Collected Poems Page 3

  So then they would try and catch him out.

  Ask questions about Shakespeare. About proper books.

  ***

  Although a stevedore (Mum preferred that to ‘docker’)

  And landlubbered all his married life

  He’d have passed four-square on seamanship.

  Because he’d been to sea himself when young

  And would often talk, with some regret,

  Of how he’d nearly jumped ship in Fremantle.

  He loved the solitude of the bush. Its stillness,

  And the sky a blueprint for eternity.

  ‘And the names of the places. Now that’s poetry!’

  I picture ourselves in the outback

  The nearest library five hundred miles away

  Him, married to a girl from Manjimup

  Me, trying to make sense of alphabet soup.

  The Railings

  You came to watch me playing cricket once.

  Quite a few of the fathers did.

  At ease, outside the pavilion

  they would while away a Saturday afternoon.

  Joke with the masters, urge on

  their flannelled offspring. But not you.

  Fielding deep near the boundary

  I saw you through the railings.

  You were embarrassed when I waved

  and moved out of sight down the road.

  When it was my turn to bowl though

  I knew you’d still be watching.

  Third ball, a wicket, and three more followed.

  When we came in at the end of the innings

  the other dads applauded and joined us for tea.

  Of course, you had gone by then. Later,

  you said you’d found yourself there by accident.

  Just passing. Spotted me through the railings.

  ***

  Speech-days • Prize-givings • School-plays

  The Twentyfirst • The Wedding • The Christening

  You would find yourself there by accident.

  Just passing. Spotted me through the railings.

  Squaring Up

  When I was thirteen and crimping my first quiff

  Dad bought me a pair of boxing-gloves

  In the hope that I would aspire to the Noble Art.

  But I knew my limitations from the start:

  Myopia, cowardice and the will to come second.

  But I feigned enthusiasm for his sake.

  Straight after tea, every night for a week

  We would go a few rounds in the yard.

  Sleeves rolled up, collarless and gloveless

  He would bob and weave and leave me helpless.

  Uppercuts would tap me on the chin

  Left hooks muss my hair, haymakers tickle my ear.

  Without glasses, only one thing was clear:

  The fact that I was hopeless. He had a son

  Who couldn’t square up. So we came to blows.

  Losing patience, he caught me on the nose.

  I bled obligingly. A sop. A sacrifice.

  Mum threw in the towel and I quit the ring.

  But when the bell goes each birthday I still feel the sting

  Not of pain, but of regret. You said sorry

  And you were. I didn’t. And I wasn’t.

  ‘What does your father do?’

  At university, how that artful question embarrassed me.

  In the common-room, coffee cup balancing on cavalry twills

  Some bright spark (usually Sociology) would want an answer.

  Shame on me, as feigning lofty disinterest, I would hesitate.

  Should I mumble ‘docker’ in the hope of being misheard?

  (‘There he goes, a doctor’s son, and every inch the medical man.’)

  Or should I pick up the hook and throw it down like a gauntlet?

  ‘Docker. My dad’s a docker.’ A whistle of corduroy.

  How about? ‘He’s a stevedore, from the Spanish “estibador”

  Meaning a packer, or loader, as in ship.’ No, sounds too

  On the Waterfront, and Dad was no Marlon Brando.

  Besides, it’s the handle they want not the etymology.

  ‘He’s a foreman on the docks.’ A hint of status? Possibly.

  A touch of class? Hardly. Better go with the straightforward:

  ‘He works on the docks in Liverpool,’ which leaves it open.

  Crane-driver? Customs and Excise Officer? Canteen manager?

  Clerk? Chairman of the Mersey Docks and Harbour Board?

  In dreams, I hear him naming the docks he knew and loved.

  A mantra of gentle reproach: Gladstone, Hornby, Alexandra,

  Langton, Brocklebank, Canada, Huskisson, Sandon, Wellington,

  Bramley Moor, Nelson, Salisbury, Trafalgar, Victoria.

  Having My Ears Boxed

  I am waiting in the corridor

  To have my ears boxed.

  I am nervous, for Mr O’Hanlon

  Is a beast of his word.

  For the last twenty minutes

  I have let my imagination

  Run away with itself.

  But I am too scared to follow.

  Will he use that Swiss Army knife

  To slice through cleanly? Bite them off?

  Tear carefully along perforated lines?

  Tug sharply like loose Elastoplasts?

  Acknowledging the crowd’s roar

  Will he hold my head aloft

  As if it were the FA Cup

  And pull the handles? Aagghhrr…

  And then the box. Cardboard?

  Old cigar-box possibly? Or a pair?

  Separate coffins of polished pine.

  L and R. ‘Gone to a better place.’

  Impatient now, I want to get it

  Over with. Roll on four o’clock.

  When, hands over where-my-ears-used-to-be

  I run the gauntlet of jeering kids.

  At six, mother arrives home weary

  After a hard day at the breadcrumb factory.

  I give her the box. She opens it

  And screams something. I say:

  ‘Pardon?’

  Another Brick in the Wall

  ‘Its like bashing your head against a brick wall,’

  said Brother Ryan,

  bashing my head against a brick wall.

  Sacrifices

  I was forever hearing about the sacrifices

  My parents made.

  Little ones almost daily

  Big ones when required.

  Having me meant sacrifices. Going without.

  And then to cap it all, the Scholarship:

  School uniforms, violin lessons,

  Elocution, extra tuition.

  ‘If it’s not one thing it’s another.

  I hope you’re worth it.’ But was I?

  The dictionary confirmed my doubts:

  ‘Sacrifice, a ritual killing of a person

  or animal with the intention of pleasing a deity.’

  Sacrifice. No, I wasn’t worth it.

  All that blood for a few O-levels.

  Wearing Thin

  ‘You’ll soon grow into it,’ she would say

  When buying a school blazer three sizes too big.

  And she was right as mothers usually are.

  Syrup of figs. Virol. Cod liver oil.

  Within a year I did grow into it

  By then, of course, it was threadbare.

  Pulling in different directions

  My clothes and I never matched.

  And in changing-rooms nothing has changed.

  I can buy what I like and when

  New clothes that are a perfect fit.

  Full-length mirror, nervous grin,

  It’s me now that’s threadbare, wearing thin.

  How to Become a Sixer

  Wait until Akela is out of the room

  and the noise level begins to rise.

  As soon as you hear returning footsteps

&nbs
p; call out in a loud, clear voice:

  ‘Quiet everybody. We promised to get on

  with things in silence. DYB. DYB. DYB. Remember?’

  By now the footsteps will have stopped

  and the Pack looking to see if you are being serious.

  Ignore them, and use the pause

  to do something useful, like tying a knot.

  Akela will then make stamping noises

  and open the door. Everything is shipshape.

  Acknowledge the appraising glance

  but appear embarrassed, as if you wished

  you could bite your tongue off.

  Promotion will quickly follow. And disappointment:

  Akela in a tent, unfurling his knob.

  Dirty Old Bugger. DOB. DOB. DOB.

  Maurice

  There were no ‘gays’ in those days, only ‘funny’ men.

  Enter Mrs Thomas: ‘He’s a bit effeminate

  That Maurice. “Funny”, if you ask me.

  Bringing his “friend” home on leave

  The two of them in bed and her bringing in the tea.

  His own mother not knowing. It will end in tears.

  What do they call themselves nowadays?

  Course, she brought it all on herself. (Queers!

  That’s it.) Spoiled from the word go.

  Too nesh to play out in the street.

  The other boys were rough, and Ho! Ho!

  He might be led astray. Him, led astray?

  Mind you, it’s none of my business

  Live and let live, that’s what I say.

  Although, to be honest, if I had my way

  I’d put the pair of them on show in the zoo.

  I mean, what do they see in each other?

  I mean, what do they actually, pardon the expression, do?’

  Hard Times

  (i)

  Each year, in early December

  Grandma would oblige

  by falling over

  and dislocating something

  In hospital, on Christmas Day

  all the family would visit

  Sit round the bed

  and gobble up her dinner.

  (ii)

  To eke out extra money

  during the summer holidays

  my schoolfriends and I

  would go nit-picking

  Conditions were terrible

  and the pay was poor

  But there were perks:

  We were allowed to keep the eggs.

  (iii)

  If we could have afforded a bath

  We would have had the best. A fine one.

  Iron. Broad as a bed, deep as the ocean.

  Standing in wingèd feet, proud as a lion.

  And oh, what coal we would have stored in it.

  Nuggets, big as babies’ heads, still blinking

  In the daylight. Black as wedding-boots,

  So polished you could see your face in them.

  And oh, what stories we might have told,

  Seated round the hearth on winter nights

  The fire crackling, the flames leaping,

  Amber liquor sparkling in crystal glasses.

  Unfortunately, we were too poor to know stories.

  Spitting Prohibited

  When I was a boy (cue Brass Band)

  A notice downstairs on every bus and tram

  Said: NO SMOKING, SPITTING PROHIBITED.

  Then overnight, or so it seemed, things changed.

  The second part was painted over

  And the sign said simply: NO SMOKING.

  Imagine that first morning, when passengers,

  Bleary-eyed, looked up and saw,

  By omission, an invitation.

  Then did everybody, unrestrained,

  Leap up, clear their throats and let rip?

  Expectorate to their lungs’ content?

  Did drip, dribble, spurt and spatter?

  Hawk and croak until the windows were streaming

  And the passageways awash?

  Transport Committee met and unanimously agreed

  That every by-law be clearly stated

  And the notice then to read:

  NO SMOKING. SPITTING PROHIBITED.

  PLEASE REFRAIN FROM URINATING AND DEFECATING,

  SOLICITING AND IMPORTUNING.

  FORNICATION AND BESTIALITY FORBIDDEN.

  ARSON, RAPE AND PILLAGE NOT PERMITTED.

  (STRICTLY, NO BRASS BANDS.)

  Ee Bah Gum

  Spare a thought for your grandmother

  who would sit me on her knee

  (she had just the one), and tell ee

  bah gum stories of days gone by.

  ‘Ee bah gum, it were reet tough,’

  she would say, ‘workin at mill

  from dawn until dusk,

  and all for a measly ten shillin a week.’

  The thought of clogs and cobbled streets

  of matchstick men and smoking chimneys

  would bring a tear to her eye,

  (she had just the one), then, brightening:

  ‘Mind you, in those days you could buy a nice house,

  end-of-terrace for sixpence,

  and for a fortnight in Blackpool

  you got change out of a farthing.’

  Spare a thought for your grandmother

  who married well and wanted lots

  and lots of children (she had just the one),

  and so bequeathed to me, her Lowrys.

  A Fine Tooth Comb

  When granny was young she was famous for her teeth.

  Although, not so much for her teeth

  as for the thick golden hair that covered them.

  Unusual, even for those days.

  But that blonde smile was her crowning glory

  and last thing at night, she would gargle

  with shampoo before combing her teeth,

  or brushing with a pocket-sized Mason & Pearson.

  They were the pride of Halifax, and many a lad

  came a-calling, until Ted. Love at first sight

  they were married the following year.

  Then came the war and the long march into night.

  As granny grew older her teeth fell out

  one by one, and her hair turned grey.

  And today, she has but a single tooth

  set in a thin curtain of silver.

  Alone now, but the nightly ritual continues

  as she takes from her dressing-table drawer

  ‘A present to my one and only girl’

  from Ted who went to war and didn’t come home.

  Polished rosewood inlaid with pearl:

  A fine tooth comb.

  Vague Impressions

  Ossie Edwards couldn’t punch a hole in a wet echo.

  He was no fighter.

  And if he wasn’t thicker than two short planks

  he wasn’t much brighter.

  To compensate, he did impressions.

  Impressions of trains, impressions of planes,

  of James Cagney and Donald Duck.

  As they all sounded the same

  his impressions made little impression

  on the 3rd year Cosa Nostra

  and so he was bullied mercifully.

  Then, quite suddenly, Ossie saw the light.

  One Monday morning during R.I.

  he switched to birdcalls.

  Peewits, kestrels, tomtits and kingfishers

  he became them all.

  Larks and nightingales.

  The birdnotes burst from his throat

  like a host of golden buckshot.

  And as the nearest anyone got to ornithology

  was playing football on a debris with a dead pigeon

  there could be no argument.

  So he was rechristened ‘Percy’

  and left alone.

  And left alone

  he twittered his way happily to 3 ‘O’ levels

  and a job in a shipping office.

>   ‘Twas there he met Sylvia

  whom he courted and married.

  She took an interest in his hobby

  and they were soon appearing in local concerts:

  ‘The Sylvatones – Bird Impressionists’.

  The double-act ended however

  when Sylvia left him for a widower

  who taught her how to sing.

  Her love for Perce she realised

  never was the real thing,

  but, like his impressions, a tuneful imitation.

  And that was years ago and still

  whenever I pass that way at night

  and hear the shrill

  yearning hoot of an owl,

  I imagine Percy

  perched out there in the darkness,

  lonely, obsessed.

  Calling for his love

  to return to the nest.

  George and the Dragonfly

  Georgie Jennings was spit almighty.

  When the golly was good

  he could down a dragonfly at 30 feet

  and drown a 100 midges with the fallout.

  At the drop of a cap

  he would outspit lads

  years older and twice his size.

  Freckled and rather frail

  he assumed the quiet dignity

  beloved of schoolboy heroes.

  But though a legend in his own playtime

  Georgie Jennings failed miserably in the classroom