Collected Poems Read online

  Try to clamber aboard. The ones who scoff,

  Who ignore the signs. I have my orders,

  There will be no stowaways. No gatecrashers

  At my party. A party starting soon.

  And the sooner the better. Like a grounded

  Astronaut I grow daily more impatient.

  Am on tenterhooks. Each night

  I ask the Lord to get on with it.

  I fear sometimes He has forsaken us,

  We His favourite children. Meek, drilled,

  And ready to inherit an earth, newly-cleansed.

  I scan the headlines, watch the screen.

  A doctor thrilling at each fresh tumour:

  The latest invasion, a breakdown of talks.

  I pray for malignancy. The self-induced

  Sickness for which there is only one cure:

  Radium treatment. The final absolution.

  That part of full circle we have yet to come.

  Icarus Allsorts

  ‘A meteorite is reported to have landed in New England. No damage is said…’

  A littlebit of heaven fell

  From out the sky one day

  It landed in the ocean

  Not so very far away

  The General at the radar screen

  Rubbed his hands with glee

  And grinning pressed the button

  That started World War Three.

  From every corner of the earth

  Bombs began to fly

  There were even missile jams

  No traffic lights in the sky

  In the times it takes to blow your nose

  The people fell, the mushrooms rose

  ‘House!’ cried the fatlady

  As the bingohall moved to various parts

  of the town

  ‘Raus!’ cried the German butcher

  as his shop came tumbling down

  Philip was in the countinghouse

  Counting out his money

  The Queen was in the parlour

  Eating bread and honey

  When through the window

  Flew a bomb

  And made them go all funny

  In the time it takes to draw a breath

  Or eat a toadstool, instant death

  The rich

  Huddled outside the doors of their fallout shelters

  Like drunken carolsingers

  The poor

  Clutching shattered televisions

  And last week’s editions of T.V. Times

  (but the very last)

  Civil defence volunteers

  With their tin hats in one hand

  And their heads in the other

  C.N.D. supporters

  Their ban the bomb badges beginning to rust

  Have scrawled ‘I told you so’ in the dust.

  A littlebit of heaven fell

  From out the sky one day

  It landed in Vermont

  North-Eastern U.S.A.

  The general at the radar screen

  He should have got the sack

  But that wouldn’t bring

  Three thousand million, seven hundred,

  and sixty-eight people back,

  Would it?

  Three Rusty Nails

  Mother, there’s a strange man

  Waiting at the door

  With a familiar sort of face

  You feel you’ve seen before.

  Says his name is Jesus

  Can we spare a couple of bob

  Says he’s been made redundant

  And now can’t find a job.

  Yes I think he is a foreigner

  Egyptian or a Jew

  Oh aye, and that reminds me

  He’d like some water too.

  Well shall I give him what he wants

  Or send him on his way?

  OK I’ll give him 5p

  Say that’s all we’ve got today.

  And I’ll forget about the water

  I suppose it’s a bit unfair

  But honest, he’s filthy dirty

  All beard and straggly hair.

  ***

  Mother, he asked about the water

  I said the tank had burst

  Anyway I gave him the coppers

  That seemed to quench his thirst.

  He said it was little things like that

  That kept him on the rails

  Then he gave me his autographed picture

  And these three rusty nails.

  Mother the Wardrobe is Full of Infantrymen

  mother the wardrobe is full of infantrymen

  i did i asked them

  but they snarled saying it was a mans life

  mother there is a centurion tank in the parlour

  i did i asked the officer

  but he laughed saying ‘Queens regulations’

  (piano was out of tune anyway)

  mother polish your identity bracelet

  there is a mushroom cloud in the backgarden

  i did i tried to bring in the cat

  but it simply came to pieces in my hand

  i did i tried to whitewash the windows

  but there weren’t any

  i did i tried to hide under the stairs

  but i couldn’t get in for civil defence leaders

  i did i tried ringing candid camera

  but they crossed their hearts

  i went for a policeman but they were looting the town

  i went out for a fire engine but they were all upside down

  i went for a priest but they were all on their knees

  mother don’t just lie there say something please

  mother don’t just lie there say something please

  At Lunchtime

  When the bus stopped suddenly

  to avoid damaging

  a mother and child in the road,

  the younglady in the green hat sitting opposite,

  was thrown across me,

  and not being one to miss an opportunity

  i started to make love.

  At first, she resisted,

  saying that it was too early in the morning,

  and too soon after breakfast,

  and anyway, she found me repulsive.

  But when i explained

  that this being a nuclearage

  the world was going to end at lunchtime,

  she took off her green hat,

  put her busticket into her pocket

  and joined in the exercise.

  The buspeople,

  and there were many of them,

  were shockedandsurprised,

  and amusedandannoyed.

  But when word got around

  that the world was going to end at lunchtime,

  they put their pride in their pockets

  with their bustickets

  and made love one with the other.

  And even the busconductor,

  feeling left out,

  climbed into the cab,

  and struck up some sort of relationship with the driver.

  That night, on the bus coming home,

  we were all a little embarrassed,

  especially me and the younglady in the green hat,

  and we all started to say

  in different ways

  how hasty and foolish we had been.

  But then, always having been a bitofalad,

  i stood up and said it was a pity

  that the world didnt nearly end every lunchtime,

  and that we could always pretend.

  And then it happened…

  Quick asa crash

  we all changed partners,

  and soon the bus was aquiver

  with white, mothball bodies doing naughty things.

  And the next day

  And everyday

  In everybus

  In everystreet

  In everytown

  In everycountry

  People pretended

  that the world was coming to an
end at lunchtime.

  It still hasnt.

  Although in a way it has.

  On Having a First Book of Poetry Published (The day the world ended.)

  Oh, what dreadful timing! It couldn’t have been worse!

  For that long-awaited, ground-breaking volume of verse.

  A title to die for, an immaculate cover,

  Cool photo on the back, then Bang it’s all over.

  Your publisher hired a publicist to titillate the press

  (a review already promised in the TLS, no less).

  Fingers crossed for Waterstones and a window display

  The launch in Covent Garden, and the following day

  a signing at Harrods (you’ve dreamed of this for yonks)

  Practising your signature, you wore out two Mont Blancs.

  Then the poetry-reading circuit (50 mins, plus Q & A)

  Dropping by at bookstores and libraries on the way.

  A choice of Literary Festivals (Cheltenham, Hay-on-Wye)

  Chats on local radio, and perhaps one day on Sky.

  But, oh, what lousy timing, how could anybody guess

  Your career as a poet would last an hour or less.

  Yes, it would have been marvellous, it would have been splendid

  If you hadn’t had it published on the day the world ended.

  Let me Die a Youngman’s Death

  Let me die a youngman’s death

  not a clean & inbetween

  the sheets holywater death

  not a famous-last-words

  peaceful out of breath death

  When I’m 73

  & in constant good tumour

  may I be mown down at dawn

  by a bright red sports car

  on my way home

  from an allnight party

  Or when I’m 91

  with silver hair

  & sitting in a barber’s chair

  may rival gangsters

  with hamfisted tommyguns burst in

  & give me a short back & insides

  Or when I’m 104

  & banned from the Cavern

  may my mistress

  catching me in bed with her daughter

  & fearing for her son

  cut me up into little pieces

  & throw away every piece but one

  Let me die a youngman’s death

  not a free from sin tiptoe in

  candle wax & waning death

  not a curtains drawn by angels borne

  ‘what a nice way to go’ death

  Summer with Monika

  1

  they say the sun shone now and again

  but it was generally cloudy

  with far too much rain

  they say babies were born

  married couples made love

  (often with eachother)

  and people died

  (sometimes violently)

  they say it was an average

  ordinary

  moderate

  run of the mill

  commonorgarden

  summer

  … but it wasn’t

  for i locked a yellowdoor

  and i threw away the key

  and i spent summer with monika

  and monika spent summer with me

  unlike everybody else

  we made friends with the weather…

  mostdays the sun called

  and sprawled

  allover the place

  or the wind blew in

  as breezily as ever

  and ran its fingers through our hair

  but usually

  it was the moon that kept us company

  somedays we thought about the seaside

  and built sandcastles on the blankets

  and paddled in the pillows

  or swam in the sink

  and played with the shoals of dishes

  otherdays we went for long walks

  around the table

  and picnicked on the banks

  of the settee

  or just sunbathed lazily

  in front of the fire

  until the shilling set on the horizon

  we danced a lot that summer…

  bosanovaed by the bookcase

  or maddisoned instead

  hulligullied by the oven

  or twisted round the bed

  at first we kept birds

  in a transistor box

  to sing for us

  but sadly they died

  we being too embraced in eachother

  to feed them

  but it didn’t really matter

  because we made lovesongs with our bodies

  i became the words

  and she put me to music

  they say it was just

  like

  anyother

  summer

  … but it wasn’t

  for we had love and eachother

  and the moon for company

  when i spent summer with monika

  and

  monika

  spent summer

  withme

  2

  ten milk bottles standing in the hall

  ten milk bottles up against the wall

  next door neighbour thinks we’re dead

  hasnt heard a sound he said

  doesnt know weve been in bed

  the ten whole days since we were wed

  noone knows and noone sees

  we lovers doing as we please

  but people stop and point at these

  ten milk bottles a-turning into cheese

  ten milk bottles standing day and night

  ten different thicknesses and

  different shades of white

  persistent carolsingers without a note to utter

  silent carolsingers a-turning into butter

  now she’s run out of passion

  and theres not much left in me

  so maybe we’ll get up

  and make a cup of tea

  then people can stop wondering

  what they’re waiting for

  those ten milk bottles a-queuing at our door

  those ten milk bottles a-queuing at our door

  3

  saturday morning

  time for stretching

  and yawning

  the languid

  heavy lidded

  lovemaking

  the smile

  the kiss

  the ‘who do you love?’

  and then the weekly

  confidence trick:

  the yoursaying its my

  turn to make the tea

  and the my getting out

  of bed and making it

  4

  our love will be an epic film

  with dancing songs and laughter

  the kind in which the lovers meet

  and live happy everafter

  our love will be a famous play

  with lots of bedroom scenes

  you are twenty-two you are monika

  and only we know what that means

  5

  when the moon is waiting

  for the first bus home

  and birds assemble

  for morning prayers

  in the ticktock blanketness

  of our dunlopillolove

  you open your secret door

  and i tiptoe in

  quietly

  for fear of waking the alarmclock

  6

  you give me the eye i sigh

  and feign disinterest

  you pretend to cry

  and put me to the test

  (a cunning little ruse)

  i think ‘ha ha’,

  you wink and far

  be it from me to refuse

  how you love it

  when youre being teased

  the eye that weeps most

  when best pleased

  7

  take ahold of my mind

  and g
ently but firmly

  push it between your thighs

  and in that warm numbness

  let it remain

  whilst you go about the house

  doing your sweet everyday things

  8

  thistime

  let there be no goodbyes

  letsstillbefriends

  parting is such

  sicklysweet sorrow

  let us holdhands

  and think not of tomorrow

  but of our dailyselves

  for there’s love here

  such love

  as makes unhappiness

  appear to have mislaid our address

  9

  i have lately learned to swim

  and now feel more at home

  in the ebb and flow of your slim

  rhythmic tide

  than in the fullydressed

  couldntcareless

  restless world outside

  10

  monika

  i love you more

  than all my redleather waistcoats

  and i will never give you away

  to the nastyman

  who lives at the end of the road

  11

  if i were a parkkeeper

  i would strollacross the summerlawns

  of your mind

  and with a pointedstick

  collect all the memories

  which lie about

  like empty cigarettepackets

  and in a distantcorner

  where you could not see

  i would burn them in the shade

  of your love for me

  12

  you squeeze my hand and

  cry alittle

  you cannot comprehend the

  raggletaggle of living

  and think it unfair that

  Death