Poetry: Selections from John Tustin

Advice from a Man Who’s Lived but Hasn’t 

I was asked,

now that my face and my hair

have come to resemble a state

similar to those who have lived long enough

to be wizened,

 

“What advice to you have for a young man

still closer to his mother’s womb

than your apparently wizened state

but old enough now

to go out on his own?”

 

and I replied,

“Nothing is worth doing.”

 

The young man waited a moment

and then he asked me,

“What’s the rest of it?”

 

and I responded,

“That’s it.”

Forgiveness

I look into the mirror,

My face older, so close to old now

 

And I try in vain to kiss my own cheek,

Put my arms around myself.

 

I smell the cinders long smoldered;

I listen for the footsteps that certainly do not approach

 

And I ask myself, “Please, please,

Can you ever find it in your heart to forgive me?”

 

The tears stream down two ruddy hair-nestled cheeks.

I reach out to touch my shoulder and I fail.

The Poem of Aching Legs 

The dark of the early morning creeps along

The windowsill like surreptitious fingertips

And he lies in bed

With the music and the thoughts

And that feeling of beyond exhaustion behind the eyes.

He stretches his legs, elongates their ache,

Rubs his eyes to see the sparks,

Feeling his own warmth on a borrowed bed.

He places the covers over himself like dirt –

It is comforting.

He won’t remember his bad dreams and he likes that.

He stands on his rubber achy legs and turns off the light.

Nothing remains but to sleep.

Sometimes it’s good to be alone,

Being in a cold room, in a bad town,

Too tired to turn to dark thoughts,

Jotting down his inane fluff for no one to notice,

Stretching his legs to feel them ache under the covers,

Wishing he could put his fingers through her hair right now, reaching out

And pretending he is losing his fingers in her hair, her deep black ocean of hair

Right now.

Dropping to sleep as a feeling like needles abruptly hits his shoulder,

Knowing tomorrow night another truck will need unloading (there is always another truck

In need of being unburdened)

And more pallets will need dismantling,

More product put in neat little stacks to await standing on shelves

To be plucked and purchased.

Sometimes it’s good to be alone

And too tired to think about how life is, how it is empty catacombs

And washed out roads, the same movements,

Over and over the same movements

In this ugly place;

The ache in the legs, the feeling like needles in the shoulder,

3 A.M. and the same floating dullness behind the eyes,

Thirsty for bottles of golden beer,

Thirsty for better time.

In hours

The accursed sun will rise in catcalls and tears

And he will awaken, confused at first,

That pitted emptiness in his soul slowly awakening and widening

At the realization anew of where he is, who he is,

What is still not possible, garlands of cackling fire

A dragon’s breath foisted upon his back and around his neck.

He may never again lose his fingers in the black ocean of her hair,

Feeling the air heavy and foreboding with snow

Breathing it all in as he holds her closer to him

In a room that will give them two more hours to love one another

Before it’s time to once again halt existence to do the things

That make his legs ache, his soul pitted, the back of his eyes

An emptiness punctuated with a feeling beyond exhaustion. It never snows here. This place is hell, surely.

Under the Bridge 

You want me to love you

when the last time I loved someone

she put me under the bridge;

she took almost all I had

and I’ve squandered most of what I had left

gambling on her still. You want me to love you

when I have so little love

and must spend it on myself

or else I’ll go mad.

 

I can see her now

and she’s smiling and she’s beautiful,

aging gracefully beside someone else.

I see her from under the bridge where she put me,

holding on to what little I have left.

How can I also see you?

You want me to give you something

that is no longer mine to give.What little is left

is something I wouldn’t wish upon you.

I have my blanket

and sometimes music drifts in

so it’s not like I’m starving –

it’s just that I don’t have enough to give to you.

 

There isn’t room for two

here

under the bridge.

You wouldn’t like it anyway.

When you Have Neither 

When you have neither and must choose one

It is better to have onions than flowers.

It is better to have a soft bed than sculpting clay.

It is better to have a warm room than a palette and canvas.

It is better to have a hammer and nails than well-spilled words

Splattered about a sheet of paper.

Artists do not starve:

Men starve.

To a man who starves art does not exist

And beauty is nonsense.

Anyone who tells you differently may very well have been hungry

At some time in their lives

But starving? Not for a moment.

John Tustin’s poetry has appeared in many disparate literary journals in the last dozen years. For a complete list of his publication credits click here.