the cartographer
poems by Jim Bennett
the cartographer
one day as he ran along an alleyway
to deliver a new map
to the Minster
the cartographer ran out of time
it has been that way ever since
CONTENTS
the cartographer cover
the cartographer’s world 4
the cartographer’s girlfriend 5
the cartographer’s map of the sky 6
the cartographer’s nightmare 7
the cartographer’s dog 8
the cartographer’s dream (for Keara) 9
the cartographer’s flea market 10
the cartographer’s daughter 11
the cartographer’s TV 12
the cartographer’s journey 13
the cartographer’s world
lies before him
spread across his drawing board
the land edges carefully drawn
the countries marked with pictures
showing their wealth
pyramids and elephants
giant roc and dragons
steaming mountains
and snaking rivers
his world
in the only dimensions
he would ever really understand
the cartographer’s girlfriend
she is his new world
divided lineated
her latitude interesting
her longitude divine
a cloister to walk
a scroll to illuminate
a sea to plumb
where monsters be
a new world waits
the cartographer’s map of the sky
after seeing a map
of the night sky
the cartographer had drawn
with such precision
the Bishop questioned
where heaven could be found
heaven is everywhere
within the map my Lord
the cartographer replied
the Bishop was angry
gave the cartographer
a task to test his faith
you will map the daytime sky
he said and show us
where God is to be found
a week later the Bishop returned
to see the finished map
the cartographer took him
to where a mirror
lay on the ground outside
where is the map asked the Bishop
look inside the mirror and see the map
the cartographer replied
it is not a map said the Bishop
and I see no sign of God
ah said the cartographer
are we not all made in His image
the cartographer’s nightmare
he drew faces round and fat
lips pursed blowing
curls of wind
and out at the edge of the velum
where the world ended
he drew the imagined beasts
monsters of an outer world
in that uncharted place
where his nightmares take him
the cartographer’s dog
to show his great skill to his visitors
the cartographer
shaved his dog
exposed the mottled cream skin
set to work
drawing a scale map of the country
then turned it into a tattoo
on the dogs back
when it was done he admired it
there he said now he will always know
where he is.
and everyone will know whose dog he is
and just so there was no doubt
the cartographer
showed them his wife’s bare back
and the map he had drawn so lovingly
and tattooed into place
the cartographer’s dream
(for Keara)
in his dream the cartographer
had seen a city
that rose into the sky
with towers like Babel
that threatened Heaven
now as he wanders
along the Shambles
building press from either side
and as he turns the corner
the tower of the Minster
like a spear above the rooftops
he remembers the view
from the Minster tower
looking down upon
meandering streets
and the buildings of York
spread around
like a patched quilt
what if
what if he says
what if new York
really did exist
the cartographer’s flea market
at the flea market
the cartographer sets up his table
unpacks his scrolls and lays them out
next to boxes with drawings
the risqué small panels
for the gentlemen only
covered with a sheet
lie next to his feet
what a way to earn my bread
he says to anyone who listened
damn all projection
that turns the world to lies
wiping a tear
he leans the framed maps
(pages cut from his atlases)
awkwardly against a table leg
then sitting he takes up scissors
carves a face and shapes
a profile out of black paper
as people stop to watch
with every cut the shape emerges
each curl of hair a landfall
the nose a continent
the gentle eyelash an isthmus
the cartographer’s daughter
walks the black lines
measures widths of streets with her eyes
sees the beauty of the town
in its intersecting lines
its criss-cross hatching
its street names
its shapes
later sits and watches her father
draw lines as he reduces the town
to a map for her
the cartographer’s TV
the new television
stares out from the corner
across the workshop
littered with maps
the cartographer
turns it on and waits
he longs to see
the landscape of the moon
to witness as a man
walks on the virgin land
he waits until a line appears
and grows into a frosted view
and there it is
the rocks and twists and turns
that cry out to be mapped
and who better to do it
one day he thinks I will go there
take my instruments and pens
walk the barren landscape
and record it
one day
the cartographer’s journey
he has come to the end of the road
a place where his map ends
years ago he feared this place
but not now
he reaches forward
taps in the post code
and waits while his sat nav
computes the route
it takes its instructions
from beyond the clouds
and a disembodied voice
tells him to turn right
he sighs and drives off
turning as directed
his map lies ignored on the seat
beside him
there are no witnesses
to the tears that roll
down his face