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Minor
Hadleigh Poet Unearthed Hadleigh has
been the home of a cleric burned at the stake, a lesser-known but influential 20th
century painter and for a period in the early 90s it was home to a minor English poet. Ben Tone has
since hung up his books and we believe that he has gone to ground.
Such is often the way with wayward geniuses – it’s either the
booze or family life, which does for them.
Fortunately, we
have been able to acquire a few examples of Tone’s works and we’ve
chosen to showcase the best of them. During his
brief poetic flowering (circa 1991 - 1995), Tone reputedly earned £1.20 in royalties. Clearly, this is hardly recompense for the hours of hard work
that went into his creative outpourings and reflects the pathetic
treatment that poets receive in this country.
Whilst Robbie Fowler can pick up a fat cheque from Leeds when
he’s wearing the sky blue of Man City, our poet is now probably slaving
away in some office for a pittance. On the other hand, people have questioned his talent and have suggested that his later works are immature, mawkish, and repetitive. (His partner's stern judgement echoes down the years: "a self-punishing and depressive set of poems".) We take a slightly more benign view and believe that he’s
probably just been too busy. One
day, Tone
may return. Hadleigh’s
literary critic There is a van
wigwagging On my door-step, cars
hooting And my brain is
struggling for A synonym for “cock
up”. “Sorry mate, no
effing way, Now, if your porch
was two foot Longer or the sofa
two Foot shorter, it’ed
sail in.” The chippie next door
is out, So a screwdriver
serves as A chisel creating
divots In the ancient sash
window. Mate one say
confidently, “I’m confident,
it’ll go in”. The three of us
see-saw the Settee through the
aperture. Mate two, a show room
type Offers a woman’s
joke. “Three words, two
letters each Meaning very small?
Is it in? On the Anglia Evening
News A forty-foot humpback
whale Lies dead on a North
Norfolk Beach.
“How did it ever get there?” Hunched over, can in
hand, Spraying “I love
you” with de-icer In your neat and
girlish script Onto the windscreen
of the Escort You were spotted by a
neighbour- Hood watcher who
salivated At the thought of
reporting A crime involving a
hooded Figure caught in an
act Of gratuitous
vandalism. Moments later, late
for work I Strolled by,
oblivious to your Impulsive gesture,
but I did Note for the first
time, ice and thaw. Chink, chink,
clippers clash As hair falls
silently, gathering In tufts on the white
shroud. Footballers, horses,
shooting, Crimes, punishment,
pain. Men’s talk measured
taciturn. A rimmed mirror,
shining bowl, Condoms stacked like
building blocks, Brylcream jars,
shaving sticks For stabbing blood
from cuts And a penny jar for
brave boys. The barber, hunched
grey-faced Willing, pleasing,
removes a towel Releasing showers of
hair fragments. In the ungarbing
movement, The congregation
stirs. A dee-jay trills,
optimistically, Urgently and out of
place. Clink, clink, door
slaps shut And the cold air
stings The shaven nape of
his neck. My eyebrow must have
punctured like a peach when I hit the tarmac, Large drops of blood
plopped onto my trousers drying instantly. Helped to my feet, I
was taken into a toilet. “It’s all right,
it’ll be all right, don’t worry”. I recognised my face
in the mirror and winced. My eyebrow with a
deep cut, exposed seeds, and the first stagy expletive from me. My helpers wanted a
name and I supplied a name and a telephone number twice. Nausea clung to me
and a stranger put his arm around me. As the sickness
passed and turned to chill I asked for my jacket. At the hospital, I
was asked for my name, date of birth, address, postcode, place of birth,
doctor’s name, next of kin and religion (if any). The doctor and the
nurse, both blondes, prepared the room jocularly. They stung the wound,
bleached it and tugged in a row of stitches, Finally glue (take a
deep breath) was squirted onto my wound. Two syringes with
tetanus were jabbed into the outside of both thighs, The puncture holes
bled. The nurse said they
only usually bleed if you’re nervous. Aged
four, travelling to school alone, by bus, he hatched a plot to steal a
shoebox of Lego pretending it was his own Some years
later on the eve of his First Confession he weighed up this crime,
committed in the limbo between Original Sin and the Age of Reason, and
sure in the knowledge that he had escaped the clutches of the secular
powers defied the Church but confessed to the lesser charges of swearing,
fighting and cheeking his mother. John
Menzies,
Rochdale, in the days before instant specs, awaiting another fitting, he
stole a Sven Hassel (Waffen SS unit slaughter partisans on the Russian
Front). Two excuses
this time: impending blindness and stealing books could not be theft -
knowledge should be free. He wore his
glasses in Charlie Cragg's maths lesson, only Bren Fenney noticed, so he
put them away for seven years. We fold back
the nettles to let her pass. Country-raised
she flinches from their sting, Looks for dock
leaves and rosary beads And berates me
for my lack of fore-thought. He blinks and I
read his dash-dot As sympathy
and/or shock at the onslaught. We've just left
the bypass and the beaten path And strayed
into the gap between ditch and crop: Our Sunday
jaunt to see the ducks and ford Of
"Suffolk's prettiest village" is off track. Only she
remains unchanged, He and I have
swapped roles over a time-span Of twenty-five
years: I cajole; he's silent. She's ill
equipped for this expedition, Ill-prepared
for my "idea of a stroll", sixty. Her back hurts,
her feet ache, she's gagging. What's there to
see, only the back of my heels. I see rape and
familiar undulations. (What does he see?) Passed the
ford, the chicks ("You can see them in the park.") The teashop 's
shut. It keeps pub hours. Lost in my
English country garden In a month
without rain the colour has bleached from the garden Leaving only
the lilac of the buddleia with it's flotilla of red admiral And the
wallpaper pink of the hollyhock (Nature assists
a poet who sees only the common or garden). From my vantage
point amongst the plastic furniture Ants evade
heaps of white powder, Birds swim high
in cool air-streams And lying in
wait for an in visible fly, Wasp-like
creatures hover under the plastic lean-to. If I live to be
100 would it be worthwhile studying the manuals? As millions of
nameless creatures are born, Grow and die
lost in my English country garden. Meanwhile she
pads around with swollen ankles, Heavy with
child, putting names and faces to her hardy annuals. Why not throw
Howard's End away and retain those two magical words?
Ceasing to
notice everyday objects, the surrounding fields, my travelling companions,
I noticed the ease of my movement, From the hips
forward, Stepping into
the moment. Ceasing to
notice my blistered feet I noticed the sense of ease From the heart
outward. The emotion of
movement. Ceasing to
notice past and future I noticed the newness of now From that
moment onward the realness of life.
Roles, roots
and relationships No one speaks
to me. My poets lie
silent. Words on a page. Epitaphs. No one gives me
answers. My poets lie
silent. I am distanced
from life and community by white goods and fear. I'm drowning in
the shallow end of a cultural void. No club, no
pub, no church, No party, no
people. No one speaks
to me. My poets lie
silent. I'm a man
without a role, In a world
without a soul. Making my
impression, I signed for
someone else's meal, Sat, watched
and waited And was there
when we mattered. Hailed at five,
I found her kneeling (Pethedene's brief respite fading) And as distress
took hold She accepted
the chemical mother of mercy. After fifteen
hours in the green birth ward A doctor with
her plunger Plucked my
eyes/nose baby Into my small
vale of fears. A comic touch:
"some mistake", She said,
"She's a girl not a boy". From the crowd
emerged Our
gift-wrapped guest watching. Our daughter
dazing into Perspex space, The odd
birth-jolt zipped Through her
fingers and Temporarily
shorted my ego. The next day in
St Helens Street Dozens of
birthed people Functioned by
seemingly oblivious To the first
and last things.
Every attempt
to catch the moment Lacks
intensity, loses colour. Even these new
words make it Anecdotal and
succeed only in Nullifying the
minute of your moment. O comes closest
and forces me to Recall the
purple and curls of that First sighting,
when the doctor Raised her
finger and pointed At the circle
framed around your head. Not being able
to make sense of it Caused me to
stay silent when your mother Enquired as to
what I'd Seen: I
accepted what I couldn't understand. Puke'um le
spuke'um, nappy time The fat cat
baby eyeballs Blue and white,
bath-tile shadows Her hands
starring the heavens. "shush,
shush". Rigid in my
arms From the
colicky red child Waves and waves
of crybaby Then her white
dabs fade and peace. Dandlin my
darlin, standing Half-dressed,
sleep overcomes us Knees braced
against a swinging Crib, I lay her
down to sleep. Zoom lens Into that
moment: a row, a tear, Soon lends Itself and
takes form on the page. Close up On the minutiae
of daily life Closed up Tight confined
in the British family way. Photopoet Steps back,
reflects, but doesn't interact, Poetographer Who faced with
blood and fears goes for the pen, Never lies But crops his
metaphors to fit the frame Never spies On your
emotions but snatches it for the notebook. Searching for
meanings in doodles Every time I
put pen to paper It is only a
daft caper Because each
doodle is a face Clearly of the
Caucasian race. I begin with a
lantern jaw (that seems the easiest to draw) Then next we
have the colly ears, A man of early
middle years. Depending on
the mood I'm in He's wearing a
scowl or smiling. He gets a break
with a hooter Which means
he's not gay or neuter, For this is a
fine boxer's nose Marked by
fights and many woes. The eyes mark
me as an artist As they reveal
neither soul nor twist. So sorry to
this poor bloke Sorry to all
the cleaning folk Who have to
empty my office bin And find the
same silly grin. Baby bottle me Barrow
shipyards years before In a flurry of
bikes A red bus eases
through The chippie and
her cold sore Smiles toothy
Irish At an
apprentice joiner Date romance
love marriage Baby bottle me Thirty-two
years later Baby bottle
mine Isn't the world
over-loaded with spade a spade folk? The
tight-lipped and the tight-arsed. ("It's the
water down here And infrequent
bowel movements".) Make an
impression as Dale Carnegie said, Smile; say my
name and I'll love you. Delight me with
your gleaming whiteness, Render my knees
knockable. More dentine,
less lip. Spit, brush,
rinse, parade And display
them like it 's January and it 's Inauguration Day. Could I have
really said? "There are
only three important things in life: Love, God and Family" Like some Vichy
propagandist? Could I really
have stood at the back of the old church and thought? "Continuity
and family, the old and the new save me from politicians, isms and
news"? Did my
Brother-in-Law say, "You know, it's Volvo time" When I
discussed children and transportation. Am I nearly 33?
This year I
purchased: a dishwasher and a microwave, engaged a woman "to do"
and two child minders, And now I order
my veg weekly. And I've filled
them with disposable nappies, a play gym, formula milk and baby rice.
For six nights
I slept soundly, After short
days, filled with telly and torpor, In our parents'
houses, under strange duvets, On leaden
futons, with our baby's carrycot besides us. Whilst I slept,
you, at every sigh At every
whimper, every cry, At every
half-articulated "m-m-mommy" Had stretched
out your palm and laid it on her chest, Or searched
out, found, and replaced her dummy, And she had
fallen back into her dreamlessness. Upon our
return, you put her to bed, Dazed and
drunken on your milk. Yet when she
awoke, alone in her room She woke me And made the
fairy lights of the intercom dance in our room.
One
last try (The death of Yugoslavia) There is a moment Before everything shifts, Before continents split And a systems falls. The camera catches it And the commentator Says “he fell
silent”. In the silence Two hundred and fifty
thousand Souls are held still, Girls and women are
unraped, Villages and towns are
unravaged And a million refugees
hesitate. There is a before and an
after, Only now it can be told How the ambition of a few Hold the fate of us all. Fantasy
Football (or what have they to prove?) The rain soaks my
classic Juve shirt (the coarse old cotton
gives me chronic nipple rub). The men are playing being
boys again, Running into space and
attempting Cruyff turns. But our goalie won’t
dive, And there’s grit in our
lens And hey get a life’s
just nutmegged our spirit. Headlights,
streetlights, Tea-time, Anytown Street: A workday November
evening. On the shopping centre
scaffolding He stands for the third
time, This time dazed with
sleeping pills, He launches himself
forward, Reportedly, jumping (not
falling) beyond the crowds. On the Tuesday and
Wednesday nights, He had made the same
journey And had rung his mum to
ask permission. Why was he never
sectioned? A sensitive boy who took
the world’s despair to heart. One of eight. His parents tired but
resigned, The three years of
threats and attempts had warn them down. Twenty one years and only
his battered baccy tin to show for it.
What is Art? Surely not a black print
in a black frame? His distended “crap”
had annoyed a woman And she’d debated with
him. Starring out across the
wide Mersey I tried to reassure and
educate him. I spoke of Van Gogh’s
stacked high Unsold in his life-time And later marketed
beautifully, Then of photography and
books. He remained sceptical
throughout But listening, I think. Elder brother, educator. Later on in a pub, In different company, I took pomposity to its
extreme And when asked how
“I’d like to die?” Said, “Stabbed in a
literary argument”. I’m floundering under
my own gaze. She’s slammed shut the
escape hatches Marked joke, anecdote,
prevarication And forced me to plunge
there, Go down deep into tense
self Slice through our surface
tension, Search in bubbles of
clear air For my shopping list of
intentions. Sinking fast, failing to
respond, The engine turns but
won’t articulate, articulate And coughs out only I, I,
I, I…. Until bumping along the
stony bottom Of my pyramid of needs I choke on a bouquet of
weeds. Don’t leave me, (my hand gripped tight by
her) don’t go. Two scenes separated by
twenty years. The first, with me, a
small boy, Bathed in the freshly
laundered light Of a washday Monday
morning in June, Standing, preciously
alone, in the backyard Of a neat mid-terrace, With the tub churning
over The Sunday-best sheets And a still-vigorous
woman Working. The second, with me,
rather lost In a room barely lit by
January, A TV set whispering to a
collection Of empty vessels; I’m sitting by her
side, Providing nothing more
than a hand As an old lady gives up
the ghost. Brutal honesty, I don’t
appreciate. You shove your reality in
my face And like a mugger, you
don’t await My reaction. In Winston’s Pizza
World (Bulldog jowls hang down
over us, spitfires over salad
bars), it’s Dunkirk for me. I’m told to confront
the facts. Misjudging you was always
my prerogative, Filial links positively
ensured A blinkered view. Yes, I made choices: I
left. I can’t have it back, I never had it, It was never mine to
take. So face up and accept the
future: A birthday card, a late
present And the occasional phone
call. This is Berlin so where’s
the bunker?
How
will they be measured? Like
miles on a motorway, Like
shingle on a spit, Like
flies on shit, Like
fans on a terrace, Like
laps in a race, Like
lines on a face, Like
stars in space, Like
puddles in the rain, Like
silver in the pocket, Like
hares in a field, Like
tins on a shelf, Like
wings in an aviary, Like
medals for bravery, Like
nuts in a cake, Like
drinks at a wake, Like
tiles on a roof, Like
miles on a motorway. How
will they be measured Those
days without purpose? “Fxxx’s
not one of my words,” She
said, as she bent over Clipping
another toe nails Onto
Sunday’s supplement. I’d
come into ask whether Tea or
coffee? And found her Bent
over, a Degas ballerina In a
dressing gown, so I sat on her. “Why
don’t you make me a Tea or
coffee,” she exclaimed, “I
was all relaxed when You
came in.” “If I’d made Tea,
you’d have said, “What
the Fxxx’s
this, I want coffee.”” As
grimacing, I face the onslaught. Towards
me, the wind on her back Her
face haloed in snow, She
strides. She
wears red leggings, To
just below the knee And
walking boots. In the
muffled street, She
smiles A
small red smile. Her
calves are bare. My
mother uses it, My
brother uses it To
describe a predilection For
Shostakovitch Number Five Instead
of Manchester garage bands. I say,
its part of growing up, Living
life and growing old. Still
from the perspective Of
seventeen and fifty seven It
seems appropriate. “You
look like a gymnast,” she
said, as I proudly displayed
my pectorals. James
Caan, I thought In
that film. The rought, Tough,
arrogant brother, Though
to be hones There
was more of Michael In me. The
ungainly gait of the dancer as she walks away Toes
tap, hands clap, Thighs
slap, hearts pump, Eyes
flash, lips clash, Feet
slam, dance steps. Dance
steps in the sand, Kisses
left on my hand, Time
spent between dreams, Lost,
left, lovelorn. I was
captured in the library By
some sixth-from types. Grabbed
by the balls And
shoved against the shelves. A
shaven headed brunette Said,
“Listen to this.” No,
did I like it? No,
what d’ye think? Whilst
her mates stood around She
assaulted me with words. When I
tried to escape With
quotes from Blake and Byron, She
scoffed and grew aggressive, Pinned
me down and Breathed
words into my face. As
tender and fragile as a flower. Soft
to the touch, discolouring fingertips. Robust
and open as a flower in the wind, Open
to the sun. As
bright as a flower; blue, yellow, Red,
golden. As single green stem Open
to discovery. Defenceless,
silent and unique. As
strong and still as a flower, Firm
and well-proportioned, giving Yielding
itself to the stab of insects, Open
to the elements. As
momentary and enduring as a flower. A
thing of brightness and decay. Sensationally
short in duration, Open
to its end. A
triumph of Positivism Over
the old enemy reason. It
appealed to the market This
vision gadget. With
Italian flair, And
craftsman’sc are, The
Japanese marketing it, The
consumers loved it. It
sits on the dashboard And
reads the road. Warns
drivers of dangers ahead. Kids
on bikes, Biddies
on zebras, Weather
conditions, Wonderous
curves, Poster
hoardings, Pigeons
hovering, Troops
of cyclists, Police
motorcyclists. Safety
guaranteed, Was
the slogan, That
they read On the
car they righted, The
gadget intact, His
poor life blighted. Fuzzy-haired,
round specs, A
metaphysical big questioner Sitting
next to Joyce “Will
you please sit down at the back, Mary Ann” on her
left a
published token small,
very outspoken, a
mixer of metaphor next
to a
fellow I’ve met before. A
guitar twanger for the Lord Who
received his reward On
this Earth when his ballad Led to
a debate about The
Sixties (God forbid). Then
I. Slouched
next to me Death
head white coughing, A seer
of truths Right
next to A
bearded fabalist Whose
Arthurian ditty Of
unrequited love Was
delivered But
misunderstood But
not by The
sensitive soul on his left, A
Mancunian, gentle And
keen whose roots I share But
not her demeanour, Nor
that of the bloke to her left An
innocent, a gardener With
flowers in his bower, Child-like
and up-right, Lost
and confused Unlike
the beginner next to him Who
dared to bare Her
soul and underwear To the
smutless crowd, Drawing
smiles and silent Applause. Then
the real poet A
local man Fast
on his feet, Slow
to criticise. At the
head of the table, Unannounced,
serious, Vaguely
familiar, Another
beard Come
to listen Wearily. Rap, Crack, Uzi
flowsy, Channel
zapping, Media
trendy, ozone friendly Multi-coloured,
Nintendo Nirvana, Staid
stereo-typing, stale story, Tabloid,
tall tales, Journo-speak, Initiatives, Politics, Crass, Rot. Dreaming
(of life away from the poetry factory) Some
scenes played out against fluttering eye-lashes (performing
heroics, saves himself, serves others). On
this day, he rises from his low bed, Casting
off his white sheet, and takes a shower. He
dresses with a meticulous eye for style Then
settles down to meditate on the day. Tingling,
fulfilled, calm, rested and relaxed He
drinks a glass of bubbling spring water. Around
his feet, young children play their games, Leaning
he picks up and preens his youngest. Later
in the office, he plans his inter- Departmental
poetry meeting, his thoughts Linger
on his beautiful wife and home. His
reverie is disturbed by an aide Who
places last month’s sonnet figures On his
lacquered desk for his perusal. The
demand for literary works exceed All
expectations, planning’s essential. He
commands that West Africa’s trawl Should
be stepped up and South America’s Laurettes
be called out of retirement. Thoughts
of far-flung islands fill his mind With
gentle scenes of a blissful holiday Spent
on white sands, away from all this. No
matter meaning, just talk. Generations
of Michaels, Hard-working
men with red faces But
talkers all and dancers. Large
families, a homestead. Others
leave for distant shores; Eventually
not a child remains. Old
men always talking. Quiet,
grey, thinkers surviving. Home
is where the work is. Johns
and Georges, working men With
families following. Studious,
suspicious, self-reliant. Cold,
making sense of it all, so When
the times comes and Children
leave, sitting quietly And
weeping. Life
like a well-told anecdote, A
beginning, a middle and an end, Rolls
by. A dinner party story. “you’ll
enjoy this one,” “You’ll
never believe this one, I was
born, I worked and I died”. And
the laugh was on me, Self-effacing
until the end, Shyly
accepting the plaudits. “It
was nothing, It
could have happened To
anyone.” Once
in Chorley, I
stood forgotten By a
busy bastard Who
had gone to Liverpool
and who’s Idea
of apology Was
sweet silence. The
lads were captivated, Titillated
and thrilled, By two
women in spray on Leggings,
wonder bras n fake tans, Who to
my innocent question “are
you working?” responded “Naar
we’re from Sarfend We’re
just ere to ave some fun”. Epiphany
said Tiffany, Is in
Joyce’s voice and verses. A
precious mundane moment When
the sky lights up And
reality, beauty And
art pratfall Skilfully. It’s
been a bad season for small birds; Three
have collided with my bumper To my
knowledge. Bee-dump! And
then a cartwheel of feathers Tumbling
out of my rear view mirror. On the
eve of a wedding waiting for reprieve, Stood
stiff by the bar barely holding a stiff one, He
grimaced at a girl grinning and long-faced, And
made a fist of knuckles, kneaded his palm and sought the shade. Thank
you for sharing your emotions Thank
you for sharing your emotions with me. When I
read your mood, it’s win-win, When I
mis-read it, it’s a disaster. You’ll
never bother in future, You’ll
bottle them up like I do. Sure,
and I’m going to miss the opportunity, To sit
silently and nod and think I’m doing the right thing, When
you’re dumping and I’m deluded. Only
when truly challenged do I provide the answers, To the
questions you never asked. To why
I think and act the way I do, To why
I’m sad, To why
I’m me. At
those moments when you failed to follow up, I fail
to supply you with the reasons too. Those
panicky feelings of my own failure, And
the prescience that time is short. So
where do we stand? We
stand where we were. So
where do we go to? Well,
we carry on to nowhere. That
night, his death marked me two generations later. As she
stood waiting at Blackpool North, He lay
dying at the foot of the kitchen sink. His
head exploded into unconsciousness, The
cold filled his lungs And
she just stood waiting (separated
by the sinking sands of Morecombe Bay). This
man, with my forehead, my hair-line and weak eyes (as
she often told me), blighted her life for fifty years. In the
morning a neighbour found him, Stripped
to the waist, Shaving
tackle laid out (Death
by pneumonia). They
drove her to her home, Into a
night blackness that never truly lifted. In my
head, does that bomb tick? And if
it does, what selfishness is this? Foot
in the door poet, Aggressively
brandishing his oeuvre. His
one-line poems Speak
of a short Brutal
life, Aloneness, Drunkenness, Homelessness. Just
one pound mate. I said
no thanks. After
all I expect More
poems to the pound. Her
hips swivel Why
can’t mine. Cha
cha Cha
cha cha. She’s
got rhythm 1-2-3-4 move
on the two. Where’s
the book? You
never write me poems anymore She
said, as she lay in their bed. Don’t
I inspire you? To
find poetry in reality Metaphors
in the kitchen And
rhythm in the clash of dishes Requires
a greater poet than I. Isn’t
it sad that life reduces us to this She
said, as she followed the artex swirls. Don’t
you think so? To
find life in our lives Meaning
in this relationship And
beauty in the wallpaper pattern Requires
a greater philosopher than I. You
sketched a picture of it. And I
filled in the details. Only
your future And my
future depended
on others, whose
needs and whims, we
don’t know and
can’t depend upon. Your
word picture was just that, As
appealing, As
delightful, As
ephemeral, As the
words you uttered. Now
the clocks tick, That
we wound Like
our pulses which raced At the
postman’s step. In the
race for that Illusive
word, future, We
forget the present And
cease to live. Damn
the lot of them, They
take up my time, Forever
bothering me with requests. Forever
demanding that I come out to play. Only
joking. I love ‘em. On the
phone, nattering. Down
the pub, guzzling. On the
town, razzling. In the
shops, ratcheting. In my
head, flattering. Why
can’t they leave me alone. Reasons
why not, I
wrote: Too
cowardly, Un-cordinated, Ashamed Lacking
in ability, Too
late to learn. That
was before I
stood by The
poolside, The
sun shining, Waiting
for the surge Through
my body From
toes to tips Of
fingers. Balance
shifting The
pressure from My
fee, Toes And
hips, Soaring
and shifting Self-conscious
but Unconscious
of my body’s movements. Stupid,
clownish, An
anonymous diver In a
sea of young bodies As
indifferent to me As I
was to the self That
drew up the list. Intrusion Confusion Should
I sell? Should
I hell, Houses
make money Now
that sounds funny. Illusion Disillusion Should
I buy? Should
I? Why? Houses
make money Say it
again honey. Supposition Suspicion Should
I lie? Should
this guy? Houses
make money Isn’t
this estate agent funny. The
estate agent doggerel Into
my life he strode, With a
measuring tape And
clipboard He
assessed my abode. He
walked from room to room Taking
notes with a biro, And
commenting, “It
was different in the boom.” He sat
down and broke the news, With a
measured tone And
clipped vowels “For
these houses, there aren’t queues”. Tingling,
correscating, Massaging
my limbs Like
waves of warm sand, Resting
in the hollows Of my
limbs as I sit Motionless,
still Mentally,
still Emotionally,
joyous. They
wont take her photo again. Well,
if it were me I’d be glad. In my
photo, I’m falling forward, Navvy-like
into the camera. She
kicked up a fuss For an
ID-photo, you’ll want ID. No
just sign here wont you. You
are who you are, aren’t you? What
if I’m not? She
snapped Bolsholy. For a
man afraid of life, His
true vocation must be To
instil the fear of death In
young children. Seeing
books staked Slovenly
in the remainder shop, Stirs
rather than deters. Updikes,
Joyces and Yeats Next
to Cartlands, McLeans and Bates. Countless
others rubbing Up to
soft-porn. Faceless,
unfocused 70s
nudes in high boots and
boob-tubes, share
a shelf with Madonna’s younger self. And
still I’m stirred to pen this, To
join this atrophied forest Of
unclassified, unappreciated Literary
junk. Is it
all babies? Or is
it his age? Cute
as a seal pup: a dot of a nose, doe-y eyes and tiny lips. Being
a childless man, not used to these things I can report that You
express your feelings clearly in your features. When
your hunger is sated, you’re happy And
when no longer sleepy, you laugh and play. Through
you, we interact, In a
new way, your parents and I, Trading
clichés such as Who
does he remind you of, Whose
temperament has he? As I
will see you only for a few moments, I’m
conscious of this preciousness. There
is a wonderful simplicity of the here and now in our relationship, Which
means when we meet in the future as family strangers, I, at
least, will have a memory of your beautiful innocence. Recognising
an acquaintance, I chose to ignore him And
crossed over the road, breaking into a trot. In the
darkness, I noticed a couple ahead And
chose to intersect their route, dashing Between
concrete bollards and the automatic barrier. I hit
the heavy chain midway up my thighs, And
fell forward, hands pinned to my sides, Falling
onto the left side of my face. Conscious
of sharp pain, making sense of my surroundings, Gravel
on my lip, hands reaching for me, (Oh my
God) not my teeth again, tongue touches eye tooth, Spitting
out a small chip of something and then The
realisation that what was urgent was urgent no more.
Against
the grain of Bawdsey’s sand, Cursing,
footfalls falling away, An
inauspicious start to the journey. Along
the desolate Coast
and inland to Snape And
Volvoland, knitted sweaters And
momentums of a time That
never was nor will be. Through
torn woodland and Back
to the coast where I was
deserted. The
next day, alone, I Drove
on through the building site (the
sea held back by an eight foot fence) of
Sizewell B onto Dunwich, where
I sat and ate lunch. Fishermen
drew their catch ashore And
tourists queued for fish and chips. Salt
marsh, pebbled beach, soft And
firm sand and deserted churches. Southwold,
a pint and talk of the Sale
of quotas to Danes. A
dreadful miscalculation Caused
me to scurry on to Covehithe
before sound judgement And
exhaustion slowed me down. The
last long drag, Kessingland, Pakefield,
Lowestoft. In the
bar of The Bridge, the barmaid Ignored
me as I stood Sweating
and vulnerable. No
timetable at the station. (Deep
search for emotion) It
grips me real tight, Suppressed
by nurture, Buckled
down, Held
fast, Even
in confrontation It’s
easier to hold on And
feel the anaesthetic Drip
drip into my Bloodstream. One
day, maybe, I’ll
journey there But I
fear most What
will take me there. For
others the journey Is a
short hop But
for me Constrained
by these ties It
seems an impossibility. What
will it offer me? Not
the soft fruits of Happiness But
the sharp stones of Pain
and loss. I’ll
wonder why I never Journeyed
there before. In the
meantime, With a
smile here And a
gesture there I try
to copy what I
cannot learn. Of my
twenty five sons, One
died like a cat Hit by
a car; And
another In a
fall from a tall building, Like a
dollar bill Dropped
from your pocket. But
when you have twenty five And
murder is your trade, Their
loss is as nothing. For a
child of five I had a dirty mind, Demoted
to the girls’ table for talking, I
regaled them with tall tales, Smutty
jokes, lavertorial humour. Punishment
was bliss. In a
dining room with custard slops, Dribbles
of dinner on my tie and jumper, I
clung onto the bowl for dear life, Whilst
all around me the big girls cheered. Fields
of picturecard poppies, From
close up offer up Mites,
wasps and traps. The
broken line on the map, Has
been chopped by The
industrial farmer Who
scratches out living things To
feed us. Sunday rambling, Tempted
from our cars We’re
lost in scrapyard fields. Not
one of us is truly obscure The
players play. There
are players and spectators, Those
who refuse to play or can’t And a
few who don’t know the game is on. Rule
one There
is only one rule: Don’t
lose the connection, Each
player should connect Via a
litany of celebrities With
all humanity. The
pleasure principle Enjoy
their celeb-body vicariously And
use tele-empathy to enrich our lives And
impoverish theirs. Game
on Three
players, alcohol essential. A
touching moment The
players pray, Bow
their heads and kneel To the
religion of interconnectedness, Enjoy
a soundbite from the community manifesto, (the
magic of all Mankind) embrace
and taking a deep breath dive deep down into
the gene-pool (global villaging). An
example Me:
Dr Legg on the Tube, He:
Conversation with Jade Jagger about Swinbourne, Me:
Mother chastised Ian Marshall, He:
Accidently video’d him in the park, Me:
TV presenter He:
Movie Star Me Politician He:
Sting’s ex-wife Him:
Liza Minelli, passed on the stairs. Holy
Connection A
chance encounter on the stairs, The
Heaven opens and The
ghost-ikon of Andy Warhol smiles down and blesses the moment. The
rich and famous of New York City, Glow
dully with the commonness and obscurity That
our thoughts bring to them. The
trippings of their beautiful and sainted lives Pass
and leave them as they once were and forever will be, Just
human, like me and you. |