Collected Poems Read online

  Ah, theres been a mistake. The hair

  you see, its black, now Stephens fair…

  Whats that? The explosion?

  Of course, burnt black. Silly of me.

  I should have known. Then lets get on.

  The face, is that the face I ask?

  that mask of charred wood

  blistered, scarred could

  that have been a child’s face?

  The sweater, where intact, looks

  in fact all too familiar.

  But one must be sure.

  The scoutbelt. Yes thats his.

  I recognise the studs he hammered in

  not a week ago. At the age

  when boys get clothes-conscious

  now you know. Its almost

  certainly Stephen. But one must

  be sure. Remove all trace of doubt.

  Pull out every splinter of hope.

  Pockets. Empty the pockets.

  Handkerchief? Could be any schoolboy’s.

  Dirty enough. Cigarettes?

  Oh this can’t be Stephen.

  I dont allow him to smoke you see.

  He wouldn’t disobey me. Not his father.

  But thats his penknife. Thats his alright.

  And thats his key on the keyring

  Gran gave him just the other night.

  Then this must be him.

  I think I know what happened

  . . . . . . about the cigarettes

  No doubt he was minding them

  for one of the older boys.

  Yes thats it.

  Thats him.

  Thats our Stephen.

  A Cautionary Calendar

  Beware January,

  His greeting is a grey chill.

  Dark stranger. First in at the kill.

  Get out while you can.

  Beware February,

  Jolly snowman. But beneath the snow

  A grinning skeleton, a scarecrow.

  Don’t be drawn into that web.

  Beware March,

  Mad Piper in a many-coloured coat

  Who will play a jig then rip your throat.

  If you leave home, don’t go far.

  Beware April,

  Who sucks eggs and tramples nests.

  From the wind that molests

  There is no escape.

  Beware May,

  Darling scalpel, gall and wormwood.

  Scented blossom hides the smell

  Of blood. Keep away.

  Beware June,

  Black lipstick, bruise-coloured rouge,

  Sirensong and subterfuge.

  The wide-eyed crazed hypnotic moon.

  Beware July,

  Its juices overflow. Lover of excess

  Overripe in flyblown dress.

  Insatiable and cruel.

  Beware August,

  The finger that will scorch and blind

  Also beckons. The only place you will find

  To cool off is the morgue.

  Beware September,

  Who speaks softly with honeyed breath.

  You promise fruitfulness. But death

  Is the only gift that she’ll accept.

  Beware October,

  Whose scythe is keenest. The old crone

  Makes the earth tremble and moan.

  She’s mean and won’t be mocked.

  Beware November,

  Whose teeth are sharpened on cemetery stones,

  Who will trip you up and crunch your bones.

  Iron fist in iron glove.

  Beware December,

  False beard that hides a sneer.

  Child-hater. In what year

  Will we know peace?

  Kyrie

  There was a porter

  who had ideas

  high above his railway station

  always causing righteous indignation

  he wanted to be

  giant amongst men

  saviour come again to earth

  but his teachings only met with mirth

  one bright winters morn

  packed in his job

  believed the world needed him

  dedicated his life to fighting sin

  the second day out

  crossing the road

  apparently in Stockport town

  a diesel lorry swerved and knocked him down

  back at the station

  all the porters

  wore mourning masks on their faces

  and all agreed he should have stuck to cases

  Train Crash

  i once met a man

  who had been in that crash

  near Potters Bar

  he said the worst thing

  was the pause after

  and the pause before

  the bloody screaming

  which though nervesplintttering

  might well be heard

  most nights on TV.

  He spoke slowly

  pausing between eachword

  Funny sort of bloke

  Have you heard the latest scandal

  About 80-year-old Mr Brown?

  He stole from Matron’s handbag

  Then hitchhiked into town.

  Had a slap-up meal at the Wimpy

  Then went to a film matinée

  One of them sexy blue ones

  We’re not supposed to see.

  Then he bought some jeans and a toupee

  Spent the night in a pub

  Then carried on till the early hours

  Dancing in a club.

  They caught him in the morning

  Trying to board the London train

  He tried to fight them off

  But he’s back here once again.

  They asked him if he’d be a good boy

  He said he’d rather not

  So they gave him a nice injection

  And tied him up in his cot.

  He died that very night

  Apparently a stroke.

  Kept screaming: ‘Come out Death and fight.’

  Funny sort of bloke.

  Uncle Harry

  Uncle Harry was a widower

  wouldn’t have it another way

  wore two pairs of socks all year round

  with a prayer started each day:

  ‘Oh God, let it be a coronary

  something quick and clean

  I’ve always been fastidious

  and death can be obscene.

  So if today You’ve put me down

  then it’s Your will and I’m not scared

  but could it be at home please

  not where I’ll look absurd,

  like on the street, at the match,

  in the toilet on a train

  (and preferably a one off

  in the heart and not the brain)’

  Uncle Harry was a vegetarian

  until the other day

  collapsed on his way to the Health Food Store,

  rushed to hospital, died on the way.

  Good Old William

  ‘I concur

  with everything you say,’

  smiled William.

  ‘Oh yes,

  I concur with that,

  I agree.’

  ‘If that’s the general feeling

  You can count on me.

  Can’t say fairer.’

  Good old

  William, the Concurrer.

  Tide and time

  My Aunty Jean

  was no mean hortihorologist.

  For my fifteenth birthday

  she gave me a floral wristwatch.

  Wormproof and self-weeding,

  its tick was as soft

  as a butterfly on tiptoe.

  All summer long

  I sniffed happily the passing hours.

  Until late September

  when, forgetting to take it off

  before bathing at New Brighton,

  the tide washed time away.

  In Transit

 
She spends her life

  in Departure Lounges,

  flying from one to another.

  Although planes frighten her,

  baggage is a bother

  and foreigners a bore,

  in the stifled hysteria

  of an airport

  she, in transit, feels secure.

  Enjoys the waiting game.

  Cheered by storms, strikes

  and news of long delays,

  among strangers, nervous

  and impatient for the off,

  the old lady scrambles her days.

  War of the Roses

  Friday came the news.

  Her G.P. rang and told her.

  The telephone buckled

  in her hand. Safely distanced,

  he offered to come round.

  ‘Why bother,’ she said, ‘Bastard.’

  She had guessed anyway. The body

  had been telling her for months.

  Sending haemorrhages, eerie messages

  of bruises. Outward signs

  of inner turmoil. You can’t sweep

  blood under the carpet.

  Thirty, single, living with and for

  a four-year-old daughter. Smokes,

  drinks whisky, works in television.

  Wakes around four each morning

  fearful and crying. Listens to

  the rioting in her veins.

  Her blood is at war with itself.

  With each campaign more pain,

  a War of the Roses over again.

  She is a battlefield. In her,

  Red and White armies compete.

  She is a pair of crossed swords

  on the medical map of her street.

  What My Lady Did

  I asked my lady what she did

  She gave me a silver flute and smiled.

  A musician I guessed, yes that would explain

  Her temperament so wild.

  I asked my lady what she did

  She gave me a comb inlaid with pearl.

  A hairdresser I guessed, yes that would explain

  Each soft and billowing curl.

  I asked my lady what she did

  She gave me a skein of wool and left.

  A weaver I guessed, yes that would explain

  Her fingers long and deft.

  I asked my lady what she did

  She gave me a slipper trimmed with lace.

  A dancer I guessed, yes that would explain

  Her suppleness and grace.

  I asked my lady what she did

  She gave me a picture not yet dry.

  A painter I guessed, yes that would explain

  The steadiness of her eye.

  I asked my lady what she did

  She gave me a fountain pen of gold.

  A poet I guessed, yes that would explain

  The strange stories that she told.

  I asked my lady what she did

  She told me – and oh, the grief!

  I should have guessed, she’s under arrest

  My lady was a thief!

  W.P.C. Marjorie Cox

  W.P.C. Marjorie Cox

  brave as a lion

  bright as an ox

  is above all else, a girl.

  Large of bosom

  soft of curl.

  Keeps in her dainty vanity case

  diamanté handcuffs, trimmed with lace,

  a golden whistle, a silken hanky,

  a photograph of Reg Bosanquet

  (signed: ‘To Marjorie, with love’),

  a truncheon in a velvet glove.

  W.P.C. Marjorie Cox

  cute as a panda

  in bobby sox.

  Men queue to loiter with intent

  for the pleasure of an hour spent

  in her sweet custody.

  Poem for a Lady Wrestler

  There be none of Beauty’s daughters

  who can wrestle like thee

  And like depth-charges on the waters

  is thy sweet voice to me.

  Thy muscles are like tender alps

  with strength beyond compare

  Of all the Ladies of the Rings

  there is none so fair.

  Thy half-nelsons and thy head-locks

  thy slammings to the floor

  are bliss. But in bedsocks

  and pyjamas I love thee even more.

  Who Can Remember Emily Frying?

  The Grand Old Duke of Wellington

  Gave us the wellington boot.

  The Earl of Sandwich, so they say,

  Invented the sandwich. The suit

  Blues saxophonists choose to wear

  Is called after Zoot Sims (a Zoot suit).

  And the inventor of the saxophone?

  Mr Sax, of course. (Toot! Toot!)

  And we all recall, no trouble at all,

  That buccaneer, long since gone,

  Famed for his one-legged underpants –

  ‘Why, shiver me timbers’ – Long John.

  But who can remember Emily Frying?

  (Forgotten, not being a man.)

  For she it was who invented

  The household frying pan.

  And what about Hilary Teapot?

  And her cousin, Charlotte Garden-Hose?

  Who invented things to go inside birdcages

  (You know, for budgies to swing on). Those.

  The Host

  He can sing and dance

  Play piano, trumpet and guitar.

  An amateur hypnotist

  A passable ventriloquist

  Can even walk a tightrope

  (But not far). When contracted,

  Can lend a hand to sleight-of

  And juggling. Has never acted,

  But is, none the less, a Star.

  He has a young wife. His third.

  (Ex-au pair and former

  Swedish Beauty Queen)

  And an ideal home

  In the ideal home counties.

  His friends are household

  Names of stage and screen,

  And his hobbies are golf,

  And helping children of those

  Less fortunate than himself

  Get to the seaside.

  Having been born again. And again.

  He believes in God. And God

  Certainly believes in him.

  Each night before going to bed

  He kneels in his den

  And says a little prayer:

  ‘Thank you Lord, for my work and play,

  Please help me make it in the U.S.A.’

  Then still kneeling, with head bowed,

  He tries out new material

  (Cleaned up, but only slightly).

  And the Almighty laughs out loud

  Especially at jokes about rabbis

  And the Pope. Just one encore

  Then time for beddy-byes.

  So he stands, and he bows,

  Blows a kiss to his Saviour,

  Then dances upstairs to divide Scandinavia.

  The Tallest Man in Britain

  I was in a room with the tallest man in Britain

  And of one thing I could be certain

  In no other room in Britain was there a man taller.

  He agreed when I pointed out how tall he was.

  ‘And I bet people say that to you all the time.’

  He smiled wearily. ‘No, as a matter of fact you’re the first.’

  To get into the Guinness Book of Records

  All he had to do was get out of bed one morning

  And measure himself.

  Easier than sitting in a bathtub with 35 rattlesnakes

  Easier than holding 109 venomous bees in your mouth

  Easier than balancing a motorbike on your teeth for 14.5 seconds

  Easier than riding a lawnmower across the USA in 42 days

  Easier than roller blading blindfold across the Sahara. Backwards

  ‘Wouldn’t you rather be the strongest man in
Britain?’ I asked.

  ‘Or the fastest? Or the richest?’

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘I’m perfectly happy the way I am.’

  And excusing himself, went off in search

  Of somebody else to look down on.

  Laughing, all the way to Bank

  The beautiful girl

  in the flowing white dress

  struggled along the platform

  at the Angel.

  In one hand

  she carried a large suitcase.

  In the other, another.

  On reaching me

  she stopped. Green eyes flashing

  like stolen butterflies.

  ‘Would you be so kind

  as to carry one for me,’

  she asked, ‘as far as Bank?’

  I laughed: ‘My pleasure.’

  And it was. Safe from harm,

  All the way to Bank,

  Moist in my palm, one green eye.

  Valentine

  If I were a boat I’d steer to you

  A pair of tights, adhere to you

  If I were a plumber I’d plumb your depths

  A pancake maker, I’d stuff your crepes

  If I were a painter I’d paint you in oils

  A Bengal Lancer, I’d lance your boils

  If I were thunder I’d clap you

  A long-distance runner, I’d lap you

  If I were a breeze I’d ruffle your skirt

  A squeezy bottle, I’d give you a squirt

  If I were a Big Dipper I’d go off your rails