Creator / imaginer: Dabbler in art, literature and sound.
On a clear,
Moonlit twelfth night,
The members’ knocker
Sounds upon the door
Of Nocturna.
Daniel Hargraves answers.
Standing before him
Is a tall woman
Of Scandinavian appearance.
She smiles.
Nods.
“Hello, Daniel.”
For just a moment,
The formidable doorman
Seems to forget
That he is formidable.
“Ah…
Ms Winterbloom.
Do come in.”
Hargraves beams.
Far more warmly
Than his customary
Professional greeting
Might ordinarily allow.
The elaborate golden calligraphy
Upon the glossy black business card
Read,
Horace Ashcombe
Apothecary and Collector
of Forgotten Remedies.
“Do you find it satisfactory?”
Malcolm Coldbottom
Enquired.
Horace smiled,
Turning the card
Slowly between his fingers,
Allowing the warm Nocturna lamplight
To dance
Across the embossed
Gold lettering.
“Magnificent, Malcolm.
Quite magnificent.”
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….
Three times yearly,
When the moon reaches an agreeable position,
The members gathered
Before the great carved oak doors
That separated
The warmth of Nocturna
From its hidden courtyard.
The lanterns burned softly.
Perfume drifted beneath the ancient arches.
Someone coughed politely.
Someone else
Had already begun drinking…
Whenever the engine
Of Denham Carter-Smythe’s impossible motorcar
Echoed along Selwyn Lane,
Nocturna barman Edgar Brillows instinctively
Straightened his waistcoat.
Not because of Denham.
Because of his nurse.
Denham Carter-Smythe
A keen cartophilist,
Visits the club once a month,
Ready to trade and purchase antique maps,
Of unusual or exotic places.
Denham himself is quite the antique now,
Following a very long life of adventure,
He is now wheelchair bound.
This old wooden Victorian chair
is pushed into the club by is private nurse.
He spends his evening trading maps,
Secrets,
and leatherbound volumes.
Denham is a small ancient grey haired man,
Dressed in a long burgundy house coat,
with a matching fez perched upon his head,
Small round small spectacles balance
on the end of his nose,
and his legs are covered in a dark wool blanket.
He is wheeled into his booth,
To conduct the evenings business.
His nurse then makes her way to the bar,
To a particular swivel stool in a dark corner,
To await the gentle tinkle of Denham’s tiny bell.
Frau Olga Knochen,
A large intimidating Austrian woman,
Standing over six feet tall.
She is as much nurse,
as she is Denham’s protector.
Her dark hair is slicked back into a tight bun.
Rumoured to be a former psychiatric hospital Matron.
She is also an avid amateur chiropractor,
Who delights in the sounds of cracking backs.
She is unnaturally strong,
With powerful hands.
Her dark judgmental eyes,
Constantly survey other patrons,
With a look of displeasure
on her face.
Her deep gravelled voice seems like,
It should belong to an angry longshoreman,
Rather than a personal carer,
She has been known to ask patrons,
“You want crack back?”.
Appearances aside, she is very attentive to,
The collector who she refers to as ‘Mr Denham’.
It is rumoured that she once
Carried her wheelchair-bound employer
Effortlessly up three flights of stairs…
Wheelchair included.
Olga always situates herself,
At the nearby bar,
Close to barman Mr Brillows,
Where she can converse
And closely observe,
For she is quite infatuated with him.
Edgar Brillows always greets her with
“Good evening, Frau Knochen.
Your usual?”
She smiles briefly with a nod,
and the barman slides across
A delicate crystal glass of sour apple schnapps.
After several glasses,
She fondly refers to him as her Mausi or little mouse.
To which he politely remains professional.
It’s that aloof yet engaging professionalism,
That holds Frau Knochen’s utmost attention.
Dressed in an old grey matron’s uniform
With a black knitted shawl cast across her wide shoulders.
This mountain of a woman is formidable.
And would love to nothing more,
Than to squeeze the life out of
the charming Mr Brillows,
With affection.
Some time passes before
the barman can breathe a sigh of relief,
As the tinkle of a tiny crystal bell tolls,
Olga empties the last of her schnapps,
Sliding her small glass onto the bar
Gently towards an uncomfortable,
But still smiling Mr Brillows,
“Danke, meine kleine Maus”
with a smile and a wink.
She reapplies her standard expression,
before turning and crossing the floor
To attend to Carter-Smythe,
Who is madly waving an antique map scroll
In her direction,
As if celebrating some great discovery.
“Mr Denham, we go now?”
As she pushes the wheelchair,
The elderly man regales her
With the evening’s exploits.
As they pass the doorway he is heard,
to say,
“I have a map to a location
Full of Patagonian Maras
How wonderful.”
and
“And this one shows
The Seventh Lighthouse
That only appears
During eclipses.”
The passenger door closes,
The street rumbles,
and the vintage car,
roars to life.
before it slowly putts away
in a cloud of smoke,
Down the dawn lit Selwyn Lane.
On the twelfth night,
When crimson lamplight
Burned quietly
Against the rain,
And Selwyn Lane
Remembered
What daylight always forgot,
A familiar figure
Came stumbling
Out of the mist.
Not quietly.
Never quietly.
His stained safari trench coat
Hung from narrow shoulders
Like a weather-beaten tent.
A battered pith helmet
Sat defiantly
Upon a head
That had spent
Far too many years
Arguing with jungles.
Whether trousers
Lay beneath the coat,
No soul
Could honestly say.
Only long beige socks,
Mud-caked gaiters,
And great brown hiking boots
Introduced themselves
To the cobblestones.
Across his chest
Hung a worn leather satchel,
Heavy with impossible things.
A feathered serpent
No larger than a sparrow.
A taxidermied rodent
Bearing six glass eyes.
A butterfly
With transparent wings
That refused
To collect dust.
His silver hip flask
Appeared
Every few minutes.
Its curious contents
Smelled faintly
Of formaldehyde,
Mentholated spirits,
And regrettable decisions.
He swallowed deeply.
Smiled.
Then announced
To nobody in particular,
“They’re close tonight.”
“WHAT?”
The shout echoed
Along Selwyn Lane,
Disturbing only rainwater.
Daniel Hargraves,
Watching from his velvet alcove,
Did not flinch.
He simply inclined his head.
“Good evening,
Mr Marcus-Walker.”
The old explorer
Studied him suspiciously.
“You’ve not seen
The Moustached Guenons,
Have you?”
A pause.
“They’ve become
Exceptionally organised.”
Another pause.
“They’ve formed committees.”
Hargraves merely opened
The heavy black door.
“Welcome to Nocturna.
May your stay
Be a pleasant one.”
Marcus-Walker
Saluted gravely.
Then leaned close.
“There are alligators
Beneath your floorboards.”
“There are not.”
Hargraves dryly responded
“They’re extraordinarily patient.”
Henley snapped back,
“They are also imaginary.”
The bemused doorman responded
“So are taxes.”
“WHAT?”
He shouted as he wandered inside.
The library welcomed him
As it always had.
Books changed hands.
Secrets travelled softly.
Collectors gathered
Around velvet tables,
Examining impossible curiosities
By candlelight.
Marcus-Walker
Produced his latest treasure.
“A melancholy mongoose
Discovered
Near the upper Congo.
Notice
The expression.”
The assembled members
Examined it
With scholarly seriousness.
One offered
A first edition.
Another,
An ivory sextant.
A third,
A bottle
Containing rainwater
Collected
During an eclipse.
The bargain
Was concluded
With solemn nods.
“WHAT?”
Marcus-Walker shouted suddenly.
Nobody reacted.
Everyone had grown accustomed
To the interruption,
Like an old clock
Striking
At entirely the wrong hour.
From somewhere nearby
Came the unmistakable sound
Of an entirely deliberate
Explosion of flatulence.
Marcus-Walker
Turned furiously
Towards an empty chair.
“There!”
He cried.
“I warned you!
The Guenons
Have followed me again.”
Several members
Looked politely
At the vacant seat.
One even frowned,
As though
The invisible monkeys
Had committed
A genuine breach
Of etiquette.
Edgar Brillows
Placed a fresh glass
Before the old traveller.
“I trust
Your treehouse
Remains secure?”
Marcus-Walker nodded gravely.
“Twenty-six feet above ground.”
“The alligators?”
the barman offered
“Ah ha! powerless.”
Henley replied,
“And the Guenons?”
Brillows continued,
“They’ve mastered the bloody ladders.”
Brillows
Considered this carefully.
“Disturbing.”
“Profoundly.”
Marcus-Walker laughed.
Not a chuckle.
Not a smile.
But a roaring,
Wild,
Untamed eruption
That rolled through Nocturna
Like jungle thunder,
Leaving every candle
Momentarily uncertain
Whether to continue burning.
Hours drifted by.
Stories were traded.
Impossible maps unfolded.
Curious specimens
Changed custodians.
The night,
As always,
Passed unnoticed.
Then,
Without warning,
Marcus-Walker
Spotted
An elegant figure
Crossing the foyer.
Tall.
Broad shouldered.
Impeccably dressed
In black.
“My dear lady!”
He declared,
Removing his pith helmet.
“Might I interest you
In supper
At my treehouse,
Followed by…breakfast?”
The room
Became
Exceptionally quiet.
Daniel Hargraves
Slowly turned.
Marcus-Walker
Peered more closely.
“WHAT?”
A silence.
Then another.
“My profound apologies.”
Hargraves sighed,
The sigh
Of a man
Repeating
A familiar ritual.
Once again,
He escorted
The distinguished explorer
Towards the entrance,
One enormous hand
Resting gently
Upon his shoulder.
Marcus-Walker
Accepted his fate
With surprising dignity.
“Those damn Guenons
Set me up.”
“I’ve no doubt.”
Hargraves smiled
“They’re awfully vindictive creatures.”
Marcus-Walker was
becoming disorientated,
“So I’ve heard sir.”
Hargrave replied politely.
Outside,
The rain
Had begun again.
The crimson lamp
Burned steadily,
Watching the old eccentric
Disappear
Into the sleeping city,
Laughing wildly,
Arguing
With invisible monkeys,
Pausing
Every hundred yards
To shout,
With absolute conviction,
“WHAT?”
Tongue,
You insufferable appendage,
Why are you so disagreeable?
You always seem
To get in the way.
Every meal,
You insist on participating.
I was enjoying my lunch…
Until I bit you.
Again.
The mushrooms in our garden
Walk around at night,
Kicking over rubbish bins
And giving pets a fright.
Aggressive shrooms in gumboots
March beneath the stars,
Breaking flower stems for fun
As they stomp around the yard.
They poke them through the chicken wire
And wake the sleeping hens,
Then scamper off through moonlit grass
Before they’re caught again.
But they pay dearly for their mischief
When they fall asleep at dawn.
Where they tremble in their grassy holes
As I begin to mow the lawn.
In life, creative people are often referred to as fruit loops,
But that is okay.
Fruit loops are well-rounded,
Full of colour, have excellent taste,
And are rich in character.
They can blend into their surroundings,
While adding their own vibrant presence.
At first, they may seem hard,
But time reveals their softness.
You never quite forget them;
Their sweetness lingers after they’re gone.
Because their explosive, colourful lives are often brief,
They are gone too soon.
Yet in the wake of their absence,
They leave the bland brighter,
The ordinary more interesting,
And the world richer than before.
Why do you come here, is it for the gloom?
For the restless shadows of my darkened room,
I’ll make no apology, for I prefer to write,
With words of melancholy that arrive like night.
Over softened themes dressed up in colourful bloom,
Where joy survives untouched by grief or doom,
I’ve seen everything colourful eventually lose lustre.
It does have a place, but it won’t pass my muster.
My mind drifts dim where others shine bright,
Here, darkness looms never far from sight,
Even as a young boy, I could never bring,
As Poe wrote, my passions from a common spring.
My mind can be dreary and abnormally bleak,
And I prefer others to use light and flowery speak,
But if like me you find some comfort in gloom,
Stay with me a while here, in my dark little room.
