Dies Caniculares
These may be Dog Days
but lately seem like Cat Days
or Lack-Of-Cat days,
no kitty pawing briefly un-minded dinners,
scraping away carpet,
mewling to come in, go out, come in, eat…..
….and of course no cat owner,
moved cat and caboodle back across the Pond,
to languish in front of American TV
and pick at cheap American cornsyrup-laden food products.
If Dog Days refers to stifling heat,
sweat drenched endlessness
of iced tea and A/C,
they didn’t count on the Met promising Bar-B-Qs
but delivering floods.
If by Dog Days they meant boredom,
listless laying about in damp puddles of rare sunshine,
while dreaming of chased cars
and the return of the School Run,
that’s accurate enough.
My school run days are done,
I am officially discharged:
replaced by frantic degree chasing days, and nights,
safe only when dreaming, briefly,
of sticky sunshine, soggy air,
lounge chair monotony;
the sacred promise
of nothing
to do.
Rose Drew
Needle
She is good with a needle,
acknowledged the talent of a suitable wife:
in the halo of firelight
her stitches are invisible,
her flaws disappear.
Revolutions are carried in linings and pockets.
the tiny sword is freedom, independence,
the repairing of the self.
Tanya Parker
John Keats, Surgeon
From 1814-1818, John Keats trained as a Surgical Dresser at Guy’s Hospital, London.
Black are the frock coats, the shoes and the straps
Brown is the gallery view:
Yellow the lamplight, a rose in a hat
Loose hair and a lessening bruise.
Grey is the bandage unwound from its roll
Before it’s laid onto skin,
Scarlet the cry the patient lets fly
White is the skull we let in.
Tanya Parker
First published in The Problem with Beauty, Copyright Stairwell Books 2015
Add a comment