Of Amsterdam, Vietnam, Boddam (22 Poems) Poem by Sheena Blackhall

1. Existentialist
Where do I live?
In the space between Monday and Sunday
In the retina of the crow's eye
I am a skin of prickles under a blue balloon
Always, the salt spills.
The cupboard's shadows Fall across the floor


2.In Rembrandt's House (Museum Het Rembrandthuis)

Four storeys high. A wooden, spiral stair
The floors are deal, glazed tile or stone with marble
The ceiling beams are painted red and ochre
Turpentine, oil, a palette on the table

Strange inventory...a Nero, assegais
Most striking is the master's small box bed
Rembrandt and Saskia slept sitting up
To stop the blood from flooding to his head


3. Japanese Pool in the Trossachs

Six orange fish swim in a perfect mirror
Black water, jade leaves floating
Like Samurai shields across a bolt of silk

Above them, a plum tree umbrella's
Shielding red hot pokers from the breeze
Flower heads nod like Geishas, groomed to please
Peering intently down into the dark pool
Seeing their colour in the bright scales of the fish


4.The Wheatfield
`
Close to the time of the scythe he painted the wheatfield
Gathering crows, dark skies above the corn
A dead-end path that led through the wheat to nowhere
Drawn by one who thought he should not have been born

The grain is a heavy burden for the land
Its glorious harvest cut down at a price
And still the wheeling crows in the thundery heavens
Croak like widows of doom, give sorrow voice
Two brothers lie in the burial ground of Anvers
One by the hand of fate, and one by choice.


5.Hide & Seek

Her father fought at the Western front for the Kaiser
A quiet man, in the jam and jelly trade.
In Frankfurt, she'd sledged in Winter

Walked in a city of trees, a Jewish sapling
In Amsterdam, she hop-scotched on the pavement
Turned cart-wheels, practised hand-stands
Could not whistle.

Then, Hitler governed Holland
She wore the star of David on her breast
Parks, trams and cinemas were verboten.
One day the hide and seek began in earnest
A chamber pot in a hat-box
A diary, hanky, curlers, schoolbooks, comb
Moortje, her little kitten, left in the rain.

The Secret Annexe, up leg-breaker stairs
No skylarking, a life of hush and tip-toe.
Outgrowing vests and shoes, she danced in the dark
A budding ballerina, fed on potatoes.

At fifteen years, she took a ride to the country
A cattle-truck provided by the Nazis
Nightmare searchlights, an hour's march to barracks
Her mother gassed, then on to Bergen-Belsen
No time to grieve, no rituals observed.
Winter. Hunger. Cold. Starvation. Death.
Now, her house again is a place of silence
Crowds file speechless through denuded rooms
Where absences are present in the walls
Within this hidden house, half-way from horror
The TV monitors show matchstick bones
Bulldozed into the pit, with one girl's dreams


6. Cher Ami

Over the battle's charnel house you flew
Flight was your sanity, the unstained clouds
Hearing the beating of your petite heart,
A Swiss watch movement rising through the shrouds
Of rain and rifle fire, a feathered hope
Soaring above the makeshift morgue of mud

Give me your power and courage, Cher Ami
Your blind, unswerving grit to meet each day
The small defeats, the drabness, the ennui
That dwindling, withering years may bring my way

We stretch a wing to fly, because we must
Pigeon and human, pecking the world's crust.


7.The Romanesque:

The Ritzy Romanesque
Is a photogenic feast of a veg.

Its fractal geometry, is a cosmic drollery
Its nests of vaults and pyramids, Pythagorean.

It's a supermodel, out-mossing Moss in radioactive green
This crunchy, nutty, knobbly clone of selves
This church of spiral spheroids, psychedelic oddity
It clones its parents, grandparents
A small, exploding orchard of family trees
A vortex of golden angles

Seeds of a sunflower
Seeds of a cactus
Bracts of a pine cone
All indulge in cosmic computation
Enjoy the perpetual flutter
The Bingo factor of Fibonacci numbers
Hitting the golden jackpot every time

Its cousin, the Brussels sprout
Climbs up its own Maypole
Rattles its silent bells

Its cousin, the cabbage, a bloated ball of coats
Peels off its top, a striptease no one notes
Except the worm

Cavolo Romanesque, little Italian quirk
Your turrets, pagodas are complex
As blood vessels on the lungs
Are exquisite as snowflakes,
Glorious as veins on September leaves
*Golden Angle: 137.5degrees.


8.The Spanish High-Inquisitor (Amsterdam Dungeon)

I'm the Spanish High Inquisitor, I do enjoy my gore
I'm a host who's most considerate.
Would you like a little more
Anguish, terror or discomfort? Would you care to take a look?
I have tongs, hot pokers, fetters. Screw, and disemboweling hook.

Have you got a little problem?
Are you rather overweight?
My live rats upon your tummy will chew everything you ate!

Perhaps a tiny manicure? Those nails are rather long.
I could whip them out completely with one flourish of my prong.
Your joints are stiff and creaky? Step in...lie upon your back
They'll be supple as elastic when I stretch you on my rack.

You are tongue-tied with confusion?
When I chain you to the wall
With a twist, a yank, a holler, you'll have no tongue left at all!

I'm a Spanish High Inquisitor,
I'll gralloch you in style
I'll rip out all your entrails, and I'll do it with a smile.

You're a spineless, chinless wonder?
You are gutless, too high-strung?
To enjoy my hospitality.. too old, too weak, too young
To step in to my dungeon where the living fall apart?
Mind, I never pull my punches...I just haven't got the heart!

My favourite guests are witches.
I like them quite high-strung
Those crones keep me in stitches
When they're on the bonfire flung

I just do my sacred duty.
Heretics should all be fried
When they claim their God's the true God,
My stock answer is 'He lied'


9.Sea Ripples

One morning, feeling tired and old
Chill in the soul, all prospects, cold,
Down by the sea I walked. Fool's gold
Of sunlight, with its alchemy
Made every lustrous wave unfold
Its curling rigging to uphold
The sign that through each ripple rolled
The joy of life! I stepped away
Rejoicing, gladdened and consoled.


10.The Rossebuurt, Sex Workers District

Brothels, clubs and sex shops, are the place of work
For the world's oldest profession,

Women of every race, clock on to their shift
They begin by displaying their wares in red-fringed windows.
Their tools are suspenders, thongs, white lace, red silk
And lust, which drives their clients to close the deal

Working girls, they haggle, business-like.
Drawn curtains in a booth means 'on the job'

Others, on a break, swivel their butts on bar-stools
Fiddle with straps, scratch, stretch like leisurely zoo creatures
Still more, gyrate their hips mechanically,
Stiletto heels tauten their legs, their lips fake pouts

Their customers, packs of men, both young and old,
Eye them up and down, try for a bargain.
Respectable couples go there seeking shocks
Giggling groups of girls on hen nights, point and stare
Busloads of tourists make the obligatory tour.

The Rossebuurt district's beautiful... old houses
Winding, cobbled streets, and the gothic Oudekerk
Built in another age, when Protestants protested.

The ancient buildings lean at peculiar angles,
Tree-lined canals thrum with music and danger.
Their cosy restaurants, a setting for liaisons.
Here are honest whores.
Window prostitutes in the R.L.D. pay taxes

Their practices are regulated, monitored.
Their health is checked. The police and private bodyguards patrol.
No Hanky-panky here, Unless legit.

Some girls are beautiful as classic sofas.
Others are horse-hair armchairs, oozing stuffing.
Men in a foreign harbour, homesick for wives
Back home, clinch deals with such as these,
Wearing the stretch marks, scars, that make them human.


11.The Courtesan

Legs like a frog, she jumps
From one man's bed to the other

Voila! Now she's a crane
White, unruffled feathers round her neck

Unattainable look...she's up on her high horse
Everyman mounts her. None can rein her in.


12.Venustempel, Damrak, Amsterdam

The sex museum could do with a lick and a spit
Of elbow grease. Like visiting a rest room
Of embalmed hookers, sitting in frozen poses
Beavers covered with dandruff, dust, or both

Prosthetic boobs and buttocks are glued to the wall
A plastic anus farts as a boy walks by
Like stuffed game, on display's a dominatrix
Rubber and whips and mask, a Dutch Madonna
A chastity belt from Embro's, heavy metal
Like knight's scold's bridle for the nether parts
A flasher leaps from the dark, a Jack from his box
Plastic penis aiming to fire blanks
In a shrine to the Marquis de Sade
The tethered mannequin's corsets need a launder
The crowd's respectful. Sex is serious shit

A Japanese student peers at a silk vagina
As if writing a PhD on intimate areas
The ticket seller's heavy-jowled and jaded
The brand names change, the merchandise remains.


13.Stoat in September

I met a stoat in September, tipped on his side in the road
His mouth ajar, baring its delicate pincers
His face was heart-shaped, russet.
His black- tipped tail was soft as summer moss
His elegant pelt reflected the flashing sun
He could have been asleep, legs curled like a forest foetus
Snuggling into itself, but for the jewels that spilled
From the cream purse of his belly
A string of pearls and rubies

Pale as the thistledown blown across the dyke
Red as the rose-hips drooping above his ears
The currency of all that made him vital
That differentiated him from a painted page

A careless wheel had squandered him
And not even noticed the profligacy.
Now he will fade like an old engraving
Like a leaf from the sycamore
Swirling away like smoke in the spendthrift year


14.The Empty Coracle

Something's in me that hungers
To claim its space in the air
At one with the dappled birch leaves
And the sun that lingers there

I go for my soul's refreshment
And sit between two pines
Where the mossy stones lie quiet
And the fiery squirrel dines

The flesh's shrill insistence
To conquer, gain, create
The human need for approval
Drops off like needless freight

So, like an empty coracle
In the cradle of a pool
The rustle of waves runs through me
And leaf-speak, slow and cool

Something's in me that hungers
To walk in ways less trod
Where wind, wave, light are brothers
And every sunbeam's God.


15.At Oosterdokskade

A duck is drawing a V on the canal
Planes etch furrows of white across the sky
The morning trams slip on their metal shoes
The poplar trees are calm, and so am I

A pair of gulls splay flippers on a rail
Leaning across the pier as lovers do
Six flurried seabirds fan their snowy tails
A long-necked swan, disdainful, sails in view
This is the land where shopping's done by ship
Under the boats, the cross-hatched waves are black
Seas are these merchant traders' motorways
Water, carries the city's wealth on its back.


16.Canals in Amsterdam

By day, the Amstel's grey.
By night Canals are waterways of light
For bistros, streetlamps, bars and moon

Transform what's dreich and drab at noon
While in the country, flat and wet
The draining arteries forget
Their daytime, bland, lacklustre scenes
And rock themselves in starry dreams.


17.Vietnam/Boddam

Monkeys, mangos, pineapples, bats
South East Asia.. the China Seas
Tangerines, elephants, litchis, nuts
Monsoon rains and banana trees

Seagulls, rabbits and slippery seals
Herring in oatmeal, Cullen skink
A fish and chipper for take-home meals,
North Sea gates, and a dram to drink


18.Vietnam/Boddam

In Boddam, the wedding date's fixed
By hotel, church, and bride's availability
The posted gift card, details the bridal wish-list
Brand and type of toasters, fridges, beds,

In Boddam, on hen and stag nights, folk get bladdered
Blow-out in Barcelona or Amsterdam
Then back to final fittings, hirings, pinnings
The groom in kilt, the bride in veil and train
Children from previous marriages may attend.

This is the age of serial monogamy,
Let those who have been sundered, wed again.
In Boddam, the groom at the altar awaits the bride
Thumbs behind his sporran, watching the door.

They'll promise to stick together in sickness and wealth
Exchange rings, kiss, step out to sign the book.
They'll speed off to speeches, blue jokes and confetti
Past pipers and flowers, off to the feasting and dancing.

After the pricey honeymoon, in Corfu or Paree
Home to their bungalow facing the granite sea

Whereas in Vietnam the astrologer decrees
The most propitious time for nuptial bliss
When bride and groom should wear the silk A6 Dai
With Khan Dong head-dress, solemn and traditional
The groom comes bearing gifts to his own wedding
Vast umbrellas, sway above the procession
Of lacquered boxes swathed in cloths of red
Within them... betel, cakes, roast pig, and tea
Laden with fruit and jewels, the bridal dowry.

The groom must go to kneel at his in-laws' house,
To seek ancestral blessing for this union
Incense is burned, the couple bow to their parents
Thank them for their protection along life's way.
The bride steps out to visit her husband's home,
The ritual's re-enacted, blessings given.
Firecrackers, not confetti, flower in the day.
Candles are lit. The mother of the groom
Bejewels the bride. The couple bows to their parents,
Serve them tea, then via the Buddhist temple,
On to the feast.

Red envelopes of cash, pushed in the dragon's mouth
Glasses filled with rice, or bees' nest wine
'Chuc suc khoe! ' the guests cry, drinking the sweet elixir.
'To your health! ' Another marriage launched.

In Boddam or Vietnam, however the boat is built,
The sails must be lashed tight to face life's storms.

.
19.Coffee Shop, Amsterdam

On the bridge above a canal the colour of dishwater
A stoned crocodile rises or submerges into granite

In the coffee shop a Rasta man, wearing a tea-cosy hat,
His matted dreadlocks slumped on his back like snakes
Hugs the crotch of his jeans, his eyes slit shut
Chains from his trousers hanging round his knees

A boy steps in, his eyes two pools of black
The bliss he puff's is fake as knock-off chic
The menu's glued to the table in case it walks

White Widow, Shiva, Thai, Jamaican hash
The bar stool vinyl's ripped. It's the colour of treacle.
The Ganja-man's a totem-pole of silence.


20.Flotsam

Rain pockmarks the water's painted face
A dancing bottle bobs around a pole
Spiders hang their curtains on a bridge
A paunchy cormorant slumps on a buoy

Bjorn, a punt, is banging on a post
A heron on a houseboat blinks and craps

Berthed on the canal's De Posenboot
The boat where straying cats receive protection
Puss, minus boots, sprawls on a rattan chair.


21.The Water-Bull

Have you seen the sea
On a wild night of storm
Pounding the cliffs with its white horns in the moonlight?

It is black and raging
Its muscles swell and quiver Its nostrils flare with foam.
Again and again it lunges
Its great flanks glistering
Its salty shuddering loins cover the shore

Sated, it sinks back down
The wind abates
Back to its fathomless byre at the world's core.


22.Absences

Because they were Sephardic or Ashkenazi
Because they lit the Hannukah lamp, or didn't
But most of all, simply because they were
A maniac decreed they'd cease to be
Six millions absences. Human sand
In the black, malignant hour-glass of the Reich