Jude Cowan Montague
My Dallin Riseter
I littlemede the way in shottery steps
towards the wyn I underbad go
nith the nunning morning speke,
hallowbird middle. To clean the cup
in courtly pass, I linyard, northburning
my valey vegan, froissart my cross
tatteringly. Not vandykery nor mayharry
yet when strongmarking, pullsty boke
I ekkeyn, why dairsie, hillbow? Toober
bankshall, granster and greving maudslay
may woodso moireve awill, mooroful.
Foolsing
many days before the end,
we watching him in the pool, salty
and he watching me, Paull
how can we do this now
when he has gone to be a bird?
the hed fallen into the mire.
he watching me from his photo-deep
wazzee thinking are you okay
Burton and tomorrow for the water's length
toes ain't reachin' the bottom now
you is gone, gone into your headstead
way you old billiard, wyt and light,
Paull we lost the game didn't we
you were playing secrets in the salt end
I have no secrets from you but so
I is screaming and screaming
men in the pool, legs dangling
we have lost our limbs,
and Paull is ready and turns
cheerio I'm going to go peaceful
going to pearl and head with the swine
can't you take a joke
I was only
foolsing
Needing a Face
Round it goes on the brick-work, that beam,
pointing behind the nets at the indistinctive figure
holding the curtains away from the mound breathing,
softly, the glass moisturising from its vapourettes.
The shape cannot see us looking, as we are in the car,
parked a long way away, the lilac-pointed screen flickering,
cheese and onion water in a pastie from THE OLD GRANARY
clinging to its filth of plastic, flaking over our working trousers.
Five months ago the shape was seen, pulling a suitcase
from a boot. You should have kept smiling, pretended that
nothing is wrong, that the resort office knew you,
that the eastern boys sent you and the elegant nose
of the chequered lady whose arms slip out of her
cape did not sniff your fear. She was taking photos of you,
not looking at herself in her tiny but deadly compact.
You knew it was all a con, yet you went on.
Nobody should have told you we would protect you,
our hands are in our pockets. You are collateral and the truth
is beginning to reveal itself in its sticky journalism,
the red light dancing mixed tones into mono-film.
We will not meet again.
I littlemede the way in shottery steps
towards the wyn I underbad go
nith the nunning morning speke,
hallowbird middle. To clean the cup
in courtly pass, I linyard, northburning
my valey vegan, froissart my cross
tatteringly. Not vandykery nor mayharry
yet when strongmarking, pullsty boke
I ekkeyn, why dairsie, hillbow? Toober
bankshall, granster and greving maudslay
may woodso moireve awill, mooroful.
Foolsing
many days before the end,
we watching him in the pool, salty
and he watching me, Paull
how can we do this now
when he has gone to be a bird?
the hed fallen into the mire.
he watching me from his photo-deep
wazzee thinking are you okay
Burton and tomorrow for the water's length
toes ain't reachin' the bottom now
you is gone, gone into your headstead
way you old billiard, wyt and light,
Paull we lost the game didn't we
you were playing secrets in the salt end
I have no secrets from you but so
I is screaming and screaming
men in the pool, legs dangling
we have lost our limbs,
and Paull is ready and turns
cheerio I'm going to go peaceful
going to pearl and head with the swine
can't you take a joke
I was only
foolsing
Needing a Face
Round it goes on the brick-work, that beam,
pointing behind the nets at the indistinctive figure
holding the curtains away from the mound breathing,
softly, the glass moisturising from its vapourettes.
The shape cannot see us looking, as we are in the car,
parked a long way away, the lilac-pointed screen flickering,
cheese and onion water in a pastie from THE OLD GRANARY
clinging to its filth of plastic, flaking over our working trousers.
Five months ago the shape was seen, pulling a suitcase
from a boot. You should have kept smiling, pretended that
nothing is wrong, that the resort office knew you,
that the eastern boys sent you and the elegant nose
of the chequered lady whose arms slip out of her
cape did not sniff your fear. She was taking photos of you,
not looking at herself in her tiny but deadly compact.
You knew it was all a con, yet you went on.
Nobody should have told you we would protect you,
our hands are in our pockets. You are collateral and the truth
is beginning to reveal itself in its sticky journalism,
the red light dancing mixed tones into mono-film.
We will not meet again.
© Copyright Jude Cowan Montague 2019
Jude Cowan Montague is a visual artist, musician and poet. She worked for Reuters Television Archive for ten years and her first collection sprung from the experience of cataloguing international news stories from 2008. She is recently returned from a month at the Writers and Translators House in Ventspils, Latvia studying the folk song tradition of the Dainas and exploring family roots in Old Prussia. She hosts and produces The News Agents, a weekly hybrid show of news and arts on Resonance FM. Recently she has had poems published in Under the Radar, Magma, Rialto, Prole, Oxford Magazine and e:ratio. She is the poetry editor for The Sunday Tribune, an online magazine, and writes pieces on visual art and culture for Artlyst, The London Magazine and The Quietus.