Poem
Vahni Capildeo
from Between: Metamorphoses for Liz Irwin
from Between: Metamorphoses for Liz Irwin
from Between: Metamorphoses for Liz Irwin
A palm tree sprung up just within the gate to the park. Nobody would remove it; the park was not due for refurbishment for another three and a half months. It was not the kind of palm tree that anyone would normally try to grow in England’s climate, though it was not impossible that a palm tree of this variety could survive even the so-called severer winters in the ‘Home Counties’. However, it was growing abnormally fast for a palm tree of any variety in any climate. Having started off like the green ridged dorsal fin of an earth fish sticking up through the soil, it now presented a solid stump covered with a furze of thorns. The crown of the palm was several-fronded and not soft. It grew fast but was not equal to the head height of most of the adult local residents. The freak tree continued to look the same, but taller day by day.A crowd of people near the church down the road was discussing whether the palm tree really was of the variety that the person who spent a lot of time abroad and sometimes gave lectures in the community hall had identified it as, and whether it should be removed or protected. Distilling palm liquor was not an option. It could not be tapped for gum – it did not seem like a source of aromatic resin. It had grown fast but borne no fruit. Its shade was less than a clock hand, dependent on the sometimeish English sun.
As I do not go to church and was only passing alongside the friendly group, I heard some of their discussion but cannot report what they concluded. “Why don’t you write about that?” these friends called out, meaning the tree at the end of the road. But I did not want to write about it.
It stayed.
One day a strange bird roosted in it, but before anyone could decide whether the wild thing should be culled as a harbinger of disease, it had flown away, leaving one feather that somebody who was not local picked up, took away, and never mentioned or displayed. I think he had connections in the fire service.
© 2006, Vahni Capildeo
From: Dark and Unaccustomed Words
Publisher: forthcoming,
From: Dark and Unaccustomed Words
Publisher: forthcoming,
Vahni Capildeo
(Trinidad and Tobago, 1973)
Vahni Capildeo is among the most respected and loved poets writing in the UK today. Opening any of their many volumes will demonstrate why, but no single collection shows the huge breadth of their range – for Capildeo’s reputation is based on ceaseless innovation and exploration. Their first book, No Traveller Returns (Salt Publishing), appeared in 2003 and the latest, Skin Can Hold, will be pu...
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from Between: Metamorphoses for Liz Irwin
A palm tree sprung up just within the gate to the park. Nobody would remove it; the park was not due for refurbishment for another three and a half months. It was not the kind of palm tree that anyone would normally try to grow in England’s climate, though it was not impossible that a palm tree of this variety could survive even the so-called severer winters in the ‘Home Counties’. However, it was growing abnormally fast for a palm tree of any variety in any climate. Having started off like the green ridged dorsal fin of an earth fish sticking up through the soil, it now presented a solid stump covered with a furze of thorns. The crown of the palm was several-fronded and not soft. It grew fast but was not equal to the head height of most of the adult local residents. The freak tree continued to look the same, but taller day by day.A crowd of people near the church down the road was discussing whether the palm tree really was of the variety that the person who spent a lot of time abroad and sometimes gave lectures in the community hall had identified it as, and whether it should be removed or protected. Distilling palm liquor was not an option. It could not be tapped for gum – it did not seem like a source of aromatic resin. It had grown fast but borne no fruit. Its shade was less than a clock hand, dependent on the sometimeish English sun.
As I do not go to church and was only passing alongside the friendly group, I heard some of their discussion but cannot report what they concluded. “Why don’t you write about that?” these friends called out, meaning the tree at the end of the road. But I did not want to write about it.
It stayed.
One day a strange bird roosted in it, but before anyone could decide whether the wild thing should be culled as a harbinger of disease, it had flown away, leaving one feather that somebody who was not local picked up, took away, and never mentioned or displayed. I think he had connections in the fire service.
From: Dark and Unaccustomed Words
from Between: Metamorphoses for Liz Irwin
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