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CHRISTINA MANOLESCU
Although I am British born - within the sound of the famous 'Bow Bells' I believe - I did spend 30 years in snowy exile in Canada. Five years ago I returned to settle back in East London, and now work as an English language tutor for Newham Education & Youth Service.
Since arriving home, I have at last indulged in my dream of self-publishing: some poetry, comic narrative, and children's fiction. The first of the published fairy tales is entitled, 'The Prince Cameleon Workbook', accompanied by a read-along cassette tape. The second in the series, 'The Mirror and the Beast', also with companion cassette, should appear this year.
The Lean Years
My lips mouth the words
which are coined into lines
amassed into verses
and stored
in deep vessels:
beside the jars of oil and wine
in the Granaries of Famine..
This harvest
hoarded
far too long
was once green
is now speckled with mould
tramped solid
beneath the sludge of Time
like Grave Goods
unearthed
only lately
amongst the anonymous bone shards
of some Bronze-Age Bard...
A palmful of rough-minted coins to seal up my eyes
and my lips
forever
Boots
I wear my life
like new boots
that give me bunions
ingrown toenails;
stumbling
clodhopping
in stiff, pinched
impostrous boots
I am a deserter
ready at any moment
to slough off
this hob-nailed sole
and slide
into the branches
of an enchanted forest... here
I am a dreamer
greening through the glade
a wet leaf cleft between my toes
far-off
I hear the beating
the drumming of many boots,
stiff, leather-smelling,
pacing in straight directions
they come
nowhere near the slime rock pit
where I lie breathing;
if they did they would surely
beat down the nettles
crush the wild clover
ferret me out with a stick.
I know they would
push me right back
into my river-stained boots:
now muddy, yet softened a bit for walking,
they begin to feel more like my own
than someone else's,
into the neat and crowded street
some day
I will march in my boots
trained for woods and thoroughfares
Peter Pan
You were not in your place
someone had dropped you; smashed
your glass
and left you lying
helpless
on your side
It's true I always dust you off
each Thursday,
but for many Thursdays now
I've scarcely seen you
propped upright
between my combs and bottles
of cologne, my dried-out
flowers stemming
from their slender vase
of ivory bone
and yet...today...you catch my eye
you smile at me inside your
naked silver frame
as though you might just
brush that fringe of chopped
unruly hair
out of your eyes
and break into a laugh;
like peter pan
you've dodged the hook again
and vanished.
through the stardust sky
It's true I have not truly
looked at you
for many Thursdays; simply
picked you up to dust and
set you down again
between the rising moon
and setting sun
I half confess
(it hurts me now)
I'd half forgotten you
Yet you must stay
forever fresh
preserved in glass
and grimy silver; I
must stumble on
grown coarse
and dry
and brittle
with the seasons, who's responsible?
Who is it that decides
your name is peter...
mine is wendy
Sunspot
Your image is engraved
momentarily
upon my retina
like a dangerous, yet seductive
prairie sundog
a sun-pregnant rainbow
dissolving
into the hot-cold Canadian sky..
then little bits and pieces of you
float apart
then reunite
a lip
an eye
I try
to conjure up your essence
piece you back together
warm and whole...even
to that dislocated
crescent knife-edge
of a scar
above your eyebrow
raised in questions: dark, profound. mysterious
or else
banal.
I can neither
fathom
shape
nor take the measure of you...
perhaps. after all
your smile is chimera
perhaps there is nothing to form
nothing to feel
nothing to find...
Gunseason
Two highway hours ago
You sniffed the scented needles
Drily fallen
To the ribbed forest door
Now wet dusk is racing past
Your crushed neck
Your thin hind bones are splayed
Unlovely Looped
Across the windshield
Decapitated Queen
Hooked to the varnished mantelpiece
You grace the fireplace unlit
Faked out in knotted pine
Your doe eyes brown and brimming deep
Through wavering forests seeped
In unspilt tears
All Truth is Beauty
I caught the life
That you flung back at me
Retrieved it like a soiled sheet
Indelibly marbled
With the stains of years
I gave it Pride of Place
Upon my mantelpiece
As though it were a treasured canvas
Once stolen from an Old Master
A fading palimpsest
Faint traces of all my Yesterdays
Obscuring even Today
Yes, here it is, I say
When curious friends
Stroll through my gallery
For a private view
As you can well imagine
I've paid far too dearly for this
No less than a Queen's ransom
in gold
bitterness
and tears
But fashions change, I know
Art lovers are notoriously fickle
Once relegated
To the mouldy attics of the nation
How many priceless treasures
Repose today in glass coffins
Under low lights
In a museum
Stygian Subway Express
Take a seat, King Tut
Well, you're just a little late
Let me fill your pure gold snifter
pure elixir? Eau de Vie?
Here at last, polished Sun God
Bartered luggage washed ashore
You have cast eternal glitter
On the black slime caves
How's the traffic in the marshwoods?
What's it like to wade Third Class
Through the murky river transit
on the Stygian Express
Saucer-eyed dogs at the turnpikes
Riffraff choking every Lane
Will they never stagger Rush Hour
On the Pluto-bound Express!
Home at last, King Tut
Yes, at last you've reached your Stop
Did you get ripped off at Customs?
Well, we heard you lost a lot
Rest your feet, King Tut
It's a long hard haul
From the Valley of the Kings
To Toronto's Museum Mall
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