David Selzer

A CHEESE BY ANY OTHER NAME

By David SelzerMarch 28, 20182 Comments1 min read1.7K views

Marooned for three years, Ben Gunn was

‘sore for Christian diet’. He dreamt of cheese,

toasted mostly.

Doctor Livesey always had about him

a piece of Parmesan in a snuffbox.

When he heard about the dreams he said,

‘Well, that’s for Ben Gunn!’

But we never find out if the ‘half mad maroon’ savours

the King of Cheeses. Maybe he eats it –

and wishes it were Cheddar.

Note: This poem is a slightly revised version of part of REVELATIONS, published on the site in March 2011.

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IN CAMERA

By David SelzerMarch 28, 20183 Comments1 min read1.8K views

The colour scheme, all of the fittings, even

the rectangular reproduction,

above the bed, of an abstracted landscape

that might be desert or water, sunrise

or dusk reflected in the wardrobe’s mirror

were exact replicas of all those

he had already seen in all the rooms

he had stayed in the centre of cities,

on the edge of towns, at all compass points.

There was always, however, one difference –

the view. Through the sealed, double-glazed window

he could see an empty office block

with one blind still drawn on the sixth floor.

As always, he searched meticulously

for other differences – and found two.

On the green carpet between the bed

and the bathroom door was a tiny stain.

In the narrowest gap between the landscape

and the wall was a sheet of white paper

with black italic word-processed text.

Tunnels and wells and spirals

and silence…

I have come out of the adit

of self- absorption and self-distrust

into the view and light of landscapes

and stretches of water…

Why did I not credit achievements,

accounting defeats only?

Hell was a locked and windowless

suite in an erstwhile Grand Hotel

become Secret Police Headquarters…

Knowing nothing,

having too much to say,

I have found myself in silence.

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INSPIRATION

By David SelzerMarch 28, 20182 Comments1 min read1.6K views

Turning down the steep lane to the strand,

I felt that tightening of the legs and saw

the hedgerows of convolvulus and woodbine

descend serpentine to the wide, empty bay…

…it might be a couple of bars of music,

the way the light falls, a voice in the street,

some words in a book, whatever it might be

it becomes as real, as substantial

as a taste, a smell, a sound, something

that must be made, words that must be written…

…lane and beach became one. The upper shore

of fine sand was strewn with dried spiral wrack –

the lower was ribbed as the tide receded.

Only partially exposed near the water’s

edge were the blackened spars of a long boat –

and the shape of a tale or a song.

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THE TAXIDERMY

By David SelzerMarch 28, 20182 Comments1 min read1.7K views

In a one storey Gothic-kitsch building

with small steeples – where Abbey Road meets

Mill Street – attached to the Bridge End Hotel,

opposite the pelican crossing,

angled on the corner of Wharf Hill

that leads steeply up to the canal

and, over the narrow, hump-backed bridge,

left to Ysgol Dinas Brân and right

through the sheep fields and onto the hills

there is an eclectic bestiary:

the hare about to box, the barn owl roosting,

the erect meerkat, the leery hyena,

each an exemplar of this ancient art –

the beasts of the forests and the fields

as trophies, outlasting in effigy

their killers. The high school students walk past

blasé but assorted foreign tourists,

serious walkers, narrow boat sailors

and strayed revellers stop and wonder.

Do any of the them wake suddenly

before a cold dawn and remember

that they had been dreaming, in the silent

watches, of a herd of bright, glass eyes

glowing red, amber, green?

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‘ANOTHER PLACE’ REVISITED AT LOW WATER

By David SelzerMarch 28, 20182 Comments1 min read1.7K views

‘It is no hero, no ideal, just the industrially reproduced body

of a middle-aged man trying to remain standing and trying to breathe.’ Anthony Gormley

They are still standing and their slow carapace

of barnacles breathes. Small pools of eaten

razor clams and star fish lie at their feet – fry

dart amongst seaweed fronds and the dead.

An off shore breeze brings the calls of distant

sea birds close. The RNLI flag stiffens

and plastic kites, on the slight headland, swoop –

but the cumulus clouds and the con trails,

across the Atlantic, are almost still.

Wind turbines proliferate on Burbo Bank

and, beyond, along the North Wales coast.

Over the horizon, the world awaits

high tide. Meanwhile, on tricky sands, we move

with care among these icons of cast-iron

steadfastness and promise.

Note: The poem was first published on the site in July 2017.

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VALENTINE WEATHERS

By David SelzerFebruary 22, 20182 Comments1 min read1.7K views

January is like navigating

ice floes – then eventually heading east

for aromatic landfalls, or west

following the setting sun, or south

for the long haul like some latter day Cook,

journeying without guides into foreign parts.

The first port of call is in February.

Love fills the sails, the swell lifts the bow.

We met one July, married one August.

In May our daughter will be fifty one.

The bow lifts in the swell, the canvas fills with love.

Fearing the doldrums, I write each poem

as if it were to be the last – whistling up

favourable words speaking of love,

voyaging without charts.

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