JIM BENNETT – Articles, reviews and all things Poetry
In September 1972 I won my first ever contest. It was for longer narritive poems and this was it. The 1972 winner of the McMillan Prize worth was at the time a staggering £50. (Quite a bit in those days.)
THE WATCHMAN
(1)
it’s not the cobweb curtained wood beams
or the peeling plaster
it’s not the familiarity
there is something odd about this place
with which the smell greets you
or the noises that sound like footsteps
or the wind that creaks old timber
or the drips of last night’s rain
dropping into pools collecting on the dance floor
it’s not the smell of burning wood
or the broken charred tables and chairs
or the stairs collapsed in the corner
or the holes in the roof
that capture sky
it’s none of those
but it is odd
this place is my Titanic
my ocean bottom ruin
brought onto land
and left to rot on the harbor side
it was the place we met
and the place we parted
and you haunt it still
living in the shadows
crack wood or flick a stone
always just out of sight
but I know you are there
and I frighten the children away
so that we can be alone
night crashes in through the veranda window
the moon reflects from the wet leaves
of the Rhododendron
and your shadow flickers in the corner
while I watch content to know you are close
outside the bulldozers wait
for morning
(2)
I can measure
the time we where together
in nights punctuated by
the red glow of a cigarette
after we had sex
and an occasional moon slicing through
a curtain gap
reflecting off sweat stained skin
so much of our time
spent in the dark
and in the morning
as I watch you change the sheets
to take away the carnal damp
and the smell of me
I hear you hum
the drunken street songs from the night
when I thought you were asleep
that’s how it was
but although I always hoped
you would wait for me to leave
before you changed the sheets
you never did
(3)
when it was new
the silver tiled ceiling
above the dance-floor
reflected a thousand
broken fly-eye images of you
you danced alone
arched back
to smile at leering faces
and I watched
content to admire
the swirling sweating body
that would later lie with me
later
your laughter
woke me
before
it turned to screams
in the morning
the bulldozers
will wipe my sheet clean
(4)
you lay quiet
once you knew
I could never let you go
you should not have tried to leave
no word
no note
just going
without me
and laughing when I said
we could be together
you stopped screaming
as my hands tightened
around your throat
small in death
sleeping under the dance floor
you emerge each night
to dance for me
then hide in dark corners
and even when I bring fire
to flush you out
you still avoid me
tomorrow
the bulldozers come
to wipe you away forever
I hear you creeping round
bone footed
clattering as you dance
sometimes I feel
the touch of your cold hand
the warmth of life left you
cold and hard in death
I hear you
moving through the building
moving closer
and there
there are other sounds
others moving
I cannot see them in the dark
but catch a hint of movement
and the smell of rot
like something decayed
outside the bulldozer
engines wind into life
headlights cut
through the dirt
and soot stained windows
sending shadows fleeing
(5)
there is something odd about this place
the polished wood beams
the mirror tiled ceiling
and you dancing
head back laughing
at the familiar
leering faces
while I watch
content to admire
the swirling sweating body
it’s none of those
but it is odd
the way morning
never comes
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