Surreal-Absurd Sampler Mark Russell

“The poems here are from a new project titled It’s Going To Be a Long Night, Melissa. They mine the ways in which we deceive and are deceived; how our pursuit of meaning and intimacy so persistently misfires; how unremitting is the absurdity, and yet how heartily we laugh into it.” - Mark Russell

The Matriarch

Harald and Klara tried to eat quietly, on the table, without the distractions of tv, radio, or birdsong. They would chew old newspapers into sloppy papier mâché and stop up the gaps in the door and window frames to aid the sound proofing, an old trick Harald brought via a great great uncle from Łódź, deep in the snows of central Poland. On a Wednesday evening in April, four years after their children had gone to live in the city, Klara broke down. Harald knelt beside her, offering a glass of water. ‘It’s her fault,’ Klara said, pointing to Harald’s mother, sitting on the floor in the corner, her ropes fraying with age, a bowl of corn on her lap. Harald felt helpless, but smiled. Klara breathed in heavily, thanked Harald for the water, and they returned to their meal. ‘Don’t worry,’ said Harald. ‘She can’t live forever. One day, we shall be free.’

The Patriarch

The stereo system was a classic, old and sturdy, expensively heavy, and very difficult to box. Knobs and faders stuck out everywhere. The vinyl also needed special consideration; too many in a box made it impossible to lift, too few and they were in danger of warping and becoming useless. From the other room, I could hear Jessica struggling with a couple of the kids. They clearly didn’t want to get in their boxes. I stopped for a rest and she came out to join me. ‘It’s so unfair,’ she said. ‘When we signed the contract, it said if we gave three months’ notice, we could get our deposit back.’ I handed her a bottle of her father’s best Monte Massico, a deep, seductive red. She popped off the top and lit it with a match. We watched the flames shoot into the air, the aroma of scruffy sexual union all around us. ‘You’ll be paying for that, as well,’ her father said from the armchair. We doused the flame and poured each other a glass. ‘When you’ve paid off the loan, I’ll send the children on,’ he said. 

The Teacher

On his way home from school, Mr Evans usually called into Llewelyn’s the Baker, Mandeep’s the Greengrocer, and Pascoe’s the Butcher to pick up a little something for tea. He wasn’t having it with the supermarkets. On this particular day, a special day which demanded dairy produce, he was leaving Dudley’s the Cheesemonger with a quarter pound of crumbly Lancashire when he was sent reeling by a young boy running hell for leather away from the town square. Mr Evans’s groceries fell everywhere. The boy helped him up, scrambled to collect the shopping, and apologised profusely. ‘Rabinovitz?’ Mr Evans said. ‘Yes sir. Sorry, sir,’ Rabinovitz said. ‘You’re in an awful hurry, young man.’ Rabinovitz looked behind him and saw an angry mob running their way. ‘Yes sir. Sorry sir.’ Mr Evan’s took off his spectacles to polish the lenses. The mob reached them and grabbed the boy, slapping him about the face and striking him with sticks. Rabinovitz was nearly unconscious when they dragged him away. Mr Evans put on his spectacles and looked about. He stopped one of the stragglers from the mob. ‘Did you see a young boy?’ The straggler took one of Mr Evans’s Cox’s Orange Pippins from its bag and began to eat it. ‘No young boys here, mate,’ he said, and ran off toward the Gallowgate. ‘Well, I’ll be damned,’ Mr Evans said, and continued on his way home.

The Pupil

My father took to home schooling far too obsessively. Mother agreed with me, but was so relieved to see us both occupied that she said nothing. Her daily walks became longer and more frequent than the law allowed. She would meet people in groups of more than four or five, having devised ingenious ways to avoid detection. They brought flasks of different soups, small handbags of freshly baked rolls, individual cakes wrapped in brown paper. After a few months, we could smell alcohol on her breath, tobacco on her clothes. My father paid it no attention. ‘On with our Physics!’ he would say, or ‘Conjugate the verb!’ By October, he had begun to flag. We were having a Quiet Reading session: me with ‘The Railway Children’, him with ‘The Modern Woman Revisited: Paris Between the Wars’. I was happiest at these times. But on this day, we heard my mother’s voice and great laughter coming from the street outside. There were cheers, a metal dustbin fell over and rolled away, followed by more cheers. We could smell paraffin and smoke drifted into the house. I sensed he was about to go outside and do something, but then he sank lower into his chair. He put down his book and looked over the top of his glasses. ‘I’m just a simple, minor official with the local council,’ he said. ‘But dad,’ I started to say. ‘Tomorrow, we will re-ignite the curriculum, Elizabeth,’ he said. ‘We must prepare for adventures.’

Meeting

I called to Bernice from the kitchen. ‘Come here, there’s a bear on the lawn.’ ‘What?’ she called back. I went into the lounge. ‘It’s got a brown head and black body.’ ‘Has it?’ she said, not looking up from her Kindle. I went back into the kitchen and the brown head stretched and stood. ‘Oh no, it’s not a bear,’ I called again, ‘it’s a wild boar.’ The brown boar came into the kitchen, through to the lounge, nudged open the door and strolled out onto the deck. The black body was an even bigger boar. It did the same. ‘Did you see that? Did you see that?’ I said. ‘Look at the deck.’ There were also three Jersey Giants, some cats, and a newly-fledged family of blue tits. They were wandering about, eating seeds and plants. ‘Those red-wattled chickens look like they’re in charge.’ The animals sat down together, in some kind of informal circular configuration. One of the chickens then stood. ‘I think they’re going to have a meeting.’ Bernice pulled her cardigan up around her ears. ‘I wonder if their meeting is about us,’ I said. ‘I introduced the president to wild animals, he didn’t even mention it in his autobiography,’ Bernice said. ‘When was that?’ I said. ‘In days of yore,’ she said. ‘When were days of yore?’ I said. ‘1986.’  ‘I didn’t know that.’ ‘You know nothing about me,’ Bernice said.

The Making of Mike Devine

The men from the Authority arrived. They were pushing wheelbarrows filled with children. The headteacher stopped outside my class and threw a few into the room. ‘There’s more to come!’ he said. He held one up by the scruff of its neck. ‘You’ll love this one, he’s completely bonkers. Say hello.’ The wee boy said his name was Mike Devine, and he held out a sweet-smelling China rose. ‘I cultivate these on my grandfather’s allotment.’ The headteacher snatched it from him, dropped it on the floor, and stamped it into a pulp. ‘You see? He’s at it already!’ He put Mike Devine down and guided him into my room. ‘It’s my last day tomorrow. We’re going to have an extended break with tea and cake in the staff room. I hope you can come,’ he said. ‘May I bring Mike Devine?’ The headteacher narrowed his eyes and lowered his voice. ‘Why are you such a troublemaker?’ He brushed his lapel. I was in danger of having my invitation to the party rescinded, but couldn’t help myself. ‘It could be the making of him,’ I said. ‘You can bring flowers, but you’ll have to tie him up outside.’ It felt like a small success. ‘Ok,’ I said.

Mark Russell’s chapbooks and collections include Shopping for Punks (Hesterglock) and o (the book of gatherings) (Red Ceilings). He lives in Scotland. [https://markrussellat.wordpress.com/]