A REALLY BIG CONVERSATION

The prime minister of the fifth largest
global economy has asserted
the need for a big conversation
about gulls: not the greedy and the fearful
who voted for him but the species
laridae, especially the herring gull
that swarms in seaside towns and marauds
the 99 Flake out of the very hands
of the innocent, young and old alike.

Adult birds dive, swoop and grab to eat –
whether mackerel or deep fried Mars Bar.
The herring gull chick knows instinctively
to peck the red spot on its parents’ beaks
for food. It learns about battered sausage
and Cornish pasties from humans lording it.

Though herring gulls have a repertory
of voices – the mew, the yodel, the yelp,
the yuck, the cry, the snicker, the snigger,
the bark, the scoff, the cough, the scold, the plea,
the ullulation – from coastal roof tops
and are experts at inland waste management
they are endangered. Let us converse then
about concern and care.

 

 

 

REMEMBERING…

…watching the circus – breath taken, mouth
open – in the red and orange striped
big top on the Green with Miss Monica
from Budapest high on the silk ropes
then walking on the pier like any mortal…

and losing your splendid red and blue kepi
to a mild westerly on the steep steps
that zigzag down South Stack cliffs, seeing it
whisked just out of reach over the wall
and lodged in a crevice where only gulls go…

and cruising up the Straits to Puffin Island,
seeing the seals, the porpoises, the shags,
the cormorants, the kittiwakes, the lighthouse
up close – returning, taking the spray, seeing
the yacht stranded on the Lavan Sands…

and walking through what was Newborough Warren –
now a forest of Corsican Pine where
Common Cow Wheat thrives and occasional
Red Squirrels are seen – the redundant
buggy over laden with our beach gear…

and shooing the gourmet gulls while eating
fish and chips and mushy peas and curry sauce
by the paddling pool in the playground –
then making friends in the water as
Tornado jets practise surveillance above…

and swimming with Mummy and Daddy
off Ynys Llanddwyn for the first time –
as the fast tide comes in covering
the gritty sand and the still rock pools
and crabs of all colours and sizes …

and crabbing on the pier with Mummy
and Daddy, with the line and bucket bought
in Cromer and the offal from the kiosk
for bait and putting them gently back
at the water’s edge with the gulls hovering…

and finding a young, frightened black spaniel
on the secret steps in the garden –
banked high with buddleia and butterflies –
and running to tell us and helping
rescue him and learning his name is Henry…

But what will you remember of all that?
Not new best friends or storytelling
with Grandma or blowing raspberries
at Grandpa – the best thing, you tell us, was
the old castle playground.

 

 

 

LEAVES AND LOVERS

David Selzer By David Selzer1 Comment1 min read1.5K views

Somehow, past the custodians, two green leaves
have entered the gallery to lie
side by side beneath Chagall’s ‘Promenade’.
The artist – next to the wedding treasures
higgledy on a red cloth, his feet
almost firmly in the richly green fields
by the piggledy village, his expression
ecstatic and apprehensive – grips
his painter’s bag with his right hand, with his left,
held upright, his wife’s for she is flying
in a purple dress. Soon he may fly too.
Perhaps the leaves have come from the tree
above the nuptial gifts. Maybe the rush of air
has teased them, from a young woman flying.
Leaves will fall – lovers fly.

 

 

 

ZODIAC

David Selzer By David Selzer1 Comment1 min read1.6K views

We were born in the Year of the Horse,
the month Rommel was trapped in the desert,
Paulus in the snow. This, our forty ninth
of marriage, is, again, the Year of the Horse.
We are predicted family happiness,
filial piety, fiscal surety –
urged to avoid pneumonia and be
‘of merry heart’. This is also the year
of the drowned. Somewhere it is always
night – stars fall, meteors rise. The robin,
perched on the street lamp, sings through the dark.
The wild bee, lost in the room where I write,
steers for the sun undeterred by the glass.
To be merry of heart and to know these things
is to be what we are.

 

 

 

JULY…

David Selzer By David Selzer0 Comments1 min read1.4K views

the month we found, beyond the rose of sharon,
past the mint and the sage, in the sunless
corner by broken pots and upturned
zinc buckets, the first wild strawberry…

when we walked up the Acropolis,
with feral dogs among the olive trees…

when we walked through Carnac’s standing stones
and heard the wind shake the fields of wheat…

when we decorated our first home,
with Chris Montez, ‘The more I see you’…

the month we met on a date blind like Cupid
or Justice – between the end of schooldays
and the rest of our lives…

 

 

 

CONCRETE MYTHS

David Selzer By David Selzer0 Comments1 min read1.4K views

We have explained about Knossos in the car,
so she is keen to see the palace.
(We have not mentioned the Minotaur
or Daedalus and Icarus). She likes
the cats, the peacock and the cicadas
and appears not disappointed at all
by Arthur Evans’ concrete. Maybe
she knows the concerns of grown-ups are
more illusionary than substantial –
and a young woman, posing like Betty Boop
in high heels and sharp yellow dress
by an amphora, would prove her point.

Knossos is on the edge of Heraklion’s
southern suburbs. Just down the road from here
is a pristine Ottoman aqueduct
built across a narrow, river valley.
Swallows and swifts nest in the post holes.
The dingle is filled with bougainvillea,
jacaranda and pink oleander.
We walk up to a church, open and full
of silver – St Irini’s – and a playground.
She runs to the swings. There is no mention
in any of the guidebooks of the aqueduct
or the saint – never mind the nesting birds
or the valley abounding with flowers
or the safe place to play. Under
an ancient, encompassing olive tree
with labyrinthine branches, she flies high.