Poetry
2020 - 2025
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Follow Your Dreams
‘Follow your dreams,’ the hippy lady says on Radio 4,
‘you’ll live to regret it for ever if you don’t.’
‘I want to follow my dreams,’ I yell,
‘but you’ve got to understand the buggers first.’
The Hippy lady must have quaintly simple dreams, a linear
journey; she only needs a telescope to navigate
her way and a determined stride Twenty-four seven to get,
timely, to where she wants to get to.
My dreams are all higgledy-piggledy; coded messages
it seems to me, silent films in our quadraphonic age.
Worse, they are as insubstantial as a morning mist, they disappear
as the sun spikes, unwelcome, through my heavy blinds.
I’ve read many times, and many times been told the same,
I must follow the pointers my dreams provide;
hard to do as I remember them only in fits and starts.
I’ve kept a dream diary, painstakingly
recorded shambolic fragments and interrogated
them, reaching my unconscious with the digital assistance
of my PC. I have asked
the person I was in the supermarket with who died five years ago
what we are there to buy; have questioned the unmarked items we have bought:
What are you? They tell me: Things you have been looking for.’
I ask: ‘Where do we pay?’ But I have no money. I ask
the person I walk along the sea’s edge with how I miss him
I fancied him so much so many years ago. ‘Why do we walk
the sea’s edge now?’ ‘You want me,’ he says,
‘you still want me, that’s why I look the same.’ As I sit in the daylight,
questioning the situation, I find I cannot, or will not, answer. Instead I ask the sea:
‘What have you got to offer?’ ‘I’m washing away your past,’
the sea tells me. ‘If you want me to, this can set you free. But if you do not want me to
leave the water’s edge, clamber across the pebbles’. It’s ridiculous that my heart
aches like this after so many years. Frailty.
In the daylight, in the watery brightness,
in the comfort of my central heating I have spoken with:
motorcyclists I have known and dreamed of,
trains that have come for me during the night,
theatres I have performed in during my sleeping hours,
strange birds who have borne me into the moonlight,
stunning blooms I have cut and forgotten to put in water while asleep,
people I’ve not met for years and years who’ve brought me out of unconsciousness.
Sailing boats, burning guys, potato fields, parafoil kites, windmills, dodgem cars.
Empty school corridors, empty pockets, empty coaches, swimming pools overflowing,
a young man dressed as Princess Margaret worrying
about her hat for the races,
and long lists, and very long lists.
All these I have questioned in all earnestness,
they open up to me when I cross examine them,
they open up new ways forward and new cul-d-sacs.
You feel you are being left behind, you feel you are under-valued,
trumpet your experience, grab the moment by the balls.
I am reminded of Freud’s example of gallows humour:
‘Nice day for it.’
Sometimes my dog lies on the sofa with his head in my lap
and he dreams. He’s a big dog, so I reckon he has big dreams,
He has a big bark, but his dream barks are tiny,
he moves his legs sometimes, like he is running around in a vast open field.
And I say, laughing
at his sweet gentleness: ‘Stop fidgeting, will you.’
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The Fortune Teller
‘Come, sit,’ he says, ‘be easy.’
Now he sits across the table from me, smiles,
‘Be at ease,’ he says. ‘Be at ease with yourself.’
He holds my gaze and wishes not to let it go.
Doesn’t care I see this, but if I give an inch
I shall become a fleeting image in his coffee coloured eyes.
His dark skin faintly smells of the Sahara, his hair
I swear is powdered not by artifice but airborne dust.
His jeans I note are Soviet, his shirt
a geometric Burberry.
Unhurried, he unwraps his cards from their sleeping place,
a red silk handkerchief. He folds the handkerchief in half.
He folds it in half again. Lays it on the table.
Hands me the cards. ‘Shuffle them.’ Then,
‘Cut them.’ Once more,
‘Cut them.’ Then once more, ‘Concentrate.
Concentrate. Cut them one final time.
Now place them, gently, face down on the table.’
He moves his gaze from me to the cards,
spreads his hands around the cards, flat upon the table. Au Claire de la Lune.
He has eyes only for the cards, hands upon the table. Au Claire de la Lune.
The melody falls away as he lifts the deck;
I am all alert for sleight of hand, he sees
what I am thinking, opens a mocking smile, just a little
as with his slender fingers he lightly caresses cards from the top of the pack.
One card he lays down,
two to the left, two to the right, two above, two below;
blind eyes into a life.
Where I come from, where I could be going to,
personal challenges, potential hopes and joys.
He comes to rest, closes his eyes, takes
a few deep breaths; I see
his neck and shoulders soften into relaxation.
Between us lies my story –
his hand on my cheek, his hand stroking through my hair.
‘Shall we begin?’ he asks; his right hand hovers
over the centre card, eager to conjure it alive.
The truth is, I don’t believe this fairground trick,
I don’t believe in power of planets.
Nor in fate. Nor in the ability to meld a thought.
Nor extrospection through images on cards
with strange names and mythical iconography such as:
Death, the Wheel of Fortune, the Fool,
a Tower struck by Lightning, the Magician his table full of tricks,
a Sun, a Moon, Hierophant, and Charioteer.
All these I should bury with dead and dying thoughts.
So why does my pulse rise, just a little,
why does my stomach churn, just a little,
why do I worry my moonstone signet ring,
why do I catch my fleeting shadow?
Why commit these words to paper?
I’ll tell you why.
The fortune teller is the miracle worker,
the fortune teller conjures from the air threads
of meanings, floating seeds
of being, vibrating echoes
of the ages, and weaves a tapestry to wrap us in
to keep us living when the pain’s too much to bear alone.
‘Here you are,’ he says, glancing up for a second,
turns over the centre card. ‘Here you are.’
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Come with me, my young man,
There is fear fleeting across your eyes
I recognise it, you see,
I have seen it many times before, you understand.
The strangeness of my appearing is frightening,
I recognise this, I admit it
but I have no power to change this,
though I wish I could. I do my best
to appear Work-a-day,
appear Part of everyday life
because of everyday life I must be a part;
because of everyday life I must be the final part.
Let me help you see this, my man.
I would like you to come to me without fear, my love.
I would like to hold your hand,
my hand is the gentlest hand you will ever hold;
I would like to touch your cheek,
my touch will bring you peace such as you have never known before;
I would like to kiss your lips,
my kiss will be the sweetest kiss.
Listen, listen to me, listen
to me, to what I have to say:
There is no dark river we have to pay to cross,
no isle of shades we have to reach across a darkening sea,
no circle of fire, no for-ever darkness.
Let me hold you in my embrace,
my embrace will bring you peace you have sought so long.
Don’t shy away from me, my man, my love,
don’t come to me in raging fear,
come to me in restful joy.
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Gifts Of Love
You give me an antique song; you say: ‘Will you sing for me?’
I have practised notes and times and keys and modes,
and their power to capture a heart:
I will sing a song for you.
You take me to a mountain; you ask, ‘Will you climb it for me?’
I have watched mountaineers, listened to them, read their books,
I know of toe holds, crampons, ropes, belays;
I will climb a mountain for you.
You cross the sea; you say: ‘Will you swim to me?’
I have studied the skills and styles of swimming,
crawl, breaststroke, back troke, butterfly;
I will swim an ocean for you.
you hold me; you ask: ‘Will you die for me?’
I have studied many sorts of death,
age, illness, accident, execution, broken heart;
but I have not learned to die.
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My local river is a poor, unloved thing
made ugly beyond belief by planners’ hands,
by environmental managers to fit on virtual maps
to keep us safe and sound, you and me.
It is sunk into a wide ditch you need a tar-mac’d bridge to cross,
bound in place by a concrete girdle;
trees and bushes slant among unruly grasses,
lest anything escape, glowering railings demarcate firm boundaries.
The river’s song, as it races through the neighbouring park,
is silenced by the time it reaches me,
its voice box a seeping wound of utterly defeated joy;
no rhythm here, no pulse, no endless melody.
I have walked with this tortured being, talked to bring it comfort,
touched the crystalline purity of frost on its winter branches,
marvelled as I listen to the gentle whispering of its opening spring blossoms,
sorrowed as I accidentally trod upon its summer flowers
and sighed with it as the autumn cycle takes hold.
I have run with my companion as it finds its way to freedom and open country
to laugh and sing once more. But these seasonal memories, you should know
are technicolour dreams born of urban solitary confinement.
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I phone my council for a Special collection:
‘Please take away my unwanted words.’
I’m fed up with the cluttering up my house, however neatly
I box them, pack them, bag them, they still get everywhere.
I find them down the back of the sofa, in the fridge,
the freezer, I’ve found them with my Weetabix,
in the dog basket, in the tea caddy stuck in the internet.
I had thought I might burn them,
raking them together like the olden-day gardener, raking his leaves,
raking them into a pile and lighting a satisfying fire
that crackles and pops, warms your cockles.
But I’m a responsible urban dweller,
am sure my neighbours would object to random word remains
whisping uncalled for into their living rooms, bedrooms, kitchens,
especially their kitchens where my ashen words would confuse
their warm pre-prandial smells and burgundy noses.
The Council takes 5 items for £25. But that would make
it expensive to rid myself of my unwanted words.
They say: ‘But words are weighty things
and not to be messed with.’ They tell me:
‘We will use secure landfill;
that costs, you know, anything less secure
your words could seep into the soil, pollute
our water table, our streams and rivers, flow
into the open ocean. Do you want that?
Dolphins could ingest your orphaned words and die.’
I see that as a responsible citizen I must take action
with care. ’But I have hundreds,’ I say,
‘thousands; I can’t afford your safe landfill, please
help me.’ The Environment Associate on the other end, sighs;
‘You are profligate in your verbiage usage. Your generation
treats words as disposable style accessories; you will destroy
our planet. Start to act responsibly.’
I ask: ‘Is recycling words a viable proposition,
albeit I recognise words are neither glass, plastic, metal,
nor, of themselves, paper or card.’
‘A good question,’ the Associate says,
‘we do not, at this time recycle words. But, moving forward,
I could set up a working party to discuss
a recycling system for no longer wanted spells.
We would produce a report and ask word mincers such as yourself
to comment on the usefulness, the cost, the cost
effectiveness, and impact on underrepresented minorities.’
‘Oh, dear,’ I said, ‘that sounds as if it could take a long time.’
The Environment Associate caught my note of disappointment.
‘By any chance, sir, do you have a composting bin?’
‘I do not,’ I said, ‘but if it helps I can surely get one.’
‘Words can be considered vegetable in origin’ he said,
‘which means they would be good for domestic, non-commercial composting.’
‘I will get one,’ I said, ‘post haste.’
‘That will be excellent,’ said the Associate,
‘most responsible. And you can speed up the composture
production by personally micturating
upon it. I have heard this on Radio 4
Gardeners’ Question Time so it must be true.’
Now is the meaning plain, my way clear,
follow this advice with neither favour nor fear;
compost with speed my unwanted words, weighty and light,
piss on them from a great height.
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Adam filled the cask an hour ago as darkness fell,
beneath it, practiced well, he’d lit the flame.
Now the cider, mulled, will warm your tongue, your belly, and your heart
for these are one, the same.
Adam adds to cider cinnamon, ginger, nutmeg, allspice,
and the apples all his friends bake,
and oranges and lemons, cloves that heal,
he adds all these for pleasure’s sake.
Hear this,, here comes the skimmington glorious in its noise,
young, old, ancient, the dead, the yet to live,
pots and pans, sticks, drums, horns, bells, and brooms, barking dogs and all,
guns, too, loudest gifts they give.
Now Adam calls: Come walk the orchard hither, yon and round,
loud, make your clamor fright bad magic away,
good and hard, now beat them trees to wake them from their winter sleep
new year’s on its way.
Adam says, friends lets drink our needful fill
one for you and one for me , and one for every tree,,
give the trees an ample share, their roots grow long and deep,
drink one, drink two, drink three.
Dip your fire-toasted bread into our cider pot,
and for apple trees they are our host,
eat some yourself and some in apple branches, lodge.
So we raise our toast
Come say I, dear friends, give me your ears,
come, for a moment let heart and mind fly free,
come, raise your cup, your mug, your glass. For the New Year
come, raise a toast with me.
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Whim-Wham
An Eighteenth Century English Trifle
There’s nothing to it:
a few sponge fingers,
spread with raspberry jam,
their brittle nature threatened
with sunshine taste of orange juice
a generous glass of brandy
and several glasses of Madeira.
There’s nothing more:
except a billowing mass
of Chantilly cream
topped with toasted almonds.
The madness of John Bull.
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Zac measured his way along his undulating hills,
his path still narrow, still unscarred
by raucous motorcyclists who invaded
from time to time from once distant towns.
It was cut, the path, deep into the grass
which grew tall along its sides,
opening and closing as brief clouds
played at hide and seek with the sun.
The grass, dry from the long summer heat,
swished as he brushed against it.
This is, he thought, the only sound
in this wide, heat-lonely landscape.
The only sound, he thought, until he stopped,
paused for a moment, paused for no reason, no reason
other than to pause.
Then he could hear, just on the edge of hearing,
the slow drone of carefree insects.
Turning back, the tiny village of Latimer
could no longer be seen,
had disappeared from view hours ago.
Turning about Zac could see the town of Abinger Cross,
for two or three hours it seemed to get no closer.
Zac felt weary,
more weary now than he had earlier
leaving his home in Latimer.
his tiredness had not flown with the morning mist,
atomised with his dreams of a better life;
Zac breathed a great sigh,
it rose from his belly, rose up through his chest,
past his heart, which did not falter,
as it would in a hardy story,
or a poem by the youthful Wordsworth
though Zac knew nothing of Hardy nor Wordsworth,
so his heart stolidly beat on,
one of his great-grandfather’s old steam engines.
On he measured his way to Abinger Cross,
the town stubbornly blue in the summer haze.
This path he walked, Zac had been told
many times by the old women and even older men
in the butchers, in the bakers, sitting on the green,
over pints of beer,
was an ancient coffin path;
even in the bright sunlight
Zac could feel the tread of a thousand feet
of a thousand of mourners carrying their sad load
from Latimer to the ancient church distant in front of him.
This ae night, this ae night,
every night and all,
fire and fleet and candleleet,
and Christ receive thy soul.
Zac, perhaps foolishly, carried
no plastic bottle with still or sparkling water,
no, nor banana no, nor chocolate bar,
no, not even laundered knotted handkerchief
with crusty fist of homemade loaf
and chunk of salt-bitter cheese.
He could still hear the drone of insects,
they called him to sit awhile.
Why not? he thought,
I’ve nothing to hurry for and sat.
He noticed around him clovers,
remembered how, as a child,
he had searched for four leaved ones.
He noticed, too, the little daisies;
for no reason, no particular reason,
other than the reason they were there;
he began to pick some.
A butterfly smile grew and took flight.
He pierced the stem of one
and threaded another through the damp slot;
this was not as easy as it had once been.
tiny hands with deft fingers,
his fingers now were thick, rounded, as undeft
as unlovely, but he persevered,
succeeded, even with the final task,
to thread the flower of the first through the stem of the last,
even in this he succeeded, because he persevered.
Zac lowered the garland around his neck.
The insects released him.
He rose and turned again to Abinger Cross
measured his way onwards,
in the bright sunlight the ear worm, out of time,
measured its own measures,
This ae night, this ae night,
every night and all,
fire and fleet and candleleet,
and Christ receive thy soul.
Lines 87
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(in response to The Unfinished Sonnet by Ros Woolner)
He thinks he’s firm. Says Sorry, not tonight.
The other thinks: Cool. He just needs softening up –
like plasticine. So a little squeeze - all’s differently firm.
Oh, says the first, you turn me on all right.
The second, Tom, grins, a Cheshire cat,
while Roger, slowly wakes, uncoils, submits
to his love, who loves to unleash an awful storm
a hurricane, how Roger loves all that.
Tom’s become a raging storm at sea,
and Roger, a boat, on mighty waves he’s tossed.
with moans, and shouts, and groans of certain death,
which comes, as Tom’s great storm blows out; they’re free.
Tom now spent, is calm, he sleeps, but then
the Roger-cat leaps: Come take me to sea again.
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A1
As the day folds into night
We are shadows in the fading light
Restless in the magic gloaming
Through the fields and trees we’re roaming.
A2
We hear all of Nature’s laws
See beyond this world of yours
People tell you we are wise,
Hear the sadness in our cries.
B1
From the time that the earth was ice and water
To the time that the earth is burning,
restless the wheel of time we live under;
the great wheel of Time just keeps turning, turning.
A3
Our common our glade, our glen
Are going, going and then
A barren landscape; so we say
We are the shadows, we fade away.
A4
You are born with the skill to fly
So Look between the earth and sky,
Value every life you see;
This alone will set you free
B1b
From the time that the earth was ice and water
To the time that the earth is burning,
restless the wheel of time we live under;
the great wheel of Time just keeps turning, turning.
C1
We are the shadows in the night, we are the sounds in the stillness,
Our song strikes fear in the stoutest heart.
We mean you no harm but feel our power
To Tell your truth from your lies; it sets us apart
We are shadows . . .
We are shadows . . .
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Dear Raven:
Why are your dark, sharp eyes so scary?
Why does your blackness make us so wary?
When you copy me speaking why are you so eerie?
When you star in a film, why so utterly feary?
Omen of evil, is it fact or theory?
Dear Rod:
No stone unturned, no deed undone.
Admire my colours awake in the sun.
Impressions impress, I do them for fun.
My film roles, my darling, just earning a crumb.
The Devil’s familiar, that’s branding, my son.
Raven, dear, please grace my urban garden, please sing.
Rod, my dear, towers and abbeys and castles are really my thing.
-
Extract from General Guidance
(This is an extract in drama form from a large collection of poems of mine, General Guidance. The collection plots my journey towards owning and learning to work with a Guide Dog (Dixon.) It also examines loss of vision and shifting perception of own identity.
Rod is me, Dixon is the Dog. Kate is the Guide Dog Trainer, The Chimp is the Chimp on my Shoulder who tries to protect me from failure and disappointment.)
One: First meeting
Rod
Then, out of the blue, Thursday Thirtieth Jan:
Kate
Hello, it’s Kate from Guide Dogs. We’d like to do a walk with you.
Rod
The arrangements are fixed faster than my brain can keep up.
There is much stressing of:
Kate
This is not a matching meeting.
We want to see how you get on with a dog.
Rod
This is not an official matching meeting.
Kate
This is not an official matching meeting.
Chimp
The chimp is linked into the conversation:
They’re right to manage your expectations,
I’d hate you to be disappointed.
Rod
Dixon arrives at 10 as planned.
Kate
Here we are. Here’s Dixon.
Rod
Hello Dixon. But Dixon does not reply.
Dixon
Poirot-like he susses out the lie of the land
down the living room, left into the kitchen.
Nice Kitchen. Galley kitchen. Black and stainless steel kitchen very gay
right into the conservatory up the conservatory through the living room
reach Home. This could be fun.
Scratch my feet on the little brown mats.
Kate
Don’t do that.
Rod
In no time I find myself on the starting line being given starting orders.
Kate
Here’s the harness. Give me your finger.
This is the safety lead.
And don’t worry I have a safety lead too.
Rod
Oh dear I feel a joke coming on.
I grit my teeth but it forces its way into being:
Just like a driving instructor in a dual control.
Chimp
The Chimp screams through Rod’s letterbox:
You can’t keep your stupid trap shut can you?
Rod
I’ve locked him in the house he’s furious,
Chimp
I’m furious alright you’ve locked me in the house.
You’ll live to regret this.
Rod
My god I’m cast adrift powering through the park
no not adrift
I’m tethered to this modest creature who unphased trots at my side.
I hold a light metal harness lightly in my left hand
and through this can feel the up and down as Dixon walks cheerfully along.
Kate
Hold the harness lightly keep relaxed
walk beside him
don’t look down
feel the light tautness of the harness
talk to him as we go.
Dixon
Dixon thinks: Men can’t do multi-tasking,
the brothers and sisters all say this.
Rod
Good boy what a good boy aren’t you a good boy?
Dixon
Bless him. He’s doing his best for a learner.
Rod
My level of conversation has plummeted multi-tasking you see.
We turn the sun blazes I can’t see a thing,
Kate
Says Kate cheerfully: Don’t worry trust Dixon.
Rod
I’m wary. I know there is a narrow gap to get through.
To get out of the park. I hold back.
I’m going to crash into the gate post I just know this.
Kate
Says Kate: He’s waiting at the kerb to be told Forward don’t keep him waiting.
Dixon
Don’t keep me waiting. I’m at the kerb
I’m through the gate mate.
Dixon
I’ve already guided him through the gate.
Kate
through the gap at the end of the gate
Rod
the pedestrian gap he’s already guided me through the gap at the gate.
Rod
I have to process this the kerb comes after the gate
to get to the kerb I’ve gone through the gate
Dixon
Now I must wait for him to tell me to move.
Rod
My senses are swamped. I left myself somewhere in the park.
My chimp is locked at home but I hear his voice.
Chimp
You’re not coping I told you you wouldn’t wazzack.
I told you you wouldn’t but you won’t listen.
Rod
Dixon is a higher priority than the chimp.
I ignore the Chimp. I focus on Dixon.
At least I can get this right: Forward.
Kate
Not yet. Don’t say that yet. Step back.
Feel the harness go into tension.
Rod
I can feel Dixon as soon as he moves.
Kate
That’s it. That’s it. Now you can say it.
Now you can tell Dixon the F word.
Rod
That’s it. Now. Now I can say it: Forward.
He confidently crosses.
Kate
Kate talks as we progress.
Rod
Oh no. I’m to talk as I walk.
I consider silent meditation a better option.
Not to be. I must talk with Kate.
I must talk with Dixon.
Kate
Kate says: Don’t look down when you talk to him.
Dixon
Dixon says: It’s only polite to look at a chap when you’re talking to him.
Kate
Kate says: He’s moving you to the left to avoid a parked car.
Kate is edged into a hedge.
Rod
Kate says:
Kate
Don’t worry, I went down a bank last week.
-
Once we could replace an element in a kettle
but sooner or later the kettle would spring a leak
stuff your rosy specs back in a drawer
get used to it.
Parts inside our washers and our driers can be replaced when buggered
but they’re so expensive it’s not worth it
better buy a new one
get over it.
You can buy a shirt that lasts for years
but after a year you won’t be seen dead in it
fashion cracks its whip
off with the old on with the new.
apple sends signals to speed up technology decline
but it’s only a short-cut to the inevitable
not worth fighting it
enjoy it while you can.
I know an oak tree that’s 350 years old
its trunk reliable its canopy welcoming
now it’ll spend 350 years dying
as they say in English c’est la vie.
once I was 20 then 30 then 40 then 60
and so the whirligig of time brings in its revenges
I’ll have my leaks sealed my software checked thank you
rapid replacement parts yes please.
but I’m going out of fashion no denying it
my sap no longer rises as it used to
Just get used to it.
like fuck I will.
-
I’ve been reading poems from my past
hoping they had morphed into the endearing sepia tones
of old times photographs that make us gasp:
‘Oh look at that, just look at that’ and
‘How the tones bring out the golden hues of autumn setting sun.’
These are the tones that touch each scene, that touch each person with true romance.
But my poems cling to whetted edges,
show no signs of calming down.
I tried a bold experiment,
took up a poem and scissors from my desk top drawer.
I cut away sharp corners
but for each corner I remove I then have two.
I remember that a circle is a two-dimensional shape
with an infinite number of straight sides, I persevere;
with relief I cut with gusto,
a means to create a pleasing round.
But I leave myself with fluttering strips of paper,
flotsam of purpose but of no meaning,
paper is good for compost heaps.
I read a handful of my poems again
I thought they might be improved with
post-its embellished with my chosen pronouns.
But the post its will not post,
I think my age is watering down the glue.
I lined my poems up for a mile
along my dining table top,
the poems shine in the light of my new bought LED style angle-poise. I remembered
how words had flitted as I conjured them,
how words changed their colours and patternings,
how words refused to come to rest.
I remembered how this had frustrated me.
I look at them now
I will them to start and quicken once again,
to take flight one more time;
but they are now become as
dangerous butterflies of olden times
bright colours gassed and pinned into a glass-closed frame.
-
I don’t play with Harry, says Anita.
Harry’s a Zombie, says Ashok.
Jilly adds, Harry don’t play football.
Cause he wets hisself, sniggers Siobhan.
Harry don’t sit with us at lunchtime, says Ismail.
George puts in, Harry can’t count to a thousand.
Harry’s a Gypsy, my Mum says, says Alice.
Don’t be rude, says Mrs McIntosh, Anyway
They’re not called Gypsies, they’re called Travellers.
Harry ain’t a traveller, says Jordan,
He lives in Greenbank Close.
With all the other Gypsies, adds Malik.
I’m a bit worried about Harry, says Ms Davies,
Such a loner, Fills in Mrs Baird,
I should speak with his Mother.
Mr Hobden, the Head, says, Not much point,
Not too much upstairs, if you know what I mean
Harry does PE in his pants, gabs Megan.
Not anymore, counters Corin, I give him my Villa shorts.
Harry sits in a corner at lunchtime,
He sits on his own, which he likes to do.
Them other kids, he thinks, I hate them,
Always picking on me, poking their noses in,
I hate them, I do.
Harry contemplates his lunch box,
Opens it, snaps the catches,
the click That always makes him smile.
Finds, today,
A marmite sandwich, sometimes it is tuna, sometimes cheese and salad cream,
An apple sliced, cored, wrapped, sometimes a pear, sometimes a peach,
A pot of yoghurt, or sometimes, cream custard, sometimes rice pudding,
on special days fish fingers with tomato ketchup with chips,
on Fridays a Kit-Kat he can snap or crunch or lick off the chocolate first,
Or sometimes a little Mars bar, or Snickers, or Bounty bar.
While he works his way through this feast
He thinks of Ms Kafka, his teacher last year.
And how she:
told them all brilliant stories with magic and pets who talk,
made up plays with them with aliens and vampires,
got them to listen to music and do paintings.
And how he learned to do imagining
and now he can imagine anything he wants.
-
I walked into the living-room that morning;
Danny was where he fell the previous evening, sleeping fitfully,
Simon, never one to give up, sipped beer slowly,
valiantly persevering in the search for himself.
There wasn’t a head among us that morning;
Simon tunelessly sang a 90’s snatch, featured the previous evening,,
Danny started, staggered to the bathroom for a shower,
it helped him piece himself together, bit by agonised bit.
It wasn’t easy to share goodbyes that morning;
Danny cried, he had the previous evening,
Simon braved a strong smile, raised his glass,
We waved, grinned, nearly touched and parted.
-
God loved me, you know,
loved me more than anyone else.
It’s true, was His, I was for Him alone,
He created me for Himself alone.
Then he got bored, he’d other things to play with,
He no longer wanted me around.
I buggered off, right enough, but what else could I do? –
Hang around where I wasn’t wanted? –
Hang around, devoted acolyte to satisfy His vanity?
So I got in with the wrong crowd –
not a bad crowd, not really bad;
though anything, anyone who wasn’t completely His
was spawn of the Devil, as far as He was concerned.
He invented that.
That’s when He started whispering,
He started His whispering campaign.
Every chance He got He’d blacken my name.
A word here, a word there
a word up anyone’s arse
That I, me, I’m the devil,
he said that, that’s just what he said, bastard.
I don’t have hooves for feet, look.
or horns, nor look like a goat, do I?
I don’t have pointed ears - not even slightly pointed.
My skin’s polished ebony, it’s true –
but am I condemned for that?
My eyes aren’t green, nor even red,
but dark and deep as the void before time.
Look into them. What do you see?
Look into them.
-
Welcome to the Wayfarers' Café, here no rules apply.
Here you're free to sit in comfort and be whoever you wish to be;
it's a place of refuge for all who hate grey skies,
who wish to escape the parcel-taped and courier labelled box of every day.
Our Mission is to please; you'll be fulfilled.
We make no demands; choose not
to ask you to buy a meal with your coffee or small glass of beer;
we've no means of knowing how long you stay - we've no wish to know.
You'll see we keep our walls panelled in dark stained oak
to soften the brightness of the sunlight
as it shatters our windows and strikes our parquet floor;
this is how we keep our café cool, free you
from unnecessary irritation. We're happy if you snooze a moment
sinking into one of our armchairs; should your book
fall from your filleted hand we'll retrieve it for you,
lay it, closed, place marked, quietly on the table
beside the sleeping you. And if, as we do it, we should note
the table wobbles, we'll fold a paper serviette
and slide it under a leg to keep the table firm.
Afternoon teas are our speciality, but stay into evening,
even through the night; we never lock our doors,
and every morning we serve a hearty breakfast
from our full range of British and Continental fare,
and a choice of cold drinks, teas, fresh ground coffees, or fruit infusions.
-
January is a cruel month;
I shudder to feel its stealthy approach
though through my un-curtained window I see only stillness.
Consider the style of Januarys measured coming,
its tart taste, its clamour, the self-centred nature of its arrival.
I know these things, feel the midnight song singing in my bones.
Still, I wait, wait with glass filled
wait to hear the clang of the bolt thrown, the New Year snapping into place.
I see there are footsteps across the grass
transformed by crystals in tonight’s hard frost,
they would crunch if I walked them;
they’ll disappear in the morning sun.
This is out of joint, not a January joy, but a joy of April,
April, the cruellest month of all.
-
Christmas Lights, 21 December 2020
Rod Dungate
This year has been a horrible year
so I’m going to adorn my window with fairy lights
to bring to my street some urban cheer,
they’re a bit camp, sort of Julian Clary lights.
I’ve measured my window from every angle
which, I must say, is no mean feat –
and I didn’t put the lights away in a terrible tangle,
but wound around all tidy and neat.
Put them away all safe and sound.
So bloody safe they can’t be found!
-
Because he saw my notebook
the man beside me, supping his pint, began to speak.
Here's the gist of what he said . . .
People get too worked up about loose ends, worried they are,
as if living a life is meant to be all neat and tidy.
But it isn't, my friend, not neat and tidy; not meant to be
I shouldn't wonder if, that is, there's design behind it, life.
A loose end means a new beginning, my friend; I celebrate them,
each and every one. Finish one, find another, follow it,
see where it goes. The problem, my friend, in life
is the need for too much completion it’s an addiction,
and completion brings certainty as sure as eggs is eggs.
I'll tell you what I hate, my friend, a person with too much certainty.
Celebrate your loose ends I say.
I told him of my mother and grandmother,
they were both expert knitters - I recollected this as he spoke,
here’s the thrust of what I told him . . .
steel knitting needles with numbers at their heads -
click, click, click at a speed I couldn't match, mimicking them,
though my needles held no wool.
Mysterious codes in tight paragraphs on sensuously shining paper:
3 rows knit, 3 rows purl;
knit 4 and put on a holder, knit 2 together; place a marker
work garter pattern for 15 rounds, change to stocking stitch . . .
I watched them knitting with four needles
pointed at both ends; I tried to fathom
how the separate sections became a joined-up tube.
But what amazed me most of all
was that they never tied a knot to join a finished hank
to a fresh one. The free ends
were laid on top of one another for about an inch,
-
When I die don’t come and stare, just
smile we all must take our turn,
note that though I spurn a grave, so
too, I have no wish to burn.
Place me in a cardboard package,
carve no head-stone, shape no mound,
note the spot so I’m not forgotten,
let me lie in the living ground.
When my skull is freed from flesh, my
inner frame is quite laid bare
all that’s left is for my bones to
crumble into chalk dust there.
Sure there’ll be an ash nearby,
daisies and cowslips, celandines,
poppies and buttercups, primroses on my
grassy bank where the moonlight shines.
-
two o’clock sky unmitigated blue
heat unrelenting waves few
choose to walk brittle grass
crunch dusted paths to pass
to sanctuary shadows church seems cold
air stuffy prayers old
tales retold no voices sing
a massy oak great branches swing
low defy gravity sweep
grass not paths ancient to keep
cool vigil for all for free
do I hide myself in thee
child tiptoe eyes wide grin
grabs branch climbs up sits within
straddles swaying bowsprit proud
to make it embarks now laughs out loud
-
Anya
‘My husband fights his cousin,
A line drawn on paper years ago is a battle line drawn up.
To get away, I travel through
unrecognised countrysides, cross lands, rivers, oceans with mysterious names,
walking over the dead, I sneak across
disputed demarcations over the same land with different names.
I fear
the powerful flux that flows through these lines.
I want, again, to teach, keep shop, farm, parent, nurse, sweep streets, be a stand-up,
to cook, gossip, sing.’
Grainne
‘All my life I’ve farmed this land
like my father did, and his father, and his father before him.
Now if I move
from Shepherd’s Hill to Willow Pastures, I cross from one country to another;
A pencil line severs my house
in two, my kitchen in one country, my parlour in another.
The line curves into a question mark;
What countryman will step across my scrubbed doorstep, tomorrow?
The music in these walls, the dreams in my ancestors’ bones, are shifting;
whose songs shall I sing?’
Al
‘Our city streets are unsafe;
I write to my MP, I rate her, she gets things done.
It’s like a war zone,
killings, muggings, drugs, I’m afraid to go out.
Streets are Local Authority,
but I write to my MP, she gets things done, I like her.
She writes back:
‘I’m not your MP, now. Constituency boundaries have changed.’
It seems some people have moved a virtual line two streets along.
No-one asked me.’
Pat
‘I keep my desk tidy,
but Marie, next-door to me, has heaps of papers on hers that slide on to mine.
I’ve had words;
tell her I’m uncomfortable, she says she’ll keep her papers in order.
now it’s her coffee cups.
I’ve told her I’m anxious I’ll knock the coffee over and she says she’ll stop.
But she doesn’t.
I speak with HR. Tell them I need my space and they arbitrate.
There’s now an agreed demarcation, where one area ends and the next begins, But I note
her stapler has crossed the line.’
-
The old geezer balances on his crate in New Street,
selects me, furiously warms me I am damned and destined for an early grave;
he wheezes on his anger and judging from his Halleluiah voice
I’d say it’s him whose die is early cast.
I’ve no cash in my pocket so take from my satchel
my lunch-time apple and place it in his dish.
The geezer’s not impressed, steps off his crate,
picks up my apple and tosses it into the gutter.
in my satchel - home-made compost for just such an occasion.
I feed the apple; in less than 1 minute 30, a fruit-laden tree.
Look at that I say to the crowd I’ve gathered: Tree of Life.
Yea, right, the old geezer says, you’re damned, you’re for an early grave.
-
‘Looks like rain,’ the Bagman says;
he addresses the couple sitting on one of the park benches,
a look of panic settles on their faces they engage in deeper conversation.
I have seen the old chap several times, on and off, in town,
down Mosely High Street, Selly Oak and up Five Ways;
here in the park he is off his beaten track.
I slide behind a sturdy lime, observe his ambling progress.
Aldi carrier bag in one hand
two Tesco bags slung across his opposite shoulder, tied together with string,
bags for life.
‘looks like rain,’ he says to a passing youth,
‘yea, boss.’ It doesn’t, blue skies. The youth laughs.
Bagman ambles on.
From my vantage point behind my sweating lime
I track him to the corner of the park, he crosses the road.
A car rounds the corner, vicious on the horn,
Bagman stands his ground,
‘You need fucking specs mate.’
A witness on the far corner, neat in sombre top and long black skirt.
‘Nearly got me papers,’ she smiles sheepishly;
‘I should take him to court, got the price of a cup of tea?’
Witness takes refuge in flight, ‘Sorry, no change.’
Bagman laughs quietly to himself, moves onward.
Witness too rapidly approaches my hide,
I emerge lest I be discovered,
reach the corner of the park myself.
Watch him down the road approach a bus queue,
he engages, no doubt blagging the price of his cuppa,
half a dozen people each one concentrating hard on whether their bus is coming.
Walks on as far as the convenience store, halts.
I stand in the doorway of the Chinese, a disinterested observer.
He places his bags on the ground,
reaches into the bin, selects a folded newspaper;
scans the front page, then the middle pages,
takes the two double pages from the centre and neatly folds them,
rolls the newspaper and replaces it in the bin
slides his folded pages into an envelope he carefully draws from the Aldi carrier,
he reslings the strung bags over his shoulder and takes up the single bag,
moves steadfastly on,
I follow at a discrete distance
until he reaches the traffic lights;
he turns left towards The Parade, I turn right and cross.
Here is the parting of our ways.
-
Bully-Boy Putin: 22 February 2022
Bully Putin’s in a win-win game,
and brave Ukraine loses,
the rest of the free world huffs and puffs
but remember Putin lives with short fuses.
Deep Souls and Huge Hearts: 28 February 2022
Listen to the great Church music of the Slavic nations,
you hear the deep souls and huge hearts of the peoples.
Putin does his best to bleed those hearts and souls,
he becomes bloated with that love and passion
as he turns it to poison within him.
Today Ukrainians feel that pure passion coursing through their being;
if ever Justice lives, they will prevail
Putin will rot from his self-generated poison,
and a beautiful peoples can live as one.
Cries of Anguish from Ukraine: 08 March 2022
‘I want to live a normal life.’
‘My mother is 82, she won’t leave.’
‘All the time the bomb. The bomb. The shell.’
‘I come back from the border. I leave them there. My child, my wife.’
‘We don’t cry. We fight. Tomorrow, we grieve.’
‘This is my country. My beautiful Ukraine. It is become Hell.’
Top Behaviour: 15 March 2022
Has Putin lost his sight?
that he doesn’t see the deserts he creates
in the country he wishes to own?
Or perhaps he averts his gaze
dabs away a tear of crocodile concern
for the land he violates.
But then again, perhaps he sits and gloats.
Brothers: 23 March 2022
Hello Brother, I fought for my country,
a white marker is all I have to show now.
Brother, hello; so you fought for your country, too,
I sleep now among the rubbish on the streets.
Brother, I fought as well, just like you;
my Commander-in-Chief will not allow me home.
I also fought, Brother; I was confined to battlefield ovens
for fear I carry bad news home, wind-bourn ashes now,
Brothers, hold my hand, hold me.
But we have no hands to hold.
Pussy-Footing: 30 March 2022
Why do politicians and media moan Biden said Putin must go?
Most of us, in our heart of hearts agree with Mr President.
Why do the Powers That Be say Putin must have a means of saving face?
He’s a bully, his face should be seen no more.
Why is there talk that Ukraine must compromise?
In any compromise Putin wins with his illegal invasion.
Why aren’t the Western countries giving Ukraine the tanks and missiles they need?
We are rationing our support.
Why don’t we offer the no-fly zone Ukraine calls for?
We need to face up to the bully, stop pussy-footing around.
-
I’m told the universe exists in an acorn.
I was out walking the other day in a deciduous wood
when that old saying popped into my head
so I picked up an acorn to find out
I pulled it from it’s cup
as children we told each other fairies drank from acorn cups
I could well have believed this
as I’d seen plenty of documentary evidence
picking up along the way that fairies seemed to vary an awful lot in size.
This whimsical memory brought into mind
all the pictures I’d seen in my early years books
except we didn’t have early years then they were just children’s books
of red squirrels with fantastic bushy tails and sparkling black eyes
hiding acorns that they mostly forgot where they’ve put them
which may well be a problem inherent in hoarding.
Drawing myself back to my living present
I split the acorn open to inspect the universe
but inside it was a pretty simple affair and no universe in sight.
So I chucked it, left it for the squirrels to dine on.
I was struck by something I’d recently seen on the television or heard on the radio
some woman was talking about her grandfather
he was some rich old landowner
or rather he was old-style aristocracy so he may well not have been rich,
how when he was a young man he walked about his lands with a pocketful of acorns
and every now and again he’d plant one.
This particular ground and I can’t remember where it is probably National Trust now
is well known for is large number of splendid oaks
strategically placed in the wide English landscape.
It’s a good job the old chap as a young chap didn’t look for the universe in his acorns.
-
I have no idea how much of me is true.
All the damp bits of me, all the hard bits of me,
all the squishing, squashing, throbbing, filtering, pouring bits of me,
these are true; these are the hardware bits of an unstable machine.
A miraculous machine, to be sure,
but a unlikely machine, nevertheless,
flawed by the inevitability of its aging.
It’s me I’m concerned about.
The unknown network that binds me together,
through which I am perceived,
through which I have meaning
Through which the machine has purpose and identity.
You might say, my audience, that I’m too much inside my head as I write,
worrying about the truth of me,
you might suggest, my audience, I should get out more.
I would love to oblige but I don’t know from what I should get out.
Literature loves the magic list of three.
Here is my trinity:
my genes, my environment, my memories.
My genes point me in preprogrammed directions, my memories can nudge, override, comply.
My environment offers me action and change, decisions are filtered through my memories.
My memories are self-selecting, selections managed by genes, environment, and memories;
memories are managed by memories; they buff each other up
that they dovetail correctly.
Some days I feel I am completing the straight edges
though I have little understanding how many edges there are to complete. On other days
I feel I am working towards the centre clumsily
clicking bits together. What worries me
is there is no picture on the non-existent box;
no sat-nav to guide me
to the memories I know sing in the machine.
-
(A Schoolfriend Gets in Touch)
I had forgotten
in all my rush and dash my filled-up days and years
of our shared joys
of a time of striking poses just for fun
of a time when attitudes were changed like trendy suits
of a time of collars, cut of trousers, of hair styles,
of the charm of an eccentric chosen form of transport
a time
when Christopher Logue would soar with his Red Bird
when Ray Charles pleaded to loosen chains around his heart and be free
when Richard Hoggart told of the ways of literacy
and the Beatles rolled Beethoven over
when Arnold Wesker displayed his family roots
I’m beginning on my own two feet I’m beginning
time
when puberty was at its blood-hot peak
of rightful peacock strutting
of striving to be so bad which felt so good
when life was for living in earnest
and the earnest we believed would inherit the earth
and we were there to inherit it
views we discussed at length
in all-night alcohol-sparse cellar parties
before or after we moved a wine-glass
around a coffee-table spread with letters
while the meek who would not inherit slept
when am I going to die we dared it
but we got no answer we who were there to inherit
in those days
we began the twistings of the thread
that pulls us now through more than fifty years
hasn’t let us go however much we tangled it
not tethering us to a false time when the sun shone more
but keeping us safe to ensure we do not float away pilotless
from a time when our sun shone brighter
We race
down dirt tracks through serried ranks of conifers
summer holiday sun is hot on our faces
in our noses is the earthy tang of bracken
we can taste it even
who cares how we will make the corner at the bottom
nor what will happen if some unsuspecting mother
climbs this shopping short cut into town
our minds focus on the gathering of headlong speed
and we yell to tell the world
life is not for stopping
we have our inheritance to claim
you remember
call me across the years
strike a far-too-long silent chord
you remind me we wore top hats on a tandem.
-
(Inspired by The Young Poet—Self Portrait, by Arthur Hughes, Birmingham Art Gallery)
I sense that you have been asleep
and were disturbed by passer-by,
pop-up to put yourself on show
With well-practiced - I?
Unblemished face that should not age,
Black olive eyes that ought not harden,
so much like Rosalind you look
Transformed in the Woods of Arden.
Time to ignore poetic sunlight,
walk from your forest if you can,
time to acknowledge creeping shadows..
grow into a man?
-
I can be your looking-glass
a bendy one, all out and in;
when I reflect you back, you laugh,
this is my Clown-world, welcome in.
I can find a bit of me
I’d much prefer is in a bin,
as clown I ridicule its sting;
this is my clown-world, please come in.
No-one lives I can’t embrace,
for everyone my kith and kin,
I’ve so much love I want to give,
this is my clown-world, do come in.
No restraints; within my play
creative power will always win;
there’s not a thing I cannot do,
this is my clown-world, will you come in?
Spill some milk, I’ll make a lake,
or give a haystack, find a pin,
A thousand cooks, a tasty soup;
This is my clown-world, please step in.
I can take the smallest thing
and help you sing for joy within
a warm embrace you’ll not forget.
this is my clown world, welcome in.
-
(The storyteller is comfortably in mid flow.)
‘We may be nancies,’ Graham had asserted,
‘but we are men of steel.’
Graham is fond of asserting
but it doesn’t mean he’s always right;
me: I’m a man of cotton-wool.
It was in our diary for TODAY, that day;
Climb the Old Man of Tunsford.
This is some crappy bloody sandstone Up-crop
with some really bloody stupid name.
Graham had asserted that was the day we should get to the top,
man of steel that he is.
It was absolutely pissing down;
‘The showers will be hit and miss,’ Tomasz Schafernaker had charmed,
‘but if you are unlucky enough to catch one, it could be torrential.
So take your brollies, just in case.’
‘You can’t take your umbrella’ –
Graham had seen me furtively unfurling it.
‘Why, contrary to health and safety?’
‘Don’t be daft,’ Graham asserted, ‘when hill-walking, it’s undignified.’
Cats and shitting dogs –
excuse my French.
I swear it was 90 watched-kettle minutes trudge
up this god-forsaken prick en l’air
to the great, boring, barren, bog-wash summit.
The deep valley below was just discernible
peering through the murky lurking Scotch mist.
The reservoir with its two tributaries, gross snail slime,
the orchard, behind our holiday farmhouse, a slithering slice of grey,
the village nearby, a suburb of war-torn Mordor.
‘Could it be worse?’ you ask.
O yes;
Graham had brought a pigging, picnic, which we must eat.
‘It’s just such fun, old boy –
nature red in tooth and claw.’
Cheese and pickle sandwiches sauced with rain,
custard tarts served with fresh pneumonia,
hardly Ritz al fresco.
But I soldiered on
man of soggy cotton-wool I am.
By 4 o’clock even Graham had had enough,
he began to squelch things back in his back pack,
he stood in his determined way
signalling action.
At last, rescue from certain death by drowning, I thought -
a presto inverse treatment of the main theme,
a quick canter through the coda to the double bar line.
But not to be!
A bolt of light.
The sun breaks through.
Gone is the mist.
Gone is the murk.
The whole valley lies below us in full, vibrating colour.
The reservoir and tributaries shine as polished marble.
The village glitters as a Constable on speed.
The orchard, behind our farmhouse, shouts with a splash of joyous white blossom.
I swear swallows sail overhead.
And a group of butterflies dance a galliard or a branle gai.
Graham turned to me
his haunting green eyes shining with joy;
he held me
and squeezed me so tight I could hardly breathe.
‘Look’ he whispered, ‘look, my sweet,
The Old Man of Tunsford reveals his secret
and lays it at our feet.’
-
If I hated you
this is how it used to be
if I had suffered some affront and hated you
I would draw my blade from its jewelled scabbard
thrust it into your unready flesh
I would heed with pleasure
your look of surprise as your blood flowed staining your exquisite tunic
you would not have thought to suffer at my unworthy hand
I am not bred as you but I am the better blademan
with upstart accuracy I have pierced your heart
or some other throbbing part of your being machine
as you come to silence you would reflect your temple is as fragile
as the smoke that rises from the hearth beside you
I would watch you die with the belly thrill of remorse
I can afford remorse My vanquished foe
I would have created a tale to be told by grandfathers
sitting around a fire on winter evenings
a tale to frighten children with or nursing mothers
who now whisper frightening themselves a jewelled scabbard is a thing of the past
Or if I were not a blademan
I would take up my age-old pen
with calligraphy to die for
with words more sharp then steel
with words that cut more cleanly than a diamond
for I am an expert wordman
I would mar my virgin page
protect my gloating colour in a sheath
make it safe for all weathers
pin it on a busy tree to catch all passing eyes
or pay threepence for a prime spot in your local shop
or invest in a quarter page in your local rag
it’s certain you will not die from my poison dart
but as I feast upon my cooling revenge
day by day hour by hour minute by minute
I would smile
I would watch your friends fatten on your marrow
return to my page run my fingers over my spells
perhaps chew them Perhaps swallow them whole
I could greet you at a party and say with a smile of sympathy
touching my hand tenderly upon your shoulder
My dear what terrible things people say I feel for you I really do
But today I need no pen
I stab at a keyboard What skills are there in keyboard stabbing
I produce words that have no form
words I give birth to but live beyond my reach
In a non-existent cloud where are they where
are they
though they drip with personal venom
there is no true danger in them how can there be
they are not there where not anywhere
yet with a few more stabs on my plastic keyboard mass-produced
I can send my incorporeal bullets to other clouds
from where they will flicker onto a million mirrors
for a million viewers
who is the most beautiful of all
they say power lies in numbers
once I could never have reached such numbered power
my revenge is swift and thorough as can be
though I regret I cannot see it
and nobody knows my name
Here’s another thing
I no longer need the skill of blademan wordman or stabber of keys
I need a sturdy backpack mass-produced
filled with hard edged flotsam
hard-edged Jetsam forged in fires as of hell
propelled by household chemicals with household names
I used to clear the drains
cunningly I mix this sweet confection
stir this brew
prepare this chemistry experiment
because I hate you all
with an anger as deep as it is general
I can leave my holy gift
I can coolly retire observe my messenger’s punishing cry
it rings above the cries of those who carry the message on
all around me I see the flickering images
Who is the most beautiful of all
you will not forget my message and I will overcome
if it should be that I come to hate myself as much as I hate all you who weep
then I can stay on guard watching over my precious picnic
then there is no need for words at all.
-
(This little set of three poems is my response to the discussions that took place in a series of workshops I was leading with South Asian LGBTQ+ communities on Identity. Their ideas, thoughts, and views on this topic formed the basis for an artwork created by Dan Auluk. The poems are not part of the artwork but are my personal responses to the discussions.)
Me: For a start
Rod Dungate
I’m brown. Tanned. Been out sailing.
A darker shade of brown.
Better say BAME.
Not supposed to say that now. White people get embarrassed.
Ethnic Minority then.
Or is it Minority Ethnic I forget?
I get confused.
I’m Londoner, English, Indian, British, Earthling, Milky Wayling.
Person of Colour.
I’m Brown. Me, Black Country.
Mustn’t say Black Country
might be offensive to people of Caribbean or African Heritage.
Black Country is because of the heavy metal in the Industrial Revolution.
That’s under dispute.
Look at the Black Mountain around Powys. No heavy metal there to fear.
Put yourself in Oswestry and around there, though,
Invasion of marauding Welsh to worry about.
And people of Welsh origin I suppose.
And people of Welsh Heritage, too.
Sunshine and rain
Rod Dungate
Red
In bed at 08.15
Orange
At college going into class
Yellow
Dancing at my sister’s wedding
Green
Five of us out and clubbing and dancing
Blue
Hill walking with a soul-mate
Indigo
Sharing a candlelit dinner
Violet
Reading a book in the evening
In the pile
Rod Dungate
I am at ease among the pile of coins within which I sit,
though I have turned one half turn too many in the air
and have landed up tails.
We are stacked together for a moment
put together by chance;
We rest solidly one upon the other,
edges commonly worn in different places
surfaces severally scratched in similar ways
some shine with newness ready to go,
some display signs of wear and tear.
Each of us awaits action
It is ours, we believe, to start and ours to finish.
In truth we all fit into the same slot machines,
they accept us on some days
and reject us on others.
Poetry
On the last Friday of every month I will be releasing a poem on my website.
2020 - 2025
-
The old geezer balances on his crate in New Street,
selects me, furiously warms me I am damned and destined for an early grave;
he wheezes on his anger and judging from his Halleluiah voice
I’d say it’s him whose die is early cast.
I’ve no cash in my pocket so take from my satchel
my lunch-time apple and place it in his dish.
The geezer’s not impressed, steps off his crate,
picks up my apple and tosses it into the gutter.
in my satchel - home-made compost for just such an occasion.
I feed the apple; in less than 1 minute 30, a fruit-laden tree.
Look at that I say to the crowd I’ve gathered: Tree of Life.
Yea, right, the old geezer says, you’re damned, you’re for an early grave.
-
‘Looks like rain,’ the Bagman says;
he addresses the couple sitting on one of the park benches,
a look of panic settles on their faces they engage in deeper conversation.
I have seen the old chap several times, on and off, in town,
down Mosely High Street, Selly Oak and up Five Ways;
here in the park he is off his beaten track.
I slide behind a sturdy lime, observe his ambling progress.
Aldi carrier bag in one hand
two Tesco bags slung across his opposite shoulder, tied together with string,
bags for life.
‘looks like rain,’ he says to a passing youth,
‘yea, boss.’ It doesn’t, blue skies. The youth laughs.
Bagman ambles on.
From my vantage point behind my sweating lime
I track him to the corner of the park, he crosses the road.
A car rounds the corner, vicious on the horn,
Bagman stands his ground,
‘You need fucking specs mate.’
A witness on the far corner, neat in sombre top and long black skirt.
‘Nearly got me papers,’ she smiles sheepishly;
‘I should take him to court, got the price of a cup of tea?’
Witness takes refuge in flight, ‘Sorry, no change.’
Bagman laughs quietly to himself, moves onward.
Witness too rapidly approaches my hide,
I emerge lest I be discovered,
reach the corner of the park myself.
Watch him down the road approach a bus queue,
he engages, no doubt blagging the price of his cuppa,
half a dozen people each one concentrating hard on whether their bus is coming.
Walks on as far as the convenience store, halts.
I stand in the doorway of the Chinese, a disinterested observer.
He places his bags on the ground,
reaches into the bin, selects a folded newspaper;
scans the front page, then the middle pages,
takes the two double pages from the centre and neatly folds them,
rolls the newspaper and replaces it in the bin
slides his folded pages into an envelope he carefully draws from the Aldi carrier,
he reslings the strung bags over his shoulder and takes up the single bag,
moves steadfastly on,
I follow at a discrete distance
until he reaches the traffic lights;
he turns left towards The Parade, I turn right and cross.
Here is the parting of our ways.
-
Bully-Boy Putin: 22 February 2022
Bully Putin’s in a win-win game,
and brave Ukraine loses,
the rest of the free world huffs and puffs
but remember Putin lives with short fuses.
Deep Souls and Huge Hearts: 28 February 2022
Listen to the great Church music of the Slavic nations,
you hear the deep souls and huge hearts of the peoples.
Putin does his best to bleed those hearts and souls,
he becomes bloated with that love and passion
as he turns it to poison within him.
Today Ukrainians feel that pure passion coursing through their being;
if ever Justice lives, they will prevail
Putin will rot from his self-generated poison,
and a beautiful peoples can live as one.
Cries of Anguish from Ukraine: 08 March 2022
‘I want to live a normal life.’
‘My mother is 82, she won’t leave.’
‘All the time the bomb. The bomb. The shell.’
‘I come back from the border. I leave them there. My child, my wife.’
‘We don’t cry. We fight. Tomorrow, we grieve.’
‘This is my country. My beautiful Ukraine. It is become Hell.’
Top Behaviour: 15 March 2022
Has Putin lost his sight?
that he doesn’t see the deserts he creates
in the country he wishes to own?
Or perhaps he averts his gaze
dabs away a tear of crocodile concern
for the land he violates.
But then again, perhaps he sits and gloats.
Brothers: 23 March 2022
Hello Brother, I fought for my country,
a white marker is all I have to show now.
Brother, hello; so you fought for your country, too,
I sleep now among the rubbish on the streets.
Brother, I fought as well, just like you;
my Commander-in-Chief will not allow me home.
I also fought, Brother; I was confined to battlefield ovens
for fear I carry bad news home, wind-bourn ashes now,
Brothers, hold my hand, hold me.
But we have no hands to hold.
Pussy-Footing: 30 March 2022
Why do politicians and media moan Biden said Putin must go?
Most of us, in our heart of hearts agree with Mr President.
Why do the Powers That Be say Putin must have a means of saving face?
He’s a bully, his face should be seen no more.
Why is there talk that Ukraine must compromise?
In any compromise Putin wins with his illegal invasion.
Why aren’t the Western countries giving Ukraine the tanks and missiles they need?
We are rationing our support.
Why don’t we offer the no-fly zone Ukraine calls for?
We need to face up to the bully, stop pussy-footing around.
-
I’m told the universe exists in an acorn.
I was out walking the other day in a deciduous wood
when that old saying popped into my head
so I picked up an acorn to find out
I pulled it from it’s cup
as children we told each other fairies drank from acorn cups
I could well have believed this
as I’d seen plenty of documentary evidence
picking up along the way that fairies seemed to vary an awful lot in size.
This whimsical memory brought into mind
all the pictures I’d seen in my early years books
except we didn’t have early years then they were just children’s books
of red squirrels with fantastic bushy tails and sparkling black eyes
hiding acorns that they mostly forgot where they’ve put them
which may well be a problem inherent in hoarding.
Drawing myself back to my living present
I split the acorn open to inspect the universe
but inside it was a pretty simple affair and no universe in sight.
So I chucked it, left it for the squirrels to dine on.
I was struck by something I’d recently seen on the television or heard on the radio
some woman was talking about her grandfather
he was some rich old landowner
or rather he was old-style aristocracy so he may well not have been rich,
how when he was a young man he walked about his lands with a pocketful of acorns
and every now and again he’d plant one.
This particular ground and I can’t remember where it is probably National Trust now
is well known for is large number of splendid oaks
strategically placed in the wide English landscape.
It’s a good job the old chap as a young chap didn’t look for the universe in his acorns.
-
I have no idea how much of me is true.
All the damp bits of me, all the hard bits of me,
all the squishing, squashing, throbbing, filtering, pouring bits of me,
these are true; these are the hardware bits of an unstable machine.
A miraculous machine, to be sure,
but a unlikely machine, nevertheless,
flawed by the inevitability of its aging.
It’s me I’m concerned about.
The unknown network that binds me together,
through which I am perceived,
through which I have meaning
Through which the machine has purpose and identity.
You might say, my audience, that I’m too much inside my head as I write,
worrying about the truth of me,
you might suggest, my audience, I should get out more.
I would love to oblige but I don’t know from what I should get out.
Literature loves the magic list of three.
Here is my trinity:
my genes, my environment, my memories.
My genes point me in preprogrammed directions, my memories can nudge, override, comply.
My environment offers me action and change, decisions are filtered through my memories.
My memories are self-selecting, selections managed by genes, environment, and memories;
memories are managed by memories; they buff each other up
that they dovetail correctly.
Some days I feel I am completing the straight edges
though I have little understanding how many edges there are to complete. On other days
I feel I am working towards the centre clumsily
clicking bits together. What worries me
is there is no picture on the non-existent box;
no sat-nav to guide me
to the memories I know sing in the machine.
-
(A Schoolfriend Gets in Touch)
I had forgotten
in all my rush and dash my filled-up days and years
of our shared joys
of a time of striking poses just for fun
of a time when attitudes were changed like trendy suits
of a time of collars, cut of trousers, of hair styles,
of the charm of an eccentric chosen form of transport
a time
when Christopher Logue would soar with his Red Bird
when Ray Charles pleaded to loosen chains around his heart and be free
when Richard Hoggart told of the ways of literacy
and the Beatles rolled Beethoven over
when Arnold Wesker displayed his family roots
I’m beginning on my own two feet I’m beginning
time
when puberty was at its blood-hot peak
of rightful peacock strutting
of striving to be so bad which felt so good
when life was for living in earnest
and the earnest we believed would inherit the earth
and we were there to inherit it
views we discussed at length
in all-night alcohol-sparse cellar parties
before or after we moved a wine-glass
around a coffee-table spread with letters
while the meek who would not inherit slept
when am I going to die we dared it
but we got no answer we who were there to inherit
in those days
we began the twistings of the thread
that pulls us now through more than fifty years
hasn’t let us go however much we tangled it
not tethering us to a false time when the sun shone more
but keeping us safe to ensure we do not float away pilotless
from a time when our sun shone brighter
We race
down dirt tracks through serried ranks of conifers
summer holiday sun is hot on our faces
in our noses is the earthy tang of bracken
we can taste it even
who cares how we will make the corner at the bottom
nor what will happen if some unsuspecting mother
climbs this shopping short cut into town
our minds focus on the gathering of headlong speed
and we yell to tell the world
life is not for stopping
we have our inheritance to claim
you remember
call me across the years
strike a far-too-long silent chord
you remind me we wore top hats on a tandem.
-
(Inspired by The Young Poet—Self Portrait, by Arthur Hughes, Birmingham Art Gallery)
I sense that you have been asleep
and were disturbed by passer-by,
pop-up to put yourself on show
With well-practiced - I?
Unblemished face that should not age,
Black olive eyes that ought not harden,
so much like Rosalind you look
Transformed in the Woods of Arden.
Time to ignore poetic sunlight,
walk from your forest if you can,
time to acknowledge creeping shadows..
grow into a man?
-
I can be your looking-glass
a bendy one, all out and in;
when I reflect you back, you laugh,
this is my Clown-world, welcome in.
I can find a bit of me
I’d much prefer is in a bin,
as clown I ridicule its sting;
this is my clown-world, please come in.
No-one lives I can’t embrace,
for everyone my kith and kin,
I’ve so much love I want to give,
this is my clown-world, do come in.
No restraints; within my play
creative power will always win;
there’s not a thing I cannot do,
this is my clown-world, will you come in?
Spill some milk, I’ll make a lake,
or give a haystack, find a pin,
A thousand cooks, a tasty soup;
This is my clown-world, please step in.
I can take the smallest thing
and help you sing for joy within
a warm embrace you’ll not forget.
this is my clown world, welcome in.
-
(The storyteller is comfortably in mid flow.)
‘We may be nancies,’ Graham had asserted,
‘but we are men of steel.’
Graham is fond of asserting
but it doesn’t mean he’s always right;
me: I’m a man of cotton-wool.
It was in our diary for TODAY, that day;
Climb the Old Man of Tunsford.
This is some crappy bloody sandstone Up-crop
with some really bloody stupid name.
Graham had asserted that was the day we should get to the top,
man of steel that he is.
It was absolutely pissing down;
‘The showers will be hit and miss,’ Tomasz Schafernaker had charmed,
‘but if you are unlucky enough to catch one, it could be torrential.
So take your brollies, just in case.’
‘You can’t take your umbrella’ –
Graham had seen me furtively unfurling it.
‘Why, contrary to health and safety?’
‘Don’t be daft,’ Graham asserted, ‘when hill-walking, it’s undignified.’
Cats and shitting dogs –
excuse my French.
I swear it was 90 watched-kettle minutes trudge
up this god-forsaken prick en l’air
to the great, boring, barren, bog-wash summit.
The deep valley below was just discernible
peering through the murky lurking Scotch mist.
The reservoir with its two tributaries, gross snail slime,
the orchard, behind our holiday farmhouse, a slithering slice of grey,
the village nearby, a suburb of war-torn Mordor.
‘Could it be worse?’ you ask.
O yes;
Graham had brought a pigging, picnic, which we must eat.
‘It’s just such fun, old boy –
nature red in tooth and claw.’
Cheese and pickle sandwiches sauced with rain,
custard tarts served with fresh pneumonia,
hardly Ritz al fresco.
But I soldiered on
man of soggy cotton-wool I am.
By 4 o’clock even Graham had had enough,
he began to squelch things back in his back pack,
he stood in his determined way
signalling action.
At last, rescue from certain death by drowning, I thought -
a presto inverse treatment of the main theme,
a quick canter through the coda to the double bar line.
But not to be!
A bolt of light.
The sun breaks through.
Gone is the mist.
Gone is the murk.
The whole valley lies below us in full, vibrating colour.
The reservoir and tributaries shine as polished marble.
The village glitters as a Constable on speed.
The orchard, behind our farmhouse, shouts with a splash of joyous white blossom.
I swear swallows sail overhead.
And a group of butterflies dance a galliard or a branle gai.
Graham turned to me
his haunting green eyes shining with joy;
he held me
and squeezed me so tight I could hardly breathe.
‘Look’ he whispered, ‘look, my sweet,
The Old Man of Tunsford reveals his secret
and lays it at our feet.’
-
If I hated you
this is how it used to be
if I had suffered some affront and hated you
I would draw my blade from its jewelled scabbard
thrust it into your unready flesh
I would heed with pleasure
your look of surprise as your blood flowed staining your exquisite tunic
you would not have thought to suffer at my unworthy hand
I am not bred as you but I am the better blademan
with upstart accuracy I have pierced your heart
or some other throbbing part of your being machine
as you come to silence you would reflect your temple is as fragile
as the smoke that rises from the hearth beside you
I would watch you die with the belly thrill of remorse
I can afford remorse My vanquished foe
I would have created a tale to be told by grandfathers
sitting around a fire on winter evenings
a tale to frighten children with or nursing mothers
who now whisper frightening themselves a jewelled scabbard is a thing of the past
Or if I were not a blademan
I would take up my age-old pen
with calligraphy to die for
with words more sharp then steel
with words that cut more cleanly than a diamond
for I am an expert wordman
I would mar my virgin page
protect my gloating colour in a sheath
make it safe for all weathers
pin it on a busy tree to catch all passing eyes
or pay threepence for a prime spot in your local shop
or invest in a quarter page in your local rag
it’s certain you will not die from my poison dart
but as I feast upon my cooling revenge
day by day hour by hour minute by minute
I would smile
I would watch your friends fatten on your marrow
return to my page run my fingers over my spells
perhaps chew them Perhaps swallow them whole
I could greet you at a party and say with a smile of sympathy
touching my hand tenderly upon your shoulder
My dear what terrible things people say I feel for you I really do
But today I need no pen
I stab at a keyboard What skills are there in keyboard stabbing
I produce words that have no form
words I give birth to but live beyond my reach
In a non-existent cloud where are they where
are they
though they drip with personal venom
there is no true danger in them how can there be
they are not there where not anywhere
yet with a few more stabs on my plastic keyboard mass-produced
I can send my incorporeal bullets to other clouds
from where they will flicker onto a million mirrors
for a million viewers
who is the most beautiful of all
they say power lies in numbers
once I could never have reached such numbered power
my revenge is swift and thorough as can be
though I regret I cannot see it
and nobody knows my name
Here’s another thing
I no longer need the skill of blademan wordman or stabber of keys
I need a sturdy backpack mass-produced
filled with hard edged flotsam
hard-edged Jetsam forged in fires as of hell
propelled by household chemicals with household names
I used to clear the drains
cunningly I mix this sweet confection
stir this brew
prepare this chemistry experiment
because I hate you all
with an anger as deep as it is general
I can leave my holy gift
I can coolly retire observe my messenger’s punishing cry
it rings above the cries of those who carry the message on
all around me I see the flickering images
Who is the most beautiful of all
you will not forget my message and I will overcome
if it should be that I come to hate myself as much as I hate all you who weep
then I can stay on guard watching over my precious picnic
then there is no need for words at all.
-
(This little set of three poems is my response to the discussions that took place in a series of workshops I was leading with South Asian LGBTQ+ communities on Identity. Their ideas, thoughts, and views on this topic formed the basis for an artwork created by Dan Auluk. The poems are not part of the artwork but are my personal responses to the discussions.)
Me: For a start
Rod Dungate
I’m brown. Tanned. Been out sailing.
A darker shade of brown.
Better say BAME.
Not supposed to say that now. White people get embarrassed.
Ethnic Minority then.
Or is it Minority Ethnic I forget?
I get confused.
I’m Londoner, English, Indian, British, Earthling, Milky Wayling.
Person of Colour.
I’m Brown. Me, Black Country.
Mustn’t say Black Country
might be offensive to people of Caribbean or African Heritage.
Black Country is because of the heavy metal in the Industrial Revolution.
That’s under dispute.
Look at the Black Mountain around Powys. No heavy metal there to fear.
Put yourself in Oswestry and around there, though,
Invasion of marauding Welsh to worry about.
And people of Welsh origin I suppose.
And people of Welsh Heritage, too.
Sunshine and rain
Rod Dungate
Red
In bed at 08.15
Orange
At college going into class
Yellow
Dancing at my sister’s wedding
Green
Five of us out and clubbing and dancing
Blue
Hill walking with a soul-mate
Indigo
Sharing a candlelit dinner
Violet
Reading a book in the evening
In the pile
Rod Dungate
I am at ease among the pile of coins within which I sit,
though I have turned one half turn too many in the air
and have landed up tails.
We are stacked together for a moment
put together by chance;
We rest solidly one upon the other,
edges commonly worn in different places
surfaces severally scratched in similar ways
some shine with newness ready to go,
some display signs of wear and tear.
Each of us awaits action
It is ours, we believe, to start and ours to finish.
In truth we all fit into the same slot machines,
they accept us on some days
and reject us on others.
2015-2020
Bagman (The)
Chalk dust rising
Diminishing Returns
Equinox: 21 September 2020, Autumn Evening
Love of My Life
Taking Steps
Three Corvin poems
I’d Say It’s OK to be Pissed About Birdsong
Magical Magpie
Raven, Come and Sing
Et In Arcadia Ego
Final Say
Five a Day
Funeral Canticle
If Words Were Spells
Lost boy whispers
Measuring My Circular Motion
Ring or Send a Note
Skipping along the Pavement
Swords, Words, Explosive Devices
2010 – 2015
Beer
Bowsprit
Don’t Come and Stare
Elephant
Felix Abercrombie
If I Close My Eyes
Measuring time
October Evening
We Write on Sand
Words Without Gravity