The Inward Eye
Poems by
Cynthia Fuller (FRANCYN)
1968
Question
With cat-black hair and dirty plimsolls
The small girl pushes a pram of
Promulgator trumpet-tongued scandal
Tittle-tattle, clamour, out-cry
Bitter words. Honeyed words, cruelty and horror.
Indifferently she throws them at the door
Of each curtained house
And moves on with the morning papers.
Will Man give her time
To wheel her baby in pram
And will it be of human shape?
Will it push-button us all to Hell
Or ride a capsul to Mars
Through years of space
The colour of his mother's hair?
Sunday papers
The gale had blown me awake
holding over nakedness a red dressing-gown
into the street into the watery wind I ran
chasing papers blown in turmoil
from their respective doorsteps.
In separate sheets they flew
caught like caged birds against railings,
masks over parked cars
white flags in the sky
sideways gliding, somersault turning
they attacked me.
in madness I grabbed them
I alone was alive in the street
snatching at these printed autumn leaves.
Crushing them in my arms
I staggered back into the house
but when I came to read them
they made no sense.
Four Swans
Four swans their necks straight-stretched
fly over houses calling a lake,
pure as a counter-tenor
their wings sing the morning air.
The sky is translucent and soft
as the water they desire
lake water that is brown-deep
glass-white in the shallows
here they will curve and land
in perfect dignity
then glide around in circles
thrusting their long necks through
the water to grubby food.
In a small hotel
Like a flock of wingless birds
guests leave the restaurant and
with expectant eyes gather for a dance.
The band hurries through the chattering crowd
carrying instruments heavy with the music they hold
fearful they may spew their secrets.
Through those muffled wraps
those coffin boxes
what wanton sounds might burst.
The small men unwrap them
tune them and press them to their bodies
the strings are pulled
tickled and scraped
their delicate hollow shapes, smacked.
While the dancers, tight in each other's arms
walk swaying round the room
until indifferences wipes all expectancy
from their eyes.
In a museum
Deep ivory, polished ugly
is the skull on its stand.
I looked into its gouged eyes
and see my face reflected
in the glass dividing us.
I thought to see his life
in those bones circles
but the puzzle is myself again.
His glaring jaw hisses at my skull
covered now in warm flesh
perceiving eyes,
questioning lips.
Smash the glass and fearsomely
touch his hollow head
let fingers creep along his shelf-like cheek
and wander through repetitious death,
until in humility this `Palaeolithic man
and I are one.
Seaweed
Sleeps the sea with the sky
drugged by the smell of seaweed.
People tear off their clothes intoxicated by the
pungent sour-salt seaweed.
Skylarks swing on ribbons of song above the
tang of bitter seaweed.
Dog-like a teasing wind leaps breakwaters
green with brine soaked seaweed.
Elements play at rolling the sun along
slippery hair-straight seaweed.
Entranced am I by this circus
and the soused smell of seaweed.
Winter in Australia and England
I stretch high my hand to touch
an Australian sky,
it slides across a blue metallic dome
no cloud stops it -
only a flaming triumphant sun.
I put my hand up and into
an English sky,
mist covers it like water
birds sit upon my fingers-
there is no sun.
Myself a blank
Myself a blank
I cannot find it.
though we go to bed together
spend the day together it
says nothing to me,
it is worse than a boring companion
because that you can leave
in the room
in the bed
just get up and leave
though arms cling around you
leave it outside yourself,
this is inside, a
muffled greyness
a nothingness that stifles.
All I can do is to say
It will pass---pass
then I will join loving hands
with myself again
we will stimulate each other.
I will interpret its thoughts
some will rise around me unexpected as
bubbles in a fire
others I will dig for with eager hands
and squeeze in colours on to a canvas
a white canvas that vibrates
in ecstasy.
Come lie with me
Come lie with me
question the dark pools
that more than fathoms deep
look up seeing things that are
and are not.
Move with hands tenderly
creation that is yours
and in the heavy curtained room
escape the black swan on the lake
under an unseen moon.
Pluck from his lips the flower of despair
and make two bodies one
till fate retreats,
the time is now within the hollow hand
from sacrificial fire to lemon-lighted streets.
Ride fast the horse of love
embedded on the floor to high exalted space,
and chariot draw the sun cross his face
blazing triumphant the much-kissed smile
into oblivion.
Desert Sunrise
The sun does not rise over the desert
it leaps on to it
one coup d'etat and it is there
strong, blinding, and fiery
no hovering and contemplating
but there at once blazing and wicked.
Cruelly it strides into the sky
sweeping radiance across the road
leaving nothing unscathed.
It hardens everything
with its light it sharp cuts low rocks
and draws leaden lines
round every stone.
it scars faces and slits their eyes
it hates the earth
burns it mercilessly
then kicks it into darkness.
Fulham Road
In a shops dusty window
with strings like torn feathers
I saw a lot of ancient harps,
sixteen of them,
a very forgotten heaven.
They crowd sideways in the window
facing one way as do the dead
some wore golden crowns
all leaned slightly forward
awaiting delicately their unknown fate.
Suddenly the window filled with
flying hands, ghost hands
plucking the few strings
gathering the broken ones
into the hollow palms.
such a melody cascaded forth I thought
the shabby shop rose into the air--
and like a bubble burst.
Love in the park
How gentle is the park
one enters the iron gates
into an oasis of love.
Babies are lifted of prams
dogs, unchained, smell each other
and pass on. Toy boats sail a pond
too shallow to drown in,
a great saucer of milk in the
opalescent evening.
Acid colours flicker under dark branches
where people wander hand in hand
as in a dream.
In silence children play and
tired people sit and sit.
When dusk comes, the devil in the garb
of a park keeper
flies the paths on a bicycle shouting
All out---all out---
Then we strap up the babies
tie up the dogs,
untwine our arms and lose what lay in them.
Ships in the Tropics
I push open heavy glass doors
and step into a damp black mouth
it covers me completely
it takes my strength
my breath is burning red
my clothes are tumbled.
panting, the ship drags her white
laced veil upon the deserted waters.
I am lost in blackness.
Redevelopment
Awaiting its turn in perturbed silence
is this street of sick houses.
Men with pick-axes are cutting into
their once protecting roofs.
From front door they vomit the essence of their lives
entrails of floor boards, bricks, flowered paper.
Twisted wires and broken lamps horrify the garden
trees stagger with stenching dust.
Reddening creeper outlines windows
as grief weeping eyes.
What can I do?
What can I do for him--
love, laugh, and talk nonsense.
From a red couch watch lights from fire
and street lamp,
fire active lamplight static.
His body presses against mine
clothed only in the illness
that he cannot take off.
I tear the cruel garment,
pretend it is not there--
struggle as I may its arms are round him
tighter than mine
his eyes gaze at me desperately
mine at him longingly.
I am wood that he clutches as the tide rises
sex that intoxicates his unhappiness,
illusion that gives him comfort
this farling clown who wants
so much of life.
Autumn Leaves
One the pavement abstract patterns make the leaves
from plane trees
In brittle supplication lie those from chestnuts.
Naked stand elms in circles of discarded rags
whilst limes float down their
small yellow hearts.
At their funeral piles I kick carelessly,
or stand inhaling aroma of damp earth.
I press hard my head against a tree's
wet black bark,
until its strength stabs into me the
surety of leaves to come.
A funeral service
Like water Latin words lap persistently
the pebble-black coffin isolated
on the beach of infinity.
Vaporous faces signal to me
seeking memories
begging not to be forgotten.
Alive we are pulled into the greedy past
that sits so solidly here and
feasts so dreadfully upon the present.
Only by likeness to their fathers
many years dead
do I know the people here.
This strange heredity,
this repetition of another's face
is this all of our immortality?
Before . . . I do not know
Before . . . I do not know
After . . . I do not know
only the years between
are my own.
The silence in my mind is impregnated
with words I can never erase
only, confused, try to forget.
I draw the hood closer and look
at the faces of people,
at their mouths masticating food
and words . . . words . . . words.
They make a whirling pattern
around me till I am maddened
and confounded.
Fossil
In white lines on a stone's smooth surface
is drawn a maidenhair fern
unchanged by time it repeats its perfection
in florist's windows.
As a child I picked it in a wood,
now in a museum I see it
pressed by the hand of death to immortality.
A survival from the beginning of the world
when mountains slide into tideless seas
and there were no eyes to see the sun.
Old woman
Where are your large flat feet
taking you, old woman?
Your basket drags the ground
you pass food shops without looking
and, determined, cross the streets.
The solid sky bends your back
buildings stretch away from you
at a crowded bench you pause and
thrusting out your heavy feet
you sit at the end--
like a full stop.
Sunday in Austria
Straddled across a chair a peasant sits
tickling the lake for fish.
The lake in early morning moves lazily
beneath adamant mountains
man and mountains face each other
divided by silence.
Persistent, too, the church bell
angling for fish--
slithering upon the mosaic floor
it will cast them
their vacant faces fixed on gilded angels
bleeding saints.
In the green-grey gloom
high over a golden altar hangs
the pale body of Christ caught,
and long forgotten.
Morning moon
The moon is low in the sky
on her left a chimney stands sentinel
cut between houses the transparent sky
awaits the day
like a garment to put on.
Forsaken by the night the moon has
the world transfixed
all mystery, rest and silence will vanish
as she wanders off
round as a breast, serene as a song
indifferent as the dead.
My window
My window is a glass square
glazed with cobalt.
Chimneys, like teats on an upturned
sow's belly, give suck to the soft sky.
Lights from sly eyes slant in the houses
for night comes.
Against the wall, a tree of twisted shape
waits for leaves to hide its deformity and
blossoms celebrate their yearly
marriage with death by a cascade of
pink confetti on the grass.
How silent it is,
if I walk to the end of the road
all is changed--
automobiles cut straight the street
accelerating danger,
high are lamps floodlight the race,
the painting of blue mystery has gone
cement, power, speed,
now scream the picture.
One evening
Round the park garlands of street lights
shimmer as jewels on a brown bosom.
In an orange velour sky
is slit a moon.
Lying full length upon a bench
a man stares up at the night
his hat fallen bucket-like
under his head.
What will be in there if I go and look
dreams splashed by the stars?
So complete is his stillness I am fascinated
watching.
Fear nudges me he is dead.
Not wanting to know I walk away
keeping also my dreams.
Dawn chorus
They slither-cut the silence
with their twittering jingle-jangle
they perforate to nothingness the night
and in tuned ecstasy the omnipotent stars to songs.
While the dawn-pale moon
the swooning sickly moon
drifts to rebirth in the
womb of the Antipodes.
The game
Life is a game of musical chairs
if death gets your seat you are out.
Round and round you dance
keeping close the chairs, or unconcernedly
far out whirling waving arms
intoxicated by the music.
Curtains at the long windows in the immense room
change from lace to nylon,
yellow electric to mauve false daylight,
high mirrors reflect the grotesque, eager,
evaporating, searching, haunted faces.
The view outside changes
buildings stand close as tombstones
white lines slit the sky with confused screaming,
shallow seas drift dreamily over iridescent sands
and statues in silence gaze inwards.
You do not notice day and night,
unheeding in bizarre madness you embrace another
or turn alone . . . isolated.
Suddenly the music stops,
breathlessly you reach a chair and see
death grin up at a figure standing
bewildered, with the glory of the dance
outlining his vibrating body.
No time to weep, or understand
for the tune is on again.
But where when the music stops, and you are standing
the game over?
Mountain lakes
Mountains confront me
ominous petrified waves surround me
their forms remote, sombre, objective.
Sharp cut against the sky
at night they bend their barren heads
and gaze into their hollow bodies--
Moundsee, Wolfgansee,
what names we give them
they are the soft hearts of the mountains,
the only living things in this
sculptured world.
Trees in the country
Trees in the country grow where they like
they grow higher than houses
capturing the sun in their branches.
From a hill they look like parsley but
close amongst them there is a resin incense
a rustle of small animals, and fear.
I climb a stile hidden by brambles and
force my way into this world of ancient beauties
fooling the years of man by their
reincarnation each spring.
Edited for HTML by Richard Mervyn Leveridge 2002-10-27
leveridge@zoom.co.uk