Jamie Grant: Two Poems

 

 

Morte d’Arthur

 

 

“I forbid you to buy

that dog.” The instruction

could not be mistaken.

And yet it was taken

in the opposite direction.

Later that same day

a return to the pet shop

brought a yellow-furred,

soft-nosed, eyesight-blurred

retriever pup

 

into the home. A name

was chosen, that might be deemed

suited for a middle-rank

suburban bank

employee, for it seemed

we live in a time

where people give to their pets

the names they once gave

their children, and save

more animal epithets

 

for children who then grow

up to be teased at school

for a label

they had been unable

to choose, uncool

or comical. It happened, also,

that the name given

to the puppy was that

of a mythical king. At

the end of seven

 

dog years, a year had passed

for his human owners,

and in that stretch

of time he learned to fetch

a ball and chew on bones

for dinner and at breakfast.

Once he was captured

by council rangers

approaching strangers

on a railway platform.

 

He pursued possums

in the trees, and barked

at passers-by

from behind the safety

of a fence, chased parked

cars, rolled in algae blossoms

from the pool, and lay

across the doorstep

as if meaning to stop

intruders, until the day

 

when he moved himself inside,

becoming as much a part

of the furniture

as the rugs and feature

window. He was smart

enough, by then, to hide

his half-chewed bones

in shaded spots

where he would not

forget the ones

 

putrid with clinging

soil-coated meat.

He lay before

the winter fire

in dream-twitched sleep,

his hair moulting

on carpet

and floorboard

alike. The word

“dinner” would set

 

him prancing

from paw to paw

with visible pleasure,

a measure

of animal greed, before

he went hunting

for scent among the trees.

He had a perfect life

for a dog, but like all life

it could not be

 

eternal. At the end

he became confused

like Henry James in his

final illness

who was convinced

that his London apartment

was really a ship at sea

while his kind support

staff were all part

of a conspiracy;

 

in his canine

bewilderment

our old dog kept mistaking

walls for doors, and walking

in circles when he meant

to take a straight line.

There was nothing to be done,

said the vet,

but to put

him to rest. Borne

 

into the surgery

on a board like a hero

borne on his shield

over a corpse-strewn field

he was laid on a narrow

strip of leathery

grey canvas. A sharp

jab into the neck fur

and he began to snore.

Did a harp

 

play while he slept?

The handsome

young vet

knowing how a pet

must always come

to such an end, wept

all the same.

We left with no more

than the collar-tag that bore

his number and name.

Jamie Grant

 

In Flames

Slack water beneath the creaking pier

where children lean on a wooden rail

and scatter chips and breadcrumbs.

We are about to sail,

but first we watch the fish jostle

one another, like shoppers at the mall,

to gather the fallen crumbs.

Then it is time for us all

to climb aboard the yacht,

with its furled sails and motor idling.

The journey begins, downstream,

the boat sidling

beneath forest-shadowed banks

and sandstone cliffs, the blue-green hills

looming like clouds above the mast.

The world of work and bills

is left behind as we relax

on deck, the glamorous boat-owners

and us, sipping champagne

and, as a bonus,

the children distracted and content

to play with one another

allowing us to converse

with their young mother,

who is pleased with her beauty

like many doctor’s wives,

and her husband, the trusted GP,

who holds human lives

in his grasp and is aware of it. He

basks in the light draped over the stern

as he basks in the admiration,

glowing like sunburn,

of his patients with their imaginary

ailments. Flaunting borrowed wealth

dependent on those people

and their constant ill-health,

he is playing the part, today,

of family man and host,

and the yacht slides onward

like a ghost.

We open a picnic basket

on the deck, and hand out cans of Coke

to the children. As we eat

someone smells smoke.

Ash-white clouds are rising off the hills.

The sun is now a burnished metal plate.

Unless we return to the shore

it may be too late.

The boat turns and is headed

upstream once more. Soon there are flames

among the forested banks.

The children’s games

are over. A tunnel of fire

seems to surround us. Our doctor friend’s

calm bedside manner

abruptly ends,

while his elegant wife

cannot disguise her disdain,

for it is not the forest but their marriage

going up in flames.

Jamie Grant