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Two poems Poetry |
Blotter Figure (Standing Still) Addresses Peter Crutch
in response to the figure of the same name by Juan Muñoz
You’ve been staring at me ever since
I arrived— all that swaddled bubble-wrap,
photographers, the porters with the trolley,
the final repositioning of my stick.
And how, you might ask, do I know this?
Please, don’t try to imagine my eyes—
Don’t fantasise your hand roaming
my head, feeling for bones and hollows.
Take this fold of mask as you see it
without the words nose, mouth or cheeks
on your tongue. (And not tongue either.)
Not even ears or eyebrows. Forget face.
I know who I am without needing to see
my welted legs or my pleated feet,
wide, webbed, spread on this squat plinth.
They hold me perfectly, day in, day out.
You should have seen us in New York
at Marion’s. Five of us in an empty room.
One, like Juan himself, a foot on the wall,
held a spinning globe in his hands.
We held the space like warriors.
Is my body underneath a suit of armour?
No, Peter. There is no under, under here.
There is no over, over there, either.
Peter Crutch Addresses Blotter Figure
in response to David Hockney’s portrait, Peter C.
Staring—? My eyes are open
and you’re there. Let’s call it luck.
I’m the boy with his heart made of paint
and his name stencilled like a banner,
twice. How’s that for privacy?
And everyone knows about David.
Don’t tell him please that I stalked you
standing with strangers often.
It was innocent really, from here,
watching them wanting to touch you.
The day you arrived, I was spellbound.
Soft packing beads spilled into
the hollow impression of your body,
Sandra, beside herself, camera snapping
and the porters, more tender than usual.
I guess you know about the chair.
It’s no secret. I designed it for him,
cutting the length of his thighs exactly
but it was me he really wanted
and we never sat down in that chair.
Framed in two pieces, he pinned me
together because I stand so beautifully.
He gave me legs and these jeans
with seams he wished to get into, but
relax, I’ve no such intentions with you.
I can see there’s no way into your folds
and no way out, especially not for you.
Humour an old man, won’t you?
Now you’re the most beautiful boy. You lead
with a blind man’s cane and I follow.