Jude Cowan Montague worked for Reuters Television Archive Her first collection of poems ‘For the Messengers’ (Donut Press 2011) re-formed edits from the news agency output during 2008 as individual poems. Her album ‘The Leidenfrost Effect’ (Folkwit Records 2015) was co-composed with Dutch producer Wim Oudijk and reimagines quirky stories from the Reuters Life! feed. She produces ‘The News Agents’ on Resonance 104.4 FM. Her most recent book is ‘The Originals’ (Hesterglock Press, 2017).
These four poems were written during and after a multi-artist residency in Goa.
The Pit
As the dark woman waves her pink arms
and winks underneath her charming scarf
you think, why doesn’t that drummer just stop.
Their beat is absolutely annoying me
skins shadowed by hands casting their spell,
the smell of music that flies up my nose.
Nothing cheers me up, not even the eyes
of the man with the beard which flick to the left
having caught the reason for the joke.
I don’t know why I’m here, squat on the edge
of this tapping row of idiotic faces, eyes itchy with dust
shaken like a tambourine, jangling in silver.
The skirt swirls out wide as ocean water, eyelashes flutter,
but I have come out without pockets.
No money to throw the dancer
who isn’t so bad after all,
if she keeps her mouth shut
and doesn’t open it as if that swan’s throat swallow me.
Or maybe she will wink me to death.
Her left eye is like the sun going down
or my love disappearing, suddenly into coldness.
Why is she calling to me?
It just makes everything worse,
if anything could be worse but the worst has happened.
At home a photograph, garlanded, on the piano
is of a woman like her.
A strange girl, bright, probably too bright.
That dead girl was mine.
Have you ever lost a wife?
There is nothing to compare with the despair.
Every note, every step I have taken with a ghost.
I came here to forget, but this pit of entertainment
opens up beneath my feet.
What’s underneath?
There is only one way to find out.
I shall take it, as soon as this song is over.
The Gap
By the bridge was a hill.
By the hill was a hole.
We ate our sandwiches, planning our move.
When dusk descended we drove.
The pass was covered in flags.
We took the westbound path.
Scattering scree on the vertical route,
we parted a party of goats.
Tibby clung tight to the seat like a lizard
and I stuck clammy as jam.
The car popped and zipped and the bean meadows flipped.
My heart lunged out of its can.
Three or four moons later
we arrived back home with the goods.
Our feet were on fire, we had dumped the car,
I kicked it to bits in the woods.
The institute members murmured
in the cucumber patch over wine.
Then the glasses chinked to toast our success.
We just passed the test this time.
Coby’s Last Summer
Summer is spent in the shed
learning Bollywood songs.
Lemon cut into pieces sprinkled in sugar.
But this is the day that Coby died.
Who is Coby you ask?
Well, he’s nothing, a no-one
a never-was, a never-wanna-be
he wasn’t anything but he’s gone.
He told us, outside the door,
on our way to the park with his smaller, new friend
did Ray, from number 4.
Coby is dead, he said with tears.
It made me think of how
those dogs played together,
our Solly and his Coby,
before the vet cut Solly’s balls.
Before that, Solly was a nightmare. He had no sense.
He ran into danger, he always
escaped and leapt in front of cars
dodging our arms.
Manic, he would go the same way,
down an alley between two semi-detached
after their cats. Coby wasn’t like that.
He was placid. He liked pockets.
The children of the street
have died before the adults.
I will lose my love
tomorrow, or perhaps, even now.
You can never tell
what the summer will bring,
no matter how light the hours
and how bitter-sweet the songs.
Two Dogs
We came as strangers to Manora village.
For two weeks these pastel villas were ours.
We gave back scraps,
redundant rice from cooking for sixteen.
(Tell me how could we
get quantities so wrong?)
We were lucky to have spare love.
The little mother sat in the porch close by Auntie
as she drew meditations.
We’re leaving.
The white dog is usually so calm.
Today she howls beyond the wall,
fretting, frustrated and frantic.
Z lifts the brown mixed-up puppy over the
shocking-pink bourgainvillea
so she can get to mum and nuzzle her.
The little patch-eye pooch cannot help.
It’s the rope her mum can’t stand.
Mother heaves as if heartbroken,
with yellow pain in her throat.
She is trapped and we are active.
Our legs and arms sway,
scarves swinging
flip flops flapping,
as we pass mattresses hand to hand
in a human chain
to stack the tempo.
The village is an oven already,
and it’s only 9 am.
We will cross the mountains
we must go now through the heat.
Susana and India sprawl
shawls over their faces in the open back.
We pull out of the drive.
The dust is crying.
Two dogs do not know
their women will never return.