Writer of Poetry, Screen Plays, Stage Plays & Fiction
Writer of Poetry, Screen Plays, Stage Plays & Fiction
For Kira Somach
I have regular readers – some I have known
for years, others I will never meet –
on every continent except
Antarctica: a wonder not a boast!
One, an actual friend from long ago,
tells me, via email, that she often reads
some of my poems over the phone
to her father – she in Missouri,
he in Florida: to remind them
of his years working in England,
and her years here becoming a woman.
Catching a charter flight from Manchester,
the family eases through security
but I am detained – there are traces
of explosive in my backpack: poems
on the hard drive? The scanner is at fault.
At Nikos Kazantzakis Heraklion –
the only airport named for a writer –
one of our cases arrives broken
on the single baggage carousel
and one of the gent’s toilets has backed up
but ‘Zorba’s Dance’ is playing somewhere,
the sea beyond the runways could be almost
‘wine-dark’
If her mother were to live to be Centenarian of the Year,
your mother would be seventy six and you,
surprising angel, nearly thirty three.
(You will note, I am assuming that I shall not be
Grandpa of the Decade – false modesty, of course!)
Thinking for so long there would be none,
I am surprised how the likely continuity –
of blood, flesh and memory – reconciles me
to that dim eternity. The phone rings.
‘Hehwo, Gwanpa.’ As always,
The Allies were waiting to go over the top
to attack a weak enemy position.
The British used gas for the first time.
Unfortunately, after a half an hour,
the wind changed and it all blew back
over the King’s Own Scottish Borderers.
Unsurprisingly, the men were distressed.
Lieutenant Young called out, “Pipe them together,
Laidlaw, for God’s sake, pipe them together.”
And the forty year old veteran climbed
the ladder, tuned his pipes and marched back and fore
along the parapet,
‘On the road to Chester, on the outskirts of Farndon, stands a monument to the late Major Barnston, raised in 1858 by his tenantry and friends. It consists of a grand obelisk, having at its base, four handsomely carved stone figures of recumbent lions.’
History of the County Palatine and City of Chester, George Ormerod, 2nd Edition 1882.
The lions, positioned north, south, east and west –
encompassing the, now reduced, estates–
are lying, on their tomb chests, heads on paws
as if asleep.
That rite of passage of the middle class –
chauffeuring offspring to the varsity –
took us the breadth of England, from Hoole to Hull.
Extending her childhood, our parenthood
or both, we travelled the edge of hope
and longing, by acres of burning stubble
and slagheaps greening. In the rearview mirror,
she leant forward to gossip about
the future…When she was eight, we’d planted
her cherry tree, knowing she would one day
climb up it and out of sight.
Dee Estuary, Gayton ©SCES 2009
The sands now are out in the estuary
beyond a multitude of reeds and a
labyrinth of runnels, nearer Wales than
England. We walk along the old sandstone
seawall, side by side, looking up as we talk
towards that startling, empty horizon
– midway between Point of Air and Hilbre.
What confidence in the future to build
a sea defence as far as the next parish!
We make way for joggers and dog walkers:
at Cottage Lane,
A WINDY DAY, J.M.W.TURNER Tabley, the seat of Sir J.F. Leicester
They bought up land, made marriages, dispossessed
tenants and built their fortune on rents.
These commissions mark their zenith. Since then,
the estate has been sold off acre by
acre, piece by piece – one Turner remains,
the other hangs in another museum.
Some things are unchanged: in the distance,
the house’s palladian exterior
in local sandstone, the round turreted
folly on the small island in the lake –
'Février' from Les Tres Riche Heures du Duc De Berry
July
We are rather formally attired
for country pursuits in the ducal woods;
August
me with a tie and you, I uncover,
with white suspenders and matching knickers.
September
Intimate stranger, forever touching
for your least kindness, forever surprising;
October
unpredictable as light,
ORGANISED CRIMES
PAINTING PARADISE
WHAT IS IT THAT STARTS A POEM?
ARS POETICA
OPPORTUNITY KNOCKS