Contents

Poetry

Apple Blossom Time I saw a blind man in the park his face immobile and pitied him that he could not see the apple blossom sashay lift crimson skirts before a hedonistic breeze. I closed my eyes, imagined the loss of a jungle sky, the pleasure of fingerprints smudged on misty glass or my reflection triptyched above a dressing table. But as I sat with sockets clenched I heard windsong, birdswoop, smelled the fragrant air and pity turned to shame for when all the apple blossoms lie frescoed on the ground the blind man knows he too will only flower for a season. Eileen Casey

Photographer In perfect settings only, you captured expression, lens forever focused on what aroused your interest. Always it seemed, I was posed for best effect, like the dress worn one Summer afternoon, crimson splashed against a white-washed wall but it was I who stored discarded negatives, each one dimming the proof of your keen perception. Then I too paled with constant exposure in a dark room and when your cold camera tried to catch me, unaware, I moved away Leaving the blur as final memory. Eileen Casey

Cyclops There are days when mezzanined Within a broader spectrum, Among the pots, pans, yesterday's newspaper I am a trajectory for others. The hours pass like rosary decades But there is no mystery, no joyful resurrection In the slow dying And when I hear the grasses whisper Touch the thorny rose There is always a clarion to call me back... Call me back... Yet, there are moments, snatched As hungrily as Job's precious crumbs When I project my inner eye And breathe again In my own space. Eileen Casey

Asylum You were hiding in the shadows when I came, bowed shoulders drooping with inward misery, glazed eyes struggling with recognition, united with other faceless forms by the drab cordless dressing-gown, uniform of insanity. Sun poured in then but found nothing metallic to glint its splendour. You threw back your head neighing cigarette smoke and I saw the red mark on your neck. I asked for a drink but you shrugged, lifting your arms helplessly showing scarred wrists the stigmata of your affliction. Eileen Casey

Gameparks In our concrete jungles restless herds Quench a savage thirst on old ladies Blood, chameleons stalk twittering birds On their way home from discos While red bricked cages sprout Prolific as the dandelion. But despite safaris from our planners Children still graffiti walls with Desperate maturity, and open spaces Are shooting galleries for poison Arrowheads slung From poisoned hearts. Eileen Casey

Bag Lady On warm summer evenings bag lady Sadie sits enthroned on her bundle of rags, queen among the winos a woman in onioned layers, twice as pungent. The past, once daisychained in memory is now broken by red biddy's savage grip, yanking apart her yesterday's and tomorrows. There is no room for them in her recycled existence. We pick daintily over her in shop doorways as if avoiding a landmine, rollerblinding our eyes and gagging on the stench. Bag lady Sadie bears no resemblance to us. On cold winter mornings when fiery chilblains scald like flame, she pisses on her feet anointing a cooling balm like Mary Magdalene's tears. Eileen Casey

The Invitation by Oriah Mountain Dreamer, Indian Elder It doesn't interest me what you do for a living. I want to know what you ache for, and if you dare to dream of meeting your hearts longing. It doesn't interest me how old you are I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for your dreams, for the adventure of being alive. It doesn't interest me what planets are squaring your moon. I want to know if you have touched the center of your own sorrow, if you have been opened by life's betrayals or have become shriveled and closed from fear of further pain. I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or your own, without moving to hide it or fade it or fix it. I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own ; if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful, be realistic, or to remember the limitations of being human. It doesn't interest me if the story you are telling me is true, I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself, if you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul. I want to know if you can be faithful and therefore trustworthy. I want to know if you can see beauty, even when it is not pretty every day, and if you can source your life from its presence. I want to know if you can live with failure, yours or mine, and still stand on the edge of a lake and shout to the silver of the full moon, "Yes!" It doesn't interest me to know where you live or how much money you have. I want to know if you can get up after the night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone, and do what needs to be done for the children. It doesn't interest me who you are, or how you came to be here - I want to know if you will stand in the center of the fire with me and not shrink back. It doesn't interest me where or what or with whom you have studied. I want to know what sustains you from the inside when all else falls away. I want to know if you can be alone with yourself, and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments. May 1994

I would pick more daisies I would pick more daisies If I were to live my life over again... I'd dare to make more mistakes next time. I'd relax. I would limber up. I'd be sillier than I've been this trip. I would take fewer things seriously. I would take more trips. I would climb more mountains, swim more rivers. I would eat more ice-cream and less beans. I would perhaps have more actual troubles but I would have fewer imaginary ones. You see, I'm one of those people who live seriously and sanely hour after hour, day after day. I've had my moments and if I had to do it over again, I'd have more of them. In fact I'd try to have nothing else ó just moments, one after another instead of living so many years ahead of each day. I've been one of those persons who never goes anywhere without a thermometer, a hot-water bottle, a raincoat and a parachute. If I had to do it again I would travel lighter than I have. If I had to live my life over I would start barefoot earlier in the Spring and stay that way later in the Fall. I would go to more dances, I would ride more merry-go-rounds, and - I would pick more daisies. Nadine Stair, aged 85

Contents