i
Mrs Philpott goes to bed alone.
The clock in the hall ticks on.
Philpott turns to cut glass, then stone.
All the things we do to be loved,
all of them pointless.
The clock ticks on.
Nothing but moonlight dawns.
The distance from downstairs
to upstairs yawns.
Philpott sags and snoozes alone
in the wishing chair,
in the wishing air.
All the things we do to be loved –
in the night they slip far away.
It will never be day.
The clock ticks on
as well it may.
ii
She wakes first. He has not slept
in the chair all night.
At first light
he has crept
into the bed on the other side.
He will not (cannot) say it, but
everything about him is sorry –
only half of him is under the duvet
and his eyes aren’t really shut.
She pulls the covers over them both and he falls
into a sleep as deep and sound
as a lost child who has wandered far out of sight
(while his mother calls and calls and calls)
and is finally found.
*****
This poem is one of over 80 in Helena Nelson’s ‘Pearls – the Complete Mr & Mrs Philpott Poems’. Starting with poems of the end of their first marriages, it tracks their decades-long second marriage through (as the blurb says) “dreams, anxieties and needs – even sudden spurts of happiness – despite the rainy holidays, arguments and illness. The ordinariness of their love is magical and miraculous. Because ordinary love is a kind of miracle.”
People talk about “novels in verse” but those often don’t capture the poetry of verse. This is definitely a novel in poetry, and the most rereadable novel I’ve come across in a long time.
Helena Nelson writes: “happy that you like Pearls. I made it as well as I could, but it largely came unasked for. I don’t think I have anything to say about it.”
Helena Nelson runs HappenStance Press (now winding down) and also writes poems. Her most recent collection is Pearls (The Complete Mr and Mrs Philpott Poems). She reviews widely and is Consulting Editor for The Friday Poem.
Form in Formless Times 