Kaleidoscope
Kaleidoscope Poems by Carole Anne Carr
Cover Design by James Brinkler [email protected] Published by Carole Anne Carr The Cake and Custard Bookshop http://caroleannecarr.co.uk © Carole Anne Carr, 2013
All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, copied, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent, and in a form or binding or cover other than that in which is it published, and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
For Patricia, whose kind support, and belief in my creative ability, encouraged me to write this first book of poems.
TABLE OF CONTENTS ECHOES FROM THE PAST YOUR GOD AND MINE APARTHEID FRAGMENTS
ECHOES FROM THE PAST All in, all in, wherever you are! Voice trails of childhood games echo through the dusk filled streets. Alone, realising they’ve gone, no longer searching for me, and leaving me hiding in an empty garden shed with a stray cat brushing against my legs, I begin the long walk home. Passing the Empire, wondering what’s showing, the queue is going in, now I’ll be for it, it must be later than I think. I dawdle under the purple glow of gas lamps, admire my alien skin, the iron-clad transporter clanks and groans across the Tees.
I don’t look down, imaging the black, oiled water swirling beneath my feet, closing above my head. I shudder, the thrill of being out so late is gone, the choking smell of coal fires in damp air, and the yellow smog from the chemical factory, burn my throat. Glimpsing through dank, dark alleyways an exciting glow of the dog race track behind the shops, a strange smell from the funeral parlour fills me with imagined horrors, making my flesh creep. Leaping the whirling chip shop papers along the street, I thump a row of dustbins, my home in sight, and shout to keep the ghouls away, clench my fists, and loudly smack my sandals along the back to backs.
Then down the narrow passageway, where painted bricks sweat water droplets, and into kitchen warmth. Under the dim light from the single bulb, my dog turning himself inside out in greeting, I hear the crunch of the mangle, and sniff the smell of scorching tea towel, and baking bread. Wriggling on the slippy, leathery seat behind the gate legged table, dislodging the bobbled chenille cloth in search of homemade cake, I scatter jigsaw pieces to shouts of stop it, and happily tell a garbled tale of why I’m late.
I remember I remember what it was like to have bare legs, cotton socks, new sandals, and the feel of chilly air under my gingham dress that had puffed sleeves, and a Peter Pan collar. I know what it is like, to totter on high heels, wear an old fox stole with staring glass eyes, to experiment with worn lipstick, a bit of rouge in a pot, to be admired by raw youth and shiver with anticipation. I still feel that first touch of skin that is not my own, the pain of new sex the first hot arguments, the crocodile tears that have no effect, and a life no longer mine.
I still suffer the torments of past mistakes the wrong choices made in the heat of the moment, the witnessing of despair in others, and a patched life that I can’t repair. I know what it is like to be old, to have no more choices, to stare into the street and watch the busy life of others pass me by, to remember what it felt like to be young, and to suffer the pain of illness and regret. And I smile when I remember the feel of bare legs, cotton socks, throwing a ball against a sun-baked wall, jumping over a skipping rope, wearing new sandals in spring sunshine, with a breeze lifting up my gingham dress.
Joseph’s Coat Take my love and wear it like a garment, feel the velvet of the sleeve the softest thread, the richly glowing fabric Put it on; is it too gaudy for your taste? Perhaps the colours clash, but there’s sincerity in it. Yes, those stripes are unbecoming, ignore them, they are the troubles we have shared. The twisted surfaces that make a rawness of your skin are painful incidents, they’ll wear to something bearable. Turn to the shining bands, more brilliant than the others. They are our love, the strength we give each other. You say the fit is wrong? In time, it will become a second skin.
Cover Design by James Brinkler [email protected] Published by Carole Anne Carr The Cake and Custard Bookshop http://caroleannecarr.co.uk © Carole Anne Carr, 2013
All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, copied, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent, and in a form or binding or cover other than that in which is it published, and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
For Patricia, whose kind support, and belief in my creative ability, encouraged me to write this first book of poems.
TABLE OF CONTENTS ECHOES FROM THE PAST YOUR GOD AND MINE APARTHEID FRAGMENTS
ECHOES FROM THE PAST All in, all in, wherever you are! Voice trails of childhood games echo through the dusk filled streets. Alone, realising they’ve gone, no longer searching for me, and leaving me hiding in an empty garden shed with a stray cat brushing against my legs, I begin the long walk home. Passing the Empire, wondering what’s showing, the queue is going in, now I’ll be for it, it must be later than I think. I dawdle under the purple glow of gas lamps, admire my alien skin, the iron-clad transporter clanks and groans across the Tees.
I don’t look down, imaging the black, oiled water swirling beneath my feet, closing above my head. I shudder, the thrill of being out so late is gone, the choking smell of coal fires in damp air, and the yellow smog from the chemical factory, burn my throat. Glimpsing through dank, dark alleyways an exciting glow of the dog race track behind the shops, a strange smell from the funeral parlour fills me with imagined horrors, making my flesh creep. Leaping the whirling chip shop papers along the street, I thump a row of dustbins, my home in sight, and shout to keep the ghouls away, clench my fists, and loudly smack my sandals along the back to backs.
Then down the narrow passageway, where painted bricks sweat water droplets, and into kitchen warmth. Under the dim light from the single bulb, my dog turning himself inside out in greeting, I hear the crunch of the mangle, and sniff the smell of scorching tea towel, and baking bread. Wriggling on the slippy, leathery seat behind the gate legged table, dislodging the bobbled chenille cloth in search of homemade cake, I scatter jigsaw pieces to shouts of stop it, and happily tell a garbled tale of why I’m late.
I remember I remember what it was like to have bare legs, cotton socks, new sandals, and the feel of chilly air under my gingham dress that had puffed sleeves, and a Peter Pan collar. I know what it is like, to totter on high heels, wear an old fox stole with staring glass eyes, to experiment with worn lipstick, a bit of rouge in a pot, to be admired by raw youth and shiver with anticipation. I still feel that first touch of skin that is not my own, the pain of new sex the first hot arguments, the crocodile tears that have no effect, and a life no longer mine.
I still suffer the torments of past mistakes the wrong choices made in the heat of the moment, the witnessing of despair in others, and a patched life that I can’t repair. I know what it is like to be old, to have no more choices, to stare into the street and watch the busy life of others pass me by, to remember what it felt like to be young, and to suffer the pain of illness and regret. And I smile when I remember the feel of bare legs, cotton socks, throwing a ball against a sun-baked wall, jumping over a skipping rope, wearing new sandals in spring sunshine, with a breeze lifting up my gingham dress.
Joseph’s Coat Take my love and wear it like a garment, feel the velvet of the sleeve the softest thread, the richly glowing fabric Put it on; is it too gaudy for your taste? Perhaps the colours clash, but there’s sincerity in it. Yes, those stripes are unbecoming, ignore them, they are the troubles we have shared. The twisted surfaces that make a rawness of your skin are painful incidents, they’ll wear to something bearable. Turn to the shining bands, more brilliant than the others. They are our love, the strength we give each other. You say the fit is wrong? In time, it will become a second skin.
