Artwork: Lucien Pisarro, April, Epping, 1894
The last in a set of poems entitled Lovers’ Quarantine
‘April’ provides a synthesis of all the imagery in ‘Lovers’ Quarantine’ in describing exile and obsessive categorisation, shown through allusions to the life of Vladimir Nabakov, as a response to quarantine. ‘Lovers’ Quarantine’ ends, however, with the optimistic emblem of renewal and reliability of nature: a window full of daffodils.
by Fred Baxter
It is April,
Green with celery groundmists,
With earth’s bleary cysts that burst
To throw up a winter’s work
Of murky crossroot strategising,
And he has packed his bag,
Stuffed the bleeding memories
Behind the magnifying glass
And the books to fill five languages,
Slung it over his back
With the sounds of scuttling knives
And bustling wives
With their murderous assortment
Of kitchen accoutrements,
His best boots on his dewy toes
And a tap dancing daffodil
Pinned to his chest.
So he had stolen a fistful
Of stardust for that bag of his,
Crept about the night
With a flying ladder and a fishing net
And sneaked through the window
Before the latch could cluck midnight,
He had sampled pond water,
Trapped it in tiny labelled jars,
Had collected a forest colony
And categorised it in a rich taxonomy,
Played the saxophonist
Among the elders
To lure the songbirds,
And took their voices too,
Balancing their chirping aubade
Of matutinal coloratura
In the nook of his hand,
And had swallowed it
With one heavy gulp.
Now he is walking and singing
With that swallow in his throat
As he passes a smiling window
With an explosion
Of cavorting yellow at the sill,
And winking back at the assorting hellos
On the hilltop, he walks over the sty
And down the mountain,
Round pouncing pasture
And gritty hidden fountains,
Hill and vale marble-pale sailing
Through chuckling woods
And half-full rivers
Where he washed his baggage
By brooks whistling
Under sky’s thread-star,
And everywhere he went
He would lay a springing spoor
Of every flower’s ringing lore,
A trail of glass vials
And shattering butterflies
Shot through the heart,
In the one golden line
Of his journey.
And when the memories start
Tumbling out, unseamed
By jostling hogweed or
Skittish hollyhock,
Of fingers in moondusk
Or their touch,
or dual sundozing; when they
Fall with seeds and berries
And weeds and harrying dandelion
In his mapped-out golden line,
Red snow-hands, or words
Exchanged with sun-peeling feet
On glittering dough-sands;
When the silent holdings and moldings
Of the hearts like honey
To set in a jar start scattering
And the eyes’ nets and regrets
Appear on the ground,
Threaded between skeins
Of larkspur and cow parsley
And damselflies buzzing
Warm-up exercises,
He knows it is time to return
To hearth and candlelight,
To bellowing church bells
And to a window
Growing daffodils from the sill,
And return to a face smiling
Just for him
Among a flurry of yellow.