You are not as independent as you thought, girl.
You thought that you could kiss and say goodbye;
but you are sitting in a caf� eating cheesecake,
and you're wondering why the music makes you cry?
You thought it was a harmless little fling, girl;
a way of passing time and having fun,
never dreaming you'd be sitting in a caf�
eating cheesecake with a pot of tea for one.
All you wanted was the nights out and the talk, girl,
and the evenings when you'd quiver at his touch;
but the cheesecake and the tea will never tell you
how the hell it is you miss him quite so much.
You knew you'd let it over-run its course, girl,
the evening he was kind and let you weep.
So now you're drinking tea, and eating cheesecake,
and you're wishing you'd not tumbled in so deep.
When you started it you knew that it would end, girl.
The last kiss was predicted by the first.
You thought that it would make you feel much better;
what a bugger that you're feeling so much worse.
27th July 2001
I had not realised how much I bit and scratched.
But you must be given back whole and unmarked;
and our time together must be un-noticable.
So I halt and hold back.
Return to my mind.
Restrain my self a little, and move on
here, and here, and here instead.
As it is with our bodies, so with our selves -
A question takes you into private spaces:
you do not answer,
I do not ask again.
This caution is new for me.
I am learning how to do it.
To respect the life you have outside this bed;
to enjoy the interlude;
to thank you;
and, leaving no signs, move on.
26th December 2001
Don't worry,
He's yours.
I may borrow him every now and again
but he'll always come back to you in the end.
We're ships that pass the occasional night.
Don't worry.
He's yours.
We have friendship, and laughter, we go out for some food.
The attention is nice, he makes me feel good.
And sure, I enjoy our occasional nights.
Don't worry,
He's yours.
I'm something to do when the evening is past,
he doesn't drink brandy or smoke big cigars:
I'm a way to round off the occasional night.
Don't worry.
He's yours.
You're his anchor, his mainstay, the core of his life.
You've got two lovely boys, you're a wonderful wife;
but he likes to cut-loose on the occasional night.
Don't worry.
He's yours.
It's not worth your tears, your torment, your pain,
the feeling of anguish you just can't explain,
the fear in your guts, the fog in your brain,
that you get every day again and again,
so they're over and done with, those occasional nights.
August 2002
Your thoughts have traced their footprints on my mind
and every day there're several things I find
I know you'd like, and want to share with you:
things I see or feel, the strange things people do.
I enjoyed the dance as our thoughts aligned.
We think the intellect is so refined!
My neurons took new paths which were defined
by you. And laughter strengthened every avenue
your thoughts have traced.
The paths you made will gradually unwind
as I cut new trails. And one day I will find
that's the reason that the phrase 'time heals' is true.
But then a word, a phrase out of the blue,
will spark a once-worn pathway in my mind
your thoughts have traced.
31st August 2002
I cannot tell you the truth
because it would change too much.
I cannot tell you how easy it would be
for me to fall for you
because it would change too much.
I cannot tell you how hard it is to talk to you
and not say all the things I must not say
because it would change too much.
Imagine a juggler
spinning a ball
on a pole
which is balanced
on a plate
which spins
on a pole
which is balanced
on his chin
(he's a Pole).
It's a polished act.
So I say nothing to you
but all the time I talk so much.
And the one thing I should say
is "Stop! Have done! Be quiet!"
But to say: "It's over"
is to admit
that there is
(or could have been)
an it.
September 2002
Which is the bigger act of betrayal?
To sleep with your husband
or remain friends with you?
I am pretending
that the link in the middle
does not exist;
That he and I
and you and I
can go on as if
there were no you and him.
How do people not do things like this?
It is wrong.
But right and wrong seem irrelevant
when he and I am together.
And when I am with you?
Well,
you are my friend.
29th November 2002
We stood by the car
under the hot Australian sun,
smoking cigarettes,
and talking.
'I dreamed he was having an affair,'
she said.
'I dreamed I walked in on them together.'
'What? Having sex?'
I asked, shocked.
'No,' she said, drawing on her cigarette.
'Post-coital...
...she was a very exotic woman.'
I blinked in the sunlight.
'She was rubbing his feet', she added.
How does she know that? I thought,
and was bemused to be called 'exotic'.
'And do you think he is?' I asked,
feeling like a very un-exotic worm.
April 7th 2003
When I say
"I want
you to tell me the truth"
I am,
to some extent at least,
lying.
What I want
is for you to tell me
what I want to hear
and for that to be
- improbably and miraculously -
true.
But since it isn't,
and it never will be,
it seems
I have to gather the strength
to face the truth.
I know it is better
to play the cards I am dealt,
to know the truth
and face it;
but it is also
- almost immeasurably -
harder.
I cannot outstare the truth
and take up the challenge
of who blinks first
while I am crying.
In February 2004 I found a draft of this in a notebook containing jottings including journal entries, notes from various day jobs, poems and other miscellania spanning three or four years. Given the extent to which I fuss over my verse, I found it very strange to come upon a poem that I have absolutely no recollection of writing. I also feel a certain embarrasment because I am not entirely sure either who or what it is about.
All poems copyright © Beth Cargill, 2001 - 2004. All rights reserved.
If you wish to contact the author please email: [email protected]
Quails' eggs and other cock-ups