Roz Kaveney's Blog, page 7

A sort of meditation on talent, and genius, and self-assurance. Prompted by Mapplethorpe

Fame spurs magnetic gravity dark pull
Scorpion whip stings poison gets us high.
Goal glimpsed revolves in mineshaft or the sky
Strings nerve to Braggart knowing never fool.

You know them when you see them. Glitter dust
Features in eyes before their work is done
Chosen beloved be Mused. Not everyone
Who does good work. Theirs is the work we trust

That we see coming fated as a train
On iron tracks that rushes swift as light
Of rocket starshower. Burns out? It might.
Leave gold ash glory. Something will remain

Envy bite this. Work's good but theirs is more.
Rest cannot know we last but they are sure

I've started going to BFI FLARE and there will be reports, but not yet. In the meantime...

ON VIEWING 'MAPPLETHORPE' at BFI FLARE

When we cry for the dead, it is ourselves
We cry for. Images in black and white
Flicker through tears. Sharp bone pale
In the night
Across the years. His memory on shelves

Refrigerated so that it might last
So that the silver printing cannot fade.
Sweat stank on leather each time he got laid
Penis like tender orchid curve carved mast

He celebrated fame and flower and fuck
Worked as a demon with dark angel hair
Love sex chose models and they are all there
Ambition art cash checkerboarded luck.

Faustfisted bargain passion love and fame
Boiled monkey skull will always call its claim.

An election poem written in compassion

HRC

We have become the thing that we abhorred.
We did worse things that they might not do worst.
Vile things they planned to say we uttered first.
And wounded all our friends with blunted sword.

That they might think us bought we took their cash.
To gain respect from killers blooded hands.
We hang and torture while the gallows stands.
To tear it down too soon would be too rash.

While murder smiles and prays and thirsts for blood
Beloved of many we must match his pace
And hide regret behind a smiling face.
Dissimulate that one day we'll do good.

We have not earned and yet we ask your trust.
Believe us bad, they're worse. Be wise. You must.

My black hole gravity waves poem

DARK

Dark in the dark where light has gone to die
like sharks they circle mate their teeth don't shine
all appetite approach pull drag entwine
vastest of things that are the case. We try
to know through observation comprehend
no fact alone escapes to tell in clear
what's done in darkness where things disappear
weigh down so heavy all that's true must bend
And so we see where there can be no sight
awe looms and pulls the strings of real so tight
perhaps this is the image of our end
doom draws together binds distorts consumes.
As dead love eats us whole in dark sad rooms.

My poem for the trans mental health zine Dysphoria

BLUE MONDAY

Over again paws shove. Upon my back
Lie weep am shattered. Blues dog fades my soul
and breaks pride armour sheathing. Like a foal
tottered new legs when young. There is a crack
true mirror over false that I must mend
over again. Skin peels, scars. I must burn
unsightly. Body memories return
bad dream. Past life will never be my friend.
And blues dog is the sad I can't afford
It has my scent although my scent is change
I toss my hair. My clothing I arrange
Style neatly. Lipstick smile the lush curved sword
Cuts world. Snarls hint of teeth. Dog slinks away
Hound on my track. Not this but every day.

My poem for the History Festival Launch

THREE PATHS

There is a path of faith. Humility
Bending to pray. And small acts that are kind
And taking all the comfort you can find
When saying Lord what do you want of me
And sometimes hear a wordless inner
Voice
Mouse whisper or sometimes a thunder chord
Some great CMajor. It is not the Lord
You fear and every day you make the choice
To act as if it were and unconsoled
You live in hope and love and some small trust
That all will be for best. You know it must
For it was promised. There outside of time
Life and eternity one tidy rhyme.

There is a path of law and blood and fear
Of righteous drama. Mercy is a lie.
The greater kindness is that they should die
So sin no more. You will not shed a tear.
Think rather of the innocents misled
Or never born. It is thos would save
You think. For sinners rotten in the grave
You feel no love. Are glad that they are dead.
Nor worry justice mercy love the law
You claim to serve. Tremble. The sin of pride
Makes angels fall and to your soul you lied.
God whom you serve will never know you more.
They do not hear God whisper in each breath
Turn loving kindness into fear and death.

There is a path of honest simple doubt
Faith died or never was. For its own sake
The path of Truth and loving-kindness take
Some do it for their God. You do without.
There's logic to the choice. Do as you would
In the imagined world and not the real
You'd not be stolen from so do not steal
And in cold reason find a spring of good
To water dryness. And do not despise
The godly harmless kind. Fear in the night
We share. They too resist the brutal might
Of killing faith. You see deep in their eyes
Faith's love and doubt's more nearly sibling same
Than those whose worship kills befouls the name

Alan Rickman reads this poem in Truely Madly Deeply

THE DEAD WOMAN (after Neruda)

My love, I shall live on when you are gone.
I hate to say it. Out there in your night
I would be silent. And there is the fight
Blacks beaten men in prison. When the sun
shines as last victory not mine but ours
I must still live forgive me from your grave
For living still when rising like a wave.
Sun warms blind face. If dumb still sing dark hours.
Your death falls tatter red and yellow leaves
rain soak fire burn cold freeze. My broken feet
Stagger from death where you and I would meet.
You wanted strong unbroken one that grieves
walks on. The people march. I am among
them writing singing marching am their song.

Here is a very long autobiographical poem which is amazin...

Here is a very long autobiographical poem which is amazingly triggery because it's about owning and dealing with a bit of my past that includes abuse and cathartic partial revenge.

I was a very bratty twelve-year old. My then best friend's name is obscured to protect the not entirely innocent




A BALLAD OF ABUSE AND REVENGE

Crewcut and tonsured, hands like greedy steaks,
face carved of granite in a constant frown,
he seized our trouser belts and pulled them down
each time. “I flog when anybody breaks

these very few and very simple rules.”
The leather strap was long as his long arm.
He told us flogging would not do us harm
and it was standard in the best of schools.

A text book stolen. The wrong pair of shoes
worn in a classroom. Or scribbled aslant
handwriting should be straight. I really can't
remember all his rules. He'd sometimes choose

one to be flogged for all. Sometimes my friend
slightly less camp than me. And sometimes me.
Peter and I discussed this over tea,
decided all this nonsense had to end.

It fucking hurt. We looked round then said fuck,
we felt quite guilty swearing. We were twelve
A few months less. You can't defend yourself
at that age. You are really out of luck.

We thought we'd change things. Maybe we could kill
headmaster Kevin. No one would believe
two smart queer kids could possibly conceive
that plan. We had no strength so brains and skill,

and watching waiting planning. When he drove
his battered car, he'd scrape along a wall.
What would it take, we thought, to make it fall?
Smiled at each other. Whipping marks fade mauve

then to pale lines. So Monte Cristo's count
became our model. Each and every day
stand by the wall each break and pull away
a little crumbled mortar. No amount

we couldn't scatter walking back to class.
He flogged us still. He also had his pets.
Athletes and jocks. A twelve year old forgets
so much. I know he never touched my arse

except with leather. But I felt his hate
felt flicks of sweat each time the strap would burn.
We listened every time he would return.
He took his favourits running. Came back late.

Worry they might get hurt? Not very much
They were his favourites so they took his cue
He picked on us. So they picked on us too
We smirked and guessed each of them felt his touch

along a thigh. We picked at mortar talked
of books and art and music.We'd compete
smart brainy kids also a bit effete
Started to guess ourselves as what we balked

at quite acknowledging. Our whole careers
started from those long talks. His intellect
my wit. His urge to win, mine to collect
great stacks of fact. Accepted we were queers.

And did not care. Murder was such a sin
we knew that we were damned would go to Hell
just hoped we'd drag him down with us as well.
Anger and pride – damnations all begin

with such. Our catechisms said our souls
were damned by bad intentions carried through
we shrugged and wept a bit as children do.
We picked at cracks and these became small holes.

The end was sudden. In a maths exam
heads down we scribbled and we heard a bang.
We thought if we were caught we'd hang.
He staggered past the window. We thought Damn!

His robes were tatters and the car a wreck
Our faces were the one thing that were straight
And eaten very cold revenge is great
Although we failed to break his fucking neck.

Many years later, when the scandal broke
after his death, a classmate.an MP,
had no idea, or so he said to me,
“I thought he always seemed a decent bloke.”

I wish this were not my job

DAVID BOWIE

We danced. He played. We listened. Down the years
he changed remade himself. The music throb
changes remains. It is the artist's job
to be chameleon. He's dead. Our tears
are for ourselves and how he helped us be
ourselves through change. Let's not talk of his flaws
today – so many. Wash them in applause
For now. I weep he helped me to be free.
Life is, death is, a cavalcade of grief.
We know, we feel, we dance. And then we lose
who made us. So we put on our red shoes.
Lets dance contempt for death, who is the thief
makes life and dancing matter. In the sky
a starman waits. He knows and tells us why.

SOMETIMES i GET VERY ANGRY

FOR A SECRETARY OF STATE

We did not choose to know. He did not lie
Precisely. Talked of overwhelming need
For change. 'If you would garden you must weed'
He never said he wished that these would die.

The old sick lame mad noisy idle queer.
He had long lists as angry statesmen do
You'd never know until he listed you
Except some of your friends would disappear

The social death of never having cash
No fares or shoes to go where people meet
You do not talk or write if you don't eat
Nothing as crude as ovens full of ash.

They'll ask us how. We'll weep. Do not forget
Many might live. There are high lampposts yet.