This is a joint project between George Simmers, Editor of Snakeskin magazine (Stan) and Helena Nelson, one of the best contemporary UK poets. It's been running for the last couple of weeks, and will be in the next edition of Snakeskin.
David
RE:United
An epistolary sequence by Helena Nelson and George Simmers
Letter from Stan
Hello. Tonight I logged on to that site,
Friends Reunited, though don't ask me why -
Nostalgia's frankly not a pastime I
Indulge in much these days - but still, tonight,
I clicked my mouse, and found a list of names
That brought such faces back. Tyke Wells, and Rich,
And Froggy Tench, and Jenny (still a bitch?)
And Weasel, who like me was crap at games,
And Stu, and Jess with the amazing chest,
And Thunderfarts DeVille, Bananas Coke,
And Jas who never understood a joke,
And thirty more, but there among the rest,
Amazingly, was your name too, and so
I thought I'd write and say like - well - hello.
Reply from Penny
Good God, it's Stan. You've got a bloody cheek.
You saw me on the underground last week.
YOU KNOW YOU DID. I certainly saw you.
I waved. I shouted. And -- what did you do?
Ignored me. God, you actually pretended
you hadn't heard, and yes, I am offended.
I thought by now you'd pass the time of day
without hard feelings. Life goes on its way
and I've forgiven most of what you did.
Not all. The matter of the kid,
the stolen car, the fifty thousand quid,
the clothes you nicked (they all belonged to Sid)--
some things go deep. No use to represent
your teenage past as somehow innocent.
You were a crook. You probably still are.
So stick to 'reunited' from afar.
Email Froggy. Send your love to Jenny
but not to me. Piss off. Yours ever - Penny.
Stan again
I heard that angry yell. So it was you!
I ran. When women shout I tend to run -
You know that. But when that yell came, for one
Brief sec I got a sense of déjà vu
Destabilising as a mickeyed drink.
Those days came tumbling back, our frenzy days;
We were impossible and life was vivid,
I was deplorable and you were livid,
We snarled, we clashed - oh let me count the ways!
How china flew around the flat! To think
You saw me on the tube and yelled. Oh dare
I hope this fury means that you still care?
Stan
Penny:
We were impossible? Oh how untrue.
The only Imp in the Possible was you
as you well know. Miss Reasonable was me.
Miss Love-You-Sweetly-Will-You-Be-Home-For-Tea?
I never snarled. How dare you say I did!
And livid? You’re confusing me with Sid.
What I put up with…. Well, at least I’m glad
to think all that is over. If I had
the tiniest little hankering still for you
it would have died the day you went and blew
our ten years’ savings on that daft dot com.
It looked so great – yes, on a CD-ROM –
My faith, my love – all squished. It wasn’t funny.
But worst of all, dear Stan, I lost my money.
I’m sick of your jokes, your quiddities and quiplets.
Thank god I’ve got my writing, and the triplets.
~Pen
Stan:
Well done. I'm glad you've got that off your chest.
Feelings are best expressed and not suppressed.
I'm proud to say that counselling and time
Have brought me forward to the stage where I'm
Way beyond brooding on dotcoms at last.
I firmly tell myself: "The past's the past.
I won't let guilt or misery rule my life."
Natalia agrees. She's my new wife -
(Quite lovely, blonde, Estonian, twenty-one).
So - come on, lighten up and have some fun.
I've read your writing (and I feel quite vain
That I inspired the "Men are bastards" strain
That sings in every paragraph).
I can't help feeling you should learn to laugh.
You'd feel much better in yourself and - well -
Your writing might improve; might even sell.
As for the kids, tell them I dropped a line.
Tell them their dad's OK and hopes they're fine.
Tell them he thinks of them, and thinks of you.
Write back. You know that's what you need to do.
Penny:
Jokery-blokery
Stanley Montgomery
charms all the others but
not little Pen.
She was once fooled by his
quasi-concupiscence
and it’s not happening
Ever Again.
Flimmery-flummery
Stanley Montgomery
finds a new woman to
solace his fears.
Sadly Natalia
(she inter alia)
finds that monogamy
soon disappears.
Cheerily-beerily
Stanley Montgomery
crawls to his counsellor
Melanie Ruth.
But P.Cantankerus,
best-selling author of
‘Can’t Help His Ignorance’,
tells us the truth.
Winkery-wankery
Stan’s Hankypankery
serves as a parable:
try him for size.
Here’s the career of the
near-irresistible
pseudo-Lothario
dealing in lies.
Dummery-bummery
Stanley Montgomery
dumped brave Penelope,
cheated poor Sid—
Sid, though’s the father
of Jane, June and Java
while Jenny Kilrennie is
stuck with Stan’s kid.
Stan:
I SAW the best women of my generation destroyed by resentment, seething sobbing unforgiving, stomping to their hairdresser in the afternoon, in search of consolation,
once-angelheaded sweeties who have lost the ancient heavenly connection to the star-machine generating harmonic energy throughout the cosmos,
who would be binge drinkers if they did not obsess about their figures,
who when they kiss communicate a flavour of sour envy,
who gather in small groups to verbally disembowel males of their acquaintance,
who try to exact puny revenges by casting doubt on the paternity of their children,
who passed through universities for three years writing extremely neat essays and developing feminist theories of unspeakable tedium,
who buy their underwear at Marks and Spencer, and blame their husbands because they cannot afford garments featured in Vogue,
who blame their husbands and other men also, men only and always,
who have lost the bright joy in that illumined their life and can only shout at him on the underground,
who consider that they do not receive enough in child support, and would never think that they received enough, even if they were presented with all the jewels of Ophir and of Ormus every single week,
who do evening classes in step aerobics, and indulge in bonding sessions with other women
who deserve our pity, and need our prayers,
whom I refuse to blame, for I am bigger than that.
Wom Na Marrom
This mantra I repeat for all women.
Wom Na Marrom
Penny:
Your Argument – so edifies –
Your Rhetoric so fine –
It stretches every puny Lie –
Into a lengthy Line –
Such Food for thought – on Womankind –
I could not nobler wish –
As Provender – in time of Need –
If ’twere not – arrant – Pish.
Stan
Pish, eh? I could answer with words explosively rude,
Sarky and crude as you like, but I'm not in the mood.
Natalia is hunched at the end of the bed, almost nude,
Trimming her toenails, so concentrated. A woman
Can be so complete in herself, so - just so human.
It's unpressurised minutes like this that I treasure,
Of pure easy pleasure too fleeting to measure.
Well, once I was happily close to you, too.
I'm watching Natalia, but I'm thinking of you.
There are moments I'd like to relive, to recapture. One kiss
Especially. I know that we kissed. I know bliss
Of some sort occurred; I've a diary that reads: "This
Was an evening of bliss! That kiss!" with no further clue -
But what was the context? I don't recall. Would you?
What was the look in your eye? What did you wear?
Was that before or after you cut your hair?
This morning will vanish too. Mornings do.
I reach to touch Natalia, but I'm thinking of you.
I reach out to touch Natalia knowing
This beautiful toe-trimming moment is going
Where all moments go, that it's fast flowing
To the dark dumb sea of not-knowing. It won't be spared
Any more than the good days you and I shared.
Because there were good days. There must have been.
I try to imprint a detailed picture of this scene
Unerasably in my mind. I try to.
But as I watch Natalia, I'm thinking of you.
Penny
To Natalia c/o S. Montgomery Esq.
I write, Natalia, as woman to woman.
It’s time you heard the truth about Stan.
Although he may seem the ideal man
he doesn’t love you. Enclosed: a letter
he wrote me this week. Such twaddle. And yet—a
touching wee note. He ought to know better
but darling he doesn’t. And won’t. You see
when he kisses you—albeit passionately—
what he’s doing (his own words) is thinking of ME!
Get out while you can.
There should be a ban
on marriage forever
to bastards like Stan.
P.C. March 2004
[Txt me if u want 2 -- 07756043357]
Stan
Penny -
I've read your note to Natters, as requested,
And she is more than somewhat interested.
"What is dzis Penn-yee?" she asks. (Pen, I can't
On paper hope to reproduce the chant
That she endows your name with.) I expound
What Penny's short for - then she starts to sound
Like Mystic Meg or something: "I am Circe!
You, Stan-Odysseus, be at my mercy.
You shall remain enchanted here with me
And never more desire Penelope."
Intoning, she begins a sinuous movement
That's of a quality beyond improvement.
I think our letters make her slightly jealous,
And that in turn has made her more than zealous
To please her Stan in every lovely way.
She shows herself a mistress, I must say,
Of charmingly eroticised invention.
More details, Pen, I think I'd best not mention.
Yours happily,
Stan.
Penny
I’ve been to the Registrar, looked at the list
of births, deaths and marriages. And—as I guessed—
the lovely Natalia doesn’t exist.
A pity. She offered such excellent grist
to your fantasy mill. I was almost impressed
but I’ve been to the Registrar, looked at the list
and he told me himself you were probably pissed
and lonely, and more than a little obsessed.
Natalia doesn’t (and didn’t) exist
except in your head (the ‘Mrs’ you missed?)
You made her up, Stanley, along with the rest.
I’ve been to the Registrar, studied the list
she’s not on. So for once, could you try to resist
the temptation to fib? It’s time you confessed
that Estonian Whatserface doesn’t exist.
You got married just once—to ME. Now desist
from making things worse. That toe-trimming pest
Natalia (‘Natters’!?) could never exist
in anyone’s registry. Check out the list….
p.s.
Fancy a coffee now Nat-brat’s gone west?
Or are you too terrified these days to trust
a cosy wee tryst
with the last and the first—
and the best?
Stan
Oh Pen, you've taken so much trouble
Just to explode the pretty bubble
Of Stan's Nat-fantasy. You star!
You've trudged round to the registrar,
And trawled through every tedious list
To prove your Stan a fantasist
Who hasn't given hand and name
To Nat. Well, fantasy's a game
That Pen the realist must disparage,
But try to see my bubble-marriage
As more than baseless fabrication,
Less untruth than extrapolation
From a striking spammy email
Found in my inbox, offering female
Partners of the juiciest kind
From Eastern Europe. Well - Stan's mind,
You know, will always speed along
(His fantasy's still wild and strong)
And soon I had the girl Natalia
There in my thoughts, so sweet, so mallea-
ble, so nice, so fond of me
That she became reality.
(Or good as). And, I must admit,
I hoped I'd make my Pen a bit
Jealous, to recognise her Stanley
As quite sufficiently suave, manly,
And handsome to attract a wife
Of twenty-one to share his life.
It worked! Pen whizzed her little car
At top speed to the registrar
To prove her Stan has not enriched
His life by once more getting hitched.
But when you knew that I was free,
You offered to meet up with me!
Oh Penny, let me firmly state, you're
Good, with a forgiving nature.
I was not perfect, I admit,
And messed your life more than a bit,
But after all of this, you sweet,
You've made suggestion we should meet.
Well done. The sex once called the gentle
Is now more often the judgmental,
But you've shown you can rise above
Dull blame of him you used to love,
And who loved you. Let's meet at Gino's,
And over cooling cappuccinos
Chatter as we used to do.
Shall we say Thursday? Half past two?
Penny
Cappuchino?
At Gino’s?
Fino!
Friends re-united.
I’m quite—excited.
But since, as you say,
Stan’s mind speeds away….
I don’t have sex with men any more.
Once I adored it—a bit of a whore
in a sort of a way. That was before
you drove me to drink. Friends used to abhor
my relish for men. Three, perhaps four,
even five each weekend. But the present-day score
is zero. No sex with men any more.
Though manly as Stanley, it’s hard to endure
for more than an hour. I find it a bore
when they want to come close (as it were).
There’s no law
against women who suddenly find they prefer
to forget about him in favour of her.
I know you’ll concur.
So I’ll bring my new gir—
lfriend, Amanda,
next Thur—
sday.
And—er—
is that OK?
Stan
Poor Penny, please let me express every sympathy.
Now you must be feeling so shattered, so sad.
Your life must have seemed to implode in an instant -
Yet on Thursday I thought it was I had it bad.
I waited at Gino's, consumed several muffins,
Presumed I'd been stood up, and slumped in my chair.
Presumed that your absence was calmly deliberate,
A way of informing me you didn't care.
I waited an hour, then moved on to the Anchor.
I got drunk, then slunk homeward, and there on the mat
Was the Evening News, with its huge banner headline:
"Lesbian Arsonist Fires Lover's Flat"
I read how Amanda Macrone (37)
Had stormed from her flat on discovering the plan
Of her Sapphic life-sharer (a Ms P. Montgomery)
To meet up with her previous lover, a man.
I read how the neighbours heard sobbing and yelling
When Amanda returned with two litres of meths.
I read how she screamed, in a Morningside accent:
"If not joined in our lives, we'll be joined in our deaths."
I read how brave Penny had rescued the triplets.
(The paper, predictably, mixed up their names)
I read how the Fire Brigade turned on their hoses.
I read how Amanda expired in the flames.
I know that the News will of course over-dramatise,
But assume that they've printed the nub of the case.
I was dazed when I read it, and you must be more so.
Remember there's plenty of room at Stan's place.
No strings - I'm not saying come back as my wifey.
But you and the triplets could be quiet here,
Away from all cops and all tabloid reporters.
Come back to your Stanley, my Penny, my dear.
In any case, Penny, you'll know where to find me -
Gino's tomorrow, around half-past two.
And Penny, remember, you'll always be welcome.
No strings, as I said. Well, I leave it to you.
From the triplets.
1. Dear Dad—
Stop the clocks.
This will come as a terrible shock.
Mum is dead.
It didn’t happen like the papers say.
She wasn’t quite right in the head.
Even before the fateful day
when she accused you of a culpable personality
she was showing signs of multiple personality
disorder (bordering on psychotic lunacy).
Life hasn’t been fun for June, Java and me.
We have been through her papers, know everything.
It is awfully unsettling
and even in the depths of our grief
it comes as some relief
to unburden it all to you—
no-one else can help us through.
We have found various scraps—deeply touching you’ll see.
She thought of you in terms of poetry
which we know will bring a tear to your eye.
It is so affecting. Who wouldn’t cry?
How it hurts, how it hurts. I don’t think that I
can continue. I’m almost insane
with the pain. Yours, Jane.
2. Dear Dad—
Jane hasn’t explained enough of the truth
to make sense. To be curt:
you may need to contact Melanie Ruth.
This will hurt.
Mum’s self-styled ‘lover’, the awful Amanda
was a figment, a split,
a part of herself. She would put on a wig and a
pin-striped suit, then sit
on a chair in the kitchen and light a cigar
and shout, I am A Man-Dar-
lings. Have a drink at my bar.
Guess Who We Are.
She was good. The neighbours believed
Amanda was real,
a lesbian lover. We, of course, weren’t deceived
but it wasn’t ideal.
Our mother had patently lost the plot,
said Sid was our father.
Another invention. Of course he is not
and we’d rather
have you. You’re a man set apart
from the rest. To prove it
she taught us this verse – we know it by heart
and we love it:
Know Stan thyself, presume not God to scan:
The proper study of stankind is Stan.
She studied you from almost every angle.
She wanted you back.
She knew you liked to squabble, loved a wrangle,
said there’d be flak
if she didn’t get rid of Amanda. To let her aspire
Amanda must die.
So she planned a fire, a funeral pyre,
forgetting the tie
which bound them. They weren’t two
but one. She went up like a torch.
We rescued ourselves , climbing out of the loo,
and onto the porch.
She was gone, she was gone, she was gone.
No point in fighting
the tears. We’re alone. Appallingly alone
except for her writing.
She penned a sort of ‘mandicide’ note, farewell
to Amanda. Mad
we all know, but oh, you’ll soon tell—
so terribly sad.
(p.t.o.)
In MemoriAm Anda
Ring out, wild girls, to the wild sky,
The burning house, the yearning light:
My love is burning in the night:
Ring out, wild girls, and let her die!
Ring out the new, ring in the old,
Ring, happy girls, remember Stan
Who’ll save you if a person can.
Ring out the dross, ring in the gold.
Ring out the landlord – what a louse!
Ring out the debts we cannot pay,
Ring in your new abode—hurray!
Ring in the thought of Stanley’s house.
Ring out, wild girls, and Westward Ho!
Compared to us, dear Stan is rich.
Amanda’s gone, but all her genes
Live on—so let us burn the bitch!
Such a sad tune.
Love, June.
3. Dear Dad, this is Java.
I won’t write a lot.
We have packed our stuff*
in a bit of a lather
(some of it’s hot.)
It’s been rather tough
but since you’re our father
we know we need not
say thanks. It’s enough
that you promised mother
‘you and the triplets could be quiet
here’. Much love
Java
p.s. pick us up as soon as you like, we’re completely ready
* our medication, the parakeet, drum kit, karaoke set, sound-surround TV, 47 boxes of mum’s unsold novels and her horse.
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