Helen Pletts now lives in Prague, in the Czech Republic, and has spent the summer battling with the twin evils of root-canal dentistry and builders. She's now about to take over teaching on a creative writing class so before she's driven completely mad, here is some observational poetry she has recently submitted…
The New Boy
You were painting, your chair close to mine.
I found you sheltering under my pregnant form many times,
cowering, cleaning your brush in the water.
Turning the clean water murky
while holding your breath at the same time.
Finally, you asked me
with great delicacy, about your safety,
if ever you were to be alone with the other staff.
I mumbled quietly about the value of open doors
and safety in numbers
but looking into your eyes I knew
you already felt their hands on you,
on top of the marks from the last place
and the place before that.
(don't ever get too close, my boss said)
So I pressed your face against the face of my unborn.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The cyclist's leg
That is what it reminded me of –
a closed, black umbrella.
He was cycling beside the car.
The yellow of his waistcoat
was the first thing we saw
– not the leg –
which had been removed at the knee.
The other tendon, functioning;
rippled like a bronzed stallion's haunch
working twice as hard.
The stump –
dressed with a black shiny staff
tapered into the shoe;
like a thin, polished piano-leg
flickering sunlight through stroboscopic spokes.
And I could see him dancing to music,
maybe Smetana,
waltzing with that leg,
like a real leg moves
secretly,
inside the leg of a dark trouser.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Travelling
You have been travelling with me for decades;
even before you were born;
your toothbrush next to mine in my suitcase,
the bristles damp from the cold water in our last hotel.
I tipped the porter through your fingers;
your napkin wiped my lower lip;
clean, white linen you had straightened
by your plate at dinner.
There was a fold, a crease in the napkin,
like the gristle-spine of a chicken carcass
springing at my touch; indelibly pressed into the fibres,
like my laundry tags with your name on.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Builders: Czech Republic, summertime
The long hot
stretches into the echo of dog.
A lathe sings. Pitch brilliant
and gilded in sunlight.
When the lathe stops
the radio winds the dog up even more,
but only the head
and stretching jaws, through the gate,
can participate.
I take out three beers
furred with cold air from the fridge,
I break off the caps
'Danke'
(They think I'm German
when they see my blonde hair).
But they curl their lips
and show me their brown teeth
and tilt, and smile at me
through frothed gold.
I didn't invade your country
until now,
(I tell them, anyway)
and
I didn't come in a tank.
