Peter Howard

 

The Distillation of Ink


This is the Bunsen burner. By twisting
the collar we control how much air
is introduced to the stream

of unburned gas. Note
the cone of light and the
roaring sound when the hole

is fully opened. We do not need
such a fierce flame for this experiment.
You have already clamped

the flask of ink in place, connected
the Liebig's condenser with its sheath
of water to cool the condensate.

You have carefully positioned the beaker
at the lip of the delivery tube.
Now, gently heat the ink

until it begins to boil.
You would not have thought
it could be separated from

its seemingly innate blueness.
Yet here, slowly appear
drops that trickle

down: refugees from a war zone,
deracinated, shorn of possessions
and identity, absolutely clear.



The Construction of the Tomahawk


I have put it about that he murders children
and colours his strawberry syrup with their crystallised blood,
that he beats his wife, then makes her dress as a man
before taking her in an unnatural manner.

I have talked to the candyfloss merchant and the manager
of the amusement arcade. They are sympathetic, but have little
in the way of practical advice. The fat, odious
burger franchisee has, I am certain, already been corrupted.

I have whispered to the men in the transport café
that the accident with the bikini bra and the overloaded vanilla cornet
will be re-enacted fortnightly at the hottest part of the day,
but not while he continues to steal my livelihood.

They listen intently and I see grey, cloudy plans
forming behind their dull eyes. But nothing ever transpires.

I have considered many things. I spend my evenings
with books and ideas. I am an expert on number theory,
the law of contract and tort, the practice of toxicology.
I know the construction of the tomahawk. I have downloaded
instructions for making a nuclear device from the world wide web.

It would be fair, would it not, for him to set up
halfway between the lifeboat station and the central pier,
for me to place my stand between the pier and the rocks.

So it starts, each morning. But he plays grandmother's footsteps,
encroaching on my shoal of sunburned flesh. And so I must do the same.
By mid-afternoon, when kids are dehydrated and fractious,
parents willing to bribe them with Solero or 99
we are back to back, pretending the other a mirage. We never speak.

I do not know where he lives, or the source of his supplies.
Every morning we arrive simultaneously,
from opposite directions, each with a full box.
But I have looked into the inventory of his wares
and know it to be the same as mine.

And I have looked into his eyes.



A Poppy


We went into a village where violets had just broken out.
Snipers were exchanging samphire,
and there were scenes of carnation everywhere.
I saw someone running with a bunch of live geraniums.
Suddenly there was a burst of chrysanthemum,
and honeysuckle crackled along the hedgerows.
Children were covered in crocus and bluebells;
there were old men waving ancient ivy.
Those unable to arm themselves with daffodils
made do with tulips, cyclamen, anything they could lay their hands on.
Then we heard that a buttercup had landed on the hospital.
We rushed to the scene: patients were emerging, dahlia and lilac,
some with periwinkle or lesser celandine.
It was jasmine. All I could think was “Is there no myrtle?
When will common hawthorn prevail?”
But there was nothing we could do but willow and broom.
By the end of the day there were hundreds lying on makeshift beds of roses.

    Lamium,
    Pyracantha, Euphorbia gorgonis,
    Viola tricolor, Aconitum napellus,
    Amaranthus caudatus,
    Yucca aloifolia, Yucca gloriosa,
    Salix babylonica,
    Artemisia.*

And afterwards the generals awarded themselves petals.



*Deadnettle, Firethorn, Gorgon’s head, Heartsease, Helmet flower, Love-lies-bleeding, Spanish bayonet, Spanish dagger, Weeping willow, Wormwood



Strangers


Do they draw ritual symbols beneath the living room carpet,
have one pierced nipple, eat eggs raw
including the shells? Do they shop at four in the morning

for catfood and longlife batteries, but would never,
ever buy ricotta cheese or pastrami?
What about their holidays?

Perhaps they spend them, every one,
at the same B&B locked up in their rooms all day, while the sun
flays a beach you can't see from the window.

Are they scared of heights and horseshoes, but crunch spiders
when they can get them? Do they spend hours reading histories
of matchstick distribution, writing letters to the editor,

deciding whether to peel an orange? If a bus ran over them
what would they be wearing underneath? If you opened their cupboards
would you find pictures they'd painted thirty years ago, stolen locks of hair,

a dead wasp in a plastic box? Do they listen at night
for the small sounds that might contain an answer? When you see them
huddled around the table in the back room of the pub, are their voices

murmuring incantations, or coded messages concerning
secret missions, things you will never know of unless
they happen to involve you, and even then, only when it is too late?
 


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