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1931
As if the sea had gathered itself up
and heaved its solid mass onto the sand,
a blue whale, helpless in its own tonnage,
drying on the strand near Lisdoonvarna.
The boy was five when he crested the dune
and faced the mountain head, the eyes as big
as motor lamps, when his twin sister hid
behind him saying, save me from it, John.
Stricken U-boat, sick kraken; a marvel
before which he held his forgotten net
like a trident, powerful as a god,
a tiny Poseidon touching the beast
until the men came, and shouted for wood
and buckets, and slung a catamaran
beneath the patient hulk, while the women
and children watered the steaming shoulders.
Well, they floated it alright, and went off
to the craic and fire of the village pub,
and the boy heard their singing from the beach
as he watched the whale, helpless as a wave,
turn about and climb back onto the sand,
huffing and whistling into its death-place
and fixing with one eye the lonely boy
standing up to his waist in the water
flinging handfuls of sea at its great head
and shouting breathe, now, breathe in his right air.
Judith cannot wait for the invention
of the camera. Posing for the umpteenth
sculpture this week, the chinking of chisels
bringing on a migraine, and that red paint
in the carpet nagging at her tired eye,
she is fast losing her fabled patience.
Besides, she feels daft standing for sculptors
and painters with her ammunition pouch
of lipstick, perfume and blade in one hand
and a big pineapple in the other -
the head of Holofernes is stinking
on a stake above the city's proud walls
while the whole paparazzi of artists
drools shamelessly over flesh, quick and dead.
The papers will insist on calling her
the Black Widow, and their readers, of course,
don't want to hear that God has been involved -
always sure to spoil the human angle.
Hard to look triumphant when her triumph
is so misunderstood. Best to daydream,
not interpreting pictures of herself
chained to railings, or throwing her body
beneath Nebuchadnezzar's horse. Patience.
Give them breasts and thighs for now. God later.
It does not understand breathing space;
it has no lungs to heave against
the steel ribs of its bodice.
It is your stunt double, patiently
wearing a voodoo of pins and
the chill of unfinished work.
Its wooden foot paddles confetti
made of trimmings, buttons and threads,
but it is as lifeless as
old photographs of the wedding of
someone you never knew. The dress
waits for more than a seamstress:
it waits to be swelled by the movements
of flesh, bone and muscle; to have
life breathed into it. And yet,
all around the room white silk roses,
ungathered for the moment, are
springing from the furniture.
From Pilots and Navigators (Oxford Poets, 1998)
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