I'm Just a Labourer
Found the Retreat
they say "The Sullivans" was filmed here
I tentatively move past inquisitive regulars
with a potpourri posy of back garden flowers
a rolled Egyptian papyrus concealing
a black temple cat, and a wet
umbrella in my hands.
Three quarters of an hour late
the quaint pub clock said
and the Moon had just slipped into Cancer
nine twenty five pm.
Courtesies, new people to meet
white wine, conversation moves to subjects
we can't keep away from, things esoteric :
mythology, astrology, recent channelling
Did you know T'ai Chi unblocks the chakras ?
Have you heard of Dianne Cilento's
school of wisdom Karnac ?
You know I think artists draw on past lives
in the creating of their paintings and poems
Yes, I've seen the vivid colours of the astral plain
the talk is strong, intense, perhaps a little too loud
permeates to the ears of the locals.
And the moon moves like the hands of a clock
the party says farewell leaving Anne and me
drinks finished we negotiate the exit
walk by a young man talking with friends
as I pass, I feel an impulse to stop and speak
just one of those rapid thoughts
quickly swept aside
we step out onto the street.
Inevitably the doors open behind us
he's there calling 'Where's the third witch ?'
Anne mumbled something incoherent
I said 'There isn't one - I'm a loner anyway
not part of a coven'
He said 'I'm not daunted by your talk
there should be more of it'
Anne said 'Do you write poetry ?'
He said 'You might be surprised
I'm just a labourer, but you see
I know what you are talking about
and I think it's a good thing'
In answer to my question
he said 'I'm Sagittarian, a horse'
'I can see that' I said as he reared back
like a stallion, reminiscent of Mick Jagger
Then drawing his face close, he said
'Do you know
about the white horse and the black ram ?'
The white horse has no tongue cannot speak
the black ram has swords of fire
curling from it's mouth'
Anne interrupted, saying
'That's a symbol of the Christ'.
He turned quickly to her with serious authority
with great dignity, said 'Anne, you shouldn't
supersede anyone's images, you shouldn't
superimpose anyone's myths - It's rude Anne
Jesus would never have told the people
to follow him in the streets'
His eyes glittered strangely
magnetically in the moonlight
his pale hair rippled, soft curls
falling on his shoulders
It seemed an aeon ago since
he'd said 'Where's the third witch ?'
In that instant he could have been a disciple
he could have been a 12th century Cathar
he could have been a knight crusader.
Both Anne and I sensed this was a special moment
I said, 'We go to poetry at the Rochester on Saturdays'
He said 'I knew you would say that, Natalie Hart'
he called me Natalie Hart of Rochester Castle.
The pub address written on a scrap of paper
to the words of 'see you later'
we disappear into the night.
Now five things must be told:
the white horse with no tongue
is the voice of the future
unknown, therefore
unable to speak - tongue-tied
The black ram with the swords of fire
curling from it's mouth is deaf
unable to listen, consumed
with it's own ego
mankind's biggest lesson.
Natalie Hart was his past life
memory of me, a flashback
involuntarily received.
And before closing this little tale
the lock on my passenger side car-door
jammed for weeks, suddenly opened like butter
yet, fifteen minutes later, out of his 'force field'
a few kilometres on it is jammed
once again, as is usual
And just a little later, it occurred to me
he was the third witch, and perhaps also
in other lives, I'd recognised him
as the disciple, the Cathar, the knight crusader.
And his words still ring in my ears
'You might be surprised, I'm just a labourer'.
Pamela Sidney 1992
Found the Retreat
they say "The Sullivans" was filmed here
I tentatively move past inquisitive regulars
with a potpourri posy of back garden flowers
a rolled Egyptian papyrus concealing
a black temple cat, and a wet
umbrella in my hands.
Three quarters of an hour late
the quaint pub clock said
and the Moon had just slipped into Cancer
nine twenty five pm.
Courtesies, new people to meet
white wine, conversation moves to subjects
we can't keep away from, things esoteric :
mythology, astrology, recent channelling
Did you know T'ai Chi unblocks the chakras ?
Have you heard of Dianne Cilento's
school of wisdom Karnac ?
You know I think artists draw on past lives
in the creating of their paintings and poems
Yes, I've seen the vivid colours of the astral plain
the talk is strong, intense, perhaps a little too loud
permeates to the ears of the locals.
And the moon moves like the hands of a clock
the party says farewell leaving Anne and me
drinks finished we negotiate the exit
walk by a young man talking with friends
as I pass, I feel an impulse to stop and speak
just one of those rapid thoughts
quickly swept aside
we step out onto the street.
Inevitably the doors open behind us
he's there calling 'Where's the third witch ?'
Anne mumbled something incoherent
I said 'There isn't one - I'm a loner anyway
not part of a coven'
He said 'I'm not daunted by your talk
there should be more of it'
Anne said 'Do you write poetry ?'
He said 'You might be surprised
I'm just a labourer, but you see
I know what you are talking about
and I think it's a good thing'
In answer to my question
he said 'I'm Sagittarian, a horse'
'I can see that' I said as he reared back
like a stallion, reminiscent of Mick Jagger
Then drawing his face close, he said
'Do you know
about the white horse and the black ram ?'
The white horse has no tongue cannot speak
the black ram has swords of fire
curling from it's mouth'
Anne interrupted, saying
'That's a symbol of the Christ'.
He turned quickly to her with serious authority
with great dignity, said 'Anne, you shouldn't
supersede anyone's images, you shouldn't
superimpose anyone's myths - It's rude Anne
Jesus would never have told the people
to follow him in the streets'
His eyes glittered strangely
magnetically in the moonlight
his pale hair rippled, soft curls
falling on his shoulders
It seemed an aeon ago since
he'd said 'Where's the third witch ?'
In that instant he could have been a disciple
he could have been a 12th century Cathar
he could have been a knight crusader.
Both Anne and I sensed this was a special moment
I said, 'We go to poetry at the Rochester on Saturdays'
He said 'I knew you would say that, Natalie Hart'
he called me Natalie Hart of Rochester Castle.
The pub address written on a scrap of paper
to the words of 'see you later'
we disappear into the night.
Now five things must be told:
the white horse with no tongue
is the voice of the future
unknown, therefore
unable to speak - tongue-tied
The black ram with the swords of fire
curling from it's mouth is deaf
unable to listen, consumed
with it's own ego
mankind's biggest lesson.
Natalie Hart was his past life
memory of me, a flashback
involuntarily received.
And before closing this little tale
the lock on my passenger side car-door
jammed for weeks, suddenly opened like butter
yet, fifteen minutes later, out of his 'force field'
a few kilometres on it is jammed
once again, as is usual
And just a little later, it occurred to me
he was the third witch, and perhaps also
in other lives, I'd recognised him
as the disciple, the Cathar, the knight crusader.
And his words still ring in my ears
'You might be surprised, I'm just a labourer'.
Pamela Sidney 1992
