Lockdown

STARTER

Start with the flour, the water.
Start with the starter, with the start.
The living things vibrating there, invisible to eye.
Start with the beginning, of life, where did it start
sprinkle on the top rosemary and thyme grown from a seed
Where did it start
whose seed was it that gave me the plant I eat
Imagine living all life from the very start
growing your trees to build your house.

A garden of my own: I know what seeds I planted where.
Beyond those I cannot see.
Return to the start, make the starter,
create the dough that makes the bread.
Make my own bread, the stuff of life
the slow-burning energy of slow-grown grains
slow sugars, safer this way
comfort within safe walls, the dough warm in palms
moulded in time – grains wrought by wind and chance
before they became the grain
willed by ancestors long ago
and before the grain I do not know
beyond the cells we do not know

I started it but it started long before me
within walls, within the ancestry
of home and hearth and grains transformed
by human hands
in open lands, upon living soil.
The living starter as sustenance
warmed into dough, fragrant as earth
old certainty in a world asunder.

[Paris, 23 April-1 May 2020]

LOCKDOWN 4

The feel of the pool water on that summer day,
saturated white and the blue relief,
tingling on skin after the splash,

the slight discomfort of having sat too still
over long lunch and then nothing much
feet had swollen slightly in the heat
time had stopped while earth rotated along another day

fresh water that recalled the sea, the sea -
too perfect to imagine now from my urban bed

where at night my body senses that old moment somewhere, locked in a place I don’t recall
the lunch and white wine, the chlorinated splash

I know it was not enough: it just approximated the salty everything
that embraced and caressed and set us free

Here and now it is just spring
nighttime, and wisteria scent has saturated the air
sounds echo in that warm weather way
(neighbours somewhere, not much else)

promising renewal like a crystalline gong, vibrations from the world at peace

but not - this urban room is my place now
as along with millions of others
I lie in wait for the pandemic to end
dream of spaces and summer pools
and remember how they harked to the sea:

the horizon that makes sense of all this present

which has become infinite and still

but the air outside vibrates

we wait

[Paris, 12 April 2020]

LOCKDOWN 3

What is there in the world once the shops are closed
cinemas dark, theatre cancelled, everything postponed

airports without people and planes in hangars
until further notice
stories stop

no walking, building, meeting,
walking into the boardroom
getting late to the office, doing lunch in town

serving cocktails, planning menus
running the place and serving there

populating the planet with action, dreams and nightmares
stuff
ambitions, frustrations, occupations

There are people in their houses living lives grand or blighted
stuck in small rooms that oppress,
or deployed in large rooms that used to impress

brains functioning, hearts beating, stomachs churning
lungs at work
bodies targeted, protected from others

but people are still talking, writing, wondering,
still planning, still doing what can be done

What happens when the world’s work that remains
is what keeps everyone else alive, at risk of falling ill

when so many fall ill
and death is suddenly close even to those who had forgotten

We have words still and the news is on
we know what we have in our house

that is the world, for now
there is only now, because it was not planned

we were too busy running things
to plan their ever stopping

[Paris, 9 April 2020]

LOCKDOWN 2

This is big
we know from within our small interiors
protected and warm

a big event
but the cause is tiny, microscopic, multiplied
billions of times along with breath
and droplets, and love and hate

A big event for the history books
lived inside, enforced domesticity for all on earth
or almost

for some it's hell for others heaven
sometimes both, or nothing, or all
something strange for everyone

All in one place, the sleeping, eating, working
cleaning dust and washing dishes
the children schooled in their rooms

everyone's homes a place of work
the appointments and going in and out of inner life
to outer links with those outside
stuck in their place inside

If we’re lucky we see our friends
flattened on screens, voices rendered faithfully
by technology made indifferently
carrying emotions by waves

We count days alone and together
as one by one the tiny thing strikes
we await inside the turn it takes
our turn maybe or already

in sickness and in health
all corners of lives and loves cleared up
by the simple task of stopping
staying

Don't run, breathe in and out
breathe, breath is life
the bug can take your breath away
and kill
but mostly will run its course

Some are cosy in our houses though others flee
their non-houses
we can watch horrors flattened on tv
and then they swell inside
and out when we know who, how, when
but why, no one ever knows, why

Everywhere the corners of rooms are the horizon
at best
from where we can dream of landscapes

await
in sickness and in health
we live and love
until it starts again

what I why where, to what end
we ask, stilled beneath the question
caught in the midst of action
the self's demands on hold

survival, as best we can
rejoin the ranks of History
made while we film and watch
days prolonged and holding on
while we type our way to each other

tell each other truths
no space for lies when we stay still inside

the point of pointlessness revealed at last

at the end we will unite in one deep breath

I want time to slow for all, the earth to tell us
how to be

[Paris, 2 April 2020]

LOCKDOWN 1

What is the point of a city whose traffic lights alight alone
and asphalt is a cold convenience for no one?
Nature has lost its rights for no reason now
buildings aligned like a forest at night stand sober but no one is there to see

Humans unwelcome to each other in their own playground:
mere artifice remains of the city now silenced,
shops and posters, ways of spending money made in offices,
places for collective comfort, foods and wishes
now shut

the beauty of urbanity, an old so human story,
in the dark for now and revealing its cracks
the gashes in cement rolled over hill and plain

culture that was heaved out of heart and labour,
the talk of the town and the city, the well-read and well-healed resonating on straight pavement
all hushed

each one at home in the home of themselves

awaiting the veil to lift, or fall again

[Paris, 18 March 2020]

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