—Poetry by Oz Hardwick, York, England
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain
FAMILY PORTRAIT WITH CAT, CIRCA 1870
In the photograph, grey men and women are folded
In the photograph, grey men and women are folded
into their best selves, all Sunday lace and sharp
collars, stiff against a Baroque backdrop of
theatrical sky. All eyes focus on a point just above
the camera, far beyond their fifteen minutes of
awkward immortality, as fingers spread in tight
laps, resisting the urge to drum. Buffed children are
small statues, neat putti at the feet of monumental
parents. But no-one told the cat about time,
stretching her nine ectoplasmic lives between
ankles, blurring the edges of Victorian propriety,
curling, nose to backside, front and centre. Outside
the frame, imperial brushstrokes paint the atlas in
ideological pink: but here in black and white,
science holds sway, raising its analytical mirror to a
simpler truth, as men, women and children hold to
attention, an immovable guard of honour for their
gracious Queen.
THE ACCIDENTAL PILGRIM
with nuns. They laid themselves down years ago,
to protest about a war, or a Pope, or a tyrant’s
inhumane policies: no one can remember, though
our guide jokes that it was about the price of a
small Americano at any of the cafés scattered down
the black and white pavements. Scruffy children
sell charcoal and thin paper to the tourists, here for
a few hours off the towering liners, and I pay with
coins that still feel strange as nails and kneel to
conjure holy ghosts from the gently undulating
path. A bell rings. A bird sings. Fingers raptly
clasped in prayer aspire to warmth. Contours
coalesce: jawline, lips, wimpled brow. Eyelashes
flutter. The sea breeze stirs coffee, incense, and
dried blood. Heat haze hums at the close of a
scorching day. From the harbour, the ship calls.
ONCE UPON A TIME
No one returns from the beanstalk or the candy-
coloured forest. There are footprints torn from
tissue and promises twisted in the branches of
every tree. The trees have eyes and children only
have eyes for golden eggs. Language is
performative, with words like surgeons lost in
elective operations, for richer, for poorer, for better,
for worse, and for the sheer crazy hell of irreversible
change. No onecomes back to feed the chickens or
to check in with the pedlar once he’s finished his
rounds, tethering Jack’s scrawny cow in the back
yard of his two-up two-down in a village no one
bothers to name. Helpless children spin on spits and
goats spitting at passing cars from the motorway
flyover. Cats in seven-league boots fly over the hills
and far away. We put away childish things and
childish thinking, but the veil is thin as paper
between puppies and pies. Words and warnings
wear away and crows peck crumbs from the path.
No one returns, but the raggedy-arsed shadow in
coloured forest. There are footprints torn from
tissue and promises twisted in the branches of
every tree. The trees have eyes and children only
have eyes for golden eggs. Language is
performative, with words like surgeons lost in
elective operations, for richer, for poorer, for better,
for worse, and for the sheer crazy hell of irreversible
change. No onecomes back to feed the chickens or
to check in with the pedlar once he’s finished his
rounds, tethering Jack’s scrawny cow in the back
yard of his two-up two-down in a village no one
bothers to name. Helpless children spin on spits and
goats spitting at passing cars from the motorway
flyover. Cats in seven-league boots fly over the hills
and far away. We put away childish things and
childish thinking, but the veil is thin as paper
between puppies and pies. Words and warnings
wear away and crows peck crumbs from the path.
No one returns, but the raggedy-arsed shadow in
the corner of your eye has stories which beg
to differ.
THE JOKER AND THE THIEF (Triton no. 42)
My friend resembles the Queen of Clubs with her
worn and serious eyes. She says she’s seen things—
still sees things—that no one should have to
imagine, and she hands me a flower that she
plucked from a lost boy’s lips as he gave up his
ghosts one melting Mallorcan midnight. She has too
many fingers in too many pies, too many songs of
sixpence, and too many blackbirds beating at the
flames in her breast. She has too many visions that
wake her in sweat, then are there on the morning
news. She has, she tells me, nothing to lose but the
shoes she kicked off miles ago to feel the perfect
slip of sand, sea, and summer against her naked
instep, where a tattooed Triton winks from waves.
I know her palms are pricked with thorns, though
she hides them from the world, and I can read in
the patterns of her antique threads that she feels all
her cards are marked. Perhaps I was that lost boy,
flower fading, sun-stroked and sinking. Still, I
squeeze her hand, soft as goose down in the shade
of a Balearic windmill. But she’s a flight to catch
and a world to save, one soul at a time. It’s a big
deal, she tells me, and her Uber will be here in
three minutes.
worn and serious eyes. She says she’s seen things—
still sees things—that no one should have to
imagine, and she hands me a flower that she
plucked from a lost boy’s lips as he gave up his
ghosts one melting Mallorcan midnight. She has too
many fingers in too many pies, too many songs of
sixpence, and too many blackbirds beating at the
flames in her breast. She has too many visions that
wake her in sweat, then are there on the morning
news. She has, she tells me, nothing to lose but the
shoes she kicked off miles ago to feel the perfect
slip of sand, sea, and summer against her naked
instep, where a tattooed Triton winks from waves.
I know her palms are pricked with thorns, though
she hides them from the world, and I can read in
the patterns of her antique threads that she feels all
her cards are marked. Perhaps I was that lost boy,
flower fading, sun-stroked and sinking. Still, I
squeeze her hand, soft as goose down in the shade
of a Balearic windmill. But she’s a flight to catch
and a world to save, one soul at a time. It’s a big
deal, she tells me, and her Uber will be here in
three minutes.
A NEW CAREER IN ART HISTORY
We set off for the lake in the mountains with the
church on the island and the Romanesque
Apocalypse (heavily restored). The guidebook say
it’s the thing to do and I remember it from a lecture
back in Art School, with the warm hum of a slide
projector, and my eyes closing through the weight
of flickering birds. All night we’d pushed a car
through streets which became less familiar with
each rotation of the wheel, taking it in turns to
stand on the roof to look for the sea. Shortly after
dawn, we’d realised that we’d been pushing inland
and that the car had no engine, only an owl’s nest
lined with thorns and pellets. I still carry one
wrapped in tissue. And when my eyes jerked open,
there was the Beast, with seven heads and ten
horns, and upon his horns ten crowns; but the air
smelled like lilac or lavender, and I lowered my
cheek into the lap of the friend sitting next to me in
the dark. And all these long years later, we set off
on yet another road, the sunlight through the trees
like scattering owls and the end of the world warm
on the backs of our necks. No photographs are
permitted, drawings are discouraged, and only
partial memories may be retained.
church on the island and the Romanesque
Apocalypse (heavily restored). The guidebook say
it’s the thing to do and I remember it from a lecture
back in Art School, with the warm hum of a slide
projector, and my eyes closing through the weight
of flickering birds. All night we’d pushed a car
through streets which became less familiar with
each rotation of the wheel, taking it in turns to
stand on the roof to look for the sea. Shortly after
dawn, we’d realised that we’d been pushing inland
and that the car had no engine, only an owl’s nest
lined with thorns and pellets. I still carry one
wrapped in tissue. And when my eyes jerked open,
there was the Beast, with seven heads and ten
horns, and upon his horns ten crowns; but the air
smelled like lilac or lavender, and I lowered my
cheek into the lap of the friend sitting next to me in
the dark. And all these long years later, we set off
on yet another road, the sunlight through the trees
like scattering owls and the end of the world warm
on the backs of our necks. No photographs are
permitted, drawings are discouraged, and only
partial memories may be retained.
NO RETURN ADDRESS
There’s a glitch in the system and the postman
brings sacks of unsigned birthday cards, feeding
them one by one through the letter box. I open the
door to make it easier but he tells me that a job’s a
job, them’s the rules, and he’s sure I know how it is
with a hungry house and voracious children to feed,
so could I close the door softly and we’ll both go
about our days. I sort them into stacks: art,
nature, risqué jokes, abstract, anatomy, vintage,
slogans. Then I subdivide them into brother, son,
grandfather, teacher, nephew, husband, ex-
husband, esteemed colleague, victim, friend. By
now the postman has retired but he has nothing to
fill his endless days—his children having eaten him
out of house and home, grown and flown the nest
for lives of their own—so he comes by anyway,
dropping hints, tears, and stitches onto my worn
mat. When it’s my birthday, he brings me an
brings sacks of unsigned birthday cards, feeding
them one by one through the letter box. I open the
door to make it easier but he tells me that a job’s a
job, them’s the rules, and he’s sure I know how it is
with a hungry house and voracious children to feed,
so could I close the door softly and we’ll both go
about our days. I sort them into stacks: art,
nature, risqué jokes, abstract, anatomy, vintage,
slogans. Then I subdivide them into brother, son,
grandfather, teacher, nephew, husband, ex-
husband, esteemed colleague, victim, friend. By
now the postman has retired but he has nothing to
fill his endless days—his children having eaten him
out of house and home, grown and flown the nest
for lives of their own—so he comes by anyway,
dropping hints, tears, and stitches onto my worn
mat. When it’s my birthday, he brings me an
unsigned card. When it’s his birthday, I give him
a pair of white kid gloves, a box of handmade
pralines, and a ball of twine to find his way through
the labyrinth we’ve both been too tactful to mention.
a pair of white kid gloves, a box of handmade
pralines, and a ball of twine to find his way through
the labyrinth we’ve both been too tactful to mention.
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
If cats looked like frogs we'd realize what nasty, cruel little bastards they are. Style. That's what people remember.
―Terry Pratchett, Lords and Ladies
_____________________
Newcomer Oz Hardwick is a European poet, photographer, occasional musician, and accidental academic, whose work has been widely published in international journals and anthologies. He has published twelve full collections and chapbooks, including Learning to Have Lost (IPSI, 2018) which won the 2019 Rubery International Book Award for poetry, and most recently A Census of Preconceptions (SurVision, 2022). He has won many prizes, mostly in fairgrounds and pub quizzes, and hopes one day to be a competent bass guitarist. Oz is Professor of Creative Writing at Leeds Trinity University (UK). See more from him at http://www.ozhardwick.co.uk/.
_____________________
—Medusa
For upcoming poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
in the links at the top of this page.
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
in the links at the top of this page.
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
you and your family!
