I used to call her
my Pillar of Salt.
I told her
she was like a dog
a hell-hound
fed on dry bones.
I put it about that she shat
just ten times a year
so dry and so small
she could crumble a turd
in her fingers
without needing to wash.
I said there was no smell
but soap
and an odour of sanctity.
I said when she died
she would go straight to
heaven
wafted on blasts
from a Lowry Organ
tuned to exalt.
It was all true
more or less.
What a bitch!
How I loved her!
With its blue crackling paper
two cameras
the crew arrives
at the house of Catullus.
Vacuous will follow
in his own good time.
A makeup girl
who says she once cut
Caesar’s hair
lays out her gear
on the kitchen table
and goes to work.
The cat decamps.
A neighbour stares from his window.
He can see an unknown girl
touching the face
of his neighbour the poet.
Made up to look like himself
Catullus escapes to the bathroom
while they set up shot.
In preparation
for the emptiness of the medium
he empties himself.
Across the street
meeting demands for silence
tree-cutters have cut
their chainsaws and shredder
for the any-moment-now
when Vacuous will begin
‘Since we last spoke
on this programme
Catullus …’
Brother in poetry
25 years ago
to entice you away
from her whose sense of form
was such (they said)
she paid you
caresses
for sonnets
sex for sestinas.
She was right of course –
half right.
The gods had given you
a silver tongue
but a damaged heart.
You should have answered my call
Hemi.
Talking to Catullus
would not have launched you
so early into the dark.
Cornificius
whose ‘mighty pohutukawa’
tower over the suburb
earns praise for his stout defence
of the native flora.
This is one honour
he might have had to forego
if their shadow condemned his house
to damp and darkness in winter.
Since it falls however
exclusively on his neighbours
he is able to enjoy
the acclamation
with a clear conscience.
Calvus of miniscule talent
makes friends with all
the neighbourhood dogs
– it’s his policy
to become one of them –
one of the boys.
Some are easy
they wag and roll over.
Others snarl
and bare their teeth –
he has to work on them
crouching
not meeting the eye
pushing forward a vulnerable hand
as if it were a snout.
Does he offer his arse for sniffing
when there’s no one about –
his balls for licking?
Why do you want so much
Calvus
to be loved by the whole
canine community?
Jealous Catullus
with his two mangy cats
and his thwarted love
for a famous bitch
sees me two days in succession
on my haunches in the street
talking to a nervous dog
and down it goes in his notebook –
image of a man hungry for love!
No Catullus
the feel of fur
smell of it wet
sound of bones
crunched in the yard
and yes OK
those big doggy eyes
sad and loving.
No I don’t think they’re human
or that I’m a dog
but isn’t there a kind
of planetary kinship –
all of us in the same lovely boat
under the same harsh sentence?
Give over Catullus
stop playing the lone wolf.
Living’s our only offence.
We do it together.
In the refectory
Quintilia
in squares and gardens
once in the London Library
often in Soho
over dim sims
and duckling in ginger
Catullus heard it all –
your griefs, your dislikes
even sometimes your envies –
listened moreover
(and with what pleasure!)
as you recounted
twist upon turn of invention
to the unfolding
of your latest fable.
But since the Wheel of Fortune
hoisted you high
he sees you no more.
his recorded messages
that receive no replies
remind him of a bitter truth –
she who has Fame for companion
will feel less need of a friend.
Best of luck then
Quintilia
enjoy your hour and your day.
Catullus
wishing you well
grants you for ever
this small corner
in a sacred place.
Young poets before us
Licinius
had done as we did
all those years ago
working together
finding words in wine
wit in one another
a clever rhyme
a metaphor
the mot juste.
I remember walking home
too late for the trams
too poor for a taxi
holes in my shoes
letting in water
thinking what a marvellous
meal
words made of the world
of the real.
It was like love
like war
like nothing else –
like poetry.
Longed for so long
no longer expected
look! – you’re back
rarer than gold
than hen’s teeth
whom I in my need
denied
derided.
More mysterious
Muse
in your return
than ever in your absence
see what you’ve done –
a notebook almost full
poem after draft of poem!
Here to stay
or gone tomorrow
Clodia
what can I do
but bow the knee
what can I say
but welcome!