Mr Polar Bear

What must it be like to never be touched?
to be cordoned off behind a wire,
not stroked, or combed, or held, or loved –

but looked at from afar, muscles bunched,
your ancient fur, gleaming like a cold fire:
what must it be like to never be touched?

Just watch as other people eat their lunch
whilst holding hands beside your pyre –
and you not stroked, or combed, or loved

but mounted on a wooden block, hung
like a painting: Still Life, out for hire –
what must it be like to never be touched?

Or do you say this to your attendants? –
notice in their waiting, something tired,
not stroked, or combed, or held, or loved.

Is it cold in the museum, hushed?
when people come, are you like a sire –
an Icy King – do you dream of touch?
not stroked or combed, or held or loved.

Love Poem to a Polar Bear (after Marlowe)

Come live with me and be my love
Dear Polar Bear like snow white glove
And if you need a place to sleep
I’ll build for you an icy keep.

I’ll sneak you past the concierge,
Who sleeps and dreams of polar bears
And we can take the stairs or lift
Just like we’re climbing up a drift.

And on my floor that’s number two
We’ll swim like divers to my rooms –
The lounge that’s painted like a cave,
The arctic bathroom that I’ve made.

And when it’s cold, you’ll think it’s nice
And when it thaws I’ll buy you ice
And you can have your own soft seat
And a stool to rest your feet.

When in my flat I’ll feed you cake,
Silver squares of frosted flake,
And in my freezer I’ll keep cod,
Come live with me and be my love.

Dear Polar Bear, I’ll leave those men
Who call at eight and nine and ten –
I’ll be with you, my number one
Come live with me, my polar love.

The Mould Man

The mould man came today
and he ripped out the floor in my kitchen
and he ripped out the units
underneath my kitchen sink,
and he fitted me with a larger cupboard,
and crawled under the bath to get at a leak.

And the mould man came today
and I’ve waited for him for so long
but he wasn’t what I had expected
no gas mask or boiler suit front.

But the mould man came like a prophet
sent by the agents, of De Montfort House
and he sealed up the walls in the bathroom
and painted them blue like an artic cloud.

And the mould man had an answer for everything –
for the death trap of wires rolled up by the door,
for the man from bar roma with children,
the famous poet I’d met while he toured.

And the mould man had an answer for heartbreak,
the mould man had an answer like gold,
the mould man had an answer for living,
the mould man had an answer for mould.

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Little Earthquakes

On the afternoon the world turned magic
the city centre was a bowl of light
and the sky shone like alabaster
and the sun ribboned rainbow clouds.

And Lydia and Ola met for coffee,
then Lydia and Ola went for lunch,
then Lydia and Ola walked to the museum
and Ola nearly lost a glove.

And on the the afternoon the world turned magic
they saw things – that would stop your heart:
a Dodo with a bowler beak,
a leopard made of morse black lines.

And they saw a peep show in a cavern
where you opened doors to see small birds –
a canary pinned to a piece of backing,
a set of beetles, like a school of words.

And on the afternoon the world turned magic
they saw the animals come to life,
a tiger told them what it wanted,
a rhino breathed, a sparrow walked.

And on the afternoon the world turned magic
they strode back home, through springtime light
and Ola mentioned Taxdemia
and the paving stones were sunset white.

And Lydia mentioned Tori Amos
on the afternoon the world just changed
and they sang the lyrics from their favorite album
and they skipped like ropes, and they smiled, like flames.