Alan Hardy

REMOVED

 

The door closed, out of sight, as long as

not in the room you move

and make your dreams in,

means any horror can pass out of existence,

round the corner.

 

The anguish you are brought face to face with,

scares you next to you

like a slap,

can, like a light, be switched off,

no longer worry you, or concern you,

when, with blessed relief, it leaves you

to go to its room.

 

Free to pace your square,

relax within your four walls,

leave what had unnerved you

in your own space

to pass out of your mind

and cease,

there in its room and torment,

alone, remote, in grief and despair,

what, by positions and angles and corners,

and doors,

you have locked out.

 

  

AFAR

 

I stand by the door,

keep it slightly ajar,

spy on the world.

I flinch, I edge back,

when its glare is too strong,

too spicy, too hot,

threatens me with grievous bodily harm.

I’m ready to close, hold it tight,

my shoulder pressed against,

hand on handle to repel boarders.

Opened wider, the full spread of colours

is a film’s expanding location shot,

I tiptoe upon a setting framing another’s life,

peek in, ready to draw back if they hit out.

I strive as if life depended on it to reach into that space

and fetch that person into my heart,

soothe a troubled brow, assuage a disturbed storyline,

massage a gently fulfilling ending

where there is no need for a door behind which

I hide and push into another place

keep remote

what I fear here in my room,

the touch of flesh,

its hotness, its pain, its vulnerability.