Guess Who?

The Lost Leader

JUST for a handful of offices he left us,
Just for a deputy's badge to pin to his coat—
Found the one bloke who we'd trust to protect us,
He'd rein in th' Tories as they went for our throat;
They, with the gold to give, dol’d him unemployed coppers,
So much was theirs - but no sharing's allow’d!
How all our ballots had gone for his service!
Liberals in Government - our hearts had been proud!
We that had lov’d him so, follow’d him, honor’d him,
Liv’d in his mild teenage arsonist's eye,
Trusted his promises (made in fake Yorkshire accents),
Made him our pattern to live and to die!
Charles Kennedy is of us, Shirley Williams was for us,
Asquith, Jenkins, were with us,—they watch from their graves!
He alone breaks from the students, campaigners,
He alone sinks to the rear - Tory slave!

Song of the City

I’ve breathed the stink of slums,
              held the thin bones of poverty,
hungry men lined my docks,
                       I am stained by slavery.
Storms smashed my jetties,
                 Depression emptied factories,
                        bombs flattened masonry –

                                      Nothing can crush me.

For every injustice,
        I give you someone who’ll fight,
                  shout for truth and liberty, sing, strike.

Roscoe roared for abolition,
      Kitty called for public baths,
        Josephine caught the fallen women,
Rathbone fought the rotten votes,
       James Clark taught me how to swim,
                Rushden how to see –

Idealists, pragmatists, they had dreams –
                                    their dreams made me.

I honour them in bronze, glass,
               in social housing, hospitals,
galleries, libraries, schools and missions,
                museums, clean water, a string of parks.

Their names are my history
and those of my children who –
                       quietly, namelessly –
worked extra shifts and donated their pay,
sailed to fight Fascism,
                 showed solidarity,
marched for the freedoms

we wear now so easily.

Social reformers, preachers, and teachers,
         politicians, comedians, poets and schemers,
playwrights with angry pens,
                  radicals, dreamers,
                     mothers granting forgiveness, union leaders,

chanting Equality!
      campaigning tirelessly -

                   These are my people, our common humanity.

The Temple of a Thousand Bells

Na Mara

My mother said Never marry a man with brine in his veins.
But he netted my heart, my sailor boy, eyes grey
as the Irish Sea, the lilt of the tide in his step.

St. Luke’s bells rang loud enough to sink a ship.
He cast back my veil; the tang of salt caught on our lips.

His first shore leave – I waited an hour at the quay,
handkerchief fluttering like a gull’s wing.
Later, we rocked the oak bed as if we were caught in a storm.
St. Luke’s chimed midnight; he lit a Turkish cigarette,
smoke and story swam around my head.

The Indian Ocean, night air thick as wool, the groaning
creak of a dhow’s hull. A sea dog knitted a yarn –
a temple hidden by waves, a thousand bells,
the high, clear singing of copper, bronze, glass -

I covered my ears.

Morning, he’d gone -
coins in a brass cairn on the dresser,
a ship’s name scrawled on the red bill from the Gas.

Each month a postcard - shipping lines.
He’s chasing Jack Tars tattooed blue with campanile;
maps stolen from a matelot drunk in Marseilles.
Schooner, clipper, bucket tug;
scow, shallop, a chandeliered liner;
now a bamboo raft scouring the seas of China.

Seven years I’ve stood at this window, a Siren
weaving songs of sons and coral-lipped daughters.
I’ll reel him in and – home - I’ll butter his feet like a cat.

St Luke’s bells toll each quarter hour ‘til dawn.
Tonight, I’m drowning in this oak bed,
my belly empty, his pillow wet
with the faint grey scent of sea.

Toadies and Other Political Animals

After an another afternoon in Albania, I came home to the Icelandic Study (how very European of me) and began to research the word toady. This led me to lickspittle and from there I found a list of synonyms which trundled along at quite a  - well - poetic lick.

Apple-polishing
Arse-licking
Bootlicker
Brown-nosing
Crawler, Fawning,
Flunkey, Groveller
Hanger-on, Kowtowing
Lackey
Lickspittle
Sucking-up Toady
Yes-man, yes-man
Yes-man.

The rhythm needs attention and perhaps the AlphBetiCal orDEr could be juggled a little, but I believe I've got the first draft of a poem to commemorate (commiserate?) the probable next Chancellor of the Exchequer. (I'd better compose one for darling Badger, too, on the remote off-chance.)

The prospect of finding Found Poetry has cheered me immensely today. I was, to be honest, being a miserable old boot. I wept during an item on cyclamens whilst listening to Gardener's Question Time on the wireless. Something in Audrey Hawthorne-Hedge's voice set me off. (Did you know, it takes five years to grow a cyclamen from seed? Five long, politically austere years ...) Anyhow, if Hart Seeley can find lyricism in the words of one Donald Rumsfeld, then I am sure the next five years will bring T.S. Eliot & Forward Prize-winning opportunities.

As we know,
There are known knowns.
There are things we know we know.
We also know
There are known unknowns.
That is to say
We know there are some things
We do not know.
But there are also unknown unknowns,
The ones we don't know
We don't know.

(A poem by D. Rumsfeld aged  78 and three-quarters.)

So, toady. A multi-tasking verb and noun, both short and slimy.

It is an abbreviation of toad-eater. A toad-eater was the sidekick of a Snake Oil Salesman (Ivor Brown calls them medical mountebanks). Toads were commonly believed to be poisonous - touch one and be plagued by warts - and so the toad-eater would ostentatiously eat the toad, or something squished that looked like a toad. (A bit like Ozzy Osbourne - no relation - and his rubber pippistrelles.) The toad-eater would roll about on the ground for a bit, moaning, groaning, clutching his guts, staggering from one onlooker to another, weeping for his wasted life. Then the toad-eater would be miraculously cured by his master prescribing a dose of sugared water and tah-dah! fortunes would be made. A charlatan and a stooge.

In the eighteenth century a politician's hanger-on was called his toad-eater but we must remember that a toady is not the man who resembles a toad but the poor wretch who used to swallow it.

For legal purposes, I am required to state that there is no suggestion whatsoever that Mr. Geo. Osborne has ever swallowed.

Biblical Hebrew

If you played Countdown
in Biblical Hebrew,
you would have to say
Consonant please, Carol.

And another.

And another.

And another.

Twenty-two consonants,
some soundless -
pauses

or breath.

God resides in the spaces



between molecules
(I am told.)

Scientists know He's there
but haven't yet found Him.

O, Carol -
I think I've won this round
with a particularly long

s   i   g   h.

Bloody Tmesis

Last week, a poet who goes by the unlikely moniker of Ray Speedway, mentioned en passant that inserting an expletive into the middle of a word - as in fanbloodytastic - is called tmesis. Broken Biro and I immediately made a note of this in our pocket books (I with an engraved antique silver pencil; she with a small chewed plastic biro stolen from a Turf Accountant). Then we wrestled for the right to write.

Further investigation (after I'd flattened her) reveals that tmesis has rules. One can say Abso-bloody-lutely, but one cannot say ab-bloody-solutely. Similarly, one cannot say fantas-bloody-tic. Hmmm, I've read my two examples several times and have to admit I really do not understand the Rules of Tmesis.

Never mind. Some people absorb the rules as easily as breathing. I know a builder whose every other word is tmetic. Where's the tea-bloody-pot? he'll demand. I've never fancied Aus-bloody-stralia. Costa-bloody-Brava's good enough for me. Only he doesn't say bloody.

Funny, I should mention Australia because the people of that far distant continent (though not as far distant if you live in New Zealand) are highly skilled at tmesis. Only they call it Tumbarumba. John O'Grady wrote a poem about it :

And the other bloke says "Seen 'im? Owed 'im half a bloody quid.
Forgot to give it back to him, but now I bloody did -
Could've used the thing me bloody self. Been off the bloody booze,
Up at Tumba-bloody-rumba shootin' kanga-bloody-roos."

Now the bar was pretty quiet, and everybody heard
The peculiar integration of this adjectival word,
But no-one there was laughing, and me - I wasn't game,
So I just sits back and lets them think I spoke the bloody same

The rest of the poem is here.

No wonder we're so desperate to beat the Australians at cricket. We've got towns and villages called things like Great Snoring and Piddle. They have Tumbarumba and Iron Knob.

(I fear to direct you to the following website because you are likely to be lost to Blogland forever and never make your way home. Still, on your own head be it. X marks the spot.)

On with the poetry. Our poets have not ignored the bloody power of bloody. Although not strictly tmetic, Captain Hamish Blair was emphatically sanguine on the subject of The (Bloody) Orkneys:

This bloody town's a bloody cuss
No bloody trains, no bloody bus,
And no one cares for bloody us
In bloody Orkney.

The bloody roads are bloody bad,
The bloody folks are bloody mad,
They'd make the brightest bloody sad,
In bloody Orkney.

All bloody clouds, and bloody rains,
No bloody kerbs, no bloody drains,
The Council's got no bloody brains,
In bloody Orkney.

It'll be no surprise that the Orkney Tourist Board asked him to return their bloody advance. He should have written Ork-bloody-ney, but the good Captain insisted that the temetic version of his poem sounded like a joint injury and didn't scan as well as it ought.

As a slight aside, I once read this poem to a strange man in a café. By strange I mean I did not know him from Adam. He became rather emotional and said that he hadn't been read to since he was a small boy. He dabbed at his eyes with a paper napkin. I was delighted; a positive outcome; a convert to poetry. By chance, the following day I met him again, this time in the street. He asked whether I'd consider reading him regular bed time stories and offered payment in cash. He said there was no need for me to bring a book.

John Cooper Clarke, the punk poet with the complexion of a compulsive blood donor, paid homage to Captain Blair in his poem Evidently Chickentown. Only he didn't use bloody either.

I've drifted from my original point, haven't I?

(Abso-bloody-exactly! Ed.)

Heart of the City

In the space
between two heart
Copper birds shake off their chains
A radio tower slumps, rubber-spined
Stone lions slip from plinths
Cathedrals lumber closer
Superlambanana bleats
Bronze statues query pigeons
Remind me again, who am I?
Anfield & Goodison wrestle
Three flirtatious Graces sing
Make us a mirror, River
Theatres belch trapped laughter
Parks play Chinese Whispers
Avenues of trees pass it on, pass it on
Docks stroke the flanks of ships
One-way systems unravel
city bones of wood, iron, glass, stone
beats
and life pulses through the City
breath in its lungs
blood in its veins
and - at its heart - you

Poetic Sex

I think I should regret sleeping with a poet.
Risk seeing my immortalisation in verse -
or worse, the act of love itself described.
All that cleaving, splitting, spearing,
prancing about with his rampant lance.
Petals, rosebuds, blooming flowers -
a fruit basket of ripe metaphors -
when really it was only sex.

He might notice the varicose vein
on the back of my knee, my uneven breasts,
the ropey scar above my pubic bone, the arse
that lost the battle with gravity.

His tongue would trace the silver
snail tracks of stretched skin,
cursive writing, legacy of pregnancy.
Reading my stories with observant eyes,
tasting secrets with his lips, licking
the words right out of my mouth -

I'd be plagiarised.

Would my thighs be pale and trembling,
like semi-set blancmange?
Or merely warm and welcoming?
Could my neck inspire?

Far better to sleep with plumbers
who appreciate the pipe-work.
Electricians know an on-off switch
and can make sparks fly.
The upholsterer comes home
to well-padded hipbones, a bolstered chest.
The cartographer finds his way without a map -
but isn't afraid to ask directions.
The potter, joiner, the mechanic -
 all are clever with their hands.

But the poet, the tender, cruel poet with his gift for words
I'll leave for all the other more courageous girls.

Accidents in the Home

Don't swing on your chair

or you'll fall into a rice pudding!

This is the story.

A vast dish cools

on sand-scrubbed stones,

Sunday chicken stretched

to ten, Megan calls

I want the left leg! then

leans back, slips, falls -

a panicked arc.

Pudding boils

on milky skin and frantic screams

before the dark claims her.

Three days she lies       

- teetering.

Scalds caught her neck,

a scarlet scarf squeezing breath;

burnt arm, back, breast - a puckered

vest of carelessness. A lapse

that leaves undressing for the bathroom,

days spent on beaches fully clad,

a softness

under that hard, scarred skin.

Foreign Food

He smelled of almonds, oranges, star anise;

sweet salt in the curls clinging to crevices,

like vermicelli on a steep-sided panettone.

And where his skin was smooth

the planes of his shoulders

were burned crème caramel.

Hair black as fig,

grown too long and tangled

like the oily linguine we ate in Venice;

the twisted limbs of baby squid impaled

on my fork, raised to his lips.

And later, frantic kisses sharp

with garlic, basil, a peppery tongue thrusting

to lick the inside of my mouth.

He trickled Limoncello down my thighs,

was slender hipped, his buttocks curved

like cantaloupes - and just as sweet.

My husband groans and heaves onto his front.

The lounger's plastic bands striate his skin,

his foolish Speedos struggling.

I baste him with Hawaiian Tropic

until his back is shining,

glistening like a roasting pig.

I'll leave him cook for just a little longer.

His feet will burn,

so I will find a cafe in the square,

sip Ouzo and choose wisely

from the menu.

Lines

I'd been smitten by a poet - unexpectedly smitten,
because I'd never been all that faffed on stuff that he'd written.
Maybe hearing his words in his voice just rang my bell?
Who can tell?
But it was a warm night,
the trees in the square sparkled with blue lights,
and some flyer promised some music in some gallery.
Arty party. Dante and Beatrice, Stanley Spencer,
a guitarist harmonising like James Taylor.

I'm full of Stargazy Pie,
catching the eye of a bloke in a suit -
always been sweet on suits -
we're at the point of smiling,
when I walk smackbang into Bridget Riley.
Lines of lines.
My eyes are dancing.
I move close, almost touch the canvas
with my nose, but still can't focus.
How can straight lines send your mind whirling?
Make your perspective so defective?
Goggle-eyed, gossy-eyed
- she left me reeling.

Later in the cafe, a women I couldn't make up if I tried
sighed, "Write me a poem for Bridget Riley.
Inspire me."

So I told her how my eyes dance
when I press my husband's smart shirts.
The steam iron ploughs through furrowed cotton,
candy stripes suck me into the ironing board -
giddying, dizzying as if I'm standing on a ledge,
about to stumble.

One day I'll fall, keep falling, tumble
headoverheels until my limbs are spinning
like the sparks on a Catherine Wheel.

I stood in front of that striped canvas,
big as my living room wall,
and thought about ironing.
Ironing.
I'm fighting the battle of creases and crumples
and no matter how hard I try, Bridget Riley,
I'll never get anything straight.
That's the danger of looking at Art at night.
It's too bloody late.

Witness

We were put from the land,
three hundred forced to the shore.
Our crofts roared, thick smoke tearing our eyes.

We walked in silence,
hearts ripped, left in the stones
we had pulled from the earth,
the soil we had ploughed,
the burns and lochs we fished.
Our fathers, our mothers,
and theirs, and theirs, and theirs.

A woman broke from the crowd,
limped across tummocks of sharp grass
to the dark mound too fresh for a stone,
a scar in the graveyard as raw as her grief.

She clawed at the dirt,
grabbing handfuls to knot in her skirts.

Then came the others.

Old men, faces cracking, took soil
from the graves of the fathers and grandfathers;
angry sons, bitterness in their fists;
and mothers stowing the dust of sisters,
lovers, of blue-born babies
into pockets and aprons,
between bible pages,
twisted
in scraps of cloth.

Carried on the boats to Skye,
the mainland,
Inverness,
and Aberdeen,
Edinburgh, Glasgow,
Liverpool,
Canada.

We were a great tree felled.
Iron gouged at our trunk,
the stump burned black to the ground,
but through that dark, dry loam
our roots inched
and spread.

Imaginary Beasts

I saw an angel in the pines at Formby.

It was a woman in a white mac

picking up dog muck.

I saw a sphinx by the lake in Sefton Park.

It was an old man frozen to his bench

by cheap cognac.

I saw a griffin pouncing in a tapas bar.

It was a fur coat rippling

from chair to floor.

I saw a vampire prowling by my bed.

It was a dry-cleaned dress swinging

on a closet door.

I saw a serpent in the Mersey by the Prom.

It was corrugated pipe oozing

at low tide.

I saw a zombie howling in the bathroom.

It was a fleeting mirrored image paled

by neon light.

I saw a roc swooping down to claw my neck.

It was orangewhite EasyJet roaring

off to Spain.

I saw a baby ghost lying dead in a puddle.
It was a discarded tissue flattened

by rain.

I saw a phoenix in the blue gas of an oven.

It was a crinklecut chip cremating

in dripped fat.

I saw your smile reflected in Littlewood's window.

But when I turned to kiss you, I found

I had imagined that.

First Food

She tugged my darkened nipple

to the back of her throat. That sulky bottom lip,

pleated by milk-heavy breast, curved into swell

of silken cheek. The bald imperfections of her skull.

At night, her smallest breaths grew loud; she snuffled

like a hound rooting for truffles.

Her hand a pale star stretching,

grasping wildly, reaching

into my mouth, worming her thumb

against the slippery warmth of gum.

I licked her fingers, knuckles, nails; laid my lips

against her fat palms. The undeveloped lifelines,

heart-lines mapped with my tongue, breathing

in her sourmilk smell, nipping skin with gentle teeth,

lapping at the gathered folds of flesh on wrists.

She cannot remember any of this.

Invisible Mending

In the kitchen, my daughter is speaking French;
dough rises in yeasty bubbles;
somewhere a TV burbles.

I have yards of blue cloth stretched
across my knees; a patch of sailor’s sky
on a cold, grey day. My fingers are searching
for holes; moth-damage, cigarette burns, tears;
a slashed hem from a sharp heel.

The women in this house mend invisibly.
We steam the damaged fabric flat;
unpick pockets, unbind a seam;
fray edges with a fingernail,
tease loose the hidden strands of silk.

I thread my needles, dart them like a shoal
of silver fish, weaving warp and weft;
tacking, slipping, backing, stitching.

Soon the wounds are closed; bare ripples
in blue sea. I press the dress, fold its arms
across the bodice in a starched caress,
gather up the skirts in sheets

of tissue, brown paper, string.

When the man knocks, my daughter is waiting.

The parcel swings lazily from her fingers.

'Ma mère dit, "Prennez mieux soin de vos vêtements." '

She giggles, tries to curtsy, closes the door loudly.

I have never...

...danced the tango in the Russian Tearooms

with a slim-hipped man in snakeskin shoes.

Duffed up a ruffian,

Juggled more than two balls,

Slept in a cave with damp, mossy walls.

Petrified a lover,

Raced a grey stallion,

Wrestled a pirate for a chest of gold bullion.

Cut class,

Measured up,

Mended invisibly,

Gone missing in action or been lost at sea.

Brokered peace with large spiders,

Spoken French with conviction,

Parsed Latin with mastery,

Understood much of anything.

Crashed a car,

Crashed a party,

Trusted electricity,

Dodged jail with a nail file, a mirror & string.

Nurtured a houseplant,

Heard a bird's heartbeat,

Swum through the branches of underwater trees -

Never said I love you frivolously.