LAST NIGHT

Last Night

You didn’t know. I’d kept it secret.
But now – I felt it in my waters -
it was time to tell.
I whispered in your ear
(the room was crowded)
“I’ve a surprise.”
You turned and tinkled
wide-eyed, “A surprise?” I nodded
and bustled past composite faces
up a flight of half-familiar stairs.
I took it from a shoebox
stuffed with shreddings
and hurried down.
You sat apart, unfrazzled
by the hubbub, grinning
at me lumbering before you,
hand wedged behind my back.
But when I held it out
and touched your empty pillow,
I faced once more in cold light
and in silence
the insignificance
of all we’ll never share.

Not Lonely

To the east a spur of sandstone
thrusts its broken snout into the sea.
Blistered, bleak and arid. It may be
forlorn of all but scuttling things
but it’s not lonely.
Lonely is aware that it’s not wanted
and, bereft of function, left
to sift through memories
in an empty house
that no one wants to share.

Half a Notion

The mornings you get out of bed before me,
feigning sleep, I watch you dress
to gauge how you behave
when no one’s looking.
And as you waddle round the room
attacking drawers, I focus,
fascinated, on your fork,
your breasts, your buttocks
as if I’d never seen them.

We’ve linked our aims
and fused our flesh
and know we’re better paired.
Still… having to concede that you exist
outside of my conception
and create a universe that overlaps with mine
with perceptions that don’t pertain to me
and dark matter I can never sound
nor work my will on,
leaves me frantic to find out what I can.

But even as I curl here, concealing
my intent to see what you’ll reveal,
I’ve half a notion you’re aware
intuitively of being watched,
instinctively amused by my poor ruse
to find insights in your undulations
and artillery in the manner
you pull on your drawers.

No Doubt

As soon as I put it on this evening
I’d no doubt. My favourite shirt –
I liked so much I wore four times a year –
had metamorphosed. Before me
in the glass a parody
of former fashion simpered.
I took it off and donned another
I didn’t give a damn for and said nothing.
But after dinner, mellow, I,
between the coffee and the bill,
brought up, as if it only struck me,
that dreary winter’s day I scoured
my father’s house for caches – attic,
garage, closets, every niche and nook -
exhuming seldom seen canteens
of cutlery; kitchen ware,
the cellophane intact; mildewed
chocolate bought on special offer
and sacks of soggy crisps;
while, stashed inside a shoebox aeons beforehand,
lay neatly pasted books of Green Shield stamps.
Then when I’d thrown my hat at finding
anything worth hiding, groping
behind a radiator he wouldn’t turn on,
I unwedged a wad of uncashed cheques

You stretched across the table,
stroked my fingers, feigned a smile.
But I had clumped out on a perch
I’d not intended and watched him
once again, unheeded,
gather, gather, regardless
of the fragility of assets
and vicissitudes of want.

Daniel P. Stokes has published poetry widely in literary magazines in Ireland, Britain, the U.S.A, Canada and Asia, and has won several poetry prizes. He has written three stage plays which have been professionally produced in Dublin, London and at the Edinburgh Festival.