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My Family and Other Superheroes

Page 4

by Jonathan Edwards


  Nun on a Bicycle

  Now here she comes, rattling over cobbles,

  powered by her sandals, the gentle downhill

  and the grace of God. Now here she comes, her habit

  what it was always waiting to become:

  a slipstream. Past stop signs, the pedestrian

  traffic at rush hour, the humdrum mopeds,

  on a day already thirty in the shade:

  with her robe fluttering like solid air,

  she makes her own weather. Who could blame her,

  as the hill sharpens, she picks up speed and smiles

  into her future, if she interrupted

  the Our Fathers she’s saying in her head,

  to say Whee, a gentle Whee, under her breath?

  O cycle, Sister! Look at you now, freewheeling

  through the air conditioning of the morning –

  who’s to say the God who isn’t there

  isn’t looking down on you and grinning?

  The Bloke Selling Talk Talk in the Arcade

  He’s got the patter, the natter, the gift

  of the gab. He’s got all the flattery

  you can stand, different routines for madam

  and sir, all that self-help book, cod amateur

  psychology, the professional

  bullshit, the Hey, how’s it goin’, my man?

  He’s got you eating out of the palm

  of his hand. He’s got the Prince Charming,

  the How are you, darlin’?, the body language

  training, the feints, the moves. He knows

  the moment to run a hand through his smooth,

  smooth hair, when to nod sagely, as if he

  cares, understands. He’s got the world

  in his mobile and the pen in his

  hand. He’s got the opening line, the spiel,

  the feel for people, knows the time

  to look into your eyes, touch your

  arm, to hang back, play it calm,

  to open up about his life, to ask about

  your children, your wife. He’s got your future

  waiting for you: just reach out and

  take it. His brunette student sidekick

  advertises herself but our man’s got the pen,

  the pen, an afternoon of chatting up

  men, and when, at five, he packs up

  his tongue for the day and walks into the world,

  just like you, like me, like anyone,

  he’s got the air, the night, the setting sun.

  Starbucks Name Tag Says Rhian

  With her Minnie Mouse voice and her Popeye

  tattoos, she is the Queen

  of mug rings. Slow-stepping in sensible shoes

  with that brush, she sweeps

  the world before her. Her flirtatiousness

  is customer service training, her complimentary

  uniform an apron, her nemeses

  the teenage couple in the khazi. She

  takes no prisoners and does her duty,

  holds the mop’s head under in the bucket,

  bench-presses tables, chairs, beneath

  that bouffant. Sometimes you’ll catch her

  humming along to the piped Nina Simone,

  stealing breaks to gaze out through the window,

  tuck one stray hair behind an ear. Her smile

  says she’ll take the clouds out of the sky

  to make your latte, or if she can’t reach that far,

  at least she’ll flutter those big eyelashes

  at the tip jar. Now she turns to you:

  What’s it to be then, sweetie? Look, the gold-toothed till

  is open-mouthed again at all that beauty.

  The Girls on the Make-up Counter

  They stand and wait for you to want some me-time,

  hairdos piled up like the Coldstream Guards:

  they stand and wait to be your name-badged friends.

  They come in close, intimate as opticians,

  mascara brushes growing from their fingers.

  Close your eyes, they whisper, as you make a wish

  to look like them. They smile and smile,

  working hard to get your reflection right.

  They’ll have to do this to themselves tonight,

  stand before a mirror, breathe in their waists,

  mutter something, then step into a city

  where every other woman wears their face.

  Karaoke

  Friday nights we try out other voices:

  the boy with the piercing and the HATE tattoo

  wants us to love him tender, love him true,

  stumbling over the newsreader’s autocue.

  The landlord asks his mam to mind the bar

  while he pops round to give us My Way. His way.

  The girl who’s got every boozed-up eye in the place

  would like to know if we’ll still love her, tomorrow;

  disco lights make a superstar of her shadow.

  Next morning, I rescue overalls from the washing,

  button up, slip back into my own skin,

  head out to the van, start it up, and find myself whistling.

  Brothers

  You know the sort: they borrow each other’s t-shirts,

  wear each other’s sweat under their armpits.

  In the pub, you swear you hear one’s voice and turn

  to find the other chatting up your girl,

  or else you catch one, curling up his lip,

  as if he’s trying on his brother’s smile,

  or you go to the bar and they both show up.

  One has a knackered Transit, the other jump leads.

  They’ve one gym membership and their own bodies,

  tell the punch lines to each other’s jokes

  and if you’re fool enough to bother one,

  you’ll find yourself outside with both of them.

  You know the sort: the elder has a child

  who’s got her mother’s mouth, her uncle’s eyes.

  The Boy with the Pump-action Water Pistol

  snipes from hedges at ladies fresh for chapel,

  or dribbles a ball round old man Walker’s Astra

  to score at Wembley. He floats above the ground

  on his skateboard, plays toy dinosaurs,

  lives in a land beyond time. Butterflies

  outwit him: his idea of hunting is applause.

  Pockets full of conkers, his head of acorns,

  he raids his mother’s washing line for the sail

  of the pirate ship he’s dreamt into the garden,

  then sprints off to catch tadpoles, measles, snails.

  O boy with the pump-action water pistol,

  here’s to your ballet ankles, crash-pad knees,

  these summer days I watch you through this window.

  I have been careful. No one’s spotted me.

  The Performance

  On a quiet Tuesday in our village,

  workmen started putting up a stage

  in the square. When Will Johnson,

  who has the butcher’s there, came out

  to see what all the fuss was about,

  he found they spoke no English.

  By noon, the news was everywhere.

  Some said it was all for a performance

  by travelling players, others a boxing bout

  between the vicar and the mayor,

  or for some visiting dignitary, like the Queen

  or Wayne Rooney. What wasn’t in doubt

  was the expense: faux-Roman pillars,

  flower arrangements camouflaging speakers,

  a climbing frame lighting rig, a portable

  orchestra pit. Neighbours talked about it

  all afternoon, claimed indifference: the baby

  to put to bed, something on the telly,

  but by half-six, everyone was gathered

  in their best clothes. Money changed hands

  for seats in
the front row, while at the back,

  there was something approaching an insurrection

  over whether one arse cheek means possession.

  Quiet settled as the performance time came

  and went, and nothing happened:

  by seven-thirty we were restless and thirsty

  and some fella started hawking cans of beer.

  The first of us stormed the stage an hour later,

  swaying slightly, ready to have a go at

  an a cappella Swing Low, Sweet Chariot,

  got a can to the cranium for his efforts.

  That started it: an industrial speaker

  was put through the butcher’s window,

  a lily was rammed down the vicar’s earhole,

  some kid made monkey bars of the lighting rig,

  until it collapsed and smashed, setting fire

  to the now obviously polystyrene pillars.

  We finished up cracking the stage with our seats:

  all in all, it must have made a sight

  for the workmen who then came around the corner,

  with their mops and brushes, their mirror ball heads,

  speaking no English, whistling to themselves.

  Holiday

  Unable to sleep for the fourth night in a row,

  I get up, say Fuck it, drive to the nearest hotel.

  The receptionist looks twice at my pyjamas,

  the hot-water bottle that’s my only luggage,

  but money is money, and business is business.

  The room has a double bed and double pillows.

  The walls are white; there’s a carpet I wouldn’t have chosen.

  I fall asleep before I’ve brushed my teeth.

  It works for a week. Then the porter

  calls me by my name. At four that morning,

  still awake, I look for the Gideon’s Bible, and find

  my address book in its place. The final straw

  is when I hear Room service! at the door.

  Opening it, I find, holding silver trays,

  my wife and daughter, my parents and my boss,

  asking me if this is what I ordered.

  On the Overpass

  I like the one above the local bypass,

  my parents’ farmhouse lit up on the hillside,

  traffic rushing under at all times.

  Also, the fence is dead easy to climb,

  the outside ledge just deep enough to stand on.

  Don’t worry. Look, I’m always sure to hold on:

  now with my right hand, now with my left.

  I like that moment when I’m teetering

  and free. This is the second time this week.

  I get so bored. Listen, here’s a lorry:

  it goes Woosh. Then the wind goes Wuh-huh.

  It’s too cold to stay up here for long, really,

  but I like to make up stories in my head:

  is this you, lovely boy, speeding your Corsa

  towards me, your friend in the passenger seat

  big-eyed, looking up now through the windscreen?

  Acknowledgements

  Some of these poems have previously appeared in 14, Agenda Broadsheets, Cannon Poets, Cheval, The Frogmore Papers, The Interpreter’s House, Iota, The Lightship Anthology 2, Magma, New Welsh Review, The North, nth position, Obsessed with Pipework, Orbis, Other Poetry, Planet, Poems for a Welsh Republic, Poetry Review, Poetry Wales, The Reader, Red Poets, The Rialto, Roundyhouse, Smiths Knoll, The Stinging Fly and The Warwick Review.

  Some of these poems were included in a collection which won the Terry Hetherington Award in 2010. I am very grateful to Alan and Jean Perry, Aida Birch and Amanda Davies.

  ‘Evel Knievel Jumps Over my Family’ won second place in the Cardiff International Poetry Competition 2012. ‘Gregory Peck and Sophia Loren in Crumlin for the Filming of Arabesque, June 1965’ was commended in the Basil Bunting Award 2012. ‘Brothers’ won third prize in the Cannon Poets Sonnet Competition 2012. ‘How to Renovate a Morris Minor’ won first prize in the Newark Poetry Competition 2012. ‘Bamp’ was commended in the flamingofeather poetry competition 2013.

  The author wishes to acknowledge the award of a New Writer’s Bursary from Literature Wales in 2011, for the purpose of completing this collection.

  Thank you: Saskia Barnden; David Briggs, David Clarke and the members of the Bristol Poetry School; Michael Hulse, David Morley and the staff and students of the Warwick Writing Programme; Mike Jenkins and the Red Poets; and Amy Wack and everyone at Seren. Thank you beyond measure to my parents.

 

 

 


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