Charles G Lauder Jr, "The Aesthetics of Breath"

Charles G Lauder Jr was born in San Antonio, Texas, lived for a few years each on America’s East and West Coasts, and moved to south Leicestershire, UK, in 2000. His poems have been published widely in print and online, and in his two pamphlets Bleeds (Crystal Clear Creators, 2012) and Camouflaged Beasts (BLER, 2017). From 2014 to 2018, he was the Assistant Editor for The Interpreter’s House, and for over twenty-five years he has copy-edited academic books on literature, history, medicine, and science. His debut poetry collection is The Aesthetics of Breath (V. Press, 2019). He is on Twitter @cglauder

About The Aesthetics of Breath, by Charles G Lauder Jr

The Aesthetics of Breath, my debut poetry collection and most recent book, focuses on history, both public and personal. Some of the poems are about well-known historical figures like Einstein and Napoleon, as well as America's past, whereas others are about my Texas childhood. Quite a few explore masculinity and my relationship with my father, and what it means to live as an ex-pat for the past two decades. The book ends with a sequence of a dozen poems about family relationships and home.

From The Aesthetics of Breath

Time and Distance

There’s a doppelganger in my house,
taller, slimmer, mistaken for me
over the phone. He cries like I do

but that serrated tongue can cut
those closest to him, hissing out
when he’s cornered and angry.

He brings up Star Wars and Doctor Who,
he knows I like to talk about them,
as if he’s learning, but avoids girls and sex.

He won’t swear, prefers the sweetness
of sugar and fudge; at fourteen,
I was dared and haven’t stopped since.

I protest I am more than number tricks,
facts and figures about space and light,
or what Tudors ate for dinner. Maybe

he is more than I ever could be.
Friends say he’s a time traveller,
that he’s really me from the past,

but surely I would remember this.
Is he proof of a parallel universe 
bleeding into ours? I know what’s next:

rebellion into booze, weed, and speed,
though he can’t stand the taste of beer.
He’ll discover his father’s feet,

gravity-tacky, are made of clay,
have never left earth. There will
be time and distance between them.

Sir Walter Raleigh of Bexar County, Texas

Returned from England I bestow this gift of grandchildren

like valuable treasure laid at your feet   you the king and queen

          and I magus explorer buccaneer spy

          blown in from the cold of the New World

                   after seven eight years

                   with natives half-naked half-crazed.

Their DNA is a cypher spelling out rough and tumble gorse

          hawthorn and bramble shredding the balls of thumbs

                   ancient ponds where witches floated and innocent drowned

                   great warriors asleep underground await to be woken

                              steed-shaped headlands stampede into the sea

                                        seawater spewing from black nostrils.

The dead   revered in song and story around the fire of a once

magnificent empire trading in flesh opium and tea

           lost generations buried in mud   burned by mustard

           dance as shadows on these chalky faces wild as dandelion and nettle

             she on all fours roars and hisses      scratches at the air

                     he poised and on guard   finger pointed and cocked.

***

On the journey here through Detroit to Oklahoma

then a two-storey train down into Texas

           they marveled at how high we were   mountains of snow

           replaced by a sun so hot it burned their ears as we landed.

Wires crisscross overhead like a cage   snakes hide at their feet 

at the museum they circle round mammoth and saber-tooth

           hunched down and looking for the moment

           to spring   then pose beside their fresh kills.

Your feast of grilled cheese sandwiches tastes of rubber

pickles too bitter   bacon thin and greasy   their first doughnut

            takes them two days to finish before they finally give up

                       and chase each other for miles.

Night is as bright as day   lit up door to door with Christmas lights

front-lawn inflatable Santas snowmen and kings   they clap

            and shout    try to catch fake snow on their tongue

                        but turn down your offer of church.

***

 

You notice a change of accent when I translate

that I’ve lost my bearings   how to find the corner store

            my old school   where old girlfriends lived.

            America has grown small in my absence

                       a fear and hysteria grips the kidneys

                       so hard no one can piss

                       without a loaded pistol in hand.

You think he’s gone over   painted his skin

bowed down to trees and standing stones

           tossed coins and armour into the river

           to appease angry gods    and take me to the preacher

                      who tells me there is no saviour but Jesus.

What should I confess? That I stood naked in a circle

about the fire handfasted to a daughter of Mercia

            calling forth spirits of the forest

            to fill my limbs while I fill her

                        with my seed and the air

                        with mud-moon howls,

yielding this ragwort   this cornflower   their fevered heads

buzz with my memories of glass and steel cities   fibre-optic

            highways    of drive-thrus   drive-ins    gated driveways

                      of starting over   the pelts from their backs

                      traded for new clothes   new name   new face.