Blue Biro

When Mum

had Edward

it was only two days

before Christmas.

She was still

in Hospital on Christmas Day

and just when they all got their

lunches

Mr Mayor,

the Mayor,

came round the wards

and made speeches

about what

hard luck

 it was being

in Hospital on Christmas Day.

When we went to see Mum

and Edward

after our lunch

Mum said she did not mind

being in hospital

except that

when he had finished his speeches

her dinner

was cold.

Then she found a caterpillar

in a cold brusselsprout

which put her off a bit.

She was clever for us though

she had written down everything

we had to do with the

turkey

and the

Christmas pudding

and the

brussel sprouts

and the

roast potatoes.

She had written it all down in

a pink school exercise book.

What time to turn the oven on

and when to make the gravy.

And she had written down

how to make Quiche

and

Daddy’s Favourite Pudding

and

Oaty Wonder

And the other things we liked.

It was good.

And then

when she died

we could carry on

 having all those things -

she was still showing us how to do it.

And when you look at it now

there are

all sorts of food marks

like flour

and old egg yolk gone brown

all over the front cover

and her writing

in blue biro.

Metronome

Schooldays - the best days of your life...?

George and me and Alf Hewison

slip out

of the second half

of double maths

on Saturday mornings

- Mr Hough scowls.

We go off to the music room

at the end of the hall,

and Mr Dicker -

from Shaftesbury and District Silver Band -

tells us how we should play the trombone.

Mr Dicker is as stained as an old teapot

his moustache is yellow,

his face is red and

his nose is bigger than his chin.

The edges of his ears

curl

like smoked back bacon.

You can see his string vest

through the white nylon of his shirt.

The Summer runs down his neck

into pits under his arms.

The music room is very small -

three pubescent boys,

farting down a trombone,

and an old smoker...

Aroma.

One day Mr Dicker says to me -

Give me yer 'and.

He’s been away -

What?

- but he’s back now.

Give me yer 'and.

Hospital or somewhere.

So I give the trombone to Alf

and I give my hand to

Mr Dicker.

He pulls me towards him.

He opens his jacket.

He lifts his left arm.

He guides my hand

under his armpit

- in the summer

- with the white nylon

- under his armpit.

What?

I feel it then.

Can you feel it?

Er - yes.

The lump?

I can feel the lump

through the nylon

criss-crossed with string vest.

Do you know what that is?

Er - no.

It’s me pacemaker

- battery operated

- it keeps me heart regular

- like a metronome

- can you feel it?

Oh yes.

Then George had to feel

then Alf.

After the lesson

when we’d washed

our hands

we decided he was

Mr Dicker with the Dicky Ticker.

Her First Snow

Gemma Graziano

was the colour of toast.

She came from Italy

or Spain

or a hot country

somewhere.

On Friday

after lunch

we were doing paintings

and it started to snow outside.

Gemma stood by the window.

The white flakes sparkled in her eyes.

She clapped

and laughed

and looked at us.

She had never seen snow before.

We stood there with our paintbrushes
and our mouths open

and looked at her.

We had never seen

someone

who had never seen snow

before.

Tarzan

Sometimes

I was

Tarzan.

I made myself

a brilliant bow and arrow.

The arrow had a nail in it

for a point

held in by Elastoplaster.

It went really well.

I shot at a magpie

that flew

past

the house

and I really nearly

got it.

My arrow went

as high as

the bathroom window

then disappeared

through a

little round hole

in the glass

right in front of it.

I used to play

Tarzan

in the bedroom.

I had to get right round the room

without touching

the floor -

otherwise

the crocodiles

would get me and I’d

have to kill them with my knife.

After tea

Mum said

she had met

Mrs Rolfe in town.

Sometimes

you could see

Mrs Rolfe

in her kitchen

from our bedroom.

Mum said

Mrs Rolfe wondered

whether I was too big

to be playing in the window

in my underpants.

Underneath The Clock

I don't really know where this came from... it's just for fun really.  The children used to like it when they were younger.

As I walked and whistled

down Twistington High Street

two old men I happened for to meet,

on a bench by the bus-stop,

the 34 bus-stop,

waiting for a bus

to take them up to Hilltop.

And I stopped and I sat

and I listened while I whistled

and I heard they were talking

about how things were changing -

shops closing down,

shops rearranging,

how you never could find what you wanted when you looked...

And the more I listened

the more I was hooked

by the names they remembered

and some they forgot

as they sat there and nattered

with the old town clock

tick-tocking up above.

Susan Cox still sells

shoes and socks

in the Soft Shoe Shuffle

shoe and sock shop

by the chip shop ...

Which shop?

The old fish and chippie.

What Trisha Phipps’?

Ay, Trisha Phipps.

She makes fabulous

battered fish and chips.

Best in town!

I’d wolf  ‘em down,

with salt and vinegar

outside the cinema

with my mate Stanley.

Old Stan Hemmings?

That’s the one –

he used to sell curtains

and fancy cushion covers.

Used to have a warehouse

up the road from your house.

Oh ay, I remember,

Hemmings Trimmings Limited,

 now I recall.

I never went in though.

No?

Not at all!

He sold all sorts of things –

shirts,

skirts

and knickers.

Really?

Oh yes,

my best beloved

always bought them there –

her underwear.

I get mine from Vickers.

Knickers from Vickers –

I didn’t know they did ‘em!

Oh they do, they do

 ... but it’s new.

Oh I see.

Come on, bus, I want my tea.

-

They don’t come

as regular

as how they used to.

No not so often.

More expensive, too.

I remember when

you could catch a bus

from Hilltop,

down to town

and back again

for only ten pence.

That’s ten old pennies,

not quite a shilling.

 It’s more than a pound now.

It’s one blinking fifty.

Mind you the buses

are pretty nifty.

 The drivers are shifty!

Do you remember old Gus?

Used to drive the bus?

Yes him –

what a laugh –

He had us in stitches.

Got us all singing rounds in the back –

London’s Burning,

Frère Jacques

.

Wouldn’t happen now.

Not now –

 wouldn’t happen

 - they’re too afraid

of putting buses into ditches.

Well there’s lots more traffic.

All them cars ...

Vans and lorries

thundering past you,

blast you with their hooters

when you try to cross the road.

We don’t go as fast as you,

we’re not on scooters!

We’re not on wheels.

Noisy blinking tooters.

Everyone’s in such a rush ...

 Where is that bus?

Have you seen the park, though?  Oh it looks a treat.

 The flowers are looking lovely,

 the grass is trim …

It’s neat!

I saw them cut it yesterday

with a great big sit-on mower.

Same bloke who does

the library lawns.

Took him less than an hour.

Amazing!

Amazing.

And they’ve got that playground now with the swings

 and the slide

 and one of them things that goes round and round,

 you know –

The roundabout?

 The roundabout

 - that’s the one

 - you should have heard the kiddies shout.

 They love it.

Ay, it’s fun –

They do, they really do.

It wasn’t like that for us two.

No!

Maybe a swing –

A rope in a tree

that’s all we had

my friends and me,

and if you came off –

ooh –

you’d scrape your knee.

But you didn’t dare show it

you didn’t dare weep!

Huh! I’d holler and cry!

If I had a bad knee

I wouldn’t be shy.

I’d jump and I’d hop,

I’d shout and I’d curse!

Did it make you feel better?

 No, generally

worse.

Now have you seen the new skateboard shop?

 Next door to Copper Kettle?

Yes that one have you seen it?

I’ve been in it

 - but they play that heavy metal!

I went in for our Kevin

 - he wanted some new rollers.

It used to be a hat shop –

sold trilbies and bowlers.

I fancy a skateboard

for nipping about.

I could pop into town

and back out

without any fuss.

I mean,

I wouldn’t have to sit here

waiting for this bus.

    You on a skateboard

 - who are you kidding?

You’d fall straight off,

 you’d be sliding and skidding all

 over the street!

I’ll have you know

I’m very light on my feet.

I’ve a keen sense of balance -

Off balance, you mean

 - and here comes the bus in case you haven’t seen.

And with that the two men

stood up by the seat.

They rubbed their hands

and they stamped their feet.

And the bus drew up

and the door swished back

and one got on

“I’ll see you then, Jack.”

And Jack gave a wave

as the bus pulled away

and he strolled off

down the High Street

into the dimming day.

And I stood and I listened

to the noises of the town -

people walking home -

shop shutters sliding down.

And I rubbed my hands

and I found my other glove,

with the old town clock

tick-tocking

up above.

Here is a link to me reading Underneath The Clock 

The Picture Of You

In this garden,

on this summer night,

you feel

that your beauty lies

in the silver pump

that dangles from your foot –

I can see how you have tested it

before the shop mirror,

turning now this way, now that,

to view from each angle

the line of metallic cloth

against the intricacy of  your instep.

And now we see it here,

a small part

of the picture of you.

You sense

tonight

your beauty lies

not in your face

but in smoke blown from

your mouth –

you have learned smoke,

have studied the effect:

the slightly laboured inspiration,

the toss of your head

as the fumes reach your lungs,

the instinctive arc of the hand

to free the thread of your hair

caught in your eyelash.

And while you sit,

one leg resting on the opposing knee,

with the dangling pump,

the hand-rolled cigarette poised between two fingers

the young man next to you

drinks in

the picture of you:

he has merely glanced

but

he has become the smoke in his mind

and has chased down into the depths of you.

The finger

of his mind

has traced the edge of the shoe

until it has caressed the tenderest skin of you.

Inside and out.

He sees the frame

you have created

around the picture of you.

He wonders how to be within the frame,

how to move the paint and work the canvas:

with his thick mechanic’s fingers.

He knows that you are jelly-naked beneath your clothes,

movements of fabric

pressing against the most intimate parts of you –

those parts of you

with which you wrestle,

which harbour the darkest, uncontrollable humanness of you:

odour,

texture,

flavour,

vibration,

sensation,

sin.

He longs to tally the reality with the image

but cannot fathom

how

or where

or when

he might

remove these garments –

how might that come to pass?

How can he be those moments?

And you know his mind is in the

soft-lipped,

fleshy pit of you

as you pinch the back of his hand –

but still you are uncertain

of your effect.

You edge around each other –

while his mother

fries you tea –

bacon on the summer air

on your tongue-tip –

sweet salt.

A moment’s silence falls between you –

the invisible sphere

that surrounds your loins,

and that surrounding his,

overlap

in subtle anticipation.

He speaks from his gentle mouth –

his face smiling –

his breath smelling of the turgid earth.

You feel the germs of his words,

deciding how long

this dance

will endure.

Home for Lunch

Grandma and Granddad, Dad's parents, used to come and stay for a fortnight in the summer...

In the front room

where the sun pours in 

like coffee in the morning

Grandma and Granddad

sit,

mellow birds,

in the high back chairs

that we don’t use

much.

And then

when John and I

come home for lunch

there they are

waving.

We have belly pork strips

with soft

boiled potatoes,

cabbage

and thin golden gravy.

Granddad

takes out his teeth

and tosses powdered pepper

over his dinner

until we sneeze –

he can’t taste it

otherwise

he tells us.

He uses his pudding spoon

to finish up

the gravy

on his plate.

We watch him looking deep

into the spoon’s greasy bowl.

After a moment

he surfaces.

He tells us

that during the War,

the Great War,

they had to

urinate

on their gas masks

to make them work.

John and I

look at each other

with fearful smiles on our lips.

Grandma scrunches up her face

and pulls

her head down into her shoulders

and says

Ooh!

She is not really listening.

Mum says

its time for Listen with Mother

and

Daphne Oxenford

is coming to get us.

We run back to school

even though its

Latin.

Granddad had bad sciatica.

Sometimes he would ask Mum to go up to the betting shop in town and place a bet on a horse for him.  She was reluctant but did it.

Mum came home flustered after one of these trips - a man in the betting shop had asked her if she had any "hot tips."