Poetry and other writing

Monster hunting
He crouches, his eagle eyes piercingly focussed,
young senses vigilant, perfectly poised,
taut and perceptive, his body relaxed.

Quietly oblivious to needless confusions,
he’s sure of his task, dressed for the action,
death-dealing weapon carefully chosen.

Alone with the skills that he’s learnt in long evenings,
he’s caught in adventure, lost in the moment,
bound and created by all he is seeing.

He flickers his thumbs. In his hands he is cradling
a dangerous world of quests and adventures,
his play station portable, passion unfolding.

Caged in the eaves
(a response to Matisse’s painting)

I lie here, trapped in this high private cell,
Dark walls, hard easel, fingers desperate;
Compelled to paint what others think will sell
Without regard to what I think of it.

Outside the summer sunlight brightly beckons,
The golden gardens and the scenes beyond,
Inside bare walls send cold and painful echoes,
My dreams and loves subverted by my bonds.

For some their art is ecstasy released;
For me it comes from pain and suffering,
And sometimes, too, a wild and welcome beast
That others mock as lack of discipline.

Oh, bring me colour, bold and strong and true,
Let that wild beast excite these sullen hues.

The shoes in the charity shop
(Or: ‘the other half of half-afraid opens many a door’)

They stood proud and sexy
angled just slightly,
showing so clearly
their gorgeous attire.

She looked at the others,
So quietly appealing,
then back to the first ones
the leopard-skin heels.

She couldn’t. She shouldn’t.
She might and she did.
Walking, no, stalking,
All for a quid.

Those shoes were her motto,
Her style and her ruler,
Fashion, attraction,
Door-opening cool.

Cancer spring
This crystal day in early May;
glorious cacophony of happy summer sounds -
deep dove calls from the tall pines’ shade,
a choir of blue-tits, blackbirds, baby thrush,
the shouts of my children as they play.
High pale blue sky holds a fragile sun,
gentle warmth for budding green.

The cancer too is blossoming;
menacing blooms in the darkness,
cravenly consumptive, careless,
howling for attention;
this is a reckless, monstrous child.

But from that wretched birth,
a new kind of life,
brought closer by this sparkling spring,
strange and precious gifts:
unexpected, half-remembered happiness,
and peace in the present.

M6 services

A tarmac ocean, graded shades of black,
with pools of light and stillness, early hours;
the roar of motors distant on the track,
not waves but gentle surges on the shore.
Orange neon beacons in the grey
draw cars slowly to a grateful stop;
an owl hoots, further north and miles away,
the land bird calling us to journey on.

A patch of mottled green grows spindly trees,
their branches hooked and white like grasping limbs;
bushes struggle with a few pale leaves,
a sad reminder of what might have been.
Then as we pull away into the night,
I turn, and see a halo round the lights.

Making it to Marrakech

When I first realised that we’d have to leave Morocco early, we were having lunch in the legendary el Fassia in the Nouvelle Ville, that very French part of Marrakech built in the early nineteenth century. We were sitting at a low, heavy dark wood table on little circular chairs upholstered in traditional shades of orange and red. The trellised windows are, my friend Celia said, ‘ojive’ and don’t let in much light through the walls a foot thick or more, painted cream and that dusky pink that characterises this city.
Celia had clearly enjoyed our starter, tiny bowls of ten delicately spiced salads, all subtly different. I, on the other hand, had started feeling distinctly queasy. I walked slowly past the groups of chattering diners to the sparkling modern toilet hoping, that by moving about a bit I’d feel better; but to no avail. I was getting more breathless, the cancer was asserting itself again.
‘Do you mind if we get a taxi straight back after lunch?’ I asked as I struggled unsuccessfully to finish the chicken and vegetable cous cous.
‘No, that’s absolutely fine’. Celia’s husband had died of cancer, so she was experienced at all this; solicitous and always trying to stop me doing too much. So, after the thinly sliced cinnamon oranges, soft sugary biscuits and ubiquitous the de menthe, we headed out into the unseasonal soft rain to look for a ‘petit taxi’.

We’d had three days in Marrakech, in a beautiful, stylish ryad in the medina or old city. We’d arrived after dark and had been met by a driver, Ahmed, sent by the hotel. After a short journey from the airport down broad, palm lined boulevards glistening in the rain, Ahmed parked the taxi, indicating that we should follow him, and raced ahead of us down the narrow djerbs (pedestrian streets) lit at irregular intervals by weak street lights, pulling our two big suitcases effortlessly behind him. A tall woman hurried past us in the opposite direction, raincoat buttoned up, a scarf loosely covering her head. There were few others around on this wet Thursday evening in late March.
Celia and I look at each other as Ahmed disappeared round yet another corner.
‘I hope I can find my way back’ Celia pulled a face and looked up at the high, dusky red walls on either side of us.
I was struggling slightly, more used to being pushed in a wheelchair than walking. ‘Well, I hope we don’t have to go down there’ I gestured ahead.
We’d got to a straight bit. Ahead there was a low arch and then some steps going down. It looked very dark and a bit foreboding. We took a sharp right just before the arch, but when we caught up with Ahmed he was standing by another unprepossessing entrance. We followed him hesitantly into the small culdesac and watched as he rapped a large black knocker barely visible in the darkness.
A few seconds and the heavy old door was pulled open, a warm yellow light spilled out, and there was Mahomet, arms open, eyes twinkling, welcoming us into the stylish interior of Ryad Nafis.
A ryad is a traditional two storey Moroccan house, centred on a courtyard. The thick walls keep the houses cool in summer and warm in winter. In the sixties and seventies, hip young things started holidaying in Marrakech, and enterprising locals began renovating dilapidated ryads in the medina, and converting them into small hotels. Ryad Nafis has five bedrooms arranged on two floors around a clear blue swimming pool which fills the small central courtyard and reflects the high white keyhole shaped arches of the narrow terraces surrounding it. It is a tranquil and delightful place.
‘Salaam aleikum, salaam aleikum, bonjour, bonjour’ Mahomet danced attendance on us, his small wiry energetic frame in dapper white suit and red fez belying his white hair and wrinkles.
‘Come, come.’ He beckoned us forward past the elegant courtyard and we sank gratefully onto the low sand-coloured chaise longue. The ryad was elegantly furnished, the smell of the small cedar fire wafted through the salon, there were glossy French magazines on the low table; it all felt reassuringly luxurious.
‘Aaah’ he smiled at our evident relief and relaxation. ‘Thé?’ He mimed pouring tea from a teapot and drinking, and then hurried away reappearing soon with sweet mint tea which he poured in a high stream from an intricately carved metal teapot.
Later we ate delicious egg and lamb tagine and soon after I went upstairs to bed, to a little room full of beautiful detail with painted furniture. I felt exhausted and slightly breathless, but I was happy: I had finally arrived in Marrakech. I’d wanted to come here for 35 years, since the mid seventies. This particular trip had been planned for months, and my recent hospital sojourn to get my lung aspirated wasn’t going to stop me coming. I climbed in between the crisp white linen sheets, and as soon as my head touched the big squashy pillow I was sound asleep.
The next morning I was woken very early by the sound of the muezzin, the call to prayer which punctuates the day in Muslim countries. We had breakfast up on the roof, on wrought iron chairs with white canvas cushions, surrounded by bright purple bougainvillea and small palm trees, watching storks nest-building on the minaret nearby that was the source of our early morning call. The food was brought by Karima, a serene young woman with long hennaed hair, dressed in a traditional djabor, a short kaftan with trousers. We had freshly squeezed orange juice, flatbreads with honey, pan au chocolat and a pot of good coffee with hot milk.
Ryad Nafis is a stone’s throw from Djemaa el Fnaa, the huge square where for hundreds of years vendors of orange juice and dried fruit have rubbed shoulders with henna tattoo artists and snake charmers. At night it is thronged with people eating, watching performances, listening to story tellers. We sat on a terrace and watched the brightly coloured crowds. We wandered through the sweet-smelling spice souk where each little stall had high conical piles of brightly coloured powders, and vendors would encourage you to sniff and guess the exotic herbs. We ate freshly fried spiced meatballs with our fingers in a tiny cafe where children giggled at us. We bought bright pink babouches (slippers) in a pungent leather market. Each little trip involved us walking along winding narrow djerbs between high pink stucco walls in this magical pink city. And after every excursion we could return to our ryad, to Mahomet and Karima who welcomed us with mint tea and their few words of English.
I spent one memorable morning having my feet hennaed by Karima, She sat on a low stool in her embroidered djabor, her long fingers creating an intricate pattern of trellises, tiny swirls and little geometric designs from my toes to my ankles. I spentr two or three hours with my feet up, sipping tea and watching the sunlight play on the swimming pool, then Karima applied a fragrant mixture of lemon juice, sugar and black pepper which turned the henna from bright orange to a more attractive brown.

I loved it all, it was as good as I’d imagined. I didn’t want it to end. But on the way back from el Fassia restaurant, I knew it had to. I tried to break the news gently to Celia.
‘I don’t want to worry you, but I’m afraid I’m really not feeling very well’ I lay back on the chaise longue, still breathless from the short walk.
‘Hm, yes, I was wondering’ said Celia. ‘What do you want to do? Do you think we should go home?’ She seemed remarkably calm.
‘Well…..’ I was uncertain about what to do. My guide book advised travellers with serious illnesses to return home rather than be treated in Morocco. On the other hand, my insurance specifically precluded any travel changes caused by my cancer, so we’d have to fork out for new flights.
‘I think we should get the first flight home’ said Celia, making the decision for me. She thought, quite rightly, that health was far more important than any qualms about expense. ‘It’s only money’ is one of her favourite expressions. Four hours later she had us booked on a flight to Gatwick at 7 am the following morning.
We stepped out at the smart white airport building in the chilly predawn, and Celia stood in the check in queue while I sat and took in my last sight of Marrakech: men in their dlellabas, or long robes, women in scarves and djabors, against a background of white and blue geometric patterns.

Twenty four hours later I’m in the Western General in Edinburgh. My left lung cavity has filled with fluid and has to be drained. I was lucky not to have problems on the plane. Settling back into the familiar ward routine, I think fondly of Ryad Nafis as the nurses wonder at my hennaed feet.

1972

Blue autumn skies send me a flashback -
the start of a new university year -
not black, my September, but coloured by acid,
bright patchwork playground tinted with fear.

Smoking dope through the doors of perception,
lazy days in a hippie skirt,
struggling through lectures on social order,
and love for a boy with long blonde hair.

David Bowie and Jimi Hendrix,
selling the world through a purple haze,
meticulous searches for meaning in madness,
nights in white satin, my personal maze.