritz there was a church We’d always visit, balanced on the edge of a cliff

We couldn’t have been closer to God. Outside Overlooking a thunderous yet reassuring surf

We argued out spot, where seagulls shelteredFrom the heat, or near the face of the cliff

For the waves and scent of the sea- we neverDecided, so here I stand with those the lament

And grieve. It is raining, I run my fingers overThe cold mossy stones, as though the spine of

A favourite book, I am cold and feel alive.I have no place here; I am dying but not yet dead.

The Anti Urge I cast my gaze upon the skeletal stemsof winter bare plants considering

my options for a time when onlybodily fluids shall act with a life of their own.

Once done, layered and left in my allotted cavity Let the worms tuck in to my last meal

leaving my head till last. first feasting on my feet, fattening themselves up on my arms, legs,

and hands and then, only then, let them enter my head through my ears

and with the gentle lethargy of the mind satiated

tuck up inside me to slumber in the crater of my skull.

Birdsong

Watching his car pull out into the streetexhaust fumes spluttering farewell

I loosen the grasp of curtainWatching lines of light disband.

Dawn falls back upon the twitteringBirds that perch on bare branches

Celebrating the break of dayReminding me of the children

Never to be had. Who will never uponWaking, jump upon the bed

Fresh faced and expectant. I sit by the window cursing

Mothers who bare their children’sKnees to the cold, rubbing my womb

As though a genie will arise and withPity grant me an immediate child

The Retreat

Blackening wood breaths orange blue flameCrumpled logs hiss, crackle and spit

Warning the oaks and willows to stay outside-Better to be blown and broken by winter windsThan to warm, wither, Then cool into a dust.

Breaking from tree empathy, I take Notice of your reddened face, Jovial and at peace, bewildered byThe burning logs your eyes dance red.

Dog curled up in heatedSlumber twitches mid dream,

There is nothing to be said, No mentioning of tablets or fatigueNo future thinking,Death is but a mere twig brushingAgainst the window sillOf a house three doors down

For a while, it is as it should beYou and I and the dogJust a simple moment A simple momentA simple moment

To Sea

I will not bother to test the chilly surfI will wade away from the lights of

The promenade till my lower limbsAre swallowed by the murky deep

I shall not look back, my dress shallCling to my goose- pimpled skin

The further I am distanced the moreTroubled my movement shall become

If I begin to cry only the ocean shall knowMy tears just a drop of irrelevance

Deeper I shall delve untilOnly my limp head bobs

I am drowning not waving.This my one fingered salute to you

You who turned against meRebelling within my womb

Like an evil unborn childI am drowning not waving

I am drowning you.

Candle

Before me your enchanting skinHas softened, your walls opened

Candle you are crying red tears.Has your beauty burned to long?

Young Body what a misshapen messYou spirit flickers in weakness.

Rest now, let me douse yourWeary flame, for you have

Burnt and danced too long.

Moments of Balance White whispers signal a change-Blossom, like the unspoken words of loversFall gently as though unwilling to leave the source.Snow conceals the debris of mans painGlass shards carpeting burnt grass, sodden condomsshrivelled like salted slugsCarpeted with a touch of heavens labour.For every slash off blade, Every impact of fist upon a hookers faceThere is somewhere, a scarlet sky, Or the independent breath of a premature child. A heart may surrender its postAnd the beep of machine fall muteAs a mid morning rainbow breaks through theDrab sky, raising questions in childrenAnd reprieve for rain drenched road workers.In a nameless street, in a house of unkempt garden And splintered windowA child stares into blackness, the dull throbOf a night long quarrel seeps through theFloor boards, whom to love? Whom to hate? Street shadows wash across the wall; He forges a kiss with his hands.It’s the walk through a Childs cemetery Reading words like “Gods little Angel”Seeing teddy bears, car toys, and birthday candlesBeside a tiny mound, next to a tiny grey slab. till tiny fingers clasp your Cold hands; a butter smooth nose cherried red bythe wind looks up, into you, saturating your insidesand flooding them with the balance of reprieve.

Bed Bound

It acts like no other, eats what there isTill there is nothing, but soil, worms and flowers.

My fingers ache for the taste of grass I dream of dawn and due tipped flowers.

There is nothing to do but remember.

Through the slice of window untouched by dust the sun shotguns itself through the clouds

I am a child again, bed bound from chicken poxThe rest of the world is scaling climbing frames,

Feeding swans, slipping love notes into theBlazer pockets of sweaty hormonal boys.

These feet long to feel the grain of the floorboards. From my bed I finger the chipped wooden grain.

A relative came yesterday- I wish you well They said. What else to say but thank you.

For The Rain, From the Grave

They carried me with the caution of a new born: my casket upon stern shoulders, I was a queen.

My bearers defiant in grieve held strong,Stronger than I, Stronger than I

In rained that day, the patter of dropletsLike children’s feet scampering across a floorboard

A gentle percussion assuring the finality of lifeAnd it was then I felt the empty end of death

Not from my passing not from the heaving Breaths above but in knowing that from this

Day on when clouds open and shower thoseBelow I shall never feel the sky snake itself down

My spine. And When finally I was lowered held for an eternity by reluctant loving hands

It was not the thudding of soil I feared It was the fading of the rain.

.

Loss

Contents of Loss

• After Service Buffet• Envying Harry • Lavender • The Departed • How It was and how it is now• October Tears• Mourning Afterthoughts • Autumn• Bitterness .• The Nature Of Loss • Dust• Bitterness (2)

“We left the table like strangers dispersing upon our own private grief.

All that we had taken for granted was scraped away with the remains of the meal”

After Service Buffet

Some gorged on finger foods placed a few hours before.Cling film wrapped on the once packed family tableWhere Candles were blown and turkeys trimmed.“Ultimate Love Songs” murmured in the backgroundGently shushing silence into a distant blur.

Some get pissed, Death, a good enough reasonTo numb the pain, not of loss, but the personal-The apathy of the arse faced wife, Or as always the stress of the job. They feign heartbreak like Hollywood.

The curtains are drawn, keep it private and low keyShe was never one for outside interference-Had raised the fence just to keep the neighbour at bay.

Accepting condolences as though they were apologiesI ask myself what to be sorry for It wasn’t your fetish for Asian girls That gave riddled her with cancer.

Strangers smile pleasantries -They’ve still got the long drive home.

And when goneWhen all is doneWhen the leftovers of once life lay scatteredUpon the table, picked on, chewed on,Gulped and drained, there is nothing left to But wash and clear away the day.

Envying Harry

Like the last strand of soft down she is never coming back.

Every time

it rains, you’ll remember her running into the garden snatching

Clothes from the line, cursing the gods for their poor timing.

Or how she gritted her teeth, and broke into sweat,

when grating Cheese.

The dog whimpers most nights belly up, beside the unlit fireplace

Unsure of where you have gone.

Yet being a dog, it forgoes Misery and longing

Often I only have to brush by its bowl;

and he forgets momentarily

Only to return to bedOnce fed

To nuzzle his chin upon her faded pink slipperWhich is damp from love

And a refusalTo remove your fading rose petal scent.

Lavender

Scattered like confetti, yet without the joyous Swish of the wrist it circles your bed masking the approach of death. We thank the nurse, he shrugs his shoulders as though he’d potpourri’d the living room. Clasping your clammy hand, the machines Bleep a serenade of your fading days

Half open cards Stare back at you like out of reach dreams Sent by those, who like angels emerging at the mention of deathfelt compelled to sign their name.

Where were they for your 40th as you danced drunk and stupid, happy and alive: The cancer still a continent away a blemish on a radar screen

I had wished to banish themTell them not to look in horrorAs you passed yellow fluids through your tubes

I tell myself you waited.Saving your last breath for those whose love felt trueLike a child holding back first day school tears Until emerged in the arms of their mother.

The Departed

When sleep won’t come, when car lights wash across my dim lit room, I trace your face with shadowsForging kisses with my fingers-Then rolling on my sideI embrace your pillow a little too lustfullyInhaling your stubborn scentI grow hardAnd I cry.

How it was, and how it is now

the blinds dusty and discoloured, rap gently upon the window pane. The timber creaks behind plasteryour china dolls continue their frozen gaze.Outside the wind chimes warn of breaching winds. Everything is as it was.

The flowers, wilting slightly,Struggle to reach for light They droop over the rimTired of waiting for your rain

Your last touches are fading.

Today I woke to the taste of you, sweet perfume. Turning blindly I embraced an empty space your void is cold, sheets are un-bruised from your sleep.

Most mornings as the sun roseShards of light would seep into our roomTracing your thighs, then chest, then neckI never told you how like a Goddess you looked.

We do not accept you have gone, neither the Sun the plants nor I, we search for youIn hours of longing and length When we call for youOnly the echoes of a shellRebound

October Tears

In the time it takes for every leaf to fall I would have buriedher four times over.

when there is nothing but despair the tender happenings which pass us by, suddenly slow.

Each falling leaf, each gust of wind become the everything of life.

Today I returned to her removed the curled leaves from her bed and as I sat a chorus of birds sang everything leaned upon us, everything heavy with grief.

Mourning Afterthoughts

Death does not finalise your departure for in its wake it leaves a trail of neglect.

Time is suspended, Particles of you fall like snow flakes as morning light seeps through the cream white curtains.

Behind cupboard doors your vibrant dress hangs hopelessly The red velvet that teased this once young mind awaits to dress you again.

Spices and herbs, dry and untouched Stand in perfect position like cultured Soldiers awaiting instructions.

Rings, charms, bracelets and your Black comb that holds a little locket Of your fine white hair, side by side As you left them, as you liked them.

Death does not end with the final Scattering of soil, nor the final Wine slurred speech, Death mocks Life, teasing its fragility, stripping its presence, slowly, slowly Death becomes all that is.

Autumn

It was under this now burnt tree I buried you. Covering your cherished breasts with dead Autumn leaves. Your cold cheeks expanding as you squealed like the young girl you were always to be. -Laughing and splashing about in an ocean of damp decay,

Lost we were, lost in the thick fuzzy fields of first time love. I fell onto you, arms spread like a falling Angel, and there on the blanket of seasons change we for an ever remembered moment, became one, and overlooked the fragility of love.

Bitterness

We are born: we live a little, or a lot then we die, and then we rot

The Nature of Loss

As true as the taste of a mountain stream I hold firm, in safe retreat the memories that serve me now. As cold as the night on a late December's day the chill of your departure gives life to parts never before entered nor reached.

How still seems the day without your gushing love for all things innocent. How hollow seems the earth without the sound of your footsteps,

Time lingers when loss looms on the hands of every passing second, hours stretch, easing outwards extending each painful entry.

In thick heavy blackness I light candles; the temporary light this brings assures me that you shall never burn out nor fade away.

Dust

morning light highlights the last of you.When I scan the window sill I imagine you to be sprawled uponyour mothers laplooking down upon this sorry messurging me to expunge the dust

I cannot bear to erase you-Dust to dust, ashes to ash, but what of youUpon the banisters, the lampshadeThe air in the room where you danceLike a butterfly I dare not open the world upon you;no sky shall have you, no foreign air shall become youonly this room shall you dartthis my ballroom, my dance floorgrace me as the nights draglike a child around its mother leg.

You shall not leave me twiceIf this is denial Then I wish to remainAt this stage of loss.

Bitterness (2)

The first time I said I love you was a lie, It was the amphetamines and the wayThe soap studs randomly burstUpon your breasts.

Yet every day after, Despite hardly mentioning The word

I was truly

And now You are goneand the arenafor my announcementis a burial groundthat is slowly being swallowedBy a newly built motorway.