Collected Poems Read online

  from this mad thing that was going for my throat.

  Then a man’s voice cried out, “Get in. Get in.”

  He’d pulled up and was holding the car door open.

  But before I could close it after me the dog leaped in.

  It went for his face. There was blood everywhere.

  And the screaming. People on the pavement screaming.

  Straight out of Hitchcock it was. Blood and screaming.

  That’s why I’m like this now, you see. I can’t relax.

  Three weeks ago and the police haven’t done nothing.

  More concerned about the dog than me. I rang up.

  “It belonged to a farmer,” they said, “but it’s fine now.”

  “So bloody what,” I said, “but what about me?”

  “That’s a civil matter,” they said, “not criminal.”

  “Criminal? It’s bloody surreal.” I was standing there

  bandaged up to my elbow, drugged up to the eyeballs,

  cradling the telephone like a baby. “What about me?”

  “Don’t worry,” said the policeman, “the dog’s fine.

  As a matter of fact, he’s lying here in front of me

  on the lino eating a sheep’s head. Happy as Larry.”

  I couldn’t believe my ears. Who’s mad? I thought

  to myself. Who’s mad?’ She gave me back the book.

  ‘Would you mind putting the date on as well, please?’

  Clone

  A genetic scientist

  With literary leanings

  Cloned old verses

  And gave them new meanings

  A genetic scientist

  With literary leanings

  Cloned old verses

  And gave them new meanings

  A genetic scientist

  With literary leanings

  Cloned old verses

  And gave them new meanings

  Muffin the Cat

  Written at the Arvon Foundation, Lumb Bank, Yorkshire

  I had never considered cats

  until Nadia said I should:

  ‘If a person likes a cat,

  then that person must be nice.’

  So I seized the chance to be good

  by taking her advice.

  When Muffin (not the mule) called

  around midnight to inspect the room

  I was, at first, distinctly cool.

  Until, remembering the New Me,

  I praised felinity and made tea.

  Offered him a biscuit. A cigarette.

  Tried to make conversation.

  He’d not be drawn. Not beaten yet

  I showed him my collection

  of Yugoslavian beermats.

  He was unimpressed. (Queer, cats.)

  At 2 a.m. I got out the whisky.

  He turned up his nose.

  After a few glasses I told him

  about the problems at home.

  The job. My soul I laid bare.

  And all he did was stare.

  Curled up on the duvet

  with that cat-like expression.

  Not a nod of encouragement.

  Not a mew. Imagine the scene;

  I felt like that intruder

  on the bed with the Queen.

  But I soldiered on till morning

  and despite his constant yawning

  told him what was wrong with the country.

  The class system, nuclear disarmament,

  the unions, free-range eggs.

  I don’t know what time he left.

  I fell asleep. Woke up at four

  With a hangover the size of a Yorkshire Moor.

  And my tongue (dare I say it?) furry.

  Since then, whenever I see the damn thing

  He’s away up the mountain to hide.

  And I was only being friendly.

  I tried, Nadia, I tried.

  The Logic of Meteors

  August in Devon and all is rain. A soft rain

  that seems, not to fall from the sky, but to rise

  from the ground and drape itself over the trees

  and hedgerows like a swirl of silver taffeta.

  But I am not interested in matters meteorological.

  Not for me the logic of meteors, but the logic of metre.

  For this is a Poetry Course and I am the Tutor.

  Last night I had a visitor. (Not a female student:

  ‘I’m having trouble with my sestina’… ‘Please come in…’)

  But a monster that kamikazied around the room

  before ensnaring itself within the vellum lampshade.

  Waiting until the moth, light-headed, went into free fall

  I clumped it with Ted Hughes’ Birthday Letters

  bringing to an end its short and insubstantial life.

  Consumed with guilt? Hardly. A frisson of imagined

  Buddhism? Possibly. Would Mrs Moth and the kids

  be at home waiting? Unlikely. It was either me or it.

  For who is to say that my visitor wasn’t a mutant killer

  waiting for me to fall asleep before stuffing itself

  down my throat and bringing to a suffocating end

  this short and insubstantial life… Do I hear thunder?

  ***

  A second meteor, a host-carrier bearing aliens from

  the Planet of the Moths, tears a hole in the damp taffeta

  at the hem of the hills surrounding Black Torrington.

  A soft rain still, but high above, a vellum moon.

  In his room, the Tutor pours himself a large scotch,

  guiltily wipes the smear of blood from the dust-jacket

  and settles down, unaware of the avenging, impending swarm.

  His poems are nets

  His poems are nets

  in which he hopes

  to capture girls

  He makes them at work

  or late at night

  when pubs are closed

  He uses materials

  at hand. Scraps

  of conversation, jokes,

  lines lifted from

  dead poets (he likes

  a bit of poetry in his poems)

  ***

  He washes his hair

  for the reading

  and wears tight pants

  When it comes to him

  he swaggers out

  unzipping his file

  Exposes small dreams

  which he breaks

  with a big stick

  His verse a mag

  nifying glass

  held up to his prick

  ***

  His poems are nets

  and like nets

  can be seen through

  Girls bide their time

  Wait for the singer

  to throw them a line.

  A Critic Reviews the Curate’s Egg

  ‘It’s all bad.

  Especially in parts.’

  Two Riddles

  (i)

  To ease us

  Through those difficult days

  At hand to tease out

  Waifs and strays

  Though causing pain

  We squeeze you again

  And again. Vain? Not really

  More a fear of the unruly

  If you wish to borrow mine

  Simply repeat the opening line.

  (ii)

  A rat (black) rattles across the floor

  A cross (red) daubed upon the door.

  A bell (muffled) rung in the early dawn

  A grave (deep) dug far away from town.

  A tumbril (full) trundles down the lane

  Tomorrow (and tomorrow) it will trundle again.

  People avoid me like the plague

  What am I?

  The Nearest Forty-two

  I want to write a new poem.

  What words shall I choose?

  I go in. The variety is endless.

  Images stretch into infinity.<
br />
  I dither. Can’t make up my mind.

  Inspiration becomes impatient.

  Stamps its feet. Panicking

  I grab the nearest forty-two,

  The Written Word

  (a Full Monty of poetic forms)

  A poet of little repute

  Desperate for something to do

  One evening pissed as a newt

  Decided to have a tattoo.

  On his chest an unrhymed sestina

  On his belly a fine villanelle

  On each bicep a series of haiku

  On each shank a tanka as well.

  On each shoulder a Petrarchan sonnet

  Making twenty-eight lines in all

  An acrostic across each firm buttock

  With a limerick, what else? on each ball.

  On each knee, though knobbly, a rondeau redoublé

  (which was terribly tricky to do)

  On each pendulous lobe, a Pindaric ode

  On each clavicle, a neat clerihew.

  Any flesh that remained was minutely quatrained

  (the odd couplet if not enough room)

  On the sole of each foot, a virelai was put

  An englyn and Malaysian pantoum.

  ***

  This poet of Great Repute

  Now travels from town to town

  Goes on stage, removes his shirt

  And takes his trousers down.

  While audiences marvel

  At the body of work so vast

  Concrete, surreal and post-modern

  Alongside the great works of the past.

  And some are poetry-lovers

  Who believe they could do worse

  Than curl up every evening

  With this anthology of verse.

  For nothing can beat the written word

  Especially on a torso, bared.

  Word Trap

  Sometimes they trap me

  Stop me in my tracks.

  Thinking my way through

  Towards a promising idea

  When I am distracted

  By a sound. A spelling crackles.

  Without a second thought

  I am off into the thicket.

  The next thing I know

  It is time for bed.

  Another poem finished

  And nothing said.

  Planet Babel

  ‘I found I could not use the long line because of my nervous nature.’

  – William Carlos Williams

  As soon as my voice is heard above the babble

  Which ceases as people turn

  I want to disappear. Hide under the table.

  My pulse races and I consequently gabble.

  Puzzled faces make mine burn

  And make it crystal clear – I’m from Planet Babel.

  On the Point of Extinction

  Manx: The celtic dialect (Manx Gaelic) of the Isle of Man, now on the point of extinction.

  Pears Encyclopaedia, 78th edition

  An old man walks into his local newsagents

  and asks, in perfect Manx, for a packet of Silk Cut

  and the Daily Mirror… Oh, and some aspirin

  for the missus. The man behind the counter,

  being new to the area, says, ‘Pardon?’

  Tobaccoless, paperless and aspirinless,

  the old man returns home to find his wife

  collapsed on the living-room floor.

  He telephones immediately for an ambulance,

  but the girl from the Emergency Services Provider,

  being in Manchester, says, ‘Pardon?’

  The old man rushes out into the busy street

  and in pure Manx Gaelic appeals for help

  to the passers-by. They either nod sympathetically

  and give directions to the ferry, or say, ‘Pardon?’

  The old woman dies. The old man is struck dumb.

  And Manx Gaelic, having nobody to talk to,

  sets off in search of the Land of Lost Tongues

  as fast as his three legs can carry him.

  The death of John Berryman in slow motion

  We open on a frozen river

  (the spot where the poet has arranged to meet death).

  The whiteness is blinding.

  The glare hurts our eyes.

  From somewhere above he jumps.

  We see the shadow first

  seeping into the ice

  like a bruise. Thickening.

  There is no sound but the wind

  skulking beneath the bridge.

  Now the body comes into shot.

  Falling, blurred, a ragged bearskin.

  The shadow opens its arms to greet it.

  The wind is holding its breath.

  We freeze frame at the moment of impact

  (noting the look of surprise on the poet’s face).

  We then pan slowly upwards

  to the grey Minnesota sky.

  Fade to black.

  One Poet May Hide Another

  (for Kenneth Koch)

  Kenya

  A car held up at a railroad crossing

  At the wheel, the poet.

  To pass the time he writes a poem.

  London

  Holed up in his study, a second poet

  Reads the poem, then ducks.

  He realizes that it may hide another.

  However

  He is unprepared for the train

  That comes hurtling out of the fireplace

  Followed by another, and another, and

  A Visit to the Poet and his Wife

  (for Sidney and Nessie Graham)

  To set the scene: A cave

  in Madron, Cornwall.

  On a warm September afternoon

  Mr and Mrs W.S.G. are ‘at home’

  to admirers bearing distilled gifts.

  Mine host, after clearing

  a mess of mss from the table

  takes implements in their places

  from its place, and puts on

  spectacles to clear the air.

  A warm, brown voice

  with silver whiskers unveils

  a poem that is the spitting

  image of itself. The onlisteners

  are amazed at its likeness.

  Tumblers, half-filled with malt,

  are topped up with bright

  watery sunshine by the good

  Lady of the Cottage. The afternoon

  saddens at its own passing.

  To set the scene: A cave

  in Madron, Cornwall.

  On a warm September afternoon

  Mr and Mrs W.S.G. are ‘at home’

  to admirers bearing distilled gifts.

  All for Laurie Lee

  (written for his 80th birthday)

  I love the way he uses words

  Will they work the same for me?

  ‘Sorry’ said the words,

  ‘We only do it for Laurie Lee’

  But words are common property

  They’re available and free

  Said the words: ‘We’re very choosy

  And we’ve chosen Laurie Lee’

  I want to write like he does

  But the words did all agree:

  ‘Sorry son we’re spoken for,

  We belong to Laurie Lee!’

  Educating Rita

  (for W.R.)

  Come in and welcome. You’re the first.

  Let me take your things. Go straight through.

  Now something to quench the nation’s thirst?

  There’s lager by the crate. A nice Moselle

  Local and highly recommended?

  Or there’s whisky, vodka, gin as well.

  When everyone’s arrived we’ll serve champagne

  And wet the baby’s head.

  God it’s hot. Never thought I’d miss rain.

  But there you go. The auld country?

  Not as much as I thought I would.

  Fresh strawberries. Spring perha
ps. And Guinness

  Which doesn’t travel well and never should.

  Susan misses it more I believe.

  The way ex-Scousers talk about the place

  You wonder why they leave:

  ‘Ferries across the Mersey, the old Pier ’Ead,

  Chip butties, the Kop, six in a bed,

  The “gents” in the Phil, a cathedral to spare,

  Liver birds with long fair hair.’

  And going on and on about the native wit

  You’d think the buggers had invented it.

  But deep down she’s no regrets I’m sure.

  She needed new friends, a fresh challenge.

  She’s her own woman now, more mature.

  She’ll be down in a minute with the star of the show.

  Oh by the way, the Russells are coming

  Whom I think you all know.

  Nice couple. Although Willy will insist

  On playing guitar and singing when he’s pissed.

  And exciting news, I think you’ll all agree,

  There’s a real live actress coming too

  Who’s starred in a West End theatre show.

  Filming out here, just passing through.

  So all you sheilas take real good care

  Lest Bruce or Norm disappear from the parlour

  Into the yard to show her a Koala bear.