44. Eileen Thompson

Poet who is very visible to her husband, two greyhounds, and those who read her words

Eileen is a retired teacher and ex-patriot Geordie living in East Yorkshire with her husband and two greyhounds.  She reads and writes poetry in an attempt to make sense of the world and consumes large amounts of genre fiction in order to escape from it.  She likes to use her own experiences as the starting point for her poems and enjoys the challenge of writing in different poetic forms.  She is also rather drawn to writing dramatic monologues as a result of many years heavily involved in amateur dramatics.  Free verse is still something of a mystery to her but she ploughs on regardless!  

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Poems

The Silent Dusk
The Morning Ritual
A Greyhound's Heart
Marital Harmony
Gretel's Story
Life upon the Wicked Stage

The Silent Dusk

Men are all in the light always; 
with women you swim at once into the silent dusk
-Virginia Woolf

Do you see me, 
Bright young things,
With your twitter accounts
And your cancel culture?
Do you hear me,
Speaking softly 
On the margins of your world?

Do you hear me, 
Busy barmaids
With your clingy crop tops
And your flirting banter?
Do you see me, 
Waving vainly
In the jostling crowd of youth?

Do you see me, 
Flash, brash boys
With your blacked-out windows
And your booming bass?
Do you see me, 
Walking warily
On the pavement of your racetrack?

Do you see me, 
Loud man-spreaders,	
With your football gossip
And your matey handshakes?
Do you hear me, 
Mouthing mutely
In the silence of the dusk?

When did I become invisible?
When did I just lose my place
In the actual human race?

No substance, 
No footprint,
No matter, 
No more.

<<< 

The Morning Ritual

Suddenly I am awake.
A mini quake shakes the mattress.
I open a gummy eye to see
unblinking eyes, like brown marbles
under cottonwool tufts, creasing
with effort and intent.
One ear is crumpled inside out
showing a dirty pink labyrinth,
fragments of faded blue ink
a testimonial to her racing heritage.
The wedge-shaped head, black velvet 
flecked with white, narrows towards me, 
stoppered by a gleaming nose 
now millimetres from my own.
Long, delicate bones and knotty knuckles
end in two curved claws which dig
into the flesh of my upper arm,
bruising me with her anxious love.
The rubber nose twitches and snuffles
an interrogation of my lips:
I breathe, I am alive -
all is right with her world
and with a spring, she is gone.

<<<

A Greyhound’s Heart

Some people do not like a pointy nose,
They cannot see beyond the rows of teeth,
The silent stare, the hunter’s pose,
The muzzle, like a dagger’s sheath,

The ribs which stand out sharp along his side,
The massive thighs which give a mincing gait
But bring such power when he hits his stride;
These things are not maybe to some folks’ taste.

‘How big he is,’ they say in shocked surprise
And wonder why he does not wag his tail,
Or why he will not look them in the eyes,
As if he were a beast from some folktale,

But I know, when he leans against my knee,
The greatest heart of all belongs to me.

<<<

Marital Harmony

Scarcely aware of the magic in his hands,
his fingers find the sweetness singing in his brain,
while I am bound by the music’s demands.

I must translate each squiggle on the score
while, guided by the sounds, he plays without strain,
scarcely aware of the magic in his hands.

Following neural pathways I dare not ignore,	
trusting to muscle memory I cannot un-train,	
I am, still, bound by the music’s demands.
	
Knowing by instinct what the music calls for,		
he decorates the notes of an old refrain,	
scarcely aware of the magic in his hands.

Jealously I play on and try to ignore			
as he follows the lilting of a silver chain,	
while I am bound by the music’s demands.

And yet I can still feel the melody soar,
a part of the harmony I skilfully sustain:					
he, scarce aware of the magic in his hands,
I, now released from the music’s demands.

<<<

Gretel’s Story

With breast still heaving from that mighty shove
she stared at her two sooty hands in awe,
those hands which seized the moment and the witch,
pushed her inside the oven, slammed the door –
she felt a sudden thrill, ‘Good riddance, bitch!’

Her brother clutched them in his pudgy fists.
‘Oh Gretel, how could you do such a thing?
I wouldn’t dare, she scared me through and through.’
‘For God’s sake Hansel, must you cry and cling?
I’ve better things to do than nursemaid you!’

‘The witch’s treasure now is ours to take.
Go fill your pockets with her gems and gold.
I’ll do the same and then we have to find
our way before the day turns dark and cold.
Stay close, fat boy, or you’ll get left behind.’

With that, she set off on the track she thought
would lead them home, her churning brain alive
with cunning plans, now that she knew she could
control her fate - what plot could she contrive
to rid her of her step-mama for good?

<<<

Life upon the Wicked Stage

(ain't ever what a girl supposes)


It’s a hard knock life, according to Annie
And I guess she is one who would know
Singing and dancing her socks off
In that god-awful, saccharine show.

It’s a hard knock life, when you’re stretching and sweating
When you’re standing on pointe till toes bleed
Hitting the gym before breakfast
And cleaning routines after tea.

It’s a hard knock life, when you’re pushed to your limits
And beyond, dancing hour after hour
Knees on fire and muscles all aching
Just longing for that blissful shower.

It’s a hard knock life, full of wrenches and ruptures,
Of falls, twists and bruises and sprains
Full of gritting your teeth in rehearsals
Rememb’ring to smile all the same.

No, life ain’t all diamonds and roses
In the starry-eyed pursuit of fame
It’s not what a young girl supposes
It’s learning to handle the pain!

<<<