Conversations
Posted: Wed Dec 05, 2007 2:35 am
Conversations
I
She says - you never understand.
He says - try me.
She says - I keep trying to explain.
He says - I try to understand
She says - you never will
He says - I know.
As if they shared some common ground,
some vague philosophy, or language.
They merely used the same words
to talk about the same world,
walked the same paths
upon the same hills,
met the same people
and had the same conversations
how are you, Mrs Bailey?
mustn't grumble, and yourself? -
She says - I know you try
He says - but empathy isn't enough.
They sit and hold hands
and try out their smiles
behind fake skin.
II
She says - it's not about empathy.
He says - what do you mean.
She says - It's about experience.
He stays silent, as if the words will transport her meaning, transport them all to a place of comprehension, a place of mutuality. But the silence stretches out and on and up and through and by and over. Every drop of silence filled with a separate I, each I trying desperately to be someone else, and somewhere else, and something else, and no one and nowhere and nothing, all at the same time.
How are you, Mrs Winters?
mustn't grumble, and yourself?
She tries out a smile
as if softening towards him.
He says - its not just experience.
She says - I know.
III
She says - I had such hopes
He says - me too!
In the cracks in the wall, a sliver of ambition remains, that distant moment of sharing when white came easy as flowers, when promises came easy as the wave on the sea, a matter of gravity and a deep swell. Across that crack, one sepia and grey photo of the day they graduated, as if the paper might bind, might carpet their failure with a mask of shows.
She says - we were so happy
He says - for a moment
She says - what went wrong?
A poet's truth here - how do you take a pair of eyes and flood the thoughts of another with the texture in those eyes? And here's another truth - this is my truth, these are my eyes and my words, and she is me and he is me and I am the Baileys and the Winters of the world though I pretend otherwise.
how are you, Mr Thompson?
Fine thanks, and yourself?
She is silent, looking for an Exit in bright neon red and all she sees is the slight glint of malice in his smile, and she knows that malice as well as the poet knows his POV - there is no other in this world of mine.
He says - I still love you.
As if that is ever enough.
IV
She said - I'm filled with sorrow
He said - tell me
She said - I haven't the words
He said - show me
She said - I don't know how.
He said - it's communication of a sort
The earth, being perverse, tries on new clothes backwards just as we try out new relationships. The earth, being perverse, holds up her mountains, the higher the better, the higher the younger, so energetic and fresh and creased with vigour. We put on a new friendship with energy and hope, and take it off when listless and worn.
She says - we used to be
He says - so close
She says - yes, that's it.
The poet lingers for a moment on the word 'close,' as if searching for a clue to personality. It's a little gesture, almost meaningless and invisible, but he warms to his theme. Mr Thompson drinks himself to death in the river that lies at the bottom of his garden. It's his most successful act. the coroner calls it 'drowning.'
She says - Poor Mrs Thompson.
He says - yes.
V
She says - We don't talk anymore
He says - perhaps we've nothing new to say
She says - perhaps
She thinks - but I can always find things to say to my sister
He thinks - I wonder why the tap always drips, even though I fitted a new washer
He says - nothing ever happens to us
She thinks - you may be boring, but I want to live.
Poor Mrs Thompson, left all alone
Her husband , poor sap, ran out
of decent conversation,
decided to give them all
something new to talk about.
Perhaps he worried about the holes in his socks, or his wife's infidelity with the man three streets away, or the way the tree grew in his garden and blocked out the light, or the broken down washing machine that stood waiting in the garage against the day he would take it out to the tip in the boot of his car, or going bald, or losing his mind.
She says - the ambulance came at midnight
He says - just as we were dropping off to sleep
She says - and they took poor Mr Thompson away.
He says - I wonder what drove him to it
She talked it over next day with Mrs Bailey, which is when she heard of Mrs Thompson's infidelity for the first time. She found herself colouring up because of it, she thought from embarrassment, though later she realised it might just have been that she found the thought of infidelity exciting.
She says - Poor Mrs Thompson.
I
She says - you never understand.
He says - try me.
She says - I keep trying to explain.
He says - I try to understand
She says - you never will
He says - I know.
As if they shared some common ground,
some vague philosophy, or language.
They merely used the same words
to talk about the same world,
walked the same paths
upon the same hills,
met the same people
and had the same conversations
how are you, Mrs Bailey?
mustn't grumble, and yourself? -
She says - I know you try
He says - but empathy isn't enough.
They sit and hold hands
and try out their smiles
behind fake skin.
II
She says - it's not about empathy.
He says - what do you mean.
She says - It's about experience.
He stays silent, as if the words will transport her meaning, transport them all to a place of comprehension, a place of mutuality. But the silence stretches out and on and up and through and by and over. Every drop of silence filled with a separate I, each I trying desperately to be someone else, and somewhere else, and something else, and no one and nowhere and nothing, all at the same time.
How are you, Mrs Winters?
mustn't grumble, and yourself?
She tries out a smile
as if softening towards him.
He says - its not just experience.
She says - I know.
III
She says - I had such hopes
He says - me too!
In the cracks in the wall, a sliver of ambition remains, that distant moment of sharing when white came easy as flowers, when promises came easy as the wave on the sea, a matter of gravity and a deep swell. Across that crack, one sepia and grey photo of the day they graduated, as if the paper might bind, might carpet their failure with a mask of shows.
She says - we were so happy
He says - for a moment
She says - what went wrong?
A poet's truth here - how do you take a pair of eyes and flood the thoughts of another with the texture in those eyes? And here's another truth - this is my truth, these are my eyes and my words, and she is me and he is me and I am the Baileys and the Winters of the world though I pretend otherwise.
how are you, Mr Thompson?
Fine thanks, and yourself?
She is silent, looking for an Exit in bright neon red and all she sees is the slight glint of malice in his smile, and she knows that malice as well as the poet knows his POV - there is no other in this world of mine.
He says - I still love you.
As if that is ever enough.
IV
She said - I'm filled with sorrow
He said - tell me
She said - I haven't the words
He said - show me
She said - I don't know how.
He said - it's communication of a sort
The earth, being perverse, tries on new clothes backwards just as we try out new relationships. The earth, being perverse, holds up her mountains, the higher the better, the higher the younger, so energetic and fresh and creased with vigour. We put on a new friendship with energy and hope, and take it off when listless and worn.
She says - we used to be
He says - so close
She says - yes, that's it.
The poet lingers for a moment on the word 'close,' as if searching for a clue to personality. It's a little gesture, almost meaningless and invisible, but he warms to his theme. Mr Thompson drinks himself to death in the river that lies at the bottom of his garden. It's his most successful act. the coroner calls it 'drowning.'
She says - Poor Mrs Thompson.
He says - yes.
V
She says - We don't talk anymore
He says - perhaps we've nothing new to say
She says - perhaps
She thinks - but I can always find things to say to my sister
He thinks - I wonder why the tap always drips, even though I fitted a new washer
He says - nothing ever happens to us
She thinks - you may be boring, but I want to live.
Poor Mrs Thompson, left all alone
Her husband , poor sap, ran out
of decent conversation,
decided to give them all
something new to talk about.
Perhaps he worried about the holes in his socks, or his wife's infidelity with the man three streets away, or the way the tree grew in his garden and blocked out the light, or the broken down washing machine that stood waiting in the garage against the day he would take it out to the tip in the boot of his car, or going bald, or losing his mind.
She says - the ambulance came at midnight
He says - just as we were dropping off to sleep
She says - and they took poor Mr Thompson away.
He says - I wonder what drove him to it
She talked it over next day with Mrs Bailey, which is when she heard of Mrs Thompson's infidelity for the first time. She found herself colouring up because of it, she thought from embarrassment, though later she realised it might just have been that she found the thought of infidelity exciting.
She says - Poor Mrs Thompson.
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