||[May. 24th, 2009|10:10 pm]
As yet too few to scent the wider air, white blossoms now fleck the jasmine hedge's glossy green mass. Leaning close, I catch a faint hint of how June's nights will smell. The solstice nears. Slow-fading day lingers and hour or two as the crickets and frogs begin their songs. The stars will have the sky to themselves tonight. As darkness deepens, I catch a whiff of skunk. Beasts of all sorts are probably enjoying the season at least as much as I am. I'll enjoy it more once the jasmine fully blooms. For now, distant skunk will suffice.|
The Onion, Memory
by Craig Raine
Divorced, but friends again at last,
we walk old ground together
in bright blue uncomplicated weather.
We laugh and pause
to hack to bits these tiny dinosaurs,
prehistoric, crenelated, cast
between the tractor ruts in mud.
On the green, a junior Douglas Fairbanks,
swinging on the chestnut's unlit chandelier,
defies the corporation spears—
a single rank around the bole,
rusty with blood.
Green, tacky phalluses curve up, romance
A gust—the old flag blazes on its pole.
In the village bakery
the pastry babies pass
from milky slump to crusty cadaver,
from crib to coffin—without palaver.
All's over in a flash,
Tonight the arum lilies fold
back napkins monogrammed in gold,
crisp and laundered fresh.
Those crustaceous gladioli, on the sly,
reveal the crimson flower-flesh
inside their emerald armor plate.
The uncooked herrings blink a tearful eye.
The candles palpitate.
The Oistrakhs bow and scrape
in evening dress, on Emi-tape.
Outside the trees are bending over backwards
to please the wind : the shining sword
grass flattens on its belly.
The white-thorn's frillies offer no resistance.
In the fridge, a heart-shaped jelly
strives to keep a sense of balance.
I slice up the onions. You sew up a dress.
This is the quiet echo—flesh—
white muscle on white muscle,
intimately folded skin,
finished with a satin rustle.
One button only to undo, sewn up with shabby thread.
It is the onion, memory,
that makes me cry.
Because there's everything and nothing to be said,
the clock with hands held up before its face,
stammers softly on, trying to complete a phrase—
while we, together and apart,
repeat unfinished gestures got by heart.
And afterwards, I blunder with the washing on the line—
headless torsos, faceless lovers, friends of mine.