musician,
employed to teach the eldest daughter songs,
had wrangled her some duties, and a room.
Now, as the sky shuts down, I strike a match
and light a candle, breathing out the name
of dear Tom Watson as a form of prayer.
But I’m alone. And I must write from there.
THE SCHOOL OF NIGHT
Still, the past draws me like a jug of beer
back to the moments when my star was high.
The greater the heights, the more extreme the fall.
And in those glorious nights, the splintered how
of waking up breached and broken on my now.
‘You stir them up,’ Sir Walter Raleigh says,
beating his pipe until the ash submits.
His West Country burr like John Allen, but soft
as the lace of a courtier’s delicate handkerchief.
‘It’s more than entertainment on the stage.
You show us ourselves. Uncomfortable to see.’
My own discomfort is the feathered brooch
he has perched in his hair. He mustn’t see
I’m fighting to keep my eyes fast on his face.
‘I write what comes to me.’
He motions I
should sit down in a heavy, cushioned chair
less throne-like than his own. Behind his head
the river’s sultry darkness softly winks
with a barge’s lamp.
‘This was the lantern tower,’
he waves at book-shelved walls, ‘when this dear palace
belonged to the Bishop of Durham. Now I’ve made
a study of it.’ Enjoying his own pun.
Self-educated, he displays his books
as peacocks do their fans. ‘Knowledge entails
the shedding of new light on old conundrums.’
Perhaps he believes his riches make him wise,
or that his knighthood, and the Queen’s good favour
entitle a sailor to school a Cambridge scholar.
‘This room’s a metaphor.’
A laboured one,
I think, but say, ‘A perfect place to write.’
‘Yes, isn’t it?’ He pours us both a drink
– ‘The sailor’s delicacy. You don’t mind?’ –
and offers me tobacco. ‘Do you smoke?’
‘I haven’t tried it.’ ‘Well, you should, my boy.
The native Indian tribesmen of Virginia
will claim it brings you closer to your soul.
Relaxes one. Here. Borrow my spare pipe.’
It’s carved with naked women. Raleigh laughs
as I study it. ‘I’m told they run around
like the nymphs and dryads of antiquity.’
‘The New World is an old one, then?’
‘Perhaps.
I have a mathematician in my pay
who calculated they have been around
for sixteen thousand years. Ten thousand more
than the Church gives all Creation. Some would call
him heretic. But how d’you account for that?’
He lights my pipe, and his. I watch him close,
and suck, as he does. Bitter on my tongue
and puffing my words to clouds. ‘I’d trust a scholar
before I’d trust a bishop with the truth,’
I say.
‘Too harsh!’ He laughs. ‘What can you mean?’
‘We’re prone to take the Bible literally,
forgetting it was written for the flocks
of a simpler age.’
‘You’re not an atheist?’
he asks, half casually.
‘The word of God
must be interpreted,’ I say, ‘by man.
And man is full of ignorance and sin.
The Bible tells us so.’
Raleigh guffaws
and throws his head back, so his pointed beard
pokes like a mason’s trowel into the air.
‘You priceless man. It’s true, then, what I’ve heard?’
‘What have you heard?’
‘ I count religion but
a childish toy. That line is
employed to teach the eldest daughter songs,
had wrangled her some duties, and a room.
Now, as the sky shuts down, I strike a match
and light a candle, breathing out the name
of dear Tom Watson as a form of prayer.
But I’m alone. And I must write from there.
THE SCHOOL OF NIGHT
Still, the past draws me like a jug of beer
back to the moments when my star was high.
The greater the heights, the more extreme the fall.
And in those glorious nights, the splintered how
of waking up breached and broken on my now.
‘You stir them up,’ Sir Walter Raleigh says,
beating his pipe until the ash submits.
His West Country burr like John Allen, but soft
as the lace of a courtier’s delicate handkerchief.
‘It’s more than entertainment on the stage.
You show us ourselves. Uncomfortable to see.’
My own discomfort is the feathered brooch
he has perched in his hair. He mustn’t see
I’m fighting to keep my eyes fast on his face.
‘I write what comes to me.’
He motions I
should sit down in a heavy, cushioned chair
less throne-like than his own. Behind his head
the river’s sultry darkness softly winks
with a barge’s lamp.
‘This was the lantern tower,’
he waves at book-shelved walls, ‘when this dear palace
belonged to the Bishop of Durham. Now I’ve made
a study of it.’ Enjoying his own pun.
Self-educated, he displays his books
as peacocks do their fans. ‘Knowledge entails
the shedding of new light on old conundrums.’
Perhaps he believes his riches make him wise,
or that his knighthood, and the Queen’s good favour
entitle a sailor to school a Cambridge scholar.
‘This room’s a metaphor.’
A laboured one,
I think, but say, ‘A perfect place to write.’
‘Yes, isn’t it?’ He pours us both a drink
– ‘The sailor’s delicacy. You don’t mind?’ –
and offers me tobacco. ‘Do you smoke?’
‘I haven’t tried it.’ ‘Well, you should, my boy.
The native Indian tribesmen of Virginia
will claim it brings you closer to your soul.
Relaxes one. Here. Borrow my spare pipe.’
It’s carved with naked women. Raleigh laughs
as I study it. ‘I’m told they run around
like the nymphs and dryads of antiquity.’
‘The New World is an old one, then?’
‘Perhaps.
I have a mathematician in my pay
who calculated they have been around
for sixteen thousand years. Ten thousand more
than the Church gives all Creation. Some would call
him heretic. But how d’you account for that?’
He lights my pipe, and his. I watch him close,
and suck, as he does. Bitter on my tongue
and puffing my words to clouds. ‘I’d trust a scholar
before I’d trust a bishop with the truth,’
I say.
‘Too harsh!’ He laughs. ‘What can you mean?’
‘We’re prone to take the Bible literally,
forgetting it was written for the flocks
of a simpler age.’
‘You’re not an atheist?’
he asks, half casually.
‘The word of God
must be interpreted,’ I say, ‘by man.
And man is full of ignorance and sin.
The Bible tells us so.’
Raleigh guffaws
and throws his head back, so his pointed beard
pokes like a mason’s trowel into the air.
‘You priceless man. It’s true, then, what I’ve heard?’
‘What have you heard?’
‘ I count religion but
a childish toy. That line is
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