At midnight,
Upon the twelfth night
Of December,
The old oak doors
Of Nocturna
Opened quietly,
And Belladonna Moreau
Stepped inside.
Few members
Ever addressed her
By her given name.
To everyone
She was simply,
“Ding Dong.”
Ding Dong and the Giant
Void
I shall not slip,
I will not be pressured,
Or pushed,
Back into that blackened void
Where I was once lost.
However,
If I must go,
If there is simply no alternative,
I will carry a torch,
So that you may see me waving.
The Attendant
There are those
Who visit Nocturna
For the rarest spirits,
The whispered stories,
Or the peculiar company
One finds nowhere else.
Yet the regulars,
Those who have lingered
Long enough
To call the place home,
Will tell you
That the evening
Never truly begins
Until Mr Gideon Rook
Offers a gentle nod
And quietly says,
“This way,
If you please.”
Recognising Calm
I often wonder
What it must be like
To live
Without the constant tension,
To move through each day
With an unhurried heart,
To breathe
Without first convincing myself
That it is safe.
I watch others
Laugh effortlessly,
Their smiles
Appearing as naturally
As the sunrise.
They seem to drift
Upon calm waters,
While I remain
A vessel
Held fast
Against an endless tide.
Within me,
Everything is wound
Too tightly.
Every thought
Finds another.
Every silence
Searches for a sound.
Every moment of stillness
Awakens
The expectation
That it cannot last.
I tell myself,
Again and again,
Remain calm.
The words
Have become
A quiet ritual,
Repeated so often
They have almost forgotten
Their meaning.
Sometimes,
Calm does arrive.
It enters softly,
Like morning mist
Rolling across a sleeping field,
Or the first warm ray of sunlight
Finding its way
Through heavy curtains.
For a little while,
The world
Feels lighter.
My shoulders loosen.
My breathing deepens.
The relentless turning
Of my thoughts
Finally begins
To slow.
In those fleeting moments,
I remember
The person
I long to become.
But calm
Is a timid visitor.
It never stays
Long enough
To feel at home.
Without warning,
It gathers its things
And quietly departs,
Leaving no explanation.
Then the familiar weight
Returns.
Invisible,
Yet impossible
To ignore.
It settles
Across my shoulders,
Wraps itself
Around my thoughts,
And tightens
Its patient grip.
Once more,
I become
A tightly coiled spring,
Held under a pressure
No one else can see,
Forever waiting
For something
I cannot name.
Perhaps one day
I will learn
That calm
Is not a destination
To be reached,
Nor a companion
That can be persuaded
To remain.
Perhaps
It is something
To be welcomed
Whenever it arrives,
However briefly,
And thanked
Before it leaves.
Until then,
I continue
To hope
For a quieter tomorrow,
And to believe
That somewhere beneath
The noise,
The worry,
The endless tightening,
There is still
A peaceful version
Of myself,
Patiently waiting
To be found.
Neko
When the final guest
Has gathered their coat,
When the last teacup
Has been cleared away,
When laughter
Has dwindled
To memory,
And Marcel Carreau
Locks the great oak doors
For another evening,
Nocturna belongs
To Neko.
No Longer
I no longer remember how I once felt,
When my skin was smoother,
My mind was unweighted by worry,
When misery had yet to touch,
Her sorrowful hand
To my cheek.
I no longer remember,
The warm embrace
of the morning sun
On my face.
As I once did,
When the music played,
And my family
Laughed together
As one.
The Perfumer
Louis de Villepin
Was a perfectionist.
As flamboyant
As he was talented,
His remarkable nose
Could distinguish
Hundreds of fragrances,
Even after
they had long vanished
From the air.
The Curio Club
Nestled above
Nocturna‘s grand mahogany staircase,
Beyond an unassuming velvet curtain,
Lay rooms
Known only to a handful
Of trusted members.
A gentleman’s smoking room
With a wrought-iron balcony,Quiet reading chambers,
Guest apartments,
And, at its heart,
A private dining room,
Reserved each month
For the Curio Club….
A Captain’s Tale
Gideon Rook carried
An aged bottle of rum
And two crystal glasses
Towards Booth Six.
Before he reached the velvet curtain,
A booming laugh rolled across Nocturna,
Followed by the unmistakable voice
Of Captain Abercrombie Marlowe….
Preserving Sanctuary
Time,
And the restless city,
Forgot old Selwyn Lane.
Its weathered buildings,
Once alive with commerce,
Slowly emptied.
Doors closed.
Windows gathered dust.
One by one,
Their occupants
Simply went elsewhere.
Although some remain empty
To this day,
All quietly found
New custodians.
Purchased,
Not by developers,
Nor speculators,
But by club members
Of Nocturna.
Many gifted their buildings
To the club itself,
Allowing the sanctuary
To grow
Patiently,
Silently,
One adjoining wall at a time.
Behind ancient brickwork,
Doorways became archways.
Storerooms became libraries.
Warehouses became museums.
Forgotten offices
Became quiet reading rooms,
Cabinets of curiosities,
Map vaults,
Conservatories,
Trade halls,
And discreet apartments
Reserved for distinguished guests.
To the city,
The block still appeared
Forgotten.
Weathered.
Half abandoned.
But appearances
Have always been deceiving
When it comes to Nocturna.
Within those old walls,
Life quietly flourished.
Books found readers.
Collectors found discoveries.
Artists found inspiration.
Friends found one another.
And every twelfth night,
of the month,
The sanctuary grew
A little richer.
Nocturna is no longer
Merely a private club.
For many,
It has become
A way of life.
An entire city block,
Quietly devoted to curiosity,
Craftsmanship,
Scholarship,
Wonder,
And the preservation
Of beautiful impossibilities.