Two Poems by Sasha Dugdale
PN Review 251, January - February 2020
Forest Fire
‘They led a group of women prisoners past. The women saw the men and stopped. They wouldn’t move. The woman guard leading them shouted: ‘Come on! Get walking!’ But the women wouldn’t move.’ – adapted from Second Hand Time by Svetlana Aleksievich
Nearing dusk, a band of women passed
In padded jackets, rags wrapped round their feet
They saw the men, stopped, would walk no further
The men leaned axes, saws against their flanks
And watched as the guard prevailed upon the band
In vain, until at last she hissed in disdain
Animals, and spat and turned away. Like deer
Then they came. She to him, not pre-ordained
But more like atoms bond, drawn to pair
And each one fell towards another and it was done.
He placed his arms on her. Felt her bones
The matchwood girdle of her pelvis, her light form
Her face, the missing teeth, the lines of dirt
But shining, in the sudden grip of
Things beyond her, things she’d always known.
They had no time. He nuzzled her, pulled her in
And she put arms around his waist
And unwound the string he’d kept tied tight.
She ran her nose across his skin
He trembled, his hands were blistered thin.
Her haunches were as white as water
He was afraid to cause her pain
But seeing how she longed for him
He pushed his finger deep in her
Like meteorites
Falling through the dark – the ground gave way
He held her up. She was so very light.
He tasted sweat and something like leaf-matter
Fur, woodfire, her bloody snout
Her eyes level with his throat
Her flickering gaze. Saw he was lamed
Alive, but barely, like the first hours after hibernation
She opened her mouth, her tongue flamed
All projectionists know that a still
For all its perfection, cannot be held
It catches instantly, it will incinerate us all –
In fire the creatures briefly met
Swayed silently among the smouldering trees
Sleek as stones on river beds
Then fled. No longer of this world:
Motley pairs, scorched, but free
Seeking place where life might take hold
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Odysseus Welcomed from the Sea by Nausicaa (Eric Gill’s bas-relief at the Midland Hotel, Morecambe) a deforming ballad My bestie appeared in a dream and said your room is a slum, used sanitary towels curling on the floor, your clothes are fetid Pull your finger out, girl, it’s fucking foul. So I asked my father: dad can I take the car I’ve bagged up some gear for charity, I’ll wash the rest. And he knew right there what it was for he knew I wanted to look my sexy best. Dad laughed and chucked me the keys: Take my car, sweetie, ask your friends. Head down the beach, poppet, have yourself Some fun, go for a spa with your hens. Dressed up no one would guess our age but on the beach we did all stupid stuff threw the ball around, played at chase Took all our clothes off. Sometimes we can get silly like that I mean, without drinking, and on our own Unafraid, somehow, did I say that? Just girls, no pressure, just us, alone. And then this man rises out of the sand Naked as fuck but shielding his prick Filthy with gull shit, smelling so bad I literally tasted sick. We’re screaming, running from his reach Because who knows what kind of fuck Wanks off watching girls on the beach I was terrified, I thought I’d run out of luck – I want to run like my fearful band Streaming hair, screaming, naked as night Twisting and turning over the sand Like swallows in tangled flight – But something drags me back by force, Curiosity, or pity for him, or even shame Or the gods, who put their fingers up your arse Leave their claw marks in your brain. Or maybe just: he’s a man, I know my place Or maybe just I want to be chosen Or maybe I’m a freak I’ll be erased My bare arm I’m frozen. First amongst femmes Or slut without shame I stretch out my bare arm I see my hand far far away Like it belongs to someone older A little clutch of prehistoric fingers And something fluttered on my shoulder Feathery-grey, full of hunger Did I say I was never a victim? Although I was riven like a sea-rotted hull Although he took my life and flicked it Like a stone to the end of the world I helped him with good grace And inside I knew every complication I learned to lie and it was bare-faced On my lies they built a civilisation Rewind: tell my father to close the gates and hurry fly like birds from the wreck on the sand But most of all: don’t listen to his story close your ears draw back your hand
These poems by Sasha Dugdale are taken from PN Review 251, January - February 2020. Further contributions from Dugdale, including the rest of her poems from this issue, are available in the archive to paying subscribers, as well as more poetry, features, reviews and reports from across the back catalogue.