Tuesday, June 4, 2013

Tuesday Poem: Ruby

It’s Ed and me today at the end of the seawall
on the way to Lion Rock. We lean on it, feel
the crust of lichen beneath our elbows, watch 

the dogs
running on the shingle beach. Billy’s a softie
for a staffie-cross but he’s pulled  Ed’s arm

from the socket too many times to count. Ruby’s
not a softie, she has eyes like coins, a seal’s coat.
Together they’re the tigers in that story

running till they’re butter. Ed’s talking
about the dances in Limerick and
gets onto how he trod the boards with Harold

Pinter. Ed’s a painter now, or was  his duff
shoulder tells that story. Some days we fall in
with Charlie the blue heeler and his owner

whose name I always forget. Both of them have
a touch of wilderness about them.  Charlie’s
owner’s parents ran the Oasis Motel

in Palmerston North. Colin lived in Palmy, too,
before he moved to Rome to sculpt; his peke 
Andrew is pissing on the wall now and Colin’s

following in his shark tooth hat. He tells a story

about living on Long Island and how, walking
with his bulldog, he was sometimes mistaken

for Truman Capote.  Justine  is blonde and pregnant 
and makes me think of vanilla icecream.
When she hoves into view with slobbering

Aaron and Beagle-eyed Georgie, the men
hold themselves tighter. She’s pretty,
Justine. Her husband’s a musician and

at weekends you see them out and
about. One day
Ed, Charlie’s owner, Justine, Colin and I are

up by the Rec’ in the pingao grass,
and we’re talking baby names while the dogs
churn. Her face is plump and tired, and Justine 

says, 'Ruby, I think,' then louder, 'Ruby’ –
and we stop talking a moment and breathe
in the sea and the sharp grass and the frangipane

scent Justine wears and the must of Colin’s
sheepskin coat and whatever it was Billy rolled
in, and then we laugh, and I mean laugh. The

belly kind that makes it hard to breathe anything
at all. We laugh, Ed, Charlie’s owner, Justine, Colin
and me

because there’s Ruby - over there – sniffing
Charlie’s arse, sleek and black, eyes a-gleam,
nothing vanilla about her, nothing like

ice-cream. Weeks later, by Lion Rock,
Colin catches me up. He’s got some results back.
His blood is revolting, turning on his heart.

I squeeze his hand. He squeezes back, eyes
on the oily sea, the other hand holding a bouquet
of the stiff pale seaweed that washes up

in storms. Some days it’s so luminous here,
it’s like standing inside a shell.

Next time we see Ed, he’s at the corner
of  Nikau and the Promenade waving
and waving with his good arm.  ‘Justine had

her baby! I’ve seen the little mite.’ We
stop and wait. The wind 
getting up. Ed has Billy’s lead tight around

his wrist and pants when he reaches us. He mimes
lifting a pram cover and peering in. ‘Now ask me,’
he says, ‘ask me her name.’ We say all together,

a straggly chorus, ‘What’s her name, Ed?’ What’s
her name, Ed?  says the sea, and Ruby circles
Billy like a tiger, and the gulls ratchet it down to a mew

and everything is one big smile, everything on this
beach, one big ear. ‘Sure as I’m standing
here,’ says Ed, ‘You’ll never guess.’  He heaves Billy

along the path now, a grin like shark’s teeth,
then Charlie shows up, and his owner –
Garwain? – and they want to know too,

and Ed’s having a ball. We’re all having a ball. 



Mary McCallum 




This poem was written very long time ago. Nine years. But I've been redrafting it over the past two months. 

Ed doesn't walk Billy now because he isn't well enough so his wife Patricia does it instead.  We always stop and chat when we see them, but Billy and Ruby are older and greyer and only sniff each other now - no churning. Colin passed away five years ago and his beloved Andrew followed. Garwain, if that was his name, moved away with  Charlie. So, I think, did Justine and her dogs and her Ruby - but I'm not sure about that. I just haven't seen them in a while. I still enjoy my daily walks with my Ruby but it's been a while since it was quite so social and quite so much fun. 

Do get along to the Tuesday Poem hub to read a delightful fragment of Robin Hyde's, editor Janis Freegard. 

6 comments:

Helen McKinlay said...

Really enjoyed this Mary. That great spontaneous mix of dog and people behaviour. And the lines mix of the joy and sadness and loss of it all.
And this 'and then we laugh, and I mean laugh. The belly kind that makes it hard to breathe anything
at all. We laugh, Ed, Charlie’s owner, Justine, Colin
and me..'

richardg said...

Loved this poem, it is very real to me as a regular walker of dogs on a beach.

Mary McCallum said...

Thank you Helen and Richard - I really appreciate your comments. It's a whole world, dog-walking! and it's taken a long time for the poem to really work in evoking that. Cheers

Michelle Elvy said...

This is fantastic - such a story, such character and feeling, and such rhythm. I love how you reference Sambo/ Babaji and how there is so much movement and life in this. And the line "I mean really laugh" really got me -- I felt it was such a strong thing embedded there in the middle of the poem, for the way it captured the authenticity of the emotion there. And that was before I knew it was a transition line, before I knew what comes next.

Really love this, Mary. Will come back to it again.

Oh and I am not even a dog person (not because I don't like them but because they make me sneeze). I don't often take to dog poems, either -- except I heard Ian Wedde read a couple about his dog Vincent once, and those have stuck with me too.

:)

Mary McCallum said...

Michelle - I just re-read your lovely comment here - thank you! This poem is one of those ones that matters to me - lovely to know other people love it too.

Mary McCallum said...

Michelle - I just re-read your lovely comment here - thank you! This poem is one of those ones that matters to me - lovely to know other people love it too.