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Mayflower 1The colonists wiped their boots on straw mats, the rocket, fuelled by Elon's musk, would take them sailing under Sagittarius and The Plough. Each wipe was a haphazard grapevine, erratic shuffling of feet, they didn't want to carry the dirt of this world with them, clean soles meant clean souls for the soon to be Mooners. Two sides emerged amongst the passengers, separated by a gangway of antidesestablishmentarianism and one metre of speckled Lino. The Saints saw a chance to design their own steeple; The Strangers just wanted to see if Wallace and Gromit were being truthful, they packed more crackers than the devout, based their dreams on the stop motion theory. When the countdown ended, fires scorched, two gangly blowtorches strapped either side, created a hard caramelised layer on the Creme Brulee they were leaving behind. Spoilt custard. Halfway between the great black sea and the absolute darkness, light flickered. Solar flare waved from the sun like the bell bottomed jeans of a seventies TV star. Fiery winds knocked the rocket off course, of course none of them knew. When they landed far away from Neil's flag, the passengers declared the stones in the dry river were beds. Ideas forged; a government made. The Clangers whistled a tune of jealousy at such a fine foundation. Sewn eyes turned green. Differences were put aside. No more 'my religion' or 'you're lack of religion'. The dark side of the moon didn't care about Dawkins and Darwin, crosses marked the graves of the crew that didn't make it, no longer marking moral supremacy, hairy chests, and cleavages. The lost souls of travellers that departed, died for a number of reasons. Some croaked from g-force sickness, most starved after the space maggots ate their supply of Jaffa Cakes. After a debate they named the new settlement Fraggle Rock, one of the large moonstones looked like Jim Henson's hand. In the land of many craters no-one is a puppet, the strings are cut. When you have nothing tying you up - Saints become strangers. A sea of unnamed faces in an unforgiving world. As the first days passed they came to the bay of Epiphany, a realisation that there was no food on the moon. Luckily the silver shelled turtle was not uninhabited, natives queued up to see the pale faces, even Sagittarius and The Plough dangled down to catch a glimpse of their starving eyes; hungry frowns. The Tribes of Selene showed the weary how to use their hands. Taught them how to fish for asteroids and build houses out of scrapped lunar landers. They never took more titanium plating than was needed. The exuberant Mooners declared a National Holiday, commercialised cards littered the scene amongst golf balls and shadows; they had microwavable turkey dinners shipped from the International Space Station. The tribes brought with them a cheese platter. The Strangers knew they'd been right all along.
(Me at the Illuminate guest event 2017, Royal William Yard. Pictures thanks to Heather Sabel)
It seems that November (the ninth month of the Roman Calendar) is a time of remembering things. At the beginning of the month we celebrate Bonfire Night and this weekend it is Remembrance Sunday. Thanksgiving isn't far away, a time of remembering. The UN has a day for remembering road traffic victims. It seems to be a time of reflection. Last night a project inspired by the poppies:wave sculpture on the Plymouth Hoe came to an almighty conclusion. The live performances on the night were stunning and unique and everything good about poetry. Below is my write as Laureate. I See A Great Hand Reaching OutHis hand reached out like a wave of poppies. The stains of blood like crushed berries, the juice of the laboured fruits trickling in the cracks. Stretched digits clawed at a towering figure above, a pair of shoulders strapped to an obelisk of flesh. Intimidation was the first impression but, with the escaping moments, worries dried and crusted. When the hands of the pocket-watch cross they briefly touch, a minute is all they get. His silver fob dented by a bullet. Each ear drum burst by the bolero of war. Perforation had occurred across the whole of his frame, ripped his pigment from him, colourless cheeks slapped cruelly by trodden blades. At the going down of the last supper the commanding officer tore bread. He wondered if anyone would remember him. The silence of the field scared the horses back to life. The smoke of the guns pistol whipped the fog that had lain in waiting. His emotions escaped his eyes, glassy combers that poured out and washed over the tall figure. The wide gape of his jaws didn't help the words escape. They remained trapped in his mind along with all his future plans. He stared into the face of the cold above. Looking at the eye of a raven before it picks your bones clean can fill you with regret. The glare of the presence mistaken for hunger, studying closer he saw it as anger. The figure bent down and revealed herself. Even yew trees bow when they sink caskets. Her brow marked with cobalt paint that flecked into shrapnel, blue shards cast down adding to the mess. Each speck undressed, noticing not paint but tears, tears that left bitter trails. Swaddled by his damp uniform, she scooped Him up, nestled him to her chest and carried him away to the land of the ever-young. Boots once again stomped upon grasses, each halm squashed, cut down by her force. When the heel lifted, a wild flower grew, tender thing that cast a shadow which engulfed the world. "Will they never let this happen again?" Her gaze missed its smile. "No dear, but they'll remember they haven't every time they touch your posy."  |
AuthorThom Boulton is a contemporary free verse poet who lives and performs in the South West, UK. He is Plymouth's current Poet Laureate. Archives
October 2018
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