Mandy Coe Poems

No and stop and stay are meaningless.
Clothes are not quick enough,
It is ridiculous
how I long for the rough wool collar of a coat,
the tight brim of a hat, the cold grip of shoes.

I was clumsy when I started;
a woman shrieked and dropped a plate,
a man dropped to his knees.
I hate the gritty suck of concrete
but have grown to love the slow swim of glass.
If I am tempted by floors I will be done for.

I try to remember what falling meant:
the explosion of breath,
a splintering of bone, the hammer
of earth swinging up.

If I lean forward and close my eyes
the world spins, passing through me like indigestion.
A tree x-rays my lungs, a blackbird sings
as it slides through my ribs.
...

Drunks and dogs don't like it.
If you are caught staring, it is no good pretending
to check your watch or study the ceiling.
These are signs of a novice.

Simply shift your gaze
to a mid-distance point. Cultivating a light frown
will give the impression of deep thought.

For most sentient beings, a stare
carries voltage. The subject will sense
anything from a mild buzz to a jolt. Other symptoms
include increased heart-rate, chills
and hair becoming electro-statically charged.

Staring at a part of a person's body
leaves you open to a high wattage stare-back.
Hostile stare-volleys
are to be avoided in confined spaces.

Babies under the age of three
experience stares as noise.
They can be woken from a deep sleep by a stare
and will look around the room to identify its source.

Train windows are useful for bending stares
round corners. But only heavily misted glass
prevents them from being sensed.

Keep stares short.
Set a maximum distance between you and the subject.
Tip: gazing and staring are two different things.
It is vital to remember this in relationships, especially
when your partner is naked.
...

Cows are impossibly heavy,
they are the dark matter
that astrophysicists talk of.
All the weight of the universe
can be accounted for, if
you include cows.

It is this weight that splays
hooves deep into the mud,
draws milk down to bursting
udders, makes cow pats slap
the earth with uncanny force.

Even milked-out
they move heavily.
Arching knuckled backs
under the sting of the auctioneer's stick,
they buckle and stagger
as if their very bones
were recast from bedsteads,
rusted park railings

To see a cow hoisted
into the air by one hind leg
is to witness
the death of a planet.
...

It is life enhancing.
It doesn't chat you up.
You have to make it.

A cheese and pickle sandwich
is never disappointing.
You don't lie there thinking:
Am I too fat?
Too fertile?
Too insecure?

Your thoughts are clear,
your choices simple:
to cut it in half
or not to cut it in half,
how thin to slice the cheese
and where you should place the pickle.

From a cheese and pickle sandwich
you do not expect flowers,
poems and acts of adoration.
You expect what you get:
cheese... and pickle.

You want, you eat,
and afterwards you have eaten.
No lying awake resentful,
listening to it snore.

Safe snacks.
It comes recommended.
...

Along the busy pavement
lots of busy feet.
Stand and look and listen
then cross the busy street.
Popping in the busy shop
to buy some food to eat.
Hopping on the busy bus
and wobbling to a seat.
Along the busy pavement,
along the busy street,
hopping, shopping never stopping,
busy, busy feet.
...

When I dance
my blood runs like a river can,
my feet fly like the birds can,
my heart beats like a drum can.
Because when I dance I can, can
do anything
when I dance.

Flying over rooftops
I see my town below me
where everybody knows me,
where all my problems throw me,
where heavy feet can slow me.
But nobody can, can
stop me
when I dance.

My blood runs a race.
My feet fly in space.
My heart beats the pace.
Because when I dance I can, can
do anything
when I dance.
...

Dad keeps mum's favourite dress
deep in the bottom of the ottoman.
Sometimes, when he is at work
I stand listening to the tick of the clock
then go upstairs.

And propping up
the squeaky wooden lid, I dig through
layers of rough, winter blankets
feeling for that touch of silk.
The blue whisper of it cool
against my cheek.

Other times � the school-test times,
and dad-gets-home-too-late
to-say-goodnight times �
I wrap the arms of the dress around me,
breathing in a smell, faint as dried flowers.

I remember how she twirled around
� like a swirl of sky.

When I am old enough I will wear it.
Pulling up the white zip,
I'll laugh and spin,
calling out to my daughter:
How do I look?
...

She wished she could fly.
She wished for friends
who were birds and flowers.
She wished she wore a silver frock.

She wished she could speak
with a magic tongue.
She wished so hard.
She wished so hard.

Now she works
in a baker's shop.
She wears a white coat
and a netted cap.

She speaks the language
of man and dad
and at the end of each day
her feet hurt.

But she carries her baby
up to the stars. She sings to him
in the language of flowers.
He reaches to touch her silver wings.
...

Danke, merci, gracias
for the heat of the sun,
the kindness of teaching,
the smell of fresh bread.

Diolch, nkosi, shur-nur-ah-gah-lem
for the sound of sand,
children singing,
the book and the pen.

Dhannyabad, blagodaria, hvala
for the blue of small flowers,
the bobbing seal's head,
the taste of clean water.

Shukran, rahmat, shukriya
for the stripe of the zebra,
the song of the chaffinch,
the gentleness of snails.

Mh goi, abarka, xièxiè
for the length of time,
the loveliness of eyelashes,
the arc of the ball.

Dziekuje, abrigado, shakkran
for the excitement of falling,
the stillness of night,
for my heart beating, thank you.
...

On the telegraph pole a seabird perches
white against black cloud.
Centring the maypole of conversations
it transforms our calls. Hello? Hello?

Words pass up its pink legs, behind
red-ringed eyes, through the yellow bill,
down every feather's quill and feather-edge,
until the fractal distances connect

and we shout over our shoulder:
It's a seabird on the phone! A seabird wants to speak to you.
And raindrops glide to join at each wire's dip
and growth rings

in the pinewood pole
dry and crack as we press plastic
to our ears, frowning:
Who is this? Speak up!
...