Read The Marlowe Papers Online
Authors: Ros Barber
Tags: #Fiction, #Historical, #Literary, #Biographical, #Women's Prize for Fiction - all candidates
The Marlowe Papers (20 page)
There is a village, shadowed by the Alps
where early evening paints the snow as blue.
I still play French in northern Italy,
nodding ‘
bonsoir
’ when I’m bid ‘
buona sera
’
and traipse the lane towards my rented room,
letting the creak of snow beneath my boots
return me to the quad on
Dido
night.
where early evening paints the snow as blue.
I still play French in northern Italy,
nodding ‘
bonsoir
’ when I’m bid ‘
buona sera
’
and traipse the lane towards my rented room,
letting the creak of snow beneath my boots
return me to the quad on
Dido
night.
‘Poley.’
He must have seen me long before
I noticed him. Already looking bored,
he’s taken in my clothes, my health, my mood,
and need not ask me.
he’s taken in my clothes, my health, my mood,
and need not ask me.
‘So. You’re still alive.’
‘Another year. And yes. No thanks to you.’
He squints for a sun that set an hour ago.
‘How did you conjure that? Without my help,
you would have swung last year.’
‘How did you conjure that? Without my help,
you would have swung last year.’
‘Without your help
I wouldn’t have been projecting for the State
and stuck my neck out.’
and stuck my neck out.’
Poley’s like the snow
on the field beside us, untroubled by boot or hoof.
‘If I suggested work when you were broke,
you didn’t have to take it. I was clear
about the risks involved. Who serves the Queen
must travel with the currents, like the tide
is pulled by the moon – you poets have compared
her to the moon, I think. You may wash up
on a foreign shore and find yourself alone.
Unfortunate, but true. Yet see the light.
You could be dead.’
‘If I suggested work when you were broke,
you didn’t have to take it. I was clear
about the risks involved. Who serves the Queen
must travel with the currents, like the tide
is pulled by the moon – you poets have compared
her to the moon, I think. You may wash up
on a foreign shore and find yourself alone.
Unfortunate, but true. Yet see the light.
You could be dead.’
‘I
am
dead.’
Poley’s face
shows unimpressed in the December gloom.
‘And yet, you’ll shortly take me to an inn
for something mulled, while I recount to you
the tale of your revenge. And think on this:
no poet is ever valued till they’re dead.
I’ve brought you greater fame than you could buy
idling your hours in meadows. If that fame
is notoriety, so much the better.
Rather be infamous than buried bland.
Your favourite Ovid was exiled, was he not?
And doesn’t exile burn into the heart
a greater fire to speak, and all the wisdom
that comes with a wide perspective?’ He was right,
though I left his question hanging. ‘Look, it’s cold.
Let us continue somewhere off the road.’
for something mulled, while I recount to you
the tale of your revenge. And think on this:
no poet is ever valued till they’re dead.
I’ve brought you greater fame than you could buy
idling your hours in meadows. If that fame
is notoriety, so much the better.
Rather be infamous than buried bland.
Your favourite Ovid was exiled, was he not?
And doesn’t exile burn into the heart
a greater fire to speak, and all the wisdom
that comes with a wide perspective?’ He was right,
though I left his question hanging. ‘Look, it’s cold.
Let us continue somewhere off the road.’
The tavern’s quiet, and we have the fire
all to ourselves. Rob Poley contemplates
a log he adds to embers, as it tempts
the fire into life again. I know there’s news,
but I am not as eager as I was
to hear it from him, and refuse to ask:
for he would have me dangling on his words
like a dog who fetched a stick but won’t let go.
all to ourselves. Rob Poley contemplates
a log he adds to embers, as it tempts
the fire into life again. I know there’s news,
but I am not as eager as I was
to hear it from him, and refuse to ask:
for he would have me dangling on his words
like a dog who fetched a stick but won’t let go.
‘Not long to Christmas,’ he observes, at length.
‘So I have a present for you. Baines is dead.’
‘So I have a present for you. Baines is dead.’
‘There is a loyalty’ – Poley cups his hands
around warm earthenware – ‘that’s rarely touched
upon, between intelligencers. But
it binds us.’ He glances up to catch my eye
as sharp as any hook into a fish.
‘Some of your friends felt I should look for Baines.’
around warm earthenware – ‘that’s rarely touched
upon, between intelligencers. But
it binds us.’ He glances up to catch my eye
as sharp as any hook into a fish.
‘Some of your friends felt I should look for Baines.’
He’s quiet above the crackle of the fire,
which spits and pops the winter damp from logs
to punctuate his tale.
which spits and pops the winter damp from logs
to punctuate his tale.
‘But he is dead?’
Poley nods slowly. ‘Yes. Perhaps you’d like
to hear a fuller version?’
to hear a fuller version?’
‘Carry on,’
I say, though I’m afraid of feeling glad;
of bathing too deeply in my enemy’s blood.
of bathing too deeply in my enemy’s blood.
‘At first, he’d gone to ground. As will the fox
when hounds pursue it. But a year had passed,
and you were safely dead. Your reputation
as something of an enemy of the State –
excuse me –’ he said, reacting to my scowl
‘– enabled him to think heroically
of his part in it. So summer brought him out
as it brings out rashes and the cheaper whores
who ply their trade on Turnmill Street. Of course
he was startled when I approached him, but my meat
and ale is convincing friendship.’
when hounds pursue it. But a year had passed,
and you were safely dead. Your reputation
as something of an enemy of the State –
excuse me –’ he said, reacting to my scowl
‘– enabled him to think heroically
of his part in it. So summer brought him out
as it brings out rashes and the cheaper whores
who ply their trade on Turnmill Street. Of course
he was startled when I approached him, but my meat
and ale is convincing friendship.’
With a smile
he instantly admits me to his heart –
a sample of his wares – then drops me cold.
Poley delights in savouring his tales,
but this, served to a storyteller’s ears,
has extra gravy.
a sample of his wares – then drops me cold.
Poley delights in savouring his tales,
but this, served to a storyteller’s ears,
has extra gravy.
‘So we fell to talking
and I tempted him to a tavern where I know
the host and hostess passing well.’ He grins,
and I see in the corner of that curl
his hand glide gently up a virgin’s thigh.
the host and hostess passing well.’ He grins,
and I see in the corner of that curl
his hand glide gently up a virgin’s thigh.
‘From the friendship I was offering, he assumed
we’d murdered you, and no bad thing, he said.
His conscience seemed troubled all the same. No, truly,
I noticed that he couldn’t stop your name
peppering every sentence.’
we’d murdered you, and no bad thing, he said.
His conscience seemed troubled all the same. No, truly,
I noticed that he couldn’t stop your name
peppering every sentence.’
I bless the fire:
its cheery destructive crackles fill the gap
that he has left for me. I don’t react,
holding myself a heart’s breath from the glee
I sense he feels at taking my revenge
for me.
that he has left for me. I don’t react,
holding myself a heart’s breath from the glee
I sense he feels at taking my revenge
for me.
‘Go on,’ I say.
He shakes it off,
that bothersome sense that I am not with him,
like a nuisance fly.
like a nuisance fly.
‘At length, I offered him
the hint of some private work. Said we should talk
in another place, less public, and we moved
out of the tavern to the stable block,
taking our cups. Mine was a special thing,
a silver goblet that the hostess lets
her favourite drinkers use. “You hold my cup,”
I say as I hear footsteps, “while I write
the contact’s name. It’s foreign.” Like a child
he takes the goblet and, instinctively,
he hides it as the taverner comes in
(this, prearranged). The hostess challenges him,
the cup is discovered, and I wash my hands
of the whole affair.’
in another place, less public, and we moved
out of the tavern to the stable block,
taking our cups. Mine was a special thing,
a silver goblet that the hostess lets
her favourite drinkers use. “You hold my cup,”
I say as I hear footsteps, “while I write
the contact’s name. It’s foreign.” Like a child
he takes the goblet and, instinctively,
he hides it as the taverner comes in
(this, prearranged). The hostess challenges him,
the cup is discovered, and I wash my hands
of the whole affair.’
‘He couldn’t hang for that!
Just moving it within their property?’
‘The stable block belongs to someone else.
They only rent it.’
They only rent it.’
Poley is clearly proud
of his plan’s simplicity. ‘And since they were,
both of them, in their house, that’s robbery.
No benefit of clergy. He was hanged.’
both of them, in their house, that’s robbery.
No benefit of clergy. He was hanged.’
He sits back like a predator whose game
digests inside his stomach. What a trick!
What practised magic with a legal sting
he brought to bear upon my enemy!
digests inside his stomach. What a trick!
What practised magic with a legal sting
he brought to bear upon my enemy!
And yet I cannot thank him, for his sin
has doubled injustice in a world of wrongs.
And Baines cannot recant now he has swung,
cannot be pressed for truth, cannot undo
the document. A cinder from the fire,
spat out, smokes patiently beside my boot.
has doubled injustice in a world of wrongs.
And Baines cannot recant now he has swung,
cannot be pressed for truth, cannot undo
the document. A cinder from the fire,
spat out, smokes patiently beside my boot.
‘Poley,’ I say, but then can add no more.
Between our letters, this adopted death
becomes more real. My heart slows to a crawl,
chilled by your absence, waiting for the fall
of written words to warm it up like breath.
I’m cut like a lily water cannot save.
The endless nights are stitched into a shroud
that takes my shape, and has my weeping bound.
The weeks until I hear gape like the grave.
becomes more real. My heart slows to a crawl,
chilled by your absence, waiting for the fall
of written words to warm it up like breath.
I’m cut like a lily water cannot save.
The endless nights are stitched into a shroud
that takes my shape, and has my weeping bound.
The weeks until I hear gape like the grave.
But when your letter opens in my hands
my heart starts up, a wild bird to a clap,
and air fills lungs as though some arid land
were suddenly ocean, charted off the map.
Two pages of your hand can bring such bliss;
and yet, without your love, I don’t exist.
my heart starts up, a wild bird to a clap,
and air fills lungs as though some arid land
were suddenly ocean, charted off the map.
Two pages of your hand can bring such bliss;
and yet, without your love, I don’t exist.
I dare not breathe it, yet it lives in me
as sometimes the single reason why my heart
must go on beating. Let me name the hope,
and do not take it, never tug the threads
that I’ve secured it with; I am afloat
by only the meanest margin, buoyed by this:
that I might be restored to life, and name.
That I might walk the London streets again
as Christopher Marlowe, not an atheist,
but wronged by suborned informers, jealous wits,
and ignorant plebeians. And not dead:
but no, the Lazarus of modern times,
raised by the new incumbent Head of State.
If only that is James. And so I wait
for the Phoenix not to rise; the crab-haired queen
to crumble in her bed, relax the grasp
tight-knuckled fingers have upon my fate,
and gasp her last.
as sometimes the single reason why my heart
must go on beating. Let me name the hope,
and do not take it, never tug the threads
that I’ve secured it with; I am afloat
by only the meanest margin, buoyed by this:
that I might be restored to life, and name.
That I might walk the London streets again
as Christopher Marlowe, not an atheist,
but wronged by suborned informers, jealous wits,
and ignorant plebeians. And not dead:
but no, the Lazarus of modern times,
raised by the new incumbent Head of State.
If only that is James. And so I wait
for the Phoenix not to rise; the crab-haired queen
to crumble in her bed, relax the grasp
tight-knuckled fingers have upon my fate,
and gasp her last.
Do not dislodge the hope
that holds in place a thousand racking sobs
for all I’ve lost: the stink of London town,
the cry of hawkers in my native tongue,
an English tavern’s simple fare, warm beer,
an afternoon at the Curtain or the Swan
amongst good friends; though half those good friends gone
already, and the rest of them as dead
to me as I’ve become to all the world,
because I may not touch one’s face again
or hear another’s laugh.
for all I’ve lost: the stink of London town,
the cry of hawkers in my native tongue,
an English tavern’s simple fare, warm beer,
an afternoon at the Curtain or the Swan
amongst good friends; though half those good friends gone
already, and the rest of them as dead
to me as I’ve become to all the world,
because I may not touch one’s face again
or hear another’s laugh.
And still, I hope,
and the hope sits like a lump beneath this poem,
and under every play, it hatches dreams:
that every word might be restored to me.
That my name be cleared, and sounded round the court,
that good King James release me from the bonds
of unjust exile. Oh, let it be James
that hefts the crown, and not some specious wretch
who wins the throne by murder.
and under every play, it hatches dreams:
that every word might be restored to me.
That my name be cleared, and sounded round the court,
that good King James release me from the bonds
of unjust exile. Oh, let it be James
that hefts the crown, and not some specious wretch
who wins the throne by murder.
For my hope,
it is the smallest thing, a captured bird
that beats against the bars with beak and wing
and often breaks itself, exhausted, frail.
The Queen must die, that I might tell the tale.
that beats against the bars with beak and wing
and often breaks itself, exhausted, frail.
The Queen must die, that I might tell the tale.
My hope is threaded to that soft word,
home
,
though home is a foreign country to me now,
a fabled kingdom where I cannot tread
because I am a ghost, and must be dead.
But do not kill the hope that I might breathe
some mist on the glass my mother shows my mouth,
or stand once more to savour every smell
that permeates the hall of my father’s house:
new leather, shoe wax, iron, elbow grease.
home
,
though home is a foreign country to me now,
a fabled kingdom where I cannot tread
because I am a ghost, and must be dead.
But do not kill the hope that I might breathe
some mist on the glass my mother shows my mouth,
or stand once more to savour every smell
that permeates the hall of my father’s house:
new leather, shoe wax, iron, elbow grease.
Where I am staying now, the smell of fish
assaults me awake each dawn. The merchants’ clothes
grow less peculiar daily. Random bells
become my certainties. Though there is heat
in every square and pavement, every voice
raised in a bet or bargain, still I keep
watch for more English weather. Sudden rain.
assaults me awake each dawn. The merchants’ clothes
grow less peculiar daily. Random bells
become my certainties. Though there is heat
in every square and pavement, every voice
raised in a bet or bargain, still I keep
watch for more English weather. Sudden rain.
Friend, send me word. If I could slip ashore
and live in secret on some quiet estate
far from the eyes of London, let me learn.
The Queen has the best of doctors, and my hope
is struggling to breathe. Help me return.
and live in secret on some quiet estate
far from the eyes of London, let me learn.
The Queen has the best of doctors, and my hope
is struggling to breathe. Help me return.
Doctors, I said. The night I wrote those words
I fell into a fever. As if the pen
reminded my body of an ancient trick
to provoke the care of others, I fell sick.
I fell into a fever. As if the pen
reminded my body of an ancient trick
to provoke the care of others, I fell sick.
The Latin from which ‘delirium’ derives
kept me awake all night:
out of the furrow
,
vexed as a hare that’s tortured mad with spring,
or mad, just mad, with nothing, nobody,
kept me awake all night:
out of the furrow
,
vexed as a hare that’s tortured mad with spring,
or mad, just mad, with nothing, nobody,
short in the breath and long in sweat, a jerk
out of the straight-ploughed earth, out of my mind
for the cooling touch, for the whisper at my bed,
for the
Try some soup
, for the
How did you sleep, my love?
out of the straight-ploughed earth, out of my mind
for the cooling touch, for the whisper at my bed,
for the
Try some soup
, for the
How did you sleep, my love?
For how do you sleep with Death camped by the door,
and the night as long and cold as a drawn sword?
and the night as long and cold as a drawn sword?
They have not come for me. They have not come.
Oh, bile.
I throw up till there’s nothing left,
sick to my stomach of regret. Each curse
I damn on others, damning only me,
condemned to the long death of obscurity
when all I had created’s inside out
and me expelled – a fact I can’t digest.
I damn on others, damning only me,
condemned to the long death of obscurity
when all I had created’s inside out
and me expelled – a fact I can’t digest.
Oh, hold me, mop my brow, my love. But, no,
some seven hundred days have passed alone
and nourishment is more than tavern soup,
or chicken wrangled off the bone.
some seven hundred days have passed alone
and nourishment is more than tavern soup,
or chicken wrangled off the bone.
The man
who should bring cash and letters hasn’t come.
I am forgotten, stuffed in Europe’s boot,
and starved, my hopeless stomach shrinks to stone,
admitting nothing, no one. What is thrown
into this rented bowl is only bile,
and the wine that washed it down.
I am forgotten, stuffed in Europe’s boot,
and starved, my hopeless stomach shrinks to stone,
admitting nothing, no one. What is thrown
into this rented bowl is only bile,
and the wine that washed it down.
Anatomize
this fever: boiling rage not shouted out,
expressed in the quiet overheating cage
of a soul whose spirit languishes repressed
by a time too ignorant to hear, or see
what every human being is in heart:
intelligent, divinely conscious, free.
expressed in the quiet overheating cage
of a soul whose spirit languishes repressed
by a time too ignorant to hear, or see
what every human being is in heart:
intelligent, divinely conscious, free.
Yet frail, still. For the shivering that plagues
this clammy skin is mortal fear, for me.
this clammy skin is mortal fear, for me.
God’s wounds, how easy it would be to die.
To collapse against this bartered door unheard
and not a creature come for days. No sound
except for the sainted and persistent flies
that with their buzz persuade me I’m alive.
To collapse against this bartered door unheard
and not a creature come for days. No sound
except for the sainted and persistent flies
that with their buzz persuade me I’m alive.
And should I be found, slumped cold, oh, not a word
of blessing on the stranger’s grave. And years
gone by, what would you say? I disappeared.
of blessing on the stranger’s grave. And years
gone by, what would you say? I disappeared.
Beyond your powers to save. Dead anyway.
Oh, Lord. I need to get me out of here.
Oh, Lord. I need to get me out of here.
Some three days in, my brain boiled up like stock,
I drag myself, wrapped up in sheets, downstairs
to scare the landlord’s daughter. ‘
Spettro!
’ she gasps,
knocked by the sight of me into a chair,
then up, remembers herself, and helps me sit:
brings wine, and bread, and flaps about the door,
wishing her parents home. ‘Don’t you dare die.
What’s wrong with you?’ she asks, in savage French.
I drag myself, wrapped up in sheets, downstairs
to scare the landlord’s daughter. ‘
Spettro!
’ she gasps,
knocked by the sight of me into a chair,
then up, remembers herself, and helps me sit:
brings wine, and bread, and flaps about the door,
wishing her parents home. ‘Don’t you dare die.
What’s wrong with you?’ she asks, in savage French.
And I forget pretence; my native tongue,
too burdened with disease to hide itself,
spits out, ‘What kind of illness does one get
from swallowing the world’s neglect? How do
the symptoms manifest?’
too burdened with disease to hide itself,
spits out, ‘What kind of illness does one get
from swallowing the world’s neglect? How do
the symptoms manifest?’
She swears, ‘
Inglese!
’
Wondrously – how the fevered mind expands! –
then crosses herself. Flits out into the square,
a songbird suddenly freed.
then crosses herself. Flits out into the square,
a songbird suddenly freed.
I grip the bread,
smear it with butter, salt, gulp down the wine
and fall into dreams of deportation, cast
adrift in my queasy stomach.
and fall into dreams of deportation, cast
adrift in my queasy stomach.
She returns
to find me asleep on elbows, bathed in sun
from the open casement, hair at the temples wet
as though I’ve been baptised. Her mother wide
behind her,
from the open casement, hair at the temples wet
as though I’ve been baptised. Her mother wide
behind her,
‘You are English, Louis Le Doux?’
‘I am a child of all the world,’ I say,
expansively, half drunk, and half undone
by days of throwing up. ‘Check, if you will,
my Italian blood.’ I cough, my handkerchief
catching the finest spray. ‘See? Marcus Lexus,
a Roman soldier, garrisoned in Kent,
lifted his leg across a Kentish maid,
herself of Viking stock. Norwegian eyes.’
I blink my heritage. ‘Though the blue in mine
is buried beneath French conquest – a Gallic shade
fruited from Norman chestnut. And who knows
what branch of Turkish empire, Asian slave
or native African is written there
in a litany of humpings?’ I thrust the rag
towards them, though they shrink from inspecting it.
‘Ladies, I’m from the world, and so are you.’
expansively, half drunk, and half undone
by days of throwing up. ‘Check, if you will,
my Italian blood.’ I cough, my handkerchief
catching the finest spray. ‘See? Marcus Lexus,
a Roman soldier, garrisoned in Kent,
lifted his leg across a Kentish maid,
herself of Viking stock. Norwegian eyes.’
I blink my heritage. ‘Though the blue in mine
is buried beneath French conquest – a Gallic shade
fruited from Norman chestnut. And who knows
what branch of Turkish empire, Asian slave
or native African is written there
in a litany of humpings?’ I thrust the rag
towards them, though they shrink from inspecting it.
‘Ladies, I’m from the world, and so are you.’
I’ve no idea how much they understood.
The presence of English was assault enough.
The presence of English was assault enough.
‘You have to leave this house.’
‘Then I will die,’
I say, with far less drama than I might.
‘But I will go. It is your house.’ I push
myself up on the table, and at once
collapse to the floor like laundry.
‘But I will go. It is your house.’ I push
myself up on the table, and at once
collapse to the floor like laundry.
‘Apologies.
Perhaps you’ll help me to the door.’ They run
to lift me by the armpits (pity them)
and do my bidding; I am light as bones,
and the hefty mother hefts me off my feet
on the left-hand side. The daughter breathes on me
a lunch of peaches. ‘Woah! I am not dressed,’
I remember, coiling the sheet about my loins.
to lift me by the armpits (pity them)
and do my bidding; I am light as bones,
and the hefty mother hefts me off my feet
on the left-hand side. The daughter breathes on me
a lunch of peaches. ‘Woah! I am not dressed,’
I remember, coiling the sheet about my loins.
‘We’ll bring your clothes down presently,’ the whale
of a woman replies. ‘Let’s get you outside first.’
‘But my things. My trunk.’ I stop them at the door.
‘Can you send my trunk to—’
of a woman replies. ‘Let’s get you outside first.’
‘But my things. My trunk.’ I stop them at the door.
‘Can you send my trunk to—’
Here, the comedy
collapses. Christ, I can’t imagine where
my trunk might safely be received. What friend
would take it in, and me, except at home?
Some leafy, rutted lane in England’s shires:
the vision, clear as through a polished glass,
comes bridled with a shiver as I feel
the wind in the hedgerows, hear the clattering cart
that hauls my books and bones the final miles.
my trunk might safely be received. What friend
would take it in, and me, except at home?
Some leafy, rutted lane in England’s shires:
the vision, clear as through a polished glass,
comes bridled with a shiver as I feel
the wind in the hedgerows, hear the clattering cart
that hauls my books and bones the final miles.
Then heat returns, and I am in the square,
undressed and homeless, manhandled by girls.
undressed and homeless, manhandled by girls.
‘
Scusi
,’ I say, embarrassed by the tears
that squeeze their way past every last defence
and fall, now, freely.
Scusi
,’ I say, embarrassed by the tears
that squeeze their way past every last defence
and fall, now, freely.
Melt the landlord’s daughter.
She leads me like a lamb back to the cool
of the kitchen, sits me down, and takes my head
on to her bosom, which I wet with grief.
Her mother tuts Italian. ‘He can’t stay here.’
of the kitchen, sits me down, and takes my head
on to her bosom, which I wet with grief.
Her mother tuts Italian. ‘He can’t stay here.’
‘We cannot simply throw him on the street.
Have some compassion.’
Have some compassion.’
‘Who is he, anyway?
Pretending to be French. Dishonesty
is not a pleasant house guest.’
is not a pleasant house guest.’
‘Mother, please.
He understands Italian.’ She takes my cheeks
between her palms and looks into my eyes
as kindly as a sister. ‘Tell me, sir,
why the great sorrow? And why disguise yourself?’
between her palms and looks into my eyes
as kindly as a sister. ‘Tell me, sir,
why the great sorrow? And why disguise yourself?’
She presses her handkerchief into my hands
and sits beside me as I dry my face.
and sits beside me as I dry my face.
‘I’ve never told my story,’ I explain,
‘except to ink and paper.’
‘except to ink and paper.’
‘Then you must,’
she urges me. ‘An untold story sits
like rust in the heart. It makes the blood go sour.
Press on.’
like rust in the heart. It makes the blood go sour.
Press on.’
So, hesitantly, I begin.
‘At home – and I still call it home, although
I’m almost two years exiled – I wrote plays.’
I’m almost two years exiled – I wrote plays.’
‘Exiled,’ she breathes. ‘So, so. There is the grief.
Go on.’
Go on.’
‘I wrote a comedy. A farce.
Most popular. The protagonist so extreme
in his two-faced treachery, you’d have to laugh
or despair at humanity.’
in his two-faced treachery, you’d have to laugh
or despair at humanity.’
‘This is a tale
that promises to stretch to suppertime,’
the mother sighs. ‘All poets are the same.
Enamoured with the beauty of their words,
they spin three yards when half an inch will do.
Skip quickly to your banishment. What crime
have you committed?’
the mother sighs. ‘All poets are the same.
Enamoured with the beauty of their words,
they spin three yards when half an inch will do.
Skip quickly to your banishment. What crime
have you committed?’
‘Why, the crime of truth,’
I say. ‘For every fiction has a core
of honesty. The seed of the idea
plants in the mind from life. This “character” –
though I changed his name, location, race and creed –
was a man my friend had worked with. And his tales,
those tavern entertainments, spun the plot
that then became my play. I didn’t dream
the dangers of my profession. I was glad
only to see the theatre glutted out,
the play a staunch success.’
of honesty. The seed of the idea
plants in the mind from life. This “character” –
though I changed his name, location, race and creed –
was a man my friend had worked with. And his tales,
those tavern entertainments, spun the plot
that then became my play. I didn’t dream
the dangers of my profession. I was glad
only to see the theatre glutted out,
the play a staunch success.’
‘What of this man?’
the daughter asks. I wish I knew her name;
protecting myself from that was purposeless,
and I am half in love with her already,
for caring enough to ask me who I am.
‘He recognised himself?’
protecting myself from that was purposeless,
and I am half in love with her already,
for caring enough to ask me who I am.
‘He recognised himself?’
‘He must have done.
Although, I told myself, this was a fiction
and, therefore, how could he find fault with it?
Stupid.’ I stop. Once more, I’m almost floored
by the weight and depth of my own ignorance.
and, therefore, how could he find fault with it?
Stupid.’ I stop. Once more, I’m almost floored
by the weight and depth of my own ignorance.
‘What happened?’ she asks, as gentle as a breeze
lifting a tattered poster from the wall
for an event long past, and half forgotten. ‘Then?’
lifting a tattered poster from the wall
for an event long past, and half forgotten. ‘Then?’
I skip the coining, and the failed betrayal.
Speak only of ‘invented’ blasphemies.
Speak only of ‘invented’ blasphemies.
The mother has turned her back, and has a hare
stripped of its skin and on the chopping block.
stripped of its skin and on the chopping block.
‘A fishy tale,’ she says. ‘If they were lies
then you could surely say so.’ And the knife
chops off a haunch.
then you could surely say so.’ And the knife
chops off a haunch.
I flinch. ‘In England now,
religion is the tetchiest of notes
that one might pipe on. Since our Virgin Queen
passed the point of bearing issue … laws have changed.
Even to be accused of heresy
is taken by the courts to signal guilt.’
that one might pipe on. Since our Virgin Queen
passed the point of bearing issue … laws have changed.
Even to be accused of heresy
is taken by the courts to signal guilt.’
‘My mother’s right,’ the daughter says, as soft
as a pillow I could expire on. ‘Surely lies
could be turned out and booted down the street.
Be honest, please. Was there some truth in it?’
as a pillow I could expire on. ‘Surely lies
could be turned out and booted down the street.
Be honest, please. Was there some truth in it?’
Her eyes search into mine so tenderly
I cannot think of lying.
I cannot think of lying.
‘As a student
they trained me to debate theology;
a habit I enjoyed. Sometimes with friends
I openly expressed opinions which
I’d not want written down.’ She turns her face,
ashamed for me. ‘But who when they are young
is prudent every moment? Which of us
can claim great wisdom when we’re primed with wine
and the company of those we love and trust?
If I have sinned – and I confess I have –
it is against myself. I’m in the hands
of God completely and, by his design,
I never sinned enough that I should die.
Or I’d be buried now.’
a habit I enjoyed. Sometimes with friends
I openly expressed opinions which
I’d not want written down.’ She turns her face,
ashamed for me. ‘But who when they are young
is prudent every moment? Which of us
can claim great wisdom when we’re primed with wine
and the company of those we love and trust?
If I have sinned – and I confess I have –
it is against myself. I’m in the hands
of God completely and, by his design,
I never sinned enough that I should die.
Or I’d be buried now.’
She takes both hands
and reads me quickly, scans me like a script
to find her part.
to find her part.
‘And where would you be now
if not consigned to exile?’
‘Why, in love.’
The shock to both of us has cleft the air
into a silence, following the thud
of her mother’s cleaver, finished dismembering.
Was it my need for rest that brought that word
out of my lungs? Or just the strange relief
of finding kindness in a world of stones?
into a silence, following the thud
of her mother’s cleaver, finished dismembering.
Was it my need for rest that brought that word
out of my lungs? Or just the strange relief
of finding kindness in a world of stones?
‘You barely know my name,’ she says.
‘It’s true.’
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