{"id":4318,"date":"2014-12-07T23:18:03","date_gmt":"2014-12-07T23:18:03","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=4318"},"modified":"2014-12-07T23:23:11","modified_gmt":"2014-12-07T23:23:11","slug":"three-poems-9","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=4318","title":{"rendered":"Three Poems"},"content":{"rendered":"

Ode to a Magnolia Tree<\/b><\/em>
\nmagnolia denudata<\/i><\/p>\n

Impatient
\nas always,
\nyou blossom
\nin the cold
\nMarch air,
\neven before
\nyour leaves
\nhave set:
\nimpetuous
\nhostage
\nto late frosts,
\nthe unfinished
\nbusiness of winter –
\nbut what
\ndo you care,
\nyou want
\nto cut free,
\nfeel the sun
\non your face,
\nto flaunt
\nyour big
\ncreamy flowers,
\nso exotic
\nin this dull
\nsuburban garden.
\nI see you
\nin Rio,
\non the banks
\nof the Mississippi,
\nor holding court
\nin a Japanese garden.
\nYou glow
\nin the dusk,
\nyour petals
\nlike lanterns,
\nlighting
\nthe garden wall,
\neccentric, ornate
\nas an art nouveau
\nchandelier.
\nThe daffodils
\nare hesitant,
\nthe crocuses
\nreluctant to stir.
\nOnly the snowdrops
\nhave come,
\nand gone,
\nthe ground
\nhard
\nas a tin lid.
\nBut look at you:
\nshivering in the cold,
\nhalf dressed
\nfor a party
\nthat never happened,
\nstanding alone,
\nunchaperoned
\non the cold lawn.
\nYou’re not
\nof this world
\nreally,
\nso delicate;
\nstunning
\nfor a week,
\nand then
\nthe hailstones
\nruin you,
\nthe gales,
\nthe sudden
\ndownpours.
\nThe pavements
\nare strewn
\nwith flotillas
\nof little ivory
\nrowing boats
\nas if some
\nocean liner
\nhad just
\ngone down
\nwith all hand
\nlost.<\/p>\n

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\nDirty Water<\/strong><\/em><\/p>\n

So hot you could drink your own piss,
\nlike the Ayurvedics, but it wouldn\u2019t slake
\na thirst like this. I try to sleep, wrap myself<\/p>\n

in wet towels, but they dry to a crisp.
\nFlies sip from my arms, from the wells
\nof my skin – all night mosquitoes<\/p>\n

siphon my blood. Let them. Live and
\nlet live. I have a bottle of frozen water
\nfrom the hotel fridge. I roll it over my face,<\/p>\n

lick at its miserly mouth,
\ncolder than crack. Dirty water
\nmasquerading as fresh Himalayan spring.<\/p>\n

As it melts you can see the wildlife swim.
\nI would swig from the Ganges
\nand happily die \u2013 though I\u2019d live forever, they say.<\/p>\n

Who cares, let me drink, and tomorrow
\nthey can box me up and fly me back.
\nIf I sleep, I dream of home, of the cool<\/p>\n

green grass, the rain, the bones of my family
\nsunk in the heavy clay.
\nThe drone of the generator wakes me,<\/p>\n

the crusty towel, the girl next door puking.
\nI screw the top off my bottle of water,
\nwarm now, pungent. I open my mouth and drink.<\/p>\n

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\nNoobs<\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n

We were spawned into mayhem, dumb with fear.
\nThis was all we’d dreamed about, and more.
\nWe saw the smokestacks rising, vapour trails
\ncrossing the sky. We heard the distant boom
\nof ordnance, and trembled at the possibilities.
\nWe stood with our guns; awkward, all fingers
\nand thumbs \u2013 easy pickings.
\nWe learned the landscape quickly,
\nevery nook and cranny, swamp and sniper point.
\nWe heard the wind whistle in the Slipgate Complex.
\nWe saw the bloodbaths of DM4, the places
\nwhere we’d die: Chambers of Torment,
\nthe Longest Yard. The slaughter was thrilling,
\nwe were hooked on blood lust; the buzz of a head shot,
\non walking through dead. We’d fight all night,
\nand as the dawn came up \u2013 when all we could see,
\nif we closed our eyes, were the butchered grunts,
\nwhen all we could hear were the screams \u2013
\nwe’d flick the switch to bring us back: the beer cans,
\nashtrays piled high, neighbours heading to work,
\nand we’d sleep at last, through the daylight hours.<\/p>\n

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Ode to a Magnolia Tree magnolia denudata Impatient as always, you blossom in the cold March air, even before your leaves have set: impetuous hostage to late frosts, the unfinished business of winter – but what do you care, you want to cut free, feel the sun on your face, to flaunt your big creamy […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":110,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_is_tweetstorm":false,"jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":[]},"categories":[312,315],"tags":[],"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"yoast_head":"\nThree Poems - The Manchester Review<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=4318\" \/>\n<link rel=\"next\" href=\"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=4318&page=2\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Three Poems - The Manchester Review\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"Ode to a Magnolia Tree magnolia denudata Impatient as always, you blossom in the cold March air, even before your leaves have set: impetuous hostage to late frosts, the unfinished business of winter – but what do you care, you want to cut free, feel the sun on your face, to flaunt your big creamy […]\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:url\" content=\"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=4318\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:site_name\" content=\"The Manchester Review\" \/>\n<meta property=\"article:published_time\" content=\"2014-12-07T23:18:03+00:00\" \/>\n<meta property=\"article:modified_time\" content=\"2014-12-07T23:23:11+00:00\" \/>\n<meta name=\"author\" content=\"Neil Rollinson\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:label1\" content=\"Written by\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:data1\" content=\"Neil Rollinson\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:label2\" content=\"Est. reading time\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:data2\" content=\"3 minutes\" \/>\n<script type=\"application\/ld+json\" class=\"yoast-schema-graph\">{\"@context\":\"https:\/\/schema.org\",\"@graph\":[{\"@type\":\"WebPage\",\"@id\":\"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=4318\",\"url\":\"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=4318\",\"name\":\"Three Poems - The Manchester Review\",\"isPartOf\":{\"@id\":\"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/#website\"},\"datePublished\":\"2014-12-07T23:18:03+00:00\",\"dateModified\":\"2014-12-07T23:23:11+00:00\",\"author\":{\"@id\":\"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/#\/schema\/person\/c0be2d5a78bcfc873d54cbc7a0adcf78\"},\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\",\"potentialAction\":[{\"@type\":\"ReadAction\",\"target\":[\"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=4318\"]}]},{\"@type\":\"WebSite\",\"@id\":\"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/#website\",\"url\":\"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/\",\"name\":\"The Manchester Review\",\"description\":\"The Manchester Review\",\"potentialAction\":[{\"@type\":\"SearchAction\",\"target\":{\"@type\":\"EntryPoint\",\"urlTemplate\":\"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?s={search_term_string}\"},\"query-input\":\"required name=search_term_string\"}],\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\"},{\"@type\":\"Person\",\"@id\":\"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/#\/schema\/person\/c0be2d5a78bcfc873d54cbc7a0adcf78\",\"name\":\"Neil Rollinson\",\"image\":{\"@type\":\"ImageObject\",\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\",\"@id\":\"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/#\/schema\/person\/image\/\",\"url\":\"https:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/wp-includes\/images\/blank.gif\",\"contentUrl\":\"https:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/wp-includes\/images\/blank.gif\",\"caption\":\"Neil Rollinson\"},\"description\":\"Neil has published three collections of poetry with Jonathan Cape. 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