Three Poems by Daniel P. Stokes

Daniel P. Stokes has published poetry widely in literary magazines in Ireland, Britain, the U.S.A. and Canada, 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. More poetry from The Feedsack is here.

The Architect’s Song

I never heeded the squeaks of the half-opened gate
nor the kitchen clock tchhing that you were late.
My pen, as it's wont, under pressure scratched on
till the unruptured quiet exploded she'd gone.

For weeks, no for months, I could hear the room moan
how she never liked it, her armchair intone
that it was made use of, while the two wardrobes whined
she'd stripped them and skulked off, herself on her mind.

But we worked on and planned for the day you'd come back,
A few flowers, a nice wine, what we had still intact.
Till by wind and by wire sure and short came the news
that you lightly gave ’way what I'd dreaded you'd lose.

Turned, waded through routine, and the walls still as stone
told nothing I'd do could undo what was done.
And the carpet hushed boards that were tempted to squeal
as I peered in at the hurts that I couldn't yet feel.

Now, I've taken the belt of a spade in the face
and know numbness allows but a brief breathing space
and to sop the surprise from the onslaught of pain
screened unexpurgations of dread on my brain.

In a year and a day I could name you aloud
with no claw in my gullet. I'd worn my want out.
And laying out plans for the rest of the year
saw how much we'd have done if you'd never been here.

Now the door's been repainted, the hall redesigned,
the garden reseeded, the curtains relined,
the furniture covered, refurbished or new
and the bell's been retuned to chime fuck off to you.

A Riposte, perhaps

Blithely unaware
of espionage,
I packed my beach bag
(books in sequence, paper,
pencils, specs in separate slots)
till - as if a gate I hadn’t
opened banged behind me -
“You’re slowing down.” Detached,
peremptory, “Half a week
It took you this time” - sigh -
“To slip into a routine.”
I shuffled through the doorway’s
sudden sunglare, “Ready?”
Then, leaving her to follow
in her time, dumped bag in boot.

I wasn’t irked but thought,
she’s got this wrong. You slip
into ruts. Routines
are created to do the things
you want the way you want to.
And, Madam Mistress Mine,
perpend: each morning
as you wake and press,
against me, I wrap
my arm beneath your arms
across your breast and, synched,
we wallow in our warmth.
If routine must be ruled
innately vicious,
this warrants censure.

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.