Matthew Caley

The Confluence of the Elbe and the Upa

             Supposedly, the

cool silver birch bole barely

two hips width shudders

like a woman on the brink

of believing in her man

             They are two rivers

running into each other

clarities fusing

fast – where Coldharbour Lane runs

out into Camberwell Green

The Confluence of the Elbe

and the Upa

             So, no matter that

bane flower proliferate,

cinquefoil and cress,

or silt builds scum upon scum

still they run on – sieve-panned and

             as prospectors bent

to what wild seam of beryl

jasper or jade, jet-

streamed, might yet convert bedrock

into discarded jewellery –

             two rivers, one back

spine-glint as a string of bulbs,

two Pilsner Urquells,

kinked, their quartz-strewn gravel beds

groan as the waters withdraw

             I, fly, later slipped

the Ritzy and Railton Road

to smoke the cool lips

off Bathsheba, her moon-washed

awry realigned tank top

             overlap of leaf

against leaf, veined light, networked

long-legged fly floats

arced, stilt stance on garlic bulbs

stippling estuarial banks

             found a copy of

Roy Fisher’s The Dow Low Drop

in the gutter out-

side of Book Mongers, leaf mulch

sailboat headed elsewhere or

The Confluence of the Elbe

and the Upa

             them sank in couch grass

dew-nipped, swollen, bare-assed, blocked

tributary where

shyness meets shyness and forms

a pane of glass. Breath. Swipe. Swipe.

             His sly cigarette.

Her furtive stretch for a book

– nipple-smudge night-smock –

Milan Kundera’s Slowness

Modernism gone, with it

The Confluence of the Elbe

and the Upa

*

Written Immediately on Waking

But first let me tell you about my gaucherie

between laurel and myrtle in the great enterprise

while tyranny is adored

and the inconsolable spouse is keeping her word

on the arm of this great spindle-shanks, surveying her injuries

imagining a pride

or at least being able to recognise

a profligate soul of the side roads –

a footman who changes into chambermaid’s chic

then reads Crébillon fils’ licentious novel Le Sopha

how perfectly suited to being a lover!

we had six hours together

folded but unsealed in a trough of sleep or panegyric

O Mademoiselle… knowledge of your weakness is my leisure.

*

Absolute Gospel

As she breathes, breathes honey into rock

or the fragrance of magnolia petals

onto a Southern wind, what gets blown back

are the husky, salient details

that make any atheist talk

as if all four gospels

were burnt onto their tongue, horde a wondrous lack

as the track ends and the train pulls 

out of that slow, licentious summer,

has them instantly comprehend

why this gilt, skinny white boy stands

armed only with a tack hammer

ready to take on thousands

for a single note from Blind Mamie Forehand.

*

Walnuts

             Then the heatwave flinched

and trees arched upward as if

replenished when your 

brown eyes tried     so haltingly

to withhold a     withhold a 

             tear and their surface

-s pearled darkly for about 

one microsecond, 

then dried. You told me about

your grandfather, walnut groves, 

             graves. My duty to

cave in to need, cave into 

beauty at any 

opportunity, but you, 

you flirted with the waiter 

             and the five tines of 

your fork lit up the rood. Then

the tear retreated

– your half wipe could not have been 

lighter – but inside you were 

             irrigated as 

after a long drought by a 

dew so wet it would straighten 

out the wrinkles on a wal-

nut to a tabletop. I 

             would have you in a 

white vest, ravish you on that 

table covered in 

walnuts. Excuse me. I would

be dishonest with you but

             for this shimmering 

night and all propriety 

outlawed. There, that’s said.

‘Gleeful cultural cannibalism. Hauntingly lovely, immaculately constructed. Apparently is one of those collections which makes you see the world as suddenly more complex, strange and fascinating.’ – Imogen Robertson, Poetry Book Society Online

‘Satirically playful, self-parodic, yes, but unable to conceal an emotional intelligence that lends depth and vulnerability to Caley’s voice even at moments of humour.’ – Jane Holland, Poetry Review

‘The most inventive user of the sonnet form currently writing.' – Laurie Smith, Magma