Nigel Jackson: ‘Leaping Rose’, ‘Monologue’ and ‘The Pride of Dijon’

Leaping Rose

Just as I pass the corner block (verdant, wild,
With lost garden), an unexpected sight
Strikes me: the autumn sky flawlessly bright,
A single red rose, unreconciled

To fading fate, lifts up its bold head
Towards steel-blue infinity and yearns,
So I think, to find the centre where all turns—
Haven beyond wars, plagues and dread.

Something in me leaps high as well.
The fence and I are rusted. Wooden posts,
Weathered until they seem like falling ghosts,
Mimic my legs, but in my soul there sounds a bell.

Nigel Jackson

Monologue
Homage to Rudyard Kipling
After “The Cat Who Walked by Himself”

All places are alike to you, you say.
Comings and goings are yours alone to fix.
Nothing to beat a solo pathway in the woods.
Your company itself provides your kicks.

Diplomacy with women is your forte,
Wildest of all the creatures in the world.
No one may call you master, coon or slave.
You show your caste by lordly tail unfurled.

Those servile dogs may chase you up a tree
And uncouth men assail you with their boots.
They stay, despite bravado, dogs and men –
Just stupid, coarse, insensitive galoots!

The wild woods are your proper territory.
You stalk down trails that other creatures shun.
And during winter time beside the fire
You doze in happy knowledge you’re the One.

I watch you in the bathroom mirror now.
Your fur, alas, is thin and silver white.
Yet still with feline arrogance you stare
With eyes that house a crafty wizard’s light.

Nigel Jackson

The Pride of Dijon
After William John Hennessy’s painting

Her face is turned away from us
By an astute painter. Elegantly posed,
She’s dressed in a cream treasury of cloth
From neck to toe, her body closed

From view, yet intimated by the rich
Swirls of fabric, fold by fold,
Each, as it were, a shining facet,
Telling of beauty in its line of gold.

Totally rapt, her interlocutor
Fastens his gaze on her with verve.
Thoughtfulness, alert intelligence,
His manly homage well deserve.

The garden setting speaks of luxury.
We look on swathes of emerald grass
Sliding as easily as she reclines,
While flower bushes show her class,

As does the patterned carpet at her feet
With hint of oriental charm and peace.
Two tiny cups are on a table near,
Forgotten. Conversation does not cease.

Who was this challenge to Praxiteles?
It seems that her identity is sadly lost,
But not the loveliness of poised neck,
Fine soul, a pearl beyond all cost.

Nigel Jackson