When I Am A Man
When I’m a man I want to be a soldier.
I’d like to line up to be measured
and examined by buttoned-down doctors.
I’d like all of my hair shaved off.
I’d like it if I could race my mates
by running far with a heavy pack,
and hold my breath for too long
in a tunnel flooded with rank water.
I’d like to have no private space;
to lie in rows with twenty-nine other men
and sleep only when exhausted,
mindful of snores and soap in socks.
When I’m a man I want to go to war.
I want to stand in ranks with men
whose clothes match mine,
our faces painted to match too.
I’d like it if my big, shiny boots
stomped proudly around the world
to wherever they were needed,
to kick down doors and kick ass.
Those liberated could watch our troop
walk long roads flanked by burnt cars;
a victory parade for the boys,
a thumbs up on every burnt hand.
When I am a man I’d like to ride in a convoy
of camouflaged trucks, dogtags tinkling,
the smell of burnt hair in my nostrils
as I polish my boots, and explode.
© Matthew Joseph Johnson, 2009
Sunday 17 May 2009
smoking lessons
The Protégé
The fire burns brightest at noon,
its smoke moves at speed across
stranded houses, through windows
open or closed, through sunlight,
across streets and into a room
where you lie at the soft pedals
of your silent piano, letters
and trophies strewn over the floor.
Smoke drifting at a speed too fast
for drift, travelling to grass, wood,
concrete; streets of soot smothering
the lungs of all who are out,
whispering in a strangled classroom,
a place with no air where sameness
is taught and learnt by teacher, pupil,
caretaker, where small chairs sit, stained.
Crows cough, couples discard clothes,
release blunted limbs from tight binds.
Wisps curl around lampposts, lick
at doors, sweep under arches,
into my room through a skylight,
swirling off mirrors to remind
with highlight the scars from the hot
weight you pressed into my arm.
I look out over rooftops,
wood and concrete, sharpness dulled
and softened by sooty tongues,
midday saliva-dew on the grass,
to the fire I lit at the bandstand,
where you played with burning release,
and behind, to the sun, not rising,
not setting, the slowest strobe I’ve known.
© Matthew Joseph Johnson, 2009
The fire burns brightest at noon,
its smoke moves at speed across
stranded houses, through windows
open or closed, through sunlight,
across streets and into a room
where you lie at the soft pedals
of your silent piano, letters
and trophies strewn over the floor.
Smoke drifting at a speed too fast
for drift, travelling to grass, wood,
concrete; streets of soot smothering
the lungs of all who are out,
whispering in a strangled classroom,
a place with no air where sameness
is taught and learnt by teacher, pupil,
caretaker, where small chairs sit, stained.
Crows cough, couples discard clothes,
release blunted limbs from tight binds.
Wisps curl around lampposts, lick
at doors, sweep under arches,
into my room through a skylight,
swirling off mirrors to remind
with highlight the scars from the hot
weight you pressed into my arm.
I look out over rooftops,
wood and concrete, sharpness dulled
and softened by sooty tongues,
midday saliva-dew on the grass,
to the fire I lit at the bandstand,
where you played with burning release,
and behind, to the sun, not rising,
not setting, the slowest strobe I’ve known.
© Matthew Joseph Johnson, 2009
Friday 15 May 2009
unleavened
Fear
after Alice Oswald
From time to time your fear is like a weight
and when released that weight begins to fall
and hard and fast it strikes sharp like an axe
and when the axe keels through it’s like a ship
and if the ship is yours it has five masts
like matches stood on end and when a match
sparks into life it’s like a story told
and once the story’s told it grows like yeast
and this when yeast is needed for your dough
which kneaded proved and baked is like a stone
and when the stone is chipped it’s like a tree
battered and bruised by strong winds like a riot
and when the riot recedes it leaves a desert
which is like fear, which is like nothing else.
© Matthew Joseph Johnson, 2009
after Alice Oswald
From time to time your fear is like a weight
and when released that weight begins to fall
and hard and fast it strikes sharp like an axe
and when the axe keels through it’s like a ship
and if the ship is yours it has five masts
like matches stood on end and when a match
sparks into life it’s like a story told
and once the story’s told it grows like yeast
and this when yeast is needed for your dough
which kneaded proved and baked is like a stone
and when the stone is chipped it’s like a tree
battered and bruised by strong winds like a riot
and when the riot recedes it leaves a desert
which is like fear, which is like nothing else.
© Matthew Joseph Johnson, 2009
Monday 11 May 2009
taxmen
On Trees
Upon completing his transaction, our man leaves
the assistant damp with tears, exits his loathed branch
of HSBC. He is handcuffed to a trunk.
He crosses the road to walk through green trees, their trunks
make him feel secure, at ease. Above, on a branch,
he sees a grinning imp, fanning itself with leaves.
Panicked, he shoots forward, eyes darting backward, leaves
the imp behind him, wavers, then takes the right branch
at the fork. He stumbles over roots, drops his trunk.
It opens. Face knots with horror, legs become trunk.
Rooted in soil he claws, grasps, as arms become branch.
Around him his money plays in the breeze like leaves.
© Matthew Joseph Johnson, 2009
Upon completing his transaction, our man leaves
the assistant damp with tears, exits his loathed branch
of HSBC. He is handcuffed to a trunk.
He crosses the road to walk through green trees, their trunks
make him feel secure, at ease. Above, on a branch,
he sees a grinning imp, fanning itself with leaves.
Panicked, he shoots forward, eyes darting backward, leaves
the imp behind him, wavers, then takes the right branch
at the fork. He stumbles over roots, drops his trunk.
It opens. Face knots with horror, legs become trunk.
Rooted in soil he claws, grasps, as arms become branch.
Around him his money plays in the breeze like leaves.
© Matthew Joseph Johnson, 2009
Wednesday 6 May 2009
huffs & puffs
August, 1945
On thursday the ninth,
my china fell from its hooks.
My jar of teas spilled onto the floor
and my spoon toppled from its saucer.
The pebbles I’d arranged on the shelf
fell quickly but in sequence onto new tiles,
and the light leaked from my photographs.
All of the windows cracked like nutshells.
The curtains fluttered like ball gowns,
then lifted for invisible can-can legs.
The door opened and then kept going
and the upstairs became a basement
and my hair blew across my face
and my eardrums burst.
© Matthew Joseph Johnson, 2009
On thursday the ninth,
my china fell from its hooks.
My jar of teas spilled onto the floor
and my spoon toppled from its saucer.
The pebbles I’d arranged on the shelf
fell quickly but in sequence onto new tiles,
and the light leaked from my photographs.
All of the windows cracked like nutshells.
The curtains fluttered like ball gowns,
then lifted for invisible can-can legs.
The door opened and then kept going
and the upstairs became a basement
and my hair blew across my face
and my eardrums burst.
© Matthew Joseph Johnson, 2009
Sunday 3 May 2009
Friday 1 May 2009
brace mirror
An Impossible Bottle
Instead of a galleon, I take long-handled tools
to a life and proceed to fill a bottle with
a powerful telescope facing a loaded gun;
a crystal ball shaped as a Romantic artist’s skull;
a reminder of good times carved on the keel of a pirate ship;
a beautiful woman sat on a stumbling block.
Piece by piece I place the first bottle
into a smaller second bottle, which is now
a leaking sea wall around a tower of creativity;
a song of inspiration; a mangled arm;
a prompt to set out like a stream in a heatwave;
a silent, destructive conscience wearing braces.
Looking in through thick glass at the original bottle
I see, if I squint, that it has now become
a useless plaything in a pit that has a bottom;
a container for dreams in a container for nightmares;
a vessel for liquids drunk at daybreak in Paris;
a jewellery box with a sign reading “Do not touch”.
Looking further still, I can see the first now contains
a seldom seen animal on a useless television;
a key to the paint box; a lock on my intellect;
a ticket to “Anywhere” with a gregarious friend;
a puddle contained in a monument to beauty;
a cabinet for a friend of mine; and my ribcage.
© Matthew Joseph Johnson, 2009
Instead of a galleon, I take long-handled tools
to a life and proceed to fill a bottle with
a powerful telescope facing a loaded gun;
a crystal ball shaped as a Romantic artist’s skull;
a reminder of good times carved on the keel of a pirate ship;
a beautiful woman sat on a stumbling block.
Piece by piece I place the first bottle
into a smaller second bottle, which is now
a leaking sea wall around a tower of creativity;
a song of inspiration; a mangled arm;
a prompt to set out like a stream in a heatwave;
a silent, destructive conscience wearing braces.
Looking in through thick glass at the original bottle
I see, if I squint, that it has now become
a useless plaything in a pit that has a bottom;
a container for dreams in a container for nightmares;
a vessel for liquids drunk at daybreak in Paris;
a jewellery box with a sign reading “Do not touch”.
Looking further still, I can see the first now contains
a seldom seen animal on a useless television;
a key to the paint box; a lock on my intellect;
a ticket to “Anywhere” with a gregarious friend;
a puddle contained in a monument to beauty;
a cabinet for a friend of mine; and my ribcage.
© Matthew Joseph Johnson, 2009
stops & searches
Routine Enquiries
At London Bridge I step onto
the escalator, stand in line.
Creeping slowly upwards,
late, greeted by a smile:
“I need to search you, Sir,
under section 44 of the Terrorism Act.”
Why me?
He wears helmet, stab-vest, steel-toed boots.
I’m in a yellow jacket, bright blue jeans;
hardly trying to blend in.
White skin usually does the job.
Open my bag: gloved hands go in.
Prodding and poking.
“Any clothes in here, Sir?”
Only my black balaclava.
“That’s my umbrella sleeve.”
His hand continues through its motions.
“D’you have any I.D. Sir?”
Reach for my provisional driving license.
Still need to learn.
“Right, Sir. I’d like to take your address, but
you’re free to catch your train. Sir.”
Silently I shut my wallet,
quickly zip up my bag
and put my earphones back in.
© Matthew Joseph Johnson, 2009
At London Bridge I step onto
the escalator, stand in line.
Creeping slowly upwards,
late, greeted by a smile:
“I need to search you, Sir,
under section 44 of the Terrorism Act.”
Why me?
He wears helmet, stab-vest, steel-toed boots.
I’m in a yellow jacket, bright blue jeans;
hardly trying to blend in.
White skin usually does the job.
Open my bag: gloved hands go in.
Prodding and poking.
“Any clothes in here, Sir?”
Only my black balaclava.
“That’s my umbrella sleeve.”
His hand continues through its motions.
“D’you have any I.D. Sir?”
Reach for my provisional driving license.
Still need to learn.
“Right, Sir. I’d like to take your address, but
you’re free to catch your train. Sir.”
Silently I shut my wallet,
quickly zip up my bag
and put my earphones back in.
© Matthew Joseph Johnson, 2009
castaways
The Faith Issue
after Nuala Ní Dhomhnaill
I launch my faith into water
with its frail raft of pregnant words,
the way a castaway might stow
a letter scratched onto dried bark,
laboured over, rolled carefully
into the one precious bottle,
sealed in its womb with husk & leaf,
catapulted from the high cliff
at dawn, when the tide will slowly
deliver my vessel from shore,
only to have it bob in waves
aimlessly till landfall, finding
berth with a child in plastic shoes,
who toes at the bottle before
pressing it to his navel; who
throws back my ill born faith.
© Matthew Joseph Johnson, 2009
after Nuala Ní Dhomhnaill
I launch my faith into water
with its frail raft of pregnant words,
the way a castaway might stow
a letter scratched onto dried bark,
laboured over, rolled carefully
into the one precious bottle,
sealed in its womb with husk & leaf,
catapulted from the high cliff
at dawn, when the tide will slowly
deliver my vessel from shore,
only to have it bob in waves
aimlessly till landfall, finding
berth with a child in plastic shoes,
who toes at the bottle before
pressing it to his navel; who
throws back my ill born faith.
© Matthew Joseph Johnson, 2009
