Collected Poems Read online

  Nitrogen

  ‘O’ is for Oxygen

  so gregarious

  whereas I am

  colourless

  odourless

  and tasteless

  unattractive you might say

  unreactive in every way

  nitrogen: the night

  to oxygen’s day

  I am 75 per cent

  of the air you breathe

  so keep me clean

  For when I latch on

  to fumes that cars exhaust

  I am poison

  Nitro-glycerine

  that’s me as well Dynamite

  I can blow you all to hell

  But I’m not without

  a sense of humour

  N2O is the proof, nitrous oxide

  Inhale some laughing gas

  and see my funny side

  N is my symbol

  N for nebulous

  necessary

  and nondescript.

  Carbon

  I am an atom of carbon

  And carbon is the key

  I am the element of life

  And you owe yours to me

  I am the glue of the Universe

  The fixative

  used by the Great Model-maker

  I play a waiting game

  Lie low that’s my secret

  Take a breath every millennium

  But though set in my ways

  Don’t be misled. I’m not inert

  I will go down in cosmic history

  as an adventurer

  For when I do make a move

  Things happen and fast

  I am an atom of carbon

  And carbon is the key

  I am the element of life

  And you owe yours to me

  When the tune is called

  I carry the message

  to the piper

  Take the lead

  in the decorous dance

  of life and death

  Patient, single-minded and stable

  I keep my talents hidden

  Bide my time

  Until by Time am bidden.

  Iron

  Fefifofum

  As hard as nails

  As tough as they come

  I’m the most important

  Metal known to man

  (though aluminium

  is more common

  do we need another can?)

  Five per cent of the earth’s crust

  I am also the stone at its centre

  Iron fist in iron glove

  Adding weight to the system

  I am the firma in the terra

  Fe fi fo

  Don’t drop me on your toe

  My hobbies are space travel

  And changing the course of history

  (they even named an Age after me

  – eat your heart out Gold)

  And changing shape of course

  From axe heads and plough shares

  To masks maidens and missiles

  I am malleable

  I bend to your will

  I am both the sword and the shield

  The bullet and the forceps

  I am all around you

  And more much more

  You are all around me 2, 3, 4…

  You’ve got me

  Under your skin

  I’m in your blood

  What a spin that I’m in

  Haemoglobin

  You’ve got me

  Under your skin

  So strike while I’m hot

  For if I’m not there

  What are you?

  Anaemic that’s what

  Fe fi

  High and mighty

  Iron

  Gregarious and fancy-free

  Easy going that’s me

  No hidden depths

  I’m not elusive

  To be conclusive

  You get what you see

  Fe Fe

  Mercury

  I repose at great speed

  The joker in the pack

  I cannot be fathomed

  and turn your preconceptions

  upside-down

  You’ll find me attractive

  But I’m bad

  (a poisoned chalice)

  Hatters did

  and they went mad

  (ask Alice)

  Alchemists

  throughout the years

  have been besotted by me

  And understandably

  I promised Gold

  Immortality

  The secret of eternal youth

  What I delivered

  was Death

  A stab in the back

  As befits

  The joker in the pack

  Quicksilver

  I am a messenger

  And the message that I bring

  is…

  Sulphur

  I’m what gets witches

  a bad name

  Funny smells

  Gobbledy spells

  Given to theatrics

  I go in for special effects:

  Brimstone and treacle

  Hellfire. Eureka!

  Gold! The Elixir of Life! Immortality!

  Chinese alchemists were obsessed

  Emperors were impressed

  But in Beijing

  I couldn’t stop them

  – ageing

  And so they died

  (But not in vain)

  For a potion more mundane

  was chanced upon

  The Chinese called it:

  ‘Fire Drug’

  Mobsters

  got where they got with it…

  Children

  play a lot with it…

  Cities

  glow white hot with it…

  Guy Fawkes

  hatched a plot with it…

  Gunpowder.

  Gold

  I’m not a colour

  Let’s get that one straight

  right from the start

  Sunsets Daffodils Eagles

  All take my name in vain

  For vanity it is

  Let me explain:

  I’m the heart of things The core

  The Emperor of metals

  Hence, or

  Without me, commerce

  would grind to a halt.

  No money No trade

  Civilization (as you wish to know it)

  simply fade

  Of course, I can bring out the worse

  I admit

  That people kill for me

  That rivers of blood

  have been shed in my name

  But that’s you Not me.

  I’m not to blame

  I glister

  Am all show All style

  My aim is simple

  To make you smile

  Come closer:

  If you had gold

  and were offered something else

  Would you swap?

  No

  You see, I’ve every right to crow

  Le Coq d’or

  … The one on top

  Fool’s Gold

  I’m not real gold

  A sham

  Pyrite is what I am

  But I’m gold to the touch

  And look like gold as well

  So who can tell?

  Except the scientist

  (this alchemist who casts a spell

  exposing me)

  But I don’t care

  I had a good run for my money

  Besides

  All gold is fool’s gold

  For what is it after all?

  Bright yellow dung?

  The sun’s tears?

  Satan’s urine?

  Gold

  All who love you are fools.

  Element 109

  A mayfly blinks

  I have lived and died

  a thousand times

  Mine is a short life

  but an
exciting one

  I am man-made

  and owe my existence

  to science

  I have no name

  merely a number:

  109. It suits me.

  I could go on

  for hours and hours

  about my various properties

  But I won’t

  Now you see me

  Now you…

  Bob Dylan and the Blue Angel

  What benign stroke of fate took Bob Dylan

  to the Blue Angel Club after a gig at the Liverpool Empire

  in 1965 remains a mystery. But there he was, seemingly alone,

  all tousled up and shy, with Cilla goofing at the bar,

  and Freddie Starr on stage downstairs.

  Alan ‘The man who gave the Beatles away’ Williams

  introduced us. ‘He’s a poet too.’ So we talked poets and poetry,

  music and lyrics, and soon we’d talked our way out of the club,

  away from the noise and the crowd

  and into the history of rock ’n’ roll.

  At the intersection of Bold Street and Hardman Street

  he stopped. ‘I’m at the crossroads, Rog,’ he said.

  ‘I can see that, Bob,’ I said. ‘No, I mean my career,

  I don’t know which way to turn.’ ‘Seems clear to me, mate,

  let’s have a coffee and I’ll put you straight.’

  So over cappucino in the Picasso I laid it all out.

  Dump the acoustic. Forget the folksy stuff and go electric.

  Get yourself a band. I remember the look on his face.

  Sort of relief. The tension in the trademark

  hunched shoulders seemed to melt away.

  Hit the booze, make friends with cocaine

  to get that druggy feel. Divorce your wife, the pain will pay off

  in hard-won lyrics. His eyes closed, the bottom lip trembled.

  Poet to poet, you asked for my advice.

  I’m not here to give you an easy ride.

  Ten years from now you’ll be an icon. Sounds nice

  but trust me, go against the flow. Dismantle the status.

  Reinvent yourself. Embrace the faith of your fathers

  then give Christianity a go. With nothing to lose

  make albums that serve to confound and confuse.

  Then consolidate. A Lifetime Achievement Award,

  and then perhaps an Oscar. By the time you’re sixty…

  He smiled, ‘Hold on there, boy, we ain’t never

  gonna grow old.’ ‘You’re right, Bob.’ We laughed

  and made our way back to his hotel.

  On the moonlit steps of the Adelphi

  we exchanged phone numbers and addresses.

  Suddenly he looked young and vulnerable.

  Mumbling his thanks he hurried towards the entrance.

  ‘Don’t forget to write,’ I called. But he never did. Never did.

  Hey, Dude

  Paul has probably forgotten about the incident by now

  But I clearly remember that Saturday morning

  In the sun-filled drawing room of his elegant home

  In St John’s Wood. His brother Michael and I

  Relaxing over coffee and the morning papers

  When he came bounding in like a young puppy.

  ‘I’ve gorra new song, d’ye wanna hear it?’ Needless

  To say, we nodded and lowered our newspapers.

  He was already at the baby grand. ‘It’s a gear tune,

  But I haven’t got the words sorted yet,’ he explained

  By way of introduction, and then began to sing:

  ‘Hey, dude, get off of my cloud. Dumpty dumpty

  Di dumpty three is a crowd di dumpty dum di dumpty

  Dumpty dum Or I’ll push you off like Humpty Dumpty.’

  And so on and so on. And as the final chord faded

  Michael and I made the required appreciative noises.

  To have done otherwise would have seemed churlish.

  ‘No, seriously,’ he said, ‘what do you really think?’

  I knew from the way he was looking directly at me

  That it was the truth he wanted. ‘To be honest, Macca…’

  I hesitated, but his eyes were begging me to continue.

  ‘I think that the lyrics are working against the melody.

  There’s a lovesong in there, trying to get out, but…

  Well, it sounds more like Jagger than McCartney.’

  The reference to the Stones brought him to his feet.

  To underline my point Michael sang the opening bars

  Of ‘Get off of my cloud’ while his brother, head lowered,

  Leaned against the piano as if his world might collapse.

  I had to think on my feet, so I stood up and said,

  ‘What about “Hey, Jude?” You know, use a girl’s name?’

  Paul looked puzzled. ‘That’s a funny name for a bird.’

  ‘It’s short for Judith,’ I explained with all the confidence

  Of someone having it off with a girl called Judith.

  ‘Forget the dude. Forget pushing people off clouds.

  Forget Humpty Dumpty. Think of the lovely Jude

  And you’ve got another number one on your hands.’

  He didn’t say anything before going back upstairs

  But the gentle squeeze of my shoulder spoke volumes.

  As we left the house we could hear his guitar

  As he unpacked his rich mind-hoard of love lyrics.

  Outside, Michael and I selected a couple of the likeliest-

  looking Beatles groupies and whizzed them down to the pub.

  A Bolt from the Blue

  In no way am I trying to lay claim

  to kickstarting the career of Jimi Hendrix.

  What took place that night might well have

  happened anyway. But please hear me out.

  The early sixties. At the Scotch of St James

  in the heart of Mayfair, a meagre crowd

  has turned up to witness Jimi’s first UK

  appearance. It was an embarrassment.

  After the show, Chas Chandler came over

  to ask if, as one of the only real celebrities there,

  I would pop backstage to offer a few words

  of advice and comfort to the young man.

  Smaller in real life, he was languishing

  on a velvet settee looking for all the world

  like a black Little Lord Fauntleroy.

  He groaned: ‘I ain’t never gonna play again.’

  As I was about to protest, he picked up a cloth

  and began to wipe the neck of his banjo.

  It was then that I had the idea.

  It came to me like a bolt from the blue.

  Thank U Very Much

  Taking a break from recording at Olympic Studios

  the Gallaghers, large as life, were outside my local

  that August evening, when, pen and notebook in hand

  I strolled past as inconspicuously as possible.

  But in vain. It was Noel who recognized me

  and well-nigh dragged me over to their table.

  Liam bought the round: red wine for his brother,

  large whiskey for himself, and a lager top for me.

  ‘Tell us about John Lennon.’ ‘Tell us about the Sixties.’

  ‘Tell us about…’ A double-act that was difficult

  to penetrate. ‘Relax, lads,’ I said, ‘well understand

  your excitement, but one at a time, please.’

  ‘Tell us about Scaffold.’ ‘Tell us about Brian Epstein.’

  ‘Calm down, calm down,’ I said with Aintree irony.

  ‘If you’re really interested, why not hit my web-site?’

  Liam removed his shades. ‘Gob-shite.’

  My Divine Juggler

  Jugglers, as you can imagine,

  are great fun to be with.

  Mine i
s.

  Alert and ambidextrous,

  rarely dropping an aitch or missing a trick,

  head in the air, clear-eyed and smiling,

  I’m mad for him.

  No couch potato he.

  After a hard day in the busy town square

  he comes home to prepare supper.

  Under the spotlight in the kitchen

  he works the vegetables, eight at a time.

  Spins plates, tosses pans.

  In orbit, knives hiss with pleasure.

  In the bathroom, ducks and deodorants

  spring to life in his hands.

  Loofahs loop-the-loop. A Ferris Wheel

  of shower-caps and shampoo bottles.

  Flannels paraglide, soaps and sponges

  dance a perfumed fandango.

  I would die for him.

  He will be the perfect father, I know it.

  In the maternity ward he arrived,

  laden with champagne and flowers.

  Matron gasped, midwives giggled,

  other mothers marvelled as the newlyborn

  went spinning through the air like startled planets:

  Mars, Mercury, Jupiter. Our triplets.

  My divine juggler.

  Love Cycle

  Up against the wall

  Locked in passionate embrace

  our two bicycles

  M.I.L.T.

  Blessed are the children and happy the spouses

  Lucky the neighbours who everyday meet

  Mothers In Leather Trousers

  Pushing their buggies in T-shirts or blouses

  Swish-swash hear them shimmying down the street

  Blessed are the children and happy the spouses

  Bricklayers’ labourers stop building houses

  Scaffolders, road-diggers, drivers compete

  To whistle at Mothers In Leather Trousers