DAWN

Sleep has fallen away early
And I listen to the gradual sounds
Of the house waking with me.
The eaves and heat pipes creak gently
As the joists and lintels and slates
Yawn and stretch
With the vibrations of the first traffic.
I imagine the pointillism of light
Starting to minutely dapple the last of the night,
As somewhere beyond the park,
The sun is inching up yet again.
A dish clinks in the sink below,
Whilst down in the deeper dark,
Techtonic plates exhale millimetres
In the unfathomable reaches of time.


(2011)

On this particular morning, I’d woken with three first drafts of poems swimming behind my eyes, the lines writing themselves on different pages in my mind. It proved to be a productive spell because I finished all three later that day. One of them was ‘In The Cavern’ (see above), but this, I think, was the best.

I’m more of a man for the sunset than the sunrise, I’m afraid, so I struggled to find a suitable photo for this poem. The one here was taken from the front of our house just after daybreak the other day.

EMPTY ECHOES

(And I ask myself, is this The Rock?)
My imposing gothic notion runs down like an old clock
As I wander through the airy, shining space that is modernity.
(Where are the lungs of praise, the forever and ever, the eternity?)
The laminated missals and magic trinkets are all locked away;
But for the dapper young priest, this church is quite empty.

(And is this The Rock?)
Amid these villas and trees, this smooth suburban symmetry
Is more in the manner of a theatre ‘in the round’, really,
(Where is the power and the glory?).
Here is only sound without fury
And a stage is just a stage sans audience
And the priest merely an actor sans his flock:
This place is mere oblivion with exits and entrances.

(But sans everything, is this still The Rock?)
The bricks and glass and wood are so clean, immaculately;
No encroaching tenements come hunching here, bleak and swarthy.
Beyond the altar and candlesticks
Lies the box of tricks, the communion of mystery,
And the priest says, ‘He is in there…’
(The Host, The Real Presence, The Corpus Christi)
As if to wind me up, tick-tock.

(But I tell myself, this is not The Rock)
This clock is beyond repair, atrophied with age
In its last hour of all, its second childishness.
Nevertheless, the priest begins to prepare the stage:
He switches on the candles and lowers his eyes,
But I see no curtain rise.


(1977)


A more specific version of ‘Myth And Legend’ (see below) and written around the same time. My mother used to say that, as a small child, I was frightened by the sight of churches… At this time, I hadn’t yet developed the agnostic fascination with them that I have today.


This poem was inspired by a field trip to a modern Catholic church in Leicester as part of the Religious Studies course I was doing at college. I later realized the place was modelled on the Catholic cathedral in Liverpool (affectionately known by locals as ‘Paddy’s Wigwam’, its four bells representing the gospels of Matthew, Mark, Luke & John’ likewise being known as ‘John, Paul, George & Ringo’. The picture of the altar was taken there).

Reading T.S. Eliot had shown me that it was possible to use material from other sources without actually plagiarizing and in this poem I enjoyed experimenting with ideas and phrases drawn from Shakespeare to point up the analogy of the church as theatre.

IN THE CAVERN

It is only an ordinary afternoon in Liverpool,
But we are sitting in this replica of the real thing,
Half a century after it was rebuilt here, brick by brick,
A few doors up Mathew Street, its heart and soul intact.

On stage, a singer with a poet’s name is reciting
From the world’s most well-known songbook;
Behind him, the famous psychedelic wall of honour
Proclaims the name of every act it’s had the pleasure to have shown.

The singer’s guitar reverbs the shape of the sacred songs,
While all around the crowd in this catacomb,
Thousands upon thousands of original bricks bear names
Signed by previous pilgrims from all across the universe.

And now, many visits past, we are sharing marker pens
With nearby French men and American women
And finding spare bricks like needles in a haystack,
To add our names here at last and promise that we’ll be back.


(2011)

That’s Jon Keats (sic) performing in The Cavern last Thursday afternoon. The original club was demolished by the council in 1973 to make way for a car-park, would you believe? It was before the city had realized what it possessed in terms of Beatles heritage.

The rebuilt Cavern, despite being not quite original, is still steeped in atmosphere and authenticity. If you want to sign one of its walls, arches or ceilings, you’d better hurry because almost all of those little bricks have already been scribbled on.

BLACKBIRD ROAD

Blackbird sings as the sun shines low,
Atop the pine tree planted long ago.

I think I remember you from last year,
All winter long you have echoed in my ear.

Yes, I recall you, I’m sure, especially when
You drop into our garden with your hen.

Your eye and beak bright, your dark wing strong;
Are you come again to honour us with your song?

On and off, you sing from dawn to dusk, then rest
In the darkness of our shrubs, hidden in your nest.

But one day we find one of your young, forlorn -
Crippled and dying in the middle of the lawn.

The next day, another has taken its exact place,
Far from nest and branch either side: an unsolved case.

Gone for a month now, you briefly return alone
And we wonder where your brown hen has gone.

Feathers now flecked grey and head almost bald,
Blackbird, are you sad, are you sick, are you old?

Is it for fallen fledglings that you come to grieve?
After pecking hopelessly at grass, you finally leave.

It warmed my heart to hear you sing from on high,
But have you gone now to wherever birds go to die.

Blackbird, come back next year and sing again,
Here to our garden, on this road that bears your name.


(2010)


A true story: The Blackbird of Blackbird Road. That’s him in the picture.

You have to be careful with rhyming couplets – that way doggerel may lie. Hopefully I’ve avoided that trap here – along with the other pitfall of bathos…

I read somewhere that an astonishing 75% of wild birds die before they reach six months old - but WHERE do all those billions of birds go to die? Apart from the odd fledgling fallen from the nest and the occasional casualty of cats, how often do you see a dead bird?

THE RAIN HITS THE CITY

Way up
High,
Spiralling,
It is waiting
And watching;
The Rain is gathering its forces,
Wild and whirling and whiling time
In its swarming, darkling orbit;
But wheeling
Without warning,
Down
It comes.

The Rain
Hits
The City
Hard,
Its hailish teeth mechanical as sharks’,
Hammer and rivet sky to street in a swooping lock,
Fast and cold,
And then the rain rains upwards,
Bouncing ravenously back at itself,
Insatiable,
Invincible,
The Rain roves
And threatens the fat banks stuffed with money,
Dins above the throb of the night-shift machinery
And the pulse of traffic is drowned by its drumming,
Making of its desperate wipers, a locust mockery.

With no abatement
The rain keeps on;
Dives off ledges and bridges:
Never dies
As it pocks the costive canal,
The Rain defies;
Stabbing the dark and lonely parks,
It batters blossom out of aching trees
And floods all routes of the shallow pipes and gutters.

Dust is thus turned into streaming scum
And holy gargoyles choke;
Drains spume,
Spate:
The Rain is swilling out the City’s mouth
East and west,
North and south,
Whilst behind blurring windows
Men cannot rest
As they shiver through these early hours,
Until suddenly the Rain
Stops.

The City is thrown into sodden black relief,
Left like some colossal Ark,
Awaiting some undeserved deliverance.
Daybreak
Over the towers and spires,
And a dark bird now flies out,
Bearing litter in its beak.
There is no rainbow.


(1983)


Even with 'free verse', almost always, some kind of form emerges as I write, though not necessarily or even usually, a traditional form. Most of the shaping of metre and rhyme in my work is of my own device. Even in a poem like this one, where the lines begin and end is vitally important, although there is no overall regularity beyond the typographical trick of making the print resemble a storm-cloud structure.

I had in mind here the financial district of London (‘The City’) with the rain as an elemental nemesis which periodically purges the obesity of the banking system. All these years later, it now seems very topical in the worst recession since The Great Depression.

A few years ago we went on The London Eye and, as we approached the top, a tremendous storm broke out – as you can see in the photograph that Lisa took of me. Below us, the city darkened and there was a real feeling of apocalypse in the air.

THE DILEMMAS OF TIME AND CHANCE

When it’s nearly midnight and at last you’re asked to dance,
Will you step into the arms of a prince or a dunce?
Do you seize the moment, will it only come once?
These are the dilemmas of Time and Chance.

Call it Kismet, call it Karma, call it Destiny or Fate,
Just be careful when you go out waltzing on a date -
That man of your dreams may be a nightmare full of hate -
So don’t turn up too early, but oh, don’t arrive too late.

So is it to be carpe diem or que sera sera?
Were you born under a lucky or an unlucky star?
Will you amount to nothing or will you go far?
If you miss the last boat, will you thumb down a car?

They say Time’s a healer, it will lead you by the hand
To follow the footprints leading away in the sand.
They say grief will pass when you reach that other land
Where life goes on and you must finally make a stand.

Now those vows you made for better or for worse,
Will they deliver the blessing or do they bring the curse?
But Chance is the dealer and you may win or you may lose -
Are the aces played low or high - which of them will you choose?

And it is said that what goes around will come around
And for everything lost something else will be found,
But listen to that sound, that awful, grinding sound -
Can that be the Wheel of Fortune breaking down?

Now you see you’re caught between a hard place and a rock
And the hands are a blur on the face of the clock.
Is there still enough time to reflect and take stock?
You find the key, but no guarantee and there may not be a lock.

Back at the ball, see the mysterious masquerader advance;
That swirling of his magical cloak is meant to entrance.
Will this be your very last appointment with romance?
These are the dilemmas of Time and Chance.


(2011)

Started a while back but only licked into shape now. It’s really just an exercise in compressed rhyme and having a little spooky fun with the basic idea of coincidence.

OBJET TROUVE

On this fine April day with great clouds
Rolling overhead, coolness vying with warmth,
I am photographing daffodils in the park,
Pointing the camera at bright splashes of gold
On the grassy slopes and in small clumps
Around the dusty roots of waking trees,
When something seems to flash silver
In a surge of sunshine streaming fresh
Through the emergent leaves high above.

Squinting at the shrubbery, I find I am
About to photograph a photograph:
An eight by ten, black and white shot
Of two Asian girls in traditional finery -
Indonesian perhaps - sat cross-legged,
Their sequins and pearls glamourizing
What looks to be a mundane, functional hall,
Where this sliver of sun has now found a window
And caught the silver of their head-dresses.

I’m struck that it may be a wedding celebration,
And the girls are singing some hymn of praise,
With their faces immaculately painted and hair
Swept back, they are a picture of elegance.
Behind them a vague, banal jumble of wires,
Speakers and amplifier, but inside the moment
The girls are transcendent, the more beautiful
Of the two enraptured, with her eyes closed,
Fingers outstretched to capture some sublime note.

I pick up the picture, place it carefully in my bag
And wander back along the dappled, breezy path
Wondering, along the way, about the bride and groom
And wishing them well on this auspicious Spring day.


(2011)

That’s the actual picture, which I found on Abbey Park near where we live in Leicester.

‘Objet trouve’ - with an accent on the ‘e’ - is French for ‘found object’ and the idea – from the French – is that ordinary everyday things can be found to have inspirational qualities and be used for artistic purposes. I was going to call the poem ‘Found Object’, but it’s not the most elegant phrase, is it?

Pretentious? Moi?