‘The Secret Life of Sponge Cake’, ‘The Navigation of Us; A Love Story’, ‘Jesus In the Wilderness’, ‘The Adoration’ & ‘The Quietness’
Ignatius Sridhar is an emerging artist in Toronto. In his work, Ignatius focuses on the digital arts in the areas of street photography and landscapes. His work has been published or is forthcoming in Burningword Literary Journal and Sheepshead Review, among others.
The Secret Life of Sponge Cake
I cannot tell you much. My mother could see
she was insane
when she played piano at the Women’s Institute
could not be stopped
rocked
the three hundred planks of village hall floor
each one a tree once more, a hormonal seed
grown tall in the power of the boogie-woogie.
Tea was split; sponge cake discombobulated
Most of the time
her husband kept her in the attic, away
from doctors, hospitals, the well intentioned.
Nobody cared, thought it was their business
Often, when I waited for the bus to school
a window opened; wood slapped brickwork
birds joined their wings, grass grew
flowers sang hallelujahs under a wall of
chords
the rhythm of what is life, identified, defined
in notes, became us; or so I am led to believe.
The Navigation of Us; A Love Story
We have that lateral line
over small talk by the toaster, coffee machine
between close, open of the fridge door
the neanderthal click of it
we have our love, our system that detects it
movement, vibration, pressure gradients in
the amniotic of us
our underground networks, tunnels
hormonal desire lines
where we share it, water, nutrients, being
communicate who we are, map rivulets
estuaries we have become.
I blame the trees, the know-it-all flowers,
how they have tainted us, become us, that
although deaf, dumb, sightless
know how to turn towards the sun, or these
salmon skulking on the riverbed, the
slippery bastards reading flow
intention of the tides, the turn of the earth.
Jesus In the Wilderness
Quick Jesus is coming, look busy
although as he pads towards me in
bare feet
docile, broken, puppy like
he is not as expected
older now, a fat, distracted
unshaven
billowed in the wilderness with
so many possibilities
gilded with doubt, head to ground
moored in obsessive study of
flowers
insects, the world his father had
mentioned he had created
yet not explained.
He is lost in all defining, crush of
doubt
that I am drawn to, I can love
find worth in, redemption
doubt as anchor, mantra, necessity.
The Adoration
There is all I will not tell her, involve
her in.
It is out of respect for who she is
the truth would be unkind, pointless
I have learned to fight my own fights
involve only when I must.
Survival dictates it
Love dictates it
I have learnt the crocked path through her
touched my hands to the cold walls
of the weasel headed darkness
come to know, the osmosis of
the traps, open jaws of a life well lived
sculpted with pain, viscous experience
how I must step around her, if I am to
know her
I sense it, through doglegged starlight
through what has bright, that has already
left us, we are our journey home.
The Quietness
It is all gone now
meadow, rotted wood waggon
beyond the tiny cottage in the lane
where the old man with the
ancient Austin
rummaged through his days.
each facial crease a decade
braces, string belt latched though
loops of history
That was Norman, who
had spent his life on
farms, had seen horses go
tractors come
kings crown, die without a whisper
from the tress
then beyond it all, his
stubby unkempt orchard, the
back room bar
where I, my gangly teenage friends
bones aching with expectation of
adulthood
had our first pints, underage
under adult eyes
free to drink, if we kept it quiet.
Alan Hill has been writing for 25 years and is none the wiser . He has become more comfortable with the unknowable, and for this great gift that writing has given him he is eternally grateful. His latest book 'In the Blood' was published by Caitlin Press in 2022
