Twickenham Garden

The garden is dead.
The sun is spent
and the earth is sunk,
sullen. And everywhere
the scent of soil,
defeat. Deceit
in the shape of a serpent.

And here I stand:
a senseless piece
of this place; a faceless
participle caught
in the present tense,
in the I am, I make,
I do –

I make-do with the dead.
With the lost marble
limbs and the mandrake.
I suck venom from the snake
and sap the crocodile's tears,
for I do bring the spider love,
fear; that old self-traitor.

O the webs we weave –
the stones we've sown
into the horizon,
entwining spine
and time
like so much rope
round my neck.

Dream, she says,
of the age-old tale.
Sleep. Weep.
The fruits of my pilgrimage.
I'm in over my head,
and O, I know that
the garden is dead.

But this is not
the end of the world,
no -

It's just the beginning.

* * *

This is not solely my voice. It's just my take on a re-write of John Donne's Twickenham Garden.

I think all the late nights and excessive tea-drinking of uni life are finally starting to get to me: I'm actually starting to like Donne.

.jupiter

- Is this your first time drowning?

I'd let you speak for yourself, but I note
that in your – not inconsiderable – credentials,
it states you're a compulsive liar.
And you've a throat of thunder, at that.
You've been choking back
on atelophobia ever since you woke
under turpentine skies. Wondering why
the cat has nine times to die
and you have none.

- What happened to the sun?

You know only too well.
You gripped it too tight
and snuffed out the light.
Show me your borders,
your whalebone girt,
and I'll show you the way
the rays will pucker your skin
like a Nazi lampshade.

- What about the thunder?

Yes, what about the thunder?
The way you dialled telephone numbers
on knucklebones? The way you put your ear
to the floor, one foot in the door,
and felt for a pulse?

Each of these is a symptom of acute
sickness of the mind:
labyrinth disorder and your own kind
of Stockholm syndrome.

But I'm curious -
did you ever get an answer?

- And who sent the rain?

The answer's the same;
the same old shame
burning like a bolt
through the blue -
all that's left of you.
I am the perfect mouthpiece,
the missing organ,
and you say it all
in the way your bones
groan under stress.
In the stories I spin.
And in the way you begin
to stumble as you
carry yourself
home.

* * *

Yes, the mythology series is still going!

Jupiter – ruler of the gods. God of the sky, lightning and thunder. He had many alternative names, including 'of the light', 'thunderer', 'defender of boundaries' and 'sender of rain'.

There is only one voice in the poem. He's the doctor or the politician or the priest - the mouthpiece of the gods, who really never get a voice of their own.


You can see the rest of the mythology series here or on my deviantart page.