Thursday 7 October 2010

Zanni

The painted mouth, lock tied and bound with blue bunting crown.
A voice wishes to waver from wall to white wall with a bright idea,
A shining moment for the harlequin.
Yet before the move of lips and an assertive point of hand can reach:
His suit of balanced folds erupts;  grey threads part ways;
 retching from close knit company, birthing over grown shoulders and arms.
And the brightness quickly stumbles down the stairs, falling out heavy like a rock from his chest.
Our Ragman, a happy fool to follow once, is now frustrated.
His back churns into angles,
A wrong key stuck in a door.

We stand there – on the outside looking in
Men in chrome suits, spitting coin and hot pursuits, tapping rhythms at the door,
Militant boots,
Ladies with taste and iron in their face
Bejewelled scarabs in their hair stolen from distant heirs;
Press their face up to the glass, tongues desperate to laugh.
Just one more dance, please! Give me a rush, Zanni.

But the director walked out, and Zanni has no part to play,
Yet does he care, I wonder? His dirt-crossed fingers rush up to his face.
Or is it best to give of all you have? ‘Give it legs to walk away’.
Or, tucked inside a learn-ed mouth, (I see Zanni fast to use it now)
can one keep,  retain the power
to demolish in a hush?



This poem was a reaction to an ingenius pop-up art gallery. The artist, Joseph Long, and the curator, Woolcott, asked me to create a reactionary piece to their exhibit 'Denim Harliquin'. http://www.rowingpresents.com

1 comment:

  1. I can feel it through my arms, strong stuff. Love the blog.

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