Week 4: 4 May
Jane Goldman
WILL WE MAKE UP A TITLE WHEN WE MEET?
i-i used to sleep in the in-between-room
the in-between-room for in-between-
people you’re an in-between-person you’ll
sleep in the in-between-room for in-between-
people aha we’re all in-between-people now right
enough is what stella always said when we’d make
up the bed in the in-between-room it had two opposite doors
one door to the front landing that opened in and one out it
opened to the very next room—this out opening door when
opened met edge to edge (their snibs almost kissing) with
another door it too opened in to the next room
(knob handle to knob handle) to form a wee bypass
out to the back bathroom or down to the kitchen or
up into the airy attics here hid her blushing water-colours
stacked heavy with the waiting (barely there at all) silent
rose madder blessings on midnight feasts red cola pink
death such neon angel delights for a rendezvous with julia
yes wide awake wee girls we could hear them alright below
in and out of john’s studio knocking back the whiskies
playing gershwin and all that talk about modern art
Alice Tarbuck responds to Jane Goldman
The cat walks between us, delicately
stepping the gap, drops hints for touch.
Her head is the bridge that hands abut.
Once sugar land, the duvet is now built
with stains, your lethargy lies
laced among my best temptations.
Downstairs, the cupboards
gulp their plates,
the hinges sending light among the dust.
Nothing settles like it should, the May
plumes scent in at the windows to enchant,
and we watched pale women dance
at the top of a sleeping hill. You hold me,
something temporary that cements itself,
stone into shoe, skin around skelf.
The sun heaves itself into summer,
the bank into bud, the cat into sleep,
and you against the green of me, less hurl
than slipping in. Let, let, let. Let there be
nothing but warm lapping and quiet skin,
the pink of extraordinary luck, the same
that is toast and tea and love and housework pink.
Tessa Berring responds to Jane Goldman
(The Cat Still Stares)
All that’s left is dirty talk
Imagine whisky
Swilling inside a mouth
We are brave
when we go out
When we open the door
and let the light touch
JL Williams responds to Jane Goldman
mostly I wonder if the blossoms are what you came here for
and isn’t it lucky cat we have this time so so what
apocalypse we have thar blossom landscape in yr heart so little
it would be a dainty morsel in any mouth and the sea light obeys
a now so yr blossom sleeps on this chest with mmmmmm
mewing and a flutter of miniature lashes that shivers up a glint
for momma ain’t afraid of much but the passing of blossom snow
and blossom drizzle blossom breath and blossom gleam
between two doorways lifetimes blossom trees I wonder
if this is what you came here for my always my petal
PS
I dreamed last night that the lockdown ended
All the people came out into sunlight
I was afraid of them but happy to be in the sun
Rachel McCrum responds Sunday May 10 to Jane Goldman, Alice Tarbuck, Tessa Berring
This hinge time
all liminal swinging
shadows
Rachel McCrum responds to Tessa Berring, Sunday May 10.
I don’t imagine mouths at all any more
we’re all gagged all masked tight
lashing out behind shut doors
when was the last time a tongue
lifted up
licked out
in these sewn-shut days?
Georgi Gill responding to Jane Goldman, Tessa Berring and Rachel McCrum, 24/5/20 15:53
Day 53
We cover our mouths with masks.
Everything is safe now.
It isn’t of course.
We are just muffled
words caught in between
hot mouths and two-ply cotton.
All my cusses, my refusals
to return to any sort of normal,
my pleas to stay locked down.
Completely.
These words hover
closer to my mouth
than your ears.
Day 56
Please don’t mention the cat.
I am raw from crying as it is.
Please.
Lynn Davidson responding to Jane Goldman 25/05/2020
Yes, let’s
I couldn’t sleep last night
and now this fear.
I take these frightened bones to my computer;
click on the link to Modern Art
lean in and do what I do now –
overhear things.
It’s not enough though. I’m still
frightened.
I know, I’ll go
to that out-of-the-way plaque on Castlehill
for the Scottish women burned as witches.
Lie down in front of it, of them, like a girl in an attic
having a picnic with other
girls in an attic – a wilderness if ever there was one.
These days, I say, this horror,
when all familiar things go slant
and everything that’s strange and slant
stands up. I cry for loneliness and fear.
But Audre Lorde said I value
myself more than my terrors
and in all of her bold years
including the Berlin ones – not so far
from here, she could be found sharing
delicious food with friends and
laughing and changing things.
So I lie on my belly and snake my hand
into the bag for apples and biscuits
and chocolate. And then just tip it onto what
some people might consider to be
the ground, in front of what you might think
of as the castle, but my back to it, and face-on
to the plaque to the witches (some of whom
deserved it, the subtext goes) with the
plaque about the artist who made it
above the thing itself, closer to eye level,
all of his credentials. Unlike the soaring monuments
to soldiers and horses and the fallen.
I lie on the ground, beside my sisters.
I lie on the ground in this beautiful city’s
airy attic room, with friends and sisters.