A Brief Encounter

Out one evening,

late,

in the darkest corner of this town,

my feet pounding homeward

through these rookie streets

There, on an approaching corner,

stand two, lurking.

They are coming up faster than I wish they would

until I see

it is me

approaching them.

So I slow

to take stock of the scene:

Dark figures -

dark clothes,

dark faces,

the signature

of these stark places.

I sort through this bag of assumptions

I carry with me

and have them all summed up –

Rebellion, nah,

but crime, more likely,

loitering with intent,

crack, smack, mug, stab.

I’m closer now.

I see the whites of eyes in black faces

glance towards me then away,

conscious inattention

focussed on each other,

designed, I’m sure,

to unsettle and unnerve.

Is that danger I detect

poised in their

forced relaxation.

Looking now at each other

while gripping,

I’m certain of it,

the coming encounter

between the two of them 

and me

like a starting pistol

held against their clenching stomachs.

There will be a point –

we’re nearly there –

when they gear up and turn to face me.

Will they let me pass first, then spring?

I grip keys in my pocket,

run scenarios in my head,

seek surreptitious bolt holes

in surrounding doorways.

I tool up

defensively

with profound prejudices –

justifying my fear,

forgiving myself for the

superhuman violence

I am perpetrating in my mind.

We’re here now

it must come now

the sweat on brow

the mouth dry

the teeth of keys breaking the skin

of my clenched fingers.

Cross over, cross over

I’m shouting in my head

Avoid, avoid, avoid!

But too late now –

I am so close upon them that

to cross would seem an aggressive act

and would no doubt

draw out their fire

and shower me with black ire

released from millennia of abuse

and shame

the time ripe to take revenge for a race

ill treated by my white hand

or my father’s or my father’s father’s …

So here we are in this crashing moment

me walking 

and on the point of passing them

my head slightly bowed,

prepared for the blow,

aiming to avoid their eyes

and yet unable to do so

completely

and I glance,

just one brief glance,

at the one by the wall

the one whose cheeks seem to shine

somewhat

in the streetlight.

Not merely the gloss

of black skin under neon

but a flash of wetness beneath the eyes.

But in that very half second – 

he glimpses me glancing

and turns away.

The other, seeing this

looks at me directly

a defiant look

a challenge.

“Come on then,” he’s saying,

“What?!”

But 

I don’t know what,

I hope I say,

with my infinitesimal shrug

and grimace.

I’m passed them now

Thank God

Thank God

I’m passed them

and my breathing starts again.

And now

Some feet beyond

I’m ready to glance anew

and though I dare not do it

I do,

fearing yet the strike.

But

as I look

the other is leaning in to his companion

and reaching for his hand,

not a fist bumping

black cliché

of a handshake

but a gentle movement

to hold the other’s finger

and as I walk away,

watching across my shoulder,

he leans in further and kisses

the lips of his friend,

a gentle kiss

of comfort and support,

while the kissed one reaches his free hand up

and wipes at his cheeks

with the ball of his thumb.

I am now on my way to meet you

I was recently struck by a news report describing a South Korean television show - part talent show, part dating show - where female defectors from North Korea presented themselves before South Korean audiences to tell their stories as a form of healing for themselves and education for the South.  The show in Korean was called Now On My Way To Meet You.  

I am now on my way to meet you.

I have traversed difficult terrain

and undergone hardship and torment but

I am now on my way to meet you.

I am now on my way to meet you

and I would be grateful if you could prepare for me

a warm meal,

and a bed of some sort

even if merely a mattress on the ground.

A blanket would be a comfort

but I am not used to comforts

and so it is not an essential thing.

I am now on my way to meet you

and I would be grateful

if you would not ask me too many questions.

There will be some, I understand,

that you need to ask,

but please not too many.

Please do not ask me about my child.

Life has been harder than I have ever known, and

harder than you can possibly imagine

in the past months since I left my home to come here.

I have done things that I would not normally do

things that I consider immoral,

dangerous things,

harming

to my psychological wellbeing

and my physical wellbeing.

I have had to do them

in order to survive

and now I am glad that they are behind me but also

I am glad that I have done them

as

I am now on my way to meet you

and, knowing that,

I recognise that those unnameable, unspeakable things

have brought benefit to me

and that in meeting you, a stranger,

I will be recommencing my life

with a clean past

and an uncomplicated future.
For though I continue to carry my pain
like a yoke around my shoulders
your pretending not to see it
will help me to bear it.

So please

do not ask me too many questions and

before meeting you I will wash my face and hands
and apply lipstick in what is to me 
an unfamiliar colour.

Please do not ask me about my child –

and I will not ask you about my child

though I may ask myself.

Perhaps one day 
there may be
happier things to say about her.

I am now on my way to meet you

so let us make rules as to how we should
behave toward each other.

I have high hopes

and yet still low expectations

of you.

You don’t know me

nor I you

and so

I ask only that you allow me to live here

close to you

but not dependent upon you.

And as a token of my gratitude I will

serve you when I can

and in any way that I can

that does not

bring shame to my person.

I am now on my way to meet you

and, in meeting you,

I am now

on my way.

He saw his daughter on the bus today

He saw his daughter on the bus today,

She didn’t see him as she passed.

It seems she has her life to lead;

It seems there’s nothing much to say.

He saw his daughter on the bus today,

How can she be alone on there?

Surely she is just a child.

When did she stop needing him?

He saw his daughter on the bus today,

She must be on her way to school.

She must have friends and interests – 

To her, he must seem like a fool.

But it’s great she doesn’t need him now,

to tell her when to go to bed

or do her homework or get up –

She tells him where to go instead.

She’s learned to cook a pasta sauce.

She’ll try her hand at making bread

She studies hard, she reads a lot

Will she remember him when he’s dead?

His father’s gone, his mother too.

They still hang on inside him though

So maybe there’s some small part of her

that will recall the father who

Saw his daughter on the bus today,

just going out as he came back.

She’s stepping out to save the world,

He’s listening to a ticking clock.

Deep Warrior

I walked

down to the shop

yesterday,

in the sun.

Two small boys

had littered the pavement

with toys

and drawings.

One looks at me,

eyes and mouth open,

an orange pen held

momentarily

from his lips,

saliva and ink smeared across his cheek –

his mother approaching with a cloth.

The other

a little way off

a little older

stands

one foot mounted upon his scooter,

head-dressed,

weapon in hand.

He has climbed

a castle of roots

by the tree,

daffodils blooming among them.

I step to

skirt around him.

He sees not me

he is in Deep Warrior.

As I pass,

I trigger

 a burst of energy

in his dangerous chest,

he throws his head back

and thrills the air

with his fearsome war chant.

Finished

As I leave the house

Jim from next door

is out washing his car –

cloth and bucket,

hose and sponge –

he’s doing a good job.

As I walk past I say,

“You can do mine

when you’ve finished.”

He just grins.

He knows we don’t have a car…

Down the road a way

Sylvia is out cutting her hedge –

shears mainly

and occasionally secateurs

on the tough bits.

She’s got it looking nice.

As I walk past I say,

“You can do mine

when you’ve finished.”

“Afternoon, Tim,”

she calls,

though that’s not my name.

Down by the main road

there’s a man

washing his windows.

I’ve seen him about

but I can’t say I know him.

He sees me coming, though,

and nods a hello.

and that’s all I need.

As I walk past I say,

“You can do mine

when you’ve finished.”

He looks a bit put out

at first

but he recovers with

“No, you’re all right, mate!”

But I expect he spends

the next few minutes

coming up with better answers

in his head.

Then, tonight,

things had got a bit

out of hand,

a bit forward, so to speak

and suddenly

there was nothing left to shout about.

And I’m sat on the edge

just cleaning up

and she thumps me on the back

and says

“Oi!  You can do mine

when you’ve finished!”

My Father's Hands

My father’s hands are made of softest leather,

Sand and paper as they rub together.

Door jambs round his nails to scratch and pick,

Drystone hands with callouses to click.

My father’s hands hold putty knives and spades,

Carve motorboats in sand, and sharpen blades

on whetstones — penknives, chisels, secateurs.

My father’s hands peel oranges and pears.

My father’s hands could stroke a gentle night into my hair,

Or grind my head far down into my neck

Or hold my fearful heart till calm,

Or flick a burning ringing in my ear.

My father’s hands are making rich brown soil

And greeting worms he once would demonstrate.

My father’s hands’ one final act of toil —

Making compost by the graveyard gate.

My father’s hands’ last will and testament —

A share, a portion of a tender home,

But genes, a more enduring document,

Leave me the legacy of the man

My father’s hands.

Little Blue

The hand of man

has drawn thickly

over the lap

of this land,

and

into dark corners

it has pushed

concrete and asphalt

like vaseline

before its setting thumb.

And on this hardboiled

lumpen rock

I grind my feet to dust.

But beside the 
clanging grey

of this combed road

a pepper of blue -

little blue -

picks up the sky

and throws it back.

No matter where

I find my feet,

no further away than a rat

will be 
some fragment of blue -

regardless of the grimy day.

Look now

and you’ll see it too

- little blue -

the ripped corner

of a wrapper,

a button,

the lid from milk,

full fat,

a rejected smartie,

a frenzy of massacred

chip forks,

and the elbow-pleated straw

from Terry’s

Ribena.

Attic

This one speaks for itself...

So from this attic

window

which has

 spectacularviewsacrossthecity

I have watched

fireworks

and have seen

a rabbit

escape its hutch

magpies

newly released

homing pigeons

fearful of flight

populating the roof opposite

a blow-job

(I was surprised, too)

  

the consumption by fire

of a storehouse

the consumption by fire
of a tyre dump

an elderly Asian woman
in her kitchen

combing her long grey hair

while upstairs

her balding husband gets into bed

and the young man

- whose job was blown -

climb out of his attic dormer

and urinate on the roof

a velux on the world.

The Right Time

Dad said

“When I need to know the time

and haven’t got my watch,

I just close my eyes and

picture the clock in the kitchen…”

It was a round clock

with a blue face

and white numbers

and white hands…

I can picture it too…

“I can usually ‘see’ the right time, then,” he said,

“in my mind’s eye…”

I tried it

and it did seem to work.

Sometimes it was twenty to four

or half past eight in the morning…

the clock was always five minutes fast

but I learned to take that into account.

But later Dad said

he didn’t really do that…

so now I don’t know whether

it's ever
the right time.

Toilet Brush

Hayley asked

Who brushed the toilet?!

Who brushed the toilet?

It was me.

I had brushed her toilet.

I had stood there

 wondering

what to do about the

great

     skid

                  mark

down the side of the pan.

So I pulled the

hedgehog brush

out of its plastic holder

And scrubbed - 

and the flush and the brush

performed their magic.

Me,

I did it.

But now the

questions

flooded my head.

¿Why was she bothered?

¿Did she have her own special way of brushing the toilet?

¿Was she saving the toilet brushing for another day?

¿Did she have a special Toilet Brushing Day?

¿Was it something she looked forward to?

¿Had I ruined it for her?

¿Did she really mind?

¿Would she have minded if she had seen why I had brushed the toilet?

¿Did she feel bad that someone else had brushed her toilet?

¿How could she tell that someone had brushed her toilet?

¿Did she notice now that a STAIN she had noticed earlier had now gone?

¿Was it a problem that the brush was now WET –

and possibly

…sullied?

I raised my hand

Everyone else went quiet.

It was me –

It was me.

I brushed your toilet, Hayley.

Oh,

she said.

Gladys

Family games...

When I sit on Dad’s Knee

and he’s finished doing

“This is the way the old men ride…”

we sometimes do

“Say ‘Gladys’.”

I pinch his nose and say

“Say ‘Gladys’,”

Dad and John, 1960

and he does -

but it comes out like

‘Glodys’

or ‘Nglaris’.

or I pinch his lips together so he can’t open them

and say

“Say ‘Gladys’,” –

‘Grydyf’

or I squeeze the sides of his mouth together

and say

“Say ‘Gladys’,”

“Glollyth."

Best of all is when

I pinch his nose

and squash my hand across his mouth

and say

“Say ‘Gladys’”

and his eyes start to get very wide

and his cheeks start to puff out

and he starts to wriggle about

until I nearly fall off his knee

and then there’s a funny sort of

splurgy sound from inside his

mouth

“Brrdadzziff”

and then there’s usually too much spit around

to do it any more

and he looks a bit red

so we stop.

Grandma’s name is

Gladys

but that’s not why.

Lessons in Lego

I was approaching three when my younger sister was born so I'm thinking this must have been one of my earliest opportunities to experience sibling rivalry...

Jess was born

upstairs

with the door shut

and Cousin Win

came to look after us

downstairs.

And when Jess had come

Cousin Win told us

we could tiptoe like mice

up the stairs and see

our new baby sister.

And Mum was there in bed,

and Dad,

and there was this baby

in a black carry cot

and Mum said the baby

had brought us things,

and if we put our hands

in the bottom end

of the carry cot

we would find the things

she had brought.

I didn’t know

how a baby

could get to the shops

but Mum said I needn’t

worry about that.

And there were things -

I got a little box of lego,

blue lego

roof pieces.

It was all right.

Then John opened his box -

when I saw what he got

fireworks went off in my head

and it was like

there was suddenly

a big crack in the world

that I might fall into

right in between me and Mum

and Dad -

John got

little yellow curved bits of lego

that made a fantastic round tower

when you put them all together.

Yellow bits

not blue.

Curved bits

not roof bits.

And they said the baby

was called Jessica Mary

and that she was the baby now

and I had to be her big brother

and teach her things.

I thought I should better teach her about

lego.

I expect she brought Kate 
something too

but she was six

and I didn’t want it

it was probably a doll

or something.

It seems my parents weren't too concerned about choking hazards in those days either!