Poems

I cut all the bushes into animal shapes.
Only nice people come here.
Don’t drill the ceiling with your mouth open.
The police are swooping on gay bars
they are snapping on rubber gloves.
Should I stay or should I go?

I built a beautiful life; I didn’t belong.
This indecision’s bugging me.
I did a Smelly Cat competition;
I was 28, I was working behind the
scenes –
like when a fly can’t get through, can’t work its way out.
I took a bus to Norwich, I thought; this is where I live now.
If you don’t want me set me free.

I lit a fire with Mrs Dalloway,
and I call it the duvet of love.
Only nice people come here –
there is a pattern – it’s in the book.

I like a cockapoo, but I also like a cruise.
I was brought up not to notice feelings –
this indecision’s bugging me:
Milo stay or Milo find a new home?
I was sniffing his ears and they smelt of popcorn.
If somebody knits you a jumper, they bloody love you.
Only nice people come here.

*

You need to put your foot up and ice it.
Should I stay or should I go?
Am I depressed or am I bored?
Stop asking questions.
I decided to fix vehicles to try to fix people –
you need to put your foot up and ice it.
Should I stay or should I go?

If you want to move a piano come and see us.
I really want that knitting pattern,
I love this song –
I long to be your glitter shaker;
I think I should stay.
Only nice people come here.

By Helen Ivory.

i.

From time to time, we think about
the kids playing freely––
not too freely––
along the clifftops,
living in a lighthouse,
eating pretzels and doughnuts and drinking hot chocolate.
But that was not to be.
There is always hope. Still, sometimes I feel everything
is impossible. I worry I will end up like
the beached whale we saw––very sad. It was dying on
the shore with its cock out.
Then I think about Norwich––all the great spaces
and friendly faces,
how close we are to the sea.

ii.

From time to time,
I make these big decisions
for the most peculiar reasons: Oh, Epping has a forest,
I’ll move there;
flogging second-hand clothes
and bric-a-brac; becoming the lead singer in a band;
climbing out of a bathroom window
and over parked cars, and––the klutz that I am––
breaking bones/rearranging my face.
That was all before my husband died.
Now, when I consider my new place––
this courtyard is a let–down––I think: The grass may not be greener,
but it is less brown.

iii.

From time to time,
I think about the loveliest lady you can think of:
Gwen. She is four feet six
and approximately a thousand years old.
And the boxer who dared
not mess with me: ‘Charlie Manson’. All groups
have an arsehole and he was ours––until
he joined in a game. Everybody goggled!
He drew my portrait, twice––they are up
on my wall and call to mind
all the small kindnesses that made me cry. Now––if I visualise
the garden with a tall high-security fence––
the voice inside my head will say,
‘The grass is much greener today.’

iv.

From time to time,

I think about Mum and Dad
having lots of adventures––
doing lots of Australian things. Dad,
recording videos in that classic Dad way. Dad, who installed
the sprinkler system in Sydney Opera House. Mum,
hiking and climbing––being
afraid of heights but doing it anyway.
Mum, caught on camera,
catching a big fish.
And the photo of my dad with a little fish.
From time to time, they think about moving to Australia.
But they know the grass is greener
here in Norwich.

v.

From time to time,
I think about the dead cat
being pulled from a garden bush
by a man in rubber gloves,
and the loving hush of the children gathered,
struggling to let go.

vi.

From time to time,
I think about my best friend, Billy.
On the 1st of last November,
he had to be put down.
Now I have another horse, Rosie.
Sometimes we need to let
the new grass grow . . .

vii.

From time to time,
I think about being out in India,
panicked about not having
a correct piece of paperwork. And I recollect
children who had sad, dark eyes, and people
who had amputated limbs.
From time to time––when I think
the grass is greener
somewhere else––
I am reminded of my privilege
and my freedoms,
everything I have,
right here,
right now.

viii.

From time to time,
I think about
my post-university European summer––
the summer that ended––
moving to Japan and becoming
a chauffeur to a nine-million-dollar chalet.
(I can hear myself say,
in the months before,
‘Capitalism – get rid of that.’)
And how I snapped
my anterior cruciate ligament
and had to go back
to my parents’
house.

From time to time,
I think about how I now approach
life with fresh eyes.
Not fertilizer. I have seen
Filthy Women; Women in Revolt;
communal healing on a club dancefloor––
like a really upbeat Quaker meeting.
In time, I know I will find
my bigger purpose.
Sometimes I do little jigs
around the living room. No one leads and no one
follows. I just go with the flow,
like gardening for biodiversity–
gardening with nature,
not against it.

ix.

From time to time, I think about going to
a ‘job expo’ in a world-famous
melon-growing region––sounds like a
euphemism to me––hugely hungover,
trousers and shirt barely clean.
The big new building and a TV crew. The director of the centre
and beaming chefs with a cake
baked ‘just for [me].’ I cannot simply eat the cake;
I must comment on its quality. And do that before
we take ‘a filmed guided tour’ of the
‘vocational technical training facility’.
On the tour, we saw: Plumbing
(alluring loo bowls and rows of latrines); Welding;
Building Crafts; Hairdressing; Beauty Therapy; and––a sorry lifetime after the start––Baby Massage.
I had to roll with it––it was the most
intense careers fair I have attended. Ever.

By John Murphy