'There is something about Aldeburgh. We already have the works of Crabbe the poet and Britten the musician. Now we have another poet and storyteller, who catches the subtle moods and understands the magic of the Suffolk coastline and countryside. Su Laws Baccino writes like a painter; her close observation and arresting descriptions efficiently re-create events and surroundings, and draw us, fascinated, into her very special world.' UA Fanthorpe
My work has been accepted for various publications including: World of Poetry 2006, British Isles 2006, SlingInk Shorts, flashfiction.co.uk, Twisted Tongue, Poppy Fields 2007, A novel guide to London, Immortal Verses anthology, Secret Attic, Countryside Tales, Let's Talk, The Aldeburgh Gazette, JBWB, poetrymonthly.com, 'Sailing On' Norwich Writers’ Circle 2008 Open Poetry Competition anthology, 'Openings 25' (The Poetry Society of the Open University anthology 2008), Gene Genii (a collection of poetry and prose resulting from a writing marathon in aid of Jeans for Genes Day), Against the Clock (a collection of poetry and prose resulting from a writing marathon in aid of The Alzheimer's Society), Pages, The New Curiosity Shop (the best writing from 'The Write Idea writers' forum, Scratching at Cardboard (short stories and poetry selected as the best of the Whittaker Prize 2008), and TheRightEyedDeer 2009. The Jug Emotional. Frustrated. I scream. The jug’s on the ground. Her jug. Its many pieces scattered. It belonged to her. She’s been gone for years but it’s still hers. In between tears pushing pieces together fixing them into a shape - the hope of holding on to my mother. Then, ice cold anger melts as a blanket of warmth falls around me and sadness. The sun flickers, shines through bouncing and winking off the broken glass. Now entire, no pieces. It blinds me. She’s still there. *
My head throbs, hangs low over blushing
gooseflesh, embarrassed, fazed as I grasp
my current state of miserable undress. Swollen
eyes, whites meshed with crimson, stare in the dark,
into the stagnant canal; nose curls at the stench.
Gaze focuses on drifting debris: tins, bottles,
clothes - mortifying proof of boisterous hours.
Bicycles bump across ancient cobbles,
a simple bass backing to a complicated
rhythm, pitched by my highly-tuned nerves
that jar as I move, as metal scrapes metal:
handcuffs on my wrists, round a lamp-post.
The riders, pure spectres in the early mist,
blind to my plight under the flickering light.
Daybreak glows violet in the sky, lofty terraces
sway in galloping clouds that race over. My psyche
spins and lost memory rudely returns, cueing
the end of my healthy street cred: a rolling ferry,
friends, fags and booze. One by one they stack up
like the neat pile of clothes placed out of reach,
my clothes, that taunt me and wait to be claimed.
My humiliation ends, confirmed by the whispered
jibes and asides of home-going Red Light night
workers, as police produce keys to release me:
just another foreign stag - naked, shackled and shaved.
'Get dressed. We'll take you to the ferry port.
Was it worth it,' one asks, 'did you score?'
A fully fashioned nightmare.
Damaged nylon, unzipped, chases darts
to the boneyard of ladders: the noble seam -
hardly God's acre, a dated vogue. Today
it's messy mending, a line of knots, dashes,
a form of Morse code that taps
a pleading message: 'Let me leave this hell zone!'
She left years ago, but hasn't passed on;
in limbo, she still goads me with that pair
of old stockings. Tormented, I love them,
can't throw them out, they belonged to her!
Dark memories revisit of times spent together
in an ugly world, best forgotten. Obscene
pining lurks, elicits melancholy:
the hunt, the find, the prize;
the screeching as she begged for freedom, for life,
as I stripped off her provocative slippery hose,
twisted it around and around
until tight;
created a rope necklace
to achieve the ultimate thrill.
Mature women's nylons: my favourite tool.
*
The highest, the cheapest Drenched devotees storm the entrance, climb spiral staircase bound for the theatre roof; some slow-moving, some two at a time. Rain falls, drums on pro tem corrugate, cools the oven-like space beneath. Breathless oldies draw deep on dead air, laced with tobacco smut, stale bodies, cleaners' disinfectant and damp. Clinging close, lovers kiss and embrace, slink off to the darkest corners. Squeaky shoes, cheap raincoats, ripped Velcro trespass in rows of drilled upturned stools, shatter rampant myths of ghouls in this garret; yet late patrons hang around in limbo, looking on, unseen. Fans squint through white haze, zoom in on the stage far below, then sway, turn away as vertigo visits; slump in sagging, bum-worn cushions. Omniscient spectators in a heaven of wires, weird paraphernalia falling from rafters, spectres moving filters, mixing colours; lamps flashing warmth on lenses, lacquered hair-dos, and creepy niches where furry bats might hang. Sheet music shines bright under shades in the orchestra pit, impatient fingers tune strings, a reassuring sound. Ornate curtains oscillate in imagined breeze, stir a break in gentle tension, bursting the bubble of excited good-natured folk; sweethearts re-appear, wrinklies shake awake from a much-needed snooze, children fall silent, stash their popcorn. The audience is ready, there's hushed anticipation in The Gods. * Dread Sunbeams pushed through carved shutters, threw silhouettes on stucco walls in back rooms; dust danced, shimmered like frost on washed tiles. Children played amongst silk rugs, rolls of wool, terracotta piled high; prayer tablets, gold bangles, beads and bogus goods. Parents chastised. Artisans, always optimistic for a perfect day, laughed. Pungent odours of citrus fruits and cheeses in their prime, mixed, spiralled up to pulleyed lines, where family washing fluttered like vibrant butterflies in the breeze. Psychic fowl squawked in dry sacks aware of a pressing doom; others clucked, scattering feathers in rattling coops stacked on benches. Traders sorted their wares, chewed pistaccios and pomegranate seeds. Nervous, a dog lifted its head, then its leg, sniffed at the alien scent as an outsider strutted in from the saffron sands. Mothers called children. A lace-maker paused: dropped the bobbins, said a prayer for the town built by ancestors on the hem of a much loved, but inhospitable desert. In the bottleneck at the top of the lane, outside the Mystic's house, the guest left the bomb, in a polished copper pot on old Djamshid's stall; some said they were brothers, a family feud. A silver flash heralded the explosion, blinding. Silent seconds, chimeric calm, then mayhem shook the shocked bazaar. Chaotic jumble: crumbling buildings, broken bodies and minds; aroma of marzipan pervaded the air. Stunned survivors stared. Muezzins from minarets called. * Student of Philos He laughs at his chubby man-nipples, pats fondly on beer-stretched paunch, recalls raucous times, and a slimmer figure. Hitches slacks, latest vogue akin to his old the belt lost in folds of giggling fat that ripple with his every move. Pushes feet into modish shoes, loosens buttons, adjusts shirt to free the bulge and its vanished belly button. At the mirror, he slicks eyebrows, smooths thick steely waves - what a blessing, he'd hate to be bald; plucks a spidery hair from a nostril, sprays heady fragrance on an over-shaved chin. All geared up for the weekly date, he promenades with carved walking stick; beams wistfully, steps aside as youngsters overtake, limps his way to Jolanda's Bar (lustfully remembers the original owner); where, in the shade of vines, with a group of dear friends, he shares wine and pasta with basilica sauce, breathes the garlicky air. Replete, the group shuffles to the court by the pines to throw bocce; the thuds matched with laughter as loosened tongues tell earthy tales of games played long ago - with women, not balls. Booming pop kills the chat, calling merrymakers to nightspots, a cue for oldies to say 'goodnight', fix a date for next week, silently wondering if they'll all be there. Together the mates make their weary way home; their knowing eyes: beacons in faces scarred with furrows, etched records of experiences, memories, mere contours on wild landscapes of colourful lives. * Gone Amongst rain-splashed headstones I drifted alone, read epitaphs aloud listened to birdsong Thought of you I sang hymns in the church with young and old eavesdropped on rigid words Missed you I returned to the graveyard and where paper-dry roses stood silent sentry Found you * An old-timer's game Dormant gaslights host corrugated shades balanced on 40watt bulbs that struggle to lift murky suspect corners; fail to find the lines, painted by damp and nicotine stains, on rippled wallpaper. Frenetic dancing feeds a pall, heavy with human sweat, that shrouds the mirrored bar. Strobe lighting catches Mona's pink curls; casts shadows on comely curves as she twirls on stilettos, spiking parquet, as it gently gives with each thud of bass music tuned into the clink of gathered glasses; a rude cackle provides percussion. Sweet smelling marijuana mixes with tobacco pressed in pipes, cigarettes, bogus perfumes from the market, before spiralling high. Sick air conditioner grinds in time with strident notes of karaoke singers, crushes conversation; hands reach for empty glasses, bums rise to top up, eyes wander. Slick Jim slips in: embarrassed friends look away, secretly smile. Navigating his way through groups of zombie gyrators, he reaches the busy bar; orders a pint, finds a seat. With beer in hand he studies its head, and the mess on the table: pools of spilt drink circling dirty ashtrays, glasses with dregs. Hanging ephemera, like a magnet, draws his gaze. Members of the original club, ex-Servicemen, stare down, frown, from photos with spitfires, hurricanes, heroes in uniform, gutsy men - including him. At the sound of his name Jim looks up, memories broken. 'Another hour, okay?' Mona purrs pursing her lips. Jim's stirred, feels a shiver in his loins. Soon he'll be lost in her cleavage, her hair, befuddled by feminine youth. * Subterraneans At the ticket barrier I pass a tall man he's wearing a cape and top hat he has a terrible grin, a wall of black teeth. I press on. Curling rust cuts into my palm I hold tight on the swaying staircase that twists and bores into bowels: unclean awaiting evacuation. I side step the first curve: there's a woman with blond hair but no face - her features are completely smooth. Nuts and bolts fight to hold the spirals steady, torrential rain falls forming puddles then falls faster, passes me as I move down to the bottom and the murk. I weave my way on fractured flagstones, through boxes heaped on old platforms, amongst comatose bodies: mumbling, snoring, shivering, moaning in the dank - the sad dismal hub of threatened homeless people. I avoid the Black Nun as she steps through today's dying embers, down onto dead rails, on her way back to the Central Line. Large arrows and 'This way up' greet me - I'm home. Large drops of greasy wet fall dead on cardboard under discarded decorator's plastic, which, despite the relentless icy draught, is still; further down the track a lone door bangs open, slams shut. I push my way in, curl up, foetal, on dry polystyrene warmth, listening to the sounds of this cardboard city: children's cries, mothers' screams - leftovers from the war. Phantom footfalls approach down the tunnel, abruptly end; sometimes slope past me never to return. I thank God for drink and drugs. I wonder how long before power wields its big stick moving us on - yet again. There's an oppressive feeling tonight. * Angry Words * No bus. No small circles. Weary, I checked the time, started the tedious trek home. At risk on the low lying land, I chose the crow's route, and cursed the night bus that had failed to arrive. Across open marshes, reed beds, mud-flats and creeks, through the dark I stumbled; rucksack on my back, stick in hand. A Nightjar's cry, harsh as the land on which I trod, the only sound in the empty night. I pushed on, urged on by the salted air that filled my lungs, and the roar of thrashing corkscrew waves. Across desolate dunes and tidal spits, where the rattle of pebbles beneath my boots echoed under crumbling cliffs; and reminded me of the perilous sands. Driven and lashed by the prevailing squall, I picked my way on shifting grains, over buried groynes, through Marram grass, Sedge, Sea Holly and Spurge; avoided the hungry lips of the sea, and begged the moon to shed her shroud of battleship clouds. A hazy silhouette in the distance: a sleeping village under a guardian lighthouse flashing its warning to those on the sea, sounding its horn through the fog; and a weather-beaten house with crumbling paint, coloured with blood of a pig; and a carpet of ivy lifting red tiles off the roof - my home, my focus disappearing, more remote with every step I took. Each stride more difficult, heavier, feet sinking deep in the sucking shore, until footprints became pools - gaping, gulping. My screams went unheard, carried away on the wind, as the sands silently squeezed. * Vanishing Shore Plundering waves pound and move the shingle under a low ominous damson sky. of faded shutters, rotting, on derelict fishermen's cottages - old like the poppies and marigolds that craze the narrowed paths - rattle in the squall. Ubiquitous telling changes: banks of hydrangeas, blooms beautiful in death, caught on jagged flint, weather-beaten by years of harsh air. Cottage walls, strongly scented with tarry ropes, gutted fish and salt. I walk on the beach with gathering gulls; they swoop on a jobless half-buried anchor. Fishing boats, abandoned, rock alone in the wind. Deep in my heart an absent smile sparked by borrowed memories of wind bronzed men; the cheerful chatter of wives; and giggling children dragged by rainbow kites humming high in a huge summer heaven. A once thriving hamlet (precariously perched on pebble flows that scarily shift in harmony with menacing tides) is dying, its people gone. The forgotten back lane, a mere wound in the earth, snakes and narrows, half-hidden by the parallel ridge. A place of shadows that dance to echoes singing with the voices of familiar departed folk - poignant nostalgia of childhood years. My sobs go unheard, drowned out by the shrill cry of the gale in winter-bare ancient trees, witnesses to my last, sad farewell. * Blown Away Yesterday I went to stared at buskers and posers, heard tenors rehearsing. I bought chocolate marzipan and roses from a barrow for you. Today I went to New Covent Garden, watched tugs on the mail vans, joked with traders. I bought grapes and figs, scented freesias from a booth for you. This evening I drank dark red wine. I swallowed the rich almond paste, its vile smell a reminder of the bomb. I threw out the fruit, the flowers. I cried. I longed for you. * Please make sure I've got tea-bags It's that special moment before dawn. My body, shrieks reveille as I turn in my bed thanking God for giving me more time. I reach out, grab the headboard, hold it tight as I struggle to balance on night-dead feet; wiggle toes, rising up, then down, until metatarsals fall into place, harmonise, vertebra clunk click; but patella continues to grind a tune. Shakily at snail's pace I move on, down the stairs, one at a time, crab-like, hanging tight to the banister that creaks, sways. Bent fingers hold the kettle under the tap. Fickle wrists sound a note of caution; advise the use of both hands. I slump relieved into a kitchen chair - resting ankles still stiff - and wait for the water to boil. Programmed like my washing-machine, I'm encoded to grow grumpy with age, to find everything impossible, incomprehensible; when I'm recycled I'll feel relief. I won't mind being scattered to dust the shingle for a few seconds - minutes perhaps if I'm lucky - to savour the light, the colours, the sounds, before seized by the great I'm hacking away like a pensioned-off coalminer with a touch of the local cow calling its young, much better than my neighbour's lot, where mental decrepitude advances at pace and her head's lost touch with her body. Kettle whistles, water's boiled. I jump from the chair - there's nothing a cuppa won't fix. * Newmarket spectres we gallop free from dark into light across rolling fields through freezing mist as a new day dawns on the canters purple silhouettes on a silver horizon * Via Aurelia I dream of mountain olive groves, vineyards, carnations, walls dripping off greenhouses back to azure sky. A Roman route snaking through man-made tunnels, cold and damp, along burning stretches of mid-day heat. A coast road, holiday traffic tortoise-like, drivers - enjoying pizza and watermelon purchased from trucks from the South - aware of sheer cliffs, where palms and giant cacti reach out, worship the sun, feed from crumbling earth that leads, sometimes falls, to the coves below where sand sears soles of old and young. * The Unfinished Dress Great Grandma wore a doily on her head. I was never quite sure if it was meant to be there. Was it that crocheted piece from the back of her chair or was it, perhaps, one of those caps like Queen A strange old bird, short and square, no real shape, her clothes black, brown, or grey. Summer, winter she wore long-sleeved woolly tops. Voluminous ankle-length skirts that caught frequently on concertinaed lisle stockings stuffed tight into wooden clogs; in which she walked with a clomp, lifting her feet high with every step as if frightened of missing the ground. Wrapped around her ample frame, hip to hip, an apron with a pocket, out of which peeped a crochet hook and a ball of bright red cotton. She said she was making me a dress. Great Grandma laughed a lot, reached crescendos so great, so loud, I sometimes thought her house would fall down. * At * The Duchess Exits Carried high by swarthy young men, slowly she threw lasting love at the world, to her friends. Draped in favourite purple pashmina scattered with blooms and fallen petals that moved in the creases; then, blown by the wind, found the sand and pebbles that led to the church and the choir. Her gaze caught the glint of sun on spades' blades. She was grateful to old lovers, the men who dug her grave. *
Black grapes in a bowl,
half-eaten pizza,
bottles of red wine;
bikini and trunks hang in sultry air,
smoke spirals from a cigarette
(he says he's given up).
She waits, she dreams.
He thinks she's gone.
At dawn, sharing tar stained beach
with fishermen tossing scraps at shrill gulls,
I collected pebbles with a hole,
strung them on string,
made a necklace.
At noon I squinted at dots,
container-ships on a silver horizon,
picked slimy knots of twisted seaweed,
washed by sea fizz.
Sniffed salted air.
At dusk, in the shade of red
setting sun, cold at water's hissing edge,
in pink sand I etched my words of love,
remembered you.
I heard your call.
