Nothing ventured
I rise from my hangover
And take a walk along the towpath.
The wind is acting plain silly
And the sky, having nobody to answer to
Is all over the place.
The Thames (as it likes to be called)
Gives a passable impersonation of a river
But I remain unimpressed.
Suddenly in front of me, a woman.
We are walking at the same pace.
Lest she thinks I’m following her, I quicken mine.
She quickens hers. I break into a run.
So does she. It’s looking bad now.
I’m gaining on her. God, what happens
When I catch up? Luckily, she trips
And sprawls headlong into a bed of nettles.
I sprint past with a cheery ‘Hello’.
Out of sight, I leave the path and scramble
Down to the water’s edge, where I stretch out
And pretend to be a body washed ashore.
There is something very comforting
About being a corpse. My cares float away
Like non-biodegradable bottles.
A cox crows. The crew slams on its oars
And a rowing boat rises out of the water
To teeter on splintering legs like a drunken tsetse fly.
Before it can be disentangled
And put into reverse, a miracle: Lazarus risen,
Is up and away along the towpath.
Near Hammersmith Bridge, the trainer
Is on the other foot, as a hooded figure,
Face in shadow, comes pounding towards me.
A jogger? A mugger?
A mugger whose hobby is jogging? Vice-versa?
(Why do such men always have two g’s?)
I search in vain for a bed of nettles.
No need. She sprints past with a cheery ‘Hello’.
I recognize the aromatherapist from Number 34.
Waiting beneath the bridge for my breath
To catch up, I hear a cry. A figure is leaning
Out over the river, one hand on the rail.
His screaming is sucked into the slipstream
Of roaring traffic. On the walkway, pedestrians
Hurry past like Bad Samaritans.
I break into a sweat and run,
Simultaneously. ‘Hold on,’ I cry, ‘hold on.’
Galvanized, I’m up the stairs and at his side.
The would-be suicide is a man in his late twenties,
His thin frame shuddering with despair,
His eyes, clenched tattoos: HATE, HATE.
My opening gambit is the tried and trusted:
‘Don’t jump!’ He walks straight into the cliché-trap.
‘Leave me alone, I want to end it all.’
I ask him why? ‘My wife has left me.’
My tone is sympathetic. ‘That’s sad,
But it’s not the end of the world.’
‘And I’m out of work and homeless.’
‘It could be worse,’ I say, and taking his arm
Firmly but reassuringly, move in close.
‘If you think you’re hard done by
You should hear what I’ve been through.
Suffering? I’ll tell you about suffering.’
We are joined by a man in a blue uniform.
‘I can handle this,’ I snarl.
‘You get back to your parking tickets.’
He turns out to be a major
In the Salvation Army, so I relent
And let him share the intimacy of the moment.
I explain the loneliness that is for ever
The fate of the true artist,
The icy coldness that grips the heart.
The black holes of infinite despair
Through which the sensitive spirit must pass.
The seasons in Hell. The flowers of Evil.
The tide was turning and a full moon rising
As I lighted upon the existentialist nightmare,
The chaos within that gives birth to the dancing star.
I was illustrating the perpetual angst and ennui
With a recent poem, when the would-be suicide
jumped – (First)
The Sally Army officer, four stanzas later.
I had done my best. I dried my tears,
Crossed the road and headed west.
On the way home, needless to say, it rained.
My hangover welcomed me with open arms.
Nothing gained.