Collected Poems Page 14
and he has difficulty holding them
in his clumsy, larded hands.
The next day will be spent
untying the little knots.
In Renshaw Street
a man with blue eyes
and skin the colour of worn pavements
burrows into the busstop litterbin.
The sherrybottle is empty
but there is a bacon rasher
and a screwdup foil of Lurpak
as well as a deflated ball of string
String is great.
It ties up pillowends
and keeps the wind
out of your trouserlegs.
Things dont get lost
when there’s string about.
Good to play with in bed.
Always keep some handy.
Near Windsor Street
where they are pulling down houses
there is much that rusts and glistens.
A pair of nail scissors
halfhidden by tin cans, stands,
one foot in the grave.
Approaching is a man
tying a rosary of knots into a length of dirty string.
His life, like this poem,
out of sequence,
a series of impressions,
unfinished, imperfect.
Unlucky for Some
13 voices from a woman’s hostel in Soho, 1979
1
What do I do for a living? Survive.
Simple as that. ‘God helps those
who help themselves.’ That’s what the
vicar told me. So I went into
the supermarket and helped myself.
Got six months. God help those
who help themselves. Nowadays
I’m a traveller. South-west mainly
then back here for the winter.
I like the open air. Plenty of it
and it’s free. Everything else I beg
borrow or steal. Keep just about alive.
What do I do for a living? Survive.
2
It runs like duck’s water off me back.
What people say. How do they know?
They seem to think I enjoy
looking shabby. Having no money.
Being moved on from cafés,
from warm places. How would
they like it? They’d soon sneer
on the other side of their faces
if they ended up down and out.
Up down and out. Up and down.
Out of luck. That’s all you have to be.
Half of them calling the kettle black.
It runs like duck’s water off me back.
3
It’s the addicts I can’t stand.
Getting drunk on pills. Stoned
they call it. Make me sick.
Sticking needles into themselves
in dirty lavatories. Got no shame.
And they get prescriptions. Wish
my doctor would give me one
everytime I felt like a drink.
I could take it along to the
allnight off-licence in Piccadilly
come back here and get drunk
for a week. Get high. Stoned.
It’s the addicts I can’t stand.
4
I’m no good, that’s what I’ve been told
ever since I can remember. So
I try to live up to my reputation.
Or down to it. Thievin’ mainly.
And drugs. You get used to prison.
Don’t like it though, being cooped up.
That’s why I couldn’t work in a shop
or a factory. Drive me crazy.
Can’t settle down. 21 years old
and I look 40. It’s the drugs.
I’ll O.D. probably. Couldn’t care less.
Rather die young than grow old.
I’m no good, that’s what I’ve been told.
5
Now I’m one of the idle poor.
A rose in a garden of weeds.
Slightly shrivelled of course, but nevertheless
an interesting species: ‘Retrobata Inebriata’.
I was born into the leisured classes.
No doubt you can tell. Born rich
and married rich as well. Too much
leisure that was the trouble. And drink.
Cost me a husband, home, family.
Now I’ve only a bed, a roof over my head.
Perhaps I don’t deserve more.
I used to be one of the idle rich.
Now I’m one of the idle poor.
6
I get frightened you see. Easily scared.
Trouble is, I know what’s goin’ on.
The things they’ve got planned.
The others don’t understand, you see.
They say: ‘What are you scared of?
There’s no need to be frightened.’
I huddle myself up against
the window sometimes. Like a curtain.
Listening to what’s goin’ on outside.
I’ve got X-ray hearin’, you see.
It stretches for miles. When people
talk about me, I can hear every word.
I get frightened you see. Easily scared.
7
First and foremost I need a coat.
The one I’m wearing’s got patches
on the patches. I can’t go
for interviews dressed like this.
What sort of a job do you think
I’d get? A job as a tramp?
No thank you. And while I’m here
I need some vests and knickers.
None of them fancy ones either.
And shoes. Two pair. Leather.
Don’t argue, I know my rights.
Refuse and I’ll take you to court.
First and foremost I need a coat.
8
I try to take up little space.
Keep myself to myself. I find
the best way to get by is to say
nothing. Don’t argue, don’t interfere.
When there’s trouble lie low.
That’s why I wear a lot of grey.
Helps me hide away. Blend in
against the background. I eat
very little. Don’t smoke or drink.
Get through the day unnoticed
that’s the trick. The way to heaven.
Say me prayers each night just in case.
I try to take up little space.
9
It may sound silly but it’s true.
I drink like there was no tomorrow
and I can’t stand the taste of the stuff.
Never have. My mother was a drunk
and the smell of her was enough.
I drink to forget. I know it’s a cliché
but it’s true. I drink to forget
and I do. Occasionally I remember
what I was trying not to remember
but by then I’ve remembered
to drink, in order to make
myself forget. And I do.
It may sound silly but it’s true.
10
I would have liked children I suppose.
A family and that. It’s natural.
But it’s too late now. Too old.
And trouble is I never liked men.
If I’d been born pretty
or with a nice figure, I might
have liked them then. Men,
and sex and that. But I’m
no oil painting. Had to face
that fact right from the start.
And you see, if you’re born ugly
well that’s the way life goes. But
I would have liked children I suppose.
11
Oh no, I don’t have to be here.
I’m not a cast-off like the rest.
I’m one of the lucky ones. I’ve got
children. Both gr
own up. A son
and daughter who’d be only too pleased
to have me living with them.
But I prefer my independence.
Besides, they’ve got their own lives.
I’d only have to pick up the phone
and they’d be over. Or send money.
I mean, I could afford a room
in a nice clean hotel somewhere.
Oh no, I don’t have to be here.
12
Things are better now with me new glasses.
I got the last pair just after the war
and I think they’d lost their power.
If I could read I’d be able
to read even better now. Everything’s
so much clearer. Faces and places.
Television’s improved too. Not
that I’m one for stayin’ in.
I prefer to be out and about.
Sightseein’ and windowshoppin’.
In and out of the traffic.
If you keep on the move, time soon passes.
Things are better now, with me new glasses.
13
I always wanted to go on the stage.
Dancer mainly, though I had a lovely voice.
Ran away to the bright lights of London
to be a star. Nothing came of it though,
so I went on the game. An actress
of sorts you might say. I’m the oldest
professional in the oldest profession.
Would you like to see me dance?
I’ll dance for you. I dance in here
all the time. The girls love it.
Do you like my dancing? Round
and round. Not bad eh? For my age.
I always wanted to go on the stage.
The Lesson
A poem that raises the question:
Should there be capital punishment in schools?
Chaos ruled OK in the classroom
as bravely the teacher walked in
the havocwreakers ignored him
his voice was lost in the din
‘The theme for today is violence
and homework will be set
I’m going to teach you a lesson
one that you’ll never forget’
He picked on a boy who was shouting
and throttled him then and there
then garrotted the girl behind him
(the one with grotty hair)
Then sword in hand he hacked his way
between the chattering rows
‘First come, first severed’ he declared
‘fingers, feet, or toes’
He threw the sword at a latecomer
it struck with deadly aim
then pulling out a shotgun
he continued with his game
The first blast cleared the backrow
(where those who skive hang out)
they collapsed like rubber dinghies
when the plugs pulled out
‘Please may I leave the room sir?’
a trembling vandal enquired
‘Of course you may’ said teacher
put the gun to his temple and fired
The Head popped a head round the doorway
to see why a din was being made
nodded understandingly
then tossed in a grenade
And when the ammo was well spent
with blood on every chair
Silence shuffled forward
with its hands up in the air
The teacher surveyed the carnage
the dying and the dead
He waggled a finger severely
‘Now let that be a lesson’ he said
Water, Tree, Cave, Mother
This is the water
cold and black
that drowned the child
that climbed on its back
This is the tree
badtempered and tall
that tripped the child
and made it fall
This is the cave
with rotting breath
that hid the child
and starved it to death
This is the mother
who one day chose
to smother the child
with kisses, and blows and blows and blows.
Pantomime poem
‘HE’S BEHIND YER!’
chorused the children
but the warning came too late.
The monster leaped forward
and fastening its teeth into his neck,
tore off the head.
The body fell to the floor
‘MORE’ cried the children
‘MORE, MORE, MORE
MORE
Sleep Over
No, I’d rather stand, thank you. Sorry it’s so late
but I wanted to get the girls settled down for the night.
Yes, they’re sharing Emma’s bedroom. Still awake, of course,
I could hear them chattering away as I slipped out.
Yes, I know they shouldn’t be left alone in the house
that’s why I want to get this business settled quickly.
I’ve brought over the film script you unwisely rejected.
The one about the producer whose daughter is kidnapped
by a psychopathic screenwriter. All you do is get it made.
You own the company, you’re head of production.
Just do it. Naomi is a lovely kid. Hear what I’m sayin’?
Don’t worry, I’ll see myself out. Goodnight.
Persimmons
Watching the video last night was good.
The four of us stretched out on two sofas
after fish and chips. Lights dimmed.
Soon the heroine, a distracted single mum
with three kids in the red-neck South,
is in deep, deep trouble. Satanism.
Haddock, mushy peas and a large Sprite.
In her nightmare, someone is on the bed
trying to strangle her. She wakes in a sweat.
‘Pause’ to put the kettle on. The youngest
is happy to be put to bed. A story,
but only short because it is Saturday.
‘Play’. As she hangs out the washing on the line,
her dead mother approaches with a basket of persimmons.
All the scarier for not being a nightmare.
My son is puzzled by the plum-like orange fruit,
and while discussing its taste and origins
we miss the psycho with the baseball bat.
‘Stop.’ ‘Rewind?’ No, let her stay for ever
in the deep deep South. Eating forbidden fruit.
Hanging out the nightmares with her dead mother.
The Stranger
‘Look quickly!’ said the stranger
I turned around in time to see
a wall fall onto the child
playing beside a derelict house
In the silence of the rising dust
I saw the child’s arm thrust
out stiff between the bricks
like a tulip
a white tulip
a clenched tulip
I turned angrily to the stranger
‘Why did you have to tell me?’
‘Well I thought you’d want to see’ he said
the tulip screamed
now limp
now red
snowscene
snow crackles underfoot
like powdered bones
trees have dandruff
in their hair
and the wind moans
the wind moans
ponds are wearing glasses
with lenses three feet deep
birds are silent in the air
as stones
and the wind can’t sleep
the wind can’t sleep
i found an oldman by the road
who had not long been dead
i had not heard hi
s lonely groans
nor seen him weep
only birds heard the last words he said
before the wind pulled a sheet o’er his head
the wind pulled a sheet o’er his head
The Wreck of the Hesperus
‘You look like the wreck of the Hesperus
How long is it since you slept?’
As through the whistling sleet and snow
Like a sheeted ghost she swept.
‘Where have you been until this hour
In roughest gale and stinging blast?’
Then wrapping her warm in his seaman’s coat
He lay her down to rest.
‘The least you could have done was ring
you knew I’d be worried sick.’
With rattling shrouds all sheathed in ice
She drifted, a dreary wreck.
‘You promised on your mother’s grave.
Why, oh why?’ he cried.
But like the horns of an angry bull
The cruel rocks gored her side.
‘Let me comb the seaweed from your hair
Come hither, daughter mine.’
But her brain was soft as carded wool
And her heart was caked with brine.
‘Sleep tight,’ said he. ‘Sweet dreams,’ said he,
‘For soon the sun will rise.’
But the salt sea was frozen on her breast
The salt tears in her eyes.
Washed up was she, at break of day
(Christ save us all from a death like this)
On the bleak beach of the carpet lay
For she was the wreck of the Hesperus.
For she was the wreck of the Hesperus.
Closet fascist
in the staffroom
or over drinks
he says the things
with which he thinks
his colleagues will concur:
anti-Powell, anti-Front
liberalminded, fair.
But enthroned alone
in his W.C.