© John Carley …………first published in 'Pennine Ink Magazine'

_________________________________

Strictly Ballroom

They said she's no better than she should be. Went on the stage at seventeen, did high kicks, armed herself with hatpins for shady encounters in the blackout, used warm lard for moisturiser, wore Eau de Cologne and Heaven Scent from the back of a lorry, crayoned seams on her long cold legs, told dirty secrets in her sisters' bed.

Her hair's white now, in a French pleat; a fitted dog-tooth suit and three inch pearl stilettos even at seventy. We sit in her lounge in a row of neat cottages. I can hear the mowers outside, otherwise it's quiet. Salubrious. There are silk flowers on an occasional table in the corner, pale roses with silver sprays.

On the display cabinet are photographs of her son winning cups for Latin American. 'He gets it from me,' she says.

© Christine Bousfield

A rendezvous of questions and question marks

Mid-May/late April? An over-long winter lingers on, a doused and bedraggled
cat patters back and forth, too wet for playful or directed action. Lilacs
overhang the cemetery; their pink-purpled shade had in previous years
provided a gay incongruous light to this world of Requiem blackness. But
winter had dragged and the early blooms had hesitated, dawdled and only
reluctantly emerged. Those days or rather hours of promiseful sunlight were
quickly spent. Rain beat down, dragging leaf and blossom to the ground - a
drowning man, wrenching hair out by the roots. Leaves strewn, pasted to the
floor, purple washed white, now grey dismal and despairing.

An approaching whisper is sensed in the wings; a rolling force plunders its
way through the winding path, natural curves oppose constructed stiffness.
A car approaches wheels inexorably turning. Dreary leaves plastered to
destined windows, wiper blades take long pathetic sweeps as flower and
water fall - embracing. Cars stop, slide back, creak to a final halt, then
one by one the occupants exit, the procession forms, queued in expectance.

We are here to witness a ritual; the rain and the drabness are fitting
ushers for this ceremonious occasion. The rear door opens not to the apt
creak of a spiritual medium, but to the greased expression of efficiency.
The wooden cask richly polished, but showing no reflection, slides
effortlessly onto bearers shoulders. They move with metric precision
towards their destination. Shoes creak and squeak, then squelch - weight
presses feet into freshly turned clay. With the effort of precision they
heave at every step, effort ritually exerted, then slumped irreverently
down.

The coffin is brought to the grave, the bearers lay it to rest. Inch by
inch it sinks slowly into the mire below, sucking at any last vestiges of
life. Wreaths are laid and tears perfunctorily wept, the line of mourners
forms. Disgust thinly concealed, they trek one by one, second upon second
back to the warmth of cars and the cheap satisfaction of unconscious gossip.

Meringue

12 eggs. I used 12 eggs to make meringue, and it never rose or stiffened.
I'd whip and beat, stir and scrape, churning with thoughts of other things.

Perhaps I mixed the ingredients out-of-order, should have added sugar
gradually instead of dumping it in all at once… and at low speed!

Or perhaps I should have used my hands rather than some techno-gadget on
this frothy mess glaring at me from the bottom of a bowl?

I hear voices caution against my loss of focus in the household realm. What
happened to my edge? Did I give that away with all the sharpened knives?

"There's something wrong with this meringue thing", I moan at my neighbor
when he comes over after hearing me scream.

"Don't worry", I tell him. "I'm calmer now, so calm that I can look this
meringue in its gloppy face and laugh - just laugh and feel all right about
myself."

He looks worried.

"It's just a meringue", he says, "nothing to get so upset over."

But he doesn't realize- how could he? That a woman's worth is measured in
eggs.

Towards an Interactive Geography

leaving the Whitworth Art Gallery pre early evening rushhour a right turn
past St Mary's Hospital would be suicidal so we turn left in front of yet
another 42 bus the long way from Stockport via the University Corridor as we
head into the heart of Cottonopolis following an aggressive red van right
into Brunswick Street to meet the Hyde Road at the Apollo swerving to avoid
the bus parked outside the depot for a change of driver and on past the new
Cyclodrome built from Euro-money on Olympic hopes and east end renewal
enterprise political capital and still we follow the traffic through each
set of lights to Belle Vue where all traces of the Zoo still trapped in
childhood memories lie beneath the car park of the cinema complex so why did
they build the out-of-town McDonalds next to Debdale Park as we inch slowly
towards the Denton roundabout the motorway north still unfinished after ten
or more years of wrangling the protesters long gone to tree houses elsewhere
and now we see the Pennine hills with the first snow of winter visible on
the tops before we exit the M67 and snake our way under the war memorial on
Werneth Low knowing we are home with the city a short long way off as a
Manchester-Airport-bound jet flies over drowning the noise of the barking
dog

© Gerald England 

© Helen Clare 

 
Preacher Man

It was early Sunday, around 7 am, and I was downtown waiting for a bus - late as usual - and this well-dressed man came over to me, this man in a suit carrying a brief case, wearing a smile. He pulled out a black book and said, "I want to talk to you about God." I said, "No, thank you." Still smiling, he replied, "You mean you're not on your way to church? And I say, "No, don't go to church." But this is what I should have said:

"I go to poetry on my knees, take the word in my mouth, press my tongue against its flesh, embrace angels as they descend.

I touch them all - then watch their ascent up Jacob's Ladder, star ships hovering, brilliant light, burst of flame, then a return to a galaxy far from here.

I never see them again, but that's all right, because I carry their seed."

And then, the man with the black book, wearing a suit, no longer smiling, looks at me and says, "Is that so?"

And I reply, "It's in the Bible, isn't it?" And walk away.

 © Terrie Relf

____________________________________________

Compiling Editor: Helen Clare

Associate Editor: John Carley

___________________________________________________