ON MY BALCONY, NOVEMBER
by Alan Brayne
The moon hangs heavy tonight,
A ball of thickened yellow
Dripping treacle onto the sea.
It’s not a night
For fairy wings, or things
That are lighter than air,
Butterflies and feathers of mythical birds,
Thoughts that may take flight.
A cruise ship glitters vulgar
On the horizon, two strips of lights
Slice starkly through the darkness
With blatant bonhomie; I imagine
Boozy faces, balloons and party hats,
Tunes smooth as maple syrup,
A clumsy, groping dance.
And here am I, alone.
Yet, truth to tell, I cannot say
I’m lonely, there’s a loneliness
Greater than this: a feeling that faces
Are masks, that bodies may edge close
But must not touch, an intimacy
Of distance.
The lazy moon floats higher
In the sky, but as its colour pales,
Strangely it glows warm. The cruise ship
Has moved on. The sky is wild with stars
And, foolish as it may be,
I let my lips catch butterflies
Which my eyes only see
NEU!
It’s new! It’s new!
But by tomorrow the shine
Will have dulled, and grizzled old men
Will explain what it all means.
Bright young things, meanwhile,
Will pose in peacock chairs
In virtual nightclubs,
The newest, glossiest peacocks on the scene.
Everything’s preserved now, so
Everything is swallowed
In obscurity, history held hostage
In a cage with intangible bars.
Old-time music plays
On an endless loop, an endless loop
With a beat that repeats and repeats,
But nobody hears.
Everything’s preserved now, so
History conjures from its cage
A range of ancient new toys,
And a raga or a Javanese gamelan
Floats drowsy like opium poppies
Over yesterday’s strawberry fields.
So rest in peace, my bright young things,
Amid your newest noise.
THE SKIN OF VIRGINS
The doctor has a glass eye
And a needle. “Inoculation time,”
He announces, with a grin, “All the feckless poor
Must take the serum.”
The wedding cake stands ten tiers high.
Delicate fingers slice into it,
Delicate mouths peck nimbly
At strawberry icing.
Tuxedos and awards, flashbulbs,
Pats on backs, loud celebration. The boffins
Who mixed this latest elixir of youth
Are allowed to watch from the door.
The Countess bathes in blood
To smooth her wrinkles; she can smell
The skin of virgins on her skin. How dare
They have been so young?
The poor will always be with us,
We say; we never mention
The rich. I guess we’re scared
Of the needle.
EUROPE 2023
Hush now, little dolls,
Don’t make even a peep:
Daddy’s polishing his medals
And mustn’t be disturbed.
And everyone loves Daddy,
Tin soldier in his uniform,
Whose punishments
Are just a form of love.
Mommy’s busy gossiping
Over the fence: she eyes the gem
Around her neighbour’s neck,
The neighbour she’ll later betray.
Fear or love.
Fear or love,
It’s all the same
In these games
Of heroes and villains.
The dolls gather at their windows:
Daddy mounts his horse
And strides the street,
Mommy flashes her jewels.
Six million slabs of meat
And we’ve learned nothing.
THE NORMAL FOLK
It’s the normal folk we have to worry about,
The alarm clocks that go off at six,
The prissy little lawns, the spice jars
In a row.
The people too genteel
To brandish pitchforks, yet
In their nightly hallucinations
Jackals howl, bodies get dismembered,
Their lawns seep blood.
And when the voice on the radio
Tells them to be watchful
Because under the cloak of darkness
Shadows are stealing their spice jars,
They check their fence.
It’s the normal folk we have to worry about,
Decency dressed in Sunday best,
The doorbell playing Mozart, the photos
In the hall.
And when the voice on the radio
Tells them to stand firm
Because otherwise the shadows
Will disconnect their doorbell,
They stand up, they salute,
And they obey.
It’s only normal.
BIO
Alan Brayne is a retired teacher and lecturer from England now living in Malta. He recently self-published a book of poems, fiction and essays, Digging for Water. The author of three novels set in Indonesia: Jakarta Shadows, Kuta Bubbles, and Lombok Flames. Interests include art, film noir, the I Ching, philosophy, and walking. Just recovered from working out how to set up my website: alanbrayne.com
*all poems appear in Digging for Water
