Long Stairwell Poems
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my block got bones
made of brick and breath.
she bleed through cracked hydrants,
catch cigarette ash like snowflakes,
and see like a fly to death.
her ribs? fire escapes-
bent, rust-bit, bruised.
kids dangle off ‘em like loose teeth,
their joy just one cracked step from falling.
she don’t blink.
she sees the crackhead two buildings over
lean so far out the window
it look like gravity let go on purpose.
she sees the baby-faced boy
swipe an apple from the fruit stand,
run like his momma’s belt already in mid-air.
she hears the couple across the courtyard
curse in two languages at once—
“coño, cabrón, i told you don’t touch my phone!”
plates crash like punctuation.
she know who did it. always.
remember joe? down the block?
she know it was lil ronnie shot him—
don’t matter what his momma said on the news.
she know when the baby’s daddy ain’t coming back.
she know which apartment got roaches,
and which girl been sneaking out
with borrowed lashes and somebody’s man.
she see the 13-year-olds roll up outside the laundry,
blow smoke like they men already,
moms swearing they honor students
while they tag walls with their street names in sharpie.
she see grandma on 4c
push that stroller with one hand,
baby crying, bottle hanging,
other kids yelling “nana, i’m hungry!”
while her daughter chase smoke and basslines down lenox.
she don’t talk much,
but she remember everything.
her silence ain’t peace—
it’s storage.
she carry folks’ stories
like groceries up six flights.
she don’t sleep easy. never did.
she hums lullabies in radiator heat,
carries secrets in stairwell echoes,
and if you listen close,
you might hear her say your name too.
At the foot of the stairwell
face up she lay, knocked, smashed, kicked,
robbed, disfigured, lifeless so
it seemed, when the police came,
with ambulance attending.
In the trauma ward it was
all we knew, except her name
was Edith. Over eighty
the nurses guessed she might be.
Her face so swollen, she lay
unconscious, so dependent
on attentive hands nursing.
Edith was just a form; charts
recorded her distressed state;
a person we could not know.
Without family would she
have anyone to live for?
The third day two young people
arrived; shocked to see her so
unresponsive – as neighbours
they came again with others.
Before she opened her eyes
we began to know Edith,
her nature mirrored in those
she had befriended, cared for.
Cared for, injuries began
to heal. Pillowed, her hair washed,
we could imagine her as
lively, full of interest.
One day she seemed aware of
conversations, their presence
touching, encouraging her
response which came with a hand
held out to grasp friendship; found.
From there it was a long way
for Edith to get back up;
and to walk, to climb those stairs
to home, but with therapy
she was remade with young friends,
friends to live for. She was found.
The elevator shudders -
then a muted ping as narrow doors slide open,
the conveyance only lifts one person at a time,
when it descends it is always empty.
I've been here before,
the stairs are always urine stained
condoms lay like squashed snails
on the cracked concrete.
It is a place for secretive degradations
a covert whereabouts
where shame wears thin its painted grin.
Nobody climbs this stairwell
it winds and ascends - a hollow intestine
wrapped around an echoing tower.
I'm on the wrong floor,
a small sign on the bare grey wall
reads, "wrong floor."
I recall too late that there is no 'right' floor
just living-spaces cut into damp breeze blocks
Stagnant light pools in neon-lit halls,
and the still air hums with a low electric buzz.
Key in hand I search for an address
that is a denominator
of my personal blood type.
We came here as refugees gladly,
the city had grown remorselessly alien
but now we are exiled,
lost in this space that rises upward
beyond any high of hope,
it reaches into a darkness,
a murk we suspect is a buried basement
and not a rise at all.
Far, far below, on the other side
of a smeared, tightly-shut window
shadow people hide from themselves
where as usual a ‘seek and find’ rages on.
There at ground floor level
the elevator doors do not open,
not for anyone.
The people of the tower are most grateful to be
sequestered inside their own hollowed-out hive
free from the streets
and the always perilous threat
of their own collective dreams.
The cold stairs,
the cold, hard, stairs,
the cold, hard concrete stairs,
the cold, hard, concrete, piss-stained stairs.
He climbs,
climbs to the stars, the cold, hard stars,
climbs to the starlight
that glitters in his black eyes.
.
Thighs walk up a spine.
Upwards, bootlaces tugging a brain.
,
Head dizzy, legs stretched up
into a light-bulb head,
tortured tendons
trembling elastic bands.
He leans his cold, wet forehead,
on a locked, wet, metal door,
his body is bent like a question mark.
He sees distant glimmers,
glimmers of starlight,
starlight
down,
way down in the cold, black stairwell.
Sorrow is the looming sadness
brought forth by the past
through a hole in the sky.
An image within an image.
A scene of a winter window
a young girl with pigtails peers
out of at nothing in particular
but the last hanging ice-sculpture
bowing the gutter above her.
Her eyes are glassy like that
lone remaining vestige of holiday
warmth and heavy like the gravity
wishing away all the promises made
to visit again and keep in touch;
the last gift to unwrap that
her mischievous orange-headed
cousin rips from her hands
and hides away to be discovered
some years later beneath the
stairwell under a calico-checkered
wool blanket, frayed, the day of her
mother’s funeral, with no
accompanying apologies made
as her soft hazel eyes slowly
fasten a river flush with sadness
for her young adult form, slender
and beautiful, to swim through
next summers and all the way
back to the house that stole her
mother beaten to death by the
cancerous sun, so she can
watch once more the icicles gather;
watch as they droop into puddles of
sorrow’s fulfilment drip upon drip.
A murky pond into which an orphan dives.
Below the craters of a sullen city
I burrow lightly, cautiously, hands on
Guardrails, one foot after the other,
Into the underpart of the earth,
Through a spiralling, syncope-fomenting
Stairwell, old and broken, but grandly ancient.
The light thereunder is dim and shallow,
And the rest of the matter with it was a
Basket of fusty smell.
It was by the loose side of noontime,
When mustiness gathers sweltering details.
Little rain from last night, falling from a
Sobbing, laconic south,
Made issues graver.
But I don’t mind.
With cracked, besieged walls, the grounds
Welcomed me well.
I stood and gazed at the books on staffed shelves,
Aged and worn,
Graced by times’ capsule of relief by way of
Primitive reckoning.
Tablets and scrolls rave with the lustre of fading
Yellowness.
Tomes (leather-bound) attested to the pregnancy
Of departed eras.
Encyclopaedia Britannica eyed me warmly.
A tall, bespectacled man, the age of Wilde,
With apricot skin and second-hand suit,
Thin and wobbling stick,
And shoes from Lennard’s
Buried his face on a Chaucer
Material, reading silently to the tune of
His twerking soul, his full lower lip
Mocking the higher.
Men and women clutter about, searching
And peeking from shelves of immortality,
On whose dusty surfaces elderly pages stuck
Out their tired, resting tongue-tips —like
Stray, hungry dogs on battered pavements.
The books and volumes sell for a farthing each —
Coins betrayed by roaming verdigris.
The quill feather pens for a few dashing shillings,
The scrolls, some teeth-showing cowries . . .
Above us (the reading congregation of this temple
Of books and time),
A coven of reading witches and winking wizards,
The city throng manages itself with the due process of law
According to traffic —above—
And several feet below — underground —
The hidden treasure of
Digestible info,
Divergent views.
THICKER THAN WATER
I pushed at the open door
no sound
just darkness inside.
Dust filtered my
nostrils,
a mustiness of lost years
inhabited my senses.
A loose floorboard
creaked in the stairwell,
the aroma
of her Chanel provoked memories
of my
living hell.
A tear of self-pity congealed
in the dirt at my feet
I switched on the light
"Hello son
I knew you'd be back;
He's gone..."
NOTE this is a repost of my original prose 2010 to illustrate there is only two real differences between prose and poetry.Visual presentation and the fact that poetry is written to read aloud.
"Clean up your toys and come down for dinner, young man"
came Mom's call from the kitchen
The little boy had a job to do, but he didn't want to do it
"Make your bed, straighten up your room and get ready for school"
called Mom from the foot of the stairwell
The schoolboy had a job to do, but he didn't want to do it
"Finish packing your suitcase and get down here on the double. It's time to leave for the airport"
yelled Dad from his easy chair in the living room
The college freshman had a job to do, but he didn't want to do it
"Write that thank-you note and mail it before 5:00 p.m. without fail"
instructed the candidate's super-agent after his interview for his dream job
But he was too busy cleaning up his toys, making his bed, straightening up his room and packing his suitcase to get the note written and mailed in time
So he didn't get the job as head coach of the Chicago Bulls professional basketball team... A pity, that...
'Cos this time he'd really wanted to do it
Cold rain pelted me as I climbed the stairs
Home, but my key would not open the lock
Anger stabbed me; a knife thrust, unawares
Thunder roared at my plight, as if to mock
Night fell as I sheltered against the wall
My clothing soaked, but little did I care
I felt like a puppet; a limp stringed doll
Drowning in anguish, I said a prayer
Marooned in the stairwell, without a phone
Entry to my home had been forbidden
Never had I felt so lost and alone
Feeling quite helpless, tears came unbidden
To despair and alarm I grew enslaved
Opening the locked door was all I craved
September 21st, 2017
"Stuck" for Sara
Will you aspire to be successful?
Are, therefore, you glad of the deal?
There's still a fantastic chance to tell.
There's no way up the stairwell.
Do not look for help from others as well.
All who inspire are often successful.
Everyone is in the same vessel.
Desire to achieve by "reaching God's will."
Happiness is what brings weal.
If you do what you love, you will excel.