I sing to you at last of golden archways
Light falling in lozenges on quiet squares
I sing to you of mystery, shadow-light and shade
While everyone looks the other way.
Light falling in lozenges on quiet squares
Mercy and love answer me
While everyone looks the other way
Like blood leaking from wine.
Mercy and love answer me
Let your voice rise with mine
Like blood leaking from wine
Its all the same to me.
Let your voice rise with mineIn languages that sit softly in the mouth
It's all the same to me
All that is unsaid, but will be said somehow.
In languages that sit softly in the mouth
The thuribler and the boy
All that is unsaid, but will be said somehow.
The heart's repeating gestures
The thuribler and the boy
The body electric and a soul of dust
The heart's repeating gestures
Of oneness and of many, and of trust.
The body electric and a soul of dust.
The hem of darkness lifts and light steps in
Of oneness and of many and of trust,
soft soft she treads, soft soft she must.
The hem of darkness lifts and light steps in
I sing to you of mystery, shadow-light and shade
Soft soft she treads, soft soft she must
I sing to you at last of golden archways.
The copyright of this post belongs to Claire Steele
Tuesday, 21 October 2014
Thursday, 12 June 2014
Vanishing Point
Where the heart should be, mutters Adeline to herself. I shall cut around where the heart should be.
She is sitting with his body on the beach, amongst the bust tyres, bottles and rinsed lights of the day. She has dragged him here to start the day, at the very edge of England. Bless this day. She makes the sign of the cross, and closes her eyes tightly, not wishing to appear ungrateful. Ever since the messenger had arrived at her door, in its feathered mask and its gleaming wings, she has been at pains to remember her manners. She does this in regular little admonishments to herself, which she flourishes in her head, like a courtier. Or a Sunday School teacher. Cut the coat according to the cloth, she says now. And picks up her serrated knife.
Behind her the sky is the deep saturated blue of childhood. She must work quickly before the light reaches its zenith and the others being to emerge, blinking into the day.
She tugs the pariah vest, a shoddy god-knitted thing, closer to her body. Toes the corpse to make him roll face up, squats beside him and commences where she most dislikes. She begins with the cut of his jib.
The copyright of this post belongs to Claire Steele
She is sitting with his body on the beach, amongst the bust tyres, bottles and rinsed lights of the day. She has dragged him here to start the day, at the very edge of England. Bless this day. She makes the sign of the cross, and closes her eyes tightly, not wishing to appear ungrateful. Ever since the messenger had arrived at her door, in its feathered mask and its gleaming wings, she has been at pains to remember her manners. She does this in regular little admonishments to herself, which she flourishes in her head, like a courtier. Or a Sunday School teacher. Cut the coat according to the cloth, she says now. And picks up her serrated knife.
Behind her the sky is the deep saturated blue of childhood. She must work quickly before the light reaches its zenith and the others being to emerge, blinking into the day.
She tugs the pariah vest, a shoddy god-knitted thing, closer to her body. Toes the corpse to make him roll face up, squats beside him and commences where she most dislikes. She begins with the cut of his jib.
The copyright of this post belongs to Claire Steele
Wednesday, 28 May 2014
Duplicity
There I go, on my circuitous way through the mazes of your heart. Blame it on a broken compass, half for you and half for you. God knows what treasures you have amassed, jealously hoarded, over the years. I will have to borrow my wits from him then, for mine own are but melting snowflakes of awareness as I make my way untoward the heart.
You are my murderous sister and you manipulate me as though I were a paper doll you could tear out, fold up, refashion again. Reclaim in triumph. Oh dear, I've said too much. You have slipped into woe. A fool and her favour. If I am not careful I shall end up like Aunt Goliath, with her mouth all sewn up in crimson velvet thread. too bad.
I was born with a twin heart, half for you and half for you.
The copyright of this post belongs to Claire Steele
You are my murderous sister and you manipulate me as though I were a paper doll you could tear out, fold up, refashion again. Reclaim in triumph. Oh dear, I've said too much. You have slipped into woe. A fool and her favour. If I am not careful I shall end up like Aunt Goliath, with her mouth all sewn up in crimson velvet thread. too bad.
I was born with a twin heart, half for you and half for you.
The copyright of this post belongs to Claire Steele
Tuesday, 27 May 2014
Legacy
I have cut a thousand paper hearts from the letters and journals I have found around the house. So much for my sleet relations and their flinty ways. I shall string this bunting over every archway and architrave. The narrative of placid blame that I have hoarded over the years will now be made available for all to read. Disjointed, random and manipulated as it is. So. Just so. Just so I can die blessed.
Do you read me Uncle? Ah well, the truth is a cunning mistress, flashing her torn paper fan at us. Catch her if you can. She takes the circuitous routes through this house of envy. Thus she trails the velvet curtains behind her. Don't trip.
Where now Uncle? She takes us out and down the wide drive, back to the river-front. Down to the broken steps of the River Not. Get in, she gestures to us, and I cannot help but look at you. She has a small blue boat, with the name Triumph painted on in red. Its sails, why look? They're rigged with that selfsame bunting you were reading back at the house. All the little hearts tearing in the sudden squall.
My heart is a bruise. I put my fingers to your lips, Uncle. Don't say it. Don't say it now. Or she'll have you, this wintry queen of truth. Your mouth will erupt in blisters. Ssh uncle. We are out on the placid river after all. Blessed as sleet. Here let me unfurl the bunting for you. Are you sitting comfortably? then let me begin time's tender story of history melting into now.
The copyright of this post belongs to Claire Steele
Do you read me Uncle? Ah well, the truth is a cunning mistress, flashing her torn paper fan at us. Catch her if you can. She takes the circuitous routes through this house of envy. Thus she trails the velvet curtains behind her. Don't trip.
Where now Uncle? She takes us out and down the wide drive, back to the river-front. Down to the broken steps of the River Not. Get in, she gestures to us, and I cannot help but look at you. She has a small blue boat, with the name Triumph painted on in red. Its sails, why look? They're rigged with that selfsame bunting you were reading back at the house. All the little hearts tearing in the sudden squall.
My heart is a bruise. I put my fingers to your lips, Uncle. Don't say it. Don't say it now. Or she'll have you, this wintry queen of truth. Your mouth will erupt in blisters. Ssh uncle. We are out on the placid river after all. Blessed as sleet. Here let me unfurl the bunting for you. Are you sitting comfortably? then let me begin time's tender story of history melting into now.
The copyright of this post belongs to Claire Steele
Tuesday, 13 May 2014
Long Life Fairy
The long-life fairy drops in from beyond the horizon, in all the popsicle colours of the sunrise. From the Adulterer's Songbook she chooses two anthems: Longevity and Happiness and plays their notes, their different moods, upon her harp. Longevity: one clear descant stretching into the distance; Happiness a swarm-song of sounds in my chest. As though you had moved your head on the pillow, or had stood before me transformed by tragedy and lust. And the afterburn I feel, of sharp mouths munching through my hair.
She blesses us with many beautiful years. The words fall from her mouth like fish, like mackerel, dark and bright together. She trails a fairytale of woe in her fishnets. A magpie is caught, hanging upside down amongst the glitter. The harmonica, her true harp, releases its Once-Upon-A Time cadence of lament.
Each thing smells sweet and full of meaning: Your hip against the windowlight (it is Friday, it must be fellatio) There are no days of the week beginning with C I complain. And you tell me, complaining is to say you want the opposite of what you have. It seems a casually puzzling remark, but the long-life fairy snaps shut her Songbook and coughs up the word wife, like phlegm. I fold myself in two, like a paper heart and think I see her ghost flicker in the thundery dark, but maybe it was just the long-life fairy leaving, tossing her starry tiara our way, crumpling the air with her vibration.
The copyright of this post belongs to Claire Steele
She blesses us with many beautiful years. The words fall from her mouth like fish, like mackerel, dark and bright together. She trails a fairytale of woe in her fishnets. A magpie is caught, hanging upside down amongst the glitter. The harmonica, her true harp, releases its Once-Upon-A Time cadence of lament.
Each thing smells sweet and full of meaning: Your hip against the windowlight (it is Friday, it must be fellatio) There are no days of the week beginning with C I complain. And you tell me, complaining is to say you want the opposite of what you have. It seems a casually puzzling remark, but the long-life fairy snaps shut her Songbook and coughs up the word wife, like phlegm. I fold myself in two, like a paper heart and think I see her ghost flicker in the thundery dark, but maybe it was just the long-life fairy leaving, tossing her starry tiara our way, crumpling the air with her vibration.
The copyright of this post belongs to Claire Steele
Wednesday, 23 April 2014
Electra Dreams of the Last Day
One day remains. Odd as a child in a foxed mirror, Electra rides towards the ruined church. Like kisses on a glass page tossed promises and curses stream behind her, leaving a trail of handmade offerings. She is coming to the wedding of the Bride-with-the-Deceitful-Mouth, knowing that whatever is yet to be wrecked will be wrecked in the way of all flesh. For doesn't everything always, even in this marriage proposal, still so exciting, feel the urge to be something else. She has gathered up the scattered remains of our culture: a plastic doll's head, frost ferns on a window pane, curiously intact Victoriana, a knife with its chipped blade. As pitiless and as unflinching as a God, she rides upon her frost lion, trying to tempt the hidden husband from his den. The crescent moon hangs above her shining like hammered tin, a green mouth turning pink, all in reverse. A mystery and a sudden shower of light. One tear streams backwards up her face. Turning the palm of her hand she maps a series of glorious exits and entrances: lifelines; lovelines. The bride opens the door of herself and lets her love to be pass through her, Electra stumbles in with her gifts from the bay, and the improbable husband arrives a moment too late, like a retold joke, and goes to her, with his ring, since he knows no better.
The copyright of this post belongs to Claire Steele
The copyright of this post belongs to Claire Steele
Tuesday, 11 March 2014
Rafael Finds Unexpected Opulence
Early evening come in the blink of an eye, as the sun passes over Rafael's shoulder and illuminates the map. There'll be treasure here, he knows it. Incomings and outgoings, losses and gains. The ltitle latch on the gate clicks shut behind him. How much change will he see, when he shoulders open the door to this cottage on the cliffs he calls his castle? He has returned, as he knew he must, knowing all manner of love and its cargo of grief. He has heard that a broken heart is an open heart.
When he enters the house, there she is, at the kitchen table. What price his soul? She is reading from one of the books, turning its yellow pages in the sun's borrowed gold. Under her breath she is calculating his heart's ransom. All these things he thought he could not live without. He is acutely aware of the cliff edge behind him, through the open door. Don't bet more than you can afford to lose, his brain-chatter warns him. Have you a penny to pay the ferry? When the time comes to count the cost will you still be arguing about who found this fortune or will you cease to care. A cacophony, or a symphony in his head. Or perhaps just the brass section warming up. When the pounds aren't taking care of themselves he is in a state of febrile excitement. He has come to get what he wanted and something else he didn't expect. A jar of pickled onions on the window ledge glows like a jar of captured moons.
At last she looks at him and all the questions subside. He had wondered what she'd make of him, when she saw him with his broken fingernails and his crock of fool's gold. And now, before her, he sees she loves him, simply, broken as he is. She has the coins to redeem all his sins.
The copyright of this post belongs to Claire Steele
When he enters the house, there she is, at the kitchen table. What price his soul? She is reading from one of the books, turning its yellow pages in the sun's borrowed gold. Under her breath she is calculating his heart's ransom. All these things he thought he could not live without. He is acutely aware of the cliff edge behind him, through the open door. Don't bet more than you can afford to lose, his brain-chatter warns him. Have you a penny to pay the ferry? When the time comes to count the cost will you still be arguing about who found this fortune or will you cease to care. A cacophony, or a symphony in his head. Or perhaps just the brass section warming up. When the pounds aren't taking care of themselves he is in a state of febrile excitement. He has come to get what he wanted and something else he didn't expect. A jar of pickled onions on the window ledge glows like a jar of captured moons.
At last she looks at him and all the questions subside. He had wondered what she'd make of him, when she saw him with his broken fingernails and his crock of fool's gold. And now, before her, he sees she loves him, simply, broken as he is. She has the coins to redeem all his sins.
The copyright of this post belongs to Claire Steele
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