The Foot

 After Lunch

Mrs Gantry and Mrs Curtiss

would patrol the playground.

Mrs Curtiss was warm and friendly

as wax crayons.

Mrs Gantry was as spiky

as a fork.

The girls all loved Mrs Curtiss

and they bundled her from one game to another.

The brave ones sometimes

linked arms with Mrs Gantry

and her grey face

melted for a moment.

On Thursday,

it was

Richard Barnes and me

and John and Robert Jarvis.

We were talking

about tractors.

Robert was sitting

on the playground tarmac -

his shorts were baggy

and from where I was sitting

I could see his willy -

Attribution: Dave Fergusson

but his Dad had a Massey Ferguson

so I didn’t say anything.

All the girls had taken

Mrs Curtiss and Mrs Gantry

all the way

to the end of the field

where the wire-link fence

looked out into the wood.

Then

an infant

brought the message back -

they were showing them

a foot.

A what?

A foot!

How?  Where?  A What?

A foot -

honestly -

it is one.

Come and see.

So we had to go and look.

And it was a foot -

wasn’t it?

You could see it clearly

sticking out from behind the tree.

It was a foot

about five feet up in the air

sticking out from behind that tree.

Wasn’t it?

Somebody must be hiding there -

with their foot

sticking out.

But they were very still.

Did they know we had spotted them -

well - their foot?

We ought to call the police.

It might be a thief

or an outlaw

or somebody from St Gregory’s.

Lets Get Them.

We all wanted to climb over the fence and get them.

Well Ralph Bond didn’t.

And neither did Christopher Farrell.

Helen Cross said we couldn’t

and we wouldn’t dare anyway.

I said I did dare

I just didn’t want to go ...

Then Mrs Gantry said nobody

was going to ‘get them’

because there was nobody to be got.

She sent Christopher Downton

over the fence.

We were very quiet

as he tiptoed

up to the tree

with the foot sticking out and

pulled it off!

When he brought it back

you could see

it was just a bit of old toadstool

growing out of the other side of the tree.

I said I thought it was going to be something like that -

Richard said he did too -

and then the bell went

and we had to go

and do

papier mâché.

The Whole Picture

Maybe I'm getting a little too philosophical at the moment.  There is something about social media that has that effect on me, I think.  Scrolling down your news feed you dip into tiny, fragmentary moments of other people's thinking, obsessions, amusements, passions...  the major life moments nudging up against the inane, compulsive memes of dogs eating sweetcorn.  I have just been thinking a lot recently about that weird juxtaposition - the rubbish and the luxury versus the oppression and darkness.  How do I respond?  How do I stay sane?  How do I help?  They are real questions!  Please feel free to offer your answers!  This poem feels a bit like a sketch of a poem really, a first clustering of thoughts, and maybe I'll work on it some more.  Then maybe I can free myself up to just have a bit more fun again!

While this world

is cluttered

with degradation

and the fumbling of the feeble

against the

wrath of the strong,

who am I

to take time and space

and follow an inclination

with this trivial tripping

and ineffectual song

and artful twittering

and insignificant pondering

and meandering remembering

and whimsical wondering?

And while some topple disingenuously

at the tap of a footballer’s toe,

others aim to draw the angry blood

of ancient foe.

As the son of one kills

the son of another

and the mother of one

shields his younger brother

from the deluge of the poisoning thought

that he has taught himself is true

and then when he has been missing for weeks

she finds him on youtube

and the video speaks

to call comrades to arms

against an enemy

as intangible to me

as a raging, blood-boiled sea.

So who am I

to watch this

fictional news

and pretend there

is no entertainment value here

and switch the channel

with the simplest press

to find a cookery programme

to relieve the stress

and check the latest reviews

of films and songs and theatre shows

that represent the world

as a place where, surely, love grows?

And while

the Palestinian woman

in this Instagram

sits in her devastated room

and clutches a blood-stained tea-towel

to her temple

and weeps her rocking soul

in silent ululations of grief

I hunt for an adjective

to objectify the narrative

for it’s only a picture

and all I can do is just 

like it 

and scroll on down.

I can engage with it or not

as the whimsy goes.

Today I might write a poem for a friend,

just a lousy poem,

or perhaps a little prose.

We mostly walk on the pavement

I was walking home today and noticed - strange - that although the road was completely empty of traffic we all still walked on the pavement.  Not really that strange perhaps but it did make me realise that we are basically conformist and for the most part that is an acceptable thing to be.  So perhaps going a little against the grain of modern poetry here is an ode in praise of conformity...

We mostly walk on the pavement

and mostly ignore the fact

that windows are easily broken

that glass is easily cracked

and objects belonging to others

could very easily be

lifted through broken windows

a handbag, perhaps a tv.

We just don’t, most of us, mostly

we simply abide by the rules

a set of agreed ordinations

decreed by our forebears, the fools.

And most of us mostly wear undies

to protect from an unpleasant stain

and most of us find some protection

whenever it’s starting to rain.

These are things that we do out of habit

and a feeling that such things are right:

when you’re using your phone I don’t grab it

though I could – (and maybe I might,

just because it is really annoying

when people use phones on the train

or the bus or the street or the library - 

seems I’ve gone off on one again.)

I think what I’m trying to fathom

and what I am trying to explain

is that people are generally similar

and generally good at the game

of being human and getting along with

the people that live round about.

It’s all too easy to get strong with

the people who dither about

but we don’t, do we, mostly,

we patiently let them get through

or get on the bus just before us

even when they were last in the queue.

We’re sociable animals mostly

and I’m glad about that, yes I am.

We modify our own behaviour

So we don’t all end up in a jam.

So thank you for not going naked

and thank you for not pooing there

and thank you for just being pleasant

and human

and kind

and aware.

Dead Pigeon

This beautiful drawing was made by Erika K Harada.  Find her blog here

There is

a dead pigeon

on the kerb today.

I doubt this pigeon

knew

this morning

as it flustered from its roost

under the railway bridge

to breakfast on

cold, strewn fries

that today

would see it

split from gizzard to cloaca.

Some angry, car-clad man,

fresh from the defeat of being

merely human,

has maybe come barrelling down the highway

and chosen to be less than human

to this slow-witted, paltry bird

and now

here it lies, 

spatch-cocked,

served with a side order of

starburst wrappers and grit.

Gristly tubes of stuff

spoiled out into the gutter,

a deep abyss hiding

within the feathered wound

where some internal animus

has at last found escape,

and allowed its

homing instinct full sway

- a soul’s seedpod split

and spent -

leaving a hollow husk

and a flurry of down

blizzarding along the kerb.

And Ruth tells me that

The Boys at School

would catch a random,

slow moving,

claw-stunted bird

such as this

and stuff it

into an empty carrier bag,

then toss it casually

under the wheels

of an approaching bus

to laugh at the

helpless popping

of the fragile carcass,

the splintering bones

and the instant cessation of

a life

so insignificant it is deemed

a suitable play thing,

a plastic counter

to be flipped with derision.

And we are human,

is it not so?

Harvest Time

When I first took up residence in this house

I said

this is the best house there can be

here I will raise my family

I will plant a fruit tree

I will grow apples in my garden

I will feed my apples

to my children

and to their children

when they come to visit us

at harvest time

I thought about it for many weeks

I thought about the variety I would choose

whether Adam’s Pearmain

or Pitmaston Pine Apple

Ribston Pippin

or Peasgood's Nonsuch

I thought about the best place to plant it

where I might sit in the shade of its branches

lulled by the susurration of leaves

I read books on how to keep an apple tree alive

protect it from the codling moth

and the bitter pit

while I was thinking

and choosing

and studying

my wife and I noticed that there are things

not quite so good about this house

it is very close to the neighbour’s house

there are some damp corners

the garden does not catch the sun

and is full of snails

I wondered

maybe there is a better house somewhere else

maybe we should move

I decided

I will wait

until I have found

the perfect house for my family

and then I will plant my fruit tree

then I will give apples to my children

and to my children’s children

when they visit us

at harvest time

but time is caulked up against our feet

like bitumen

and we have become busy in our staying here

waiting for our best lives

and although my wife scours the advertisers

she has not found a better house

and I have not found a better house

and I still have not planted an apple tree

and now my children have left home

and will soon have children of their own

or perhaps they never will

but I have no apples to offer

Things Matthew Gorse Did.

I went to primary school on a bus like this - Lewis Coaches

On the bus

Matthew Gorse

sat

playing

with a piece of thick wire.

Mr Lewis had

to stop

suddenly.

Matthew Gorse’s head

went

straight onto

the piece of wire.

The sharp end went into his skin

right

in the middle

of his forehead.

Matthew Gorse

just sat there

looking around at us.

Then we saw the blood

- it started to form a big blob

where the wire had gone in.

Then it started to run down his nose.

But Matthew Gorse

didn’t notice

- he just kept sitting there looking round at us

as if he could see things we couldn’t see.

When we shouted,

Mr Lewis

stopped the bus in the hedge.

He climbed out of his seat

and came back to look

at

Matthew Gorse.

He told him how

stupid

he was to be playing

with

a piece of thick wire

in the bus

and he gave him a handkerchief

to hold all the blood.

In assembly,

on Thursday,

Matthew Gorse

did another thing

because

he did not want the teachers to be cross.

When he needed to go to the toilet

he did not ask

if he could go to the toilet

 instead

he just went

to the toilet

where he was -

in his pants.

We knew he had quite quickly

because of the smell

but Miss White

didn’t notice for a bit -

then when she did notice

she stood him up from the bench

and after she had smacked his leg

she told him he had

done a stupid thing

and she asked him if he was still a baby

and did he need a nappy

and she pulled him

out in front of everyone

and took him off

to her classroom.

Mr Higham

put the foot catch on the door

to let some fresh air in.

Later,

at playtime

Matthew Gorse

was stood around

in someone else’s shorts -

he probably had

someone else’s

underpants on too,

but we couldn’t see them.

He had to take his home,

in a carrier bag

- all brown -

on the bus.

Polos

Mr Higham's class, 1968.
St Mary's RC School, Marnhull
Me, top right.

Mrs Higham

lost her voice in

the classroom

when it was being decorated

so we had to have

 sewing

in the canteen.

Outside

the canteen was a great big black

tunnel of corrugated iron

but there was

a

yellow

room inside

with

salt and pepper

and vinegar

in glass

shakers

and great big

 shiny metal

water jugs

and

red and green and blue and gold

beakers

and benches.

We had to sit

on the benches

at the dining tables

to do the sewing.

Mrs Higham

came over and whispered across

the tables.

Fingers on lips, everyone,

 she whispered.

She leaned right over to me.

Christopher,

would you run to the

office

and

fetch

the register.

You could

smell the polos.

When Dad smiled

Just a little one for Dad on Fathers Day...

When Dad smiled

and his cheeks

drew back

from his teeth,

there was a little clicking noise,

so even when

he was behind you

you knew

he was there

smiling.

QE2

A tale of dimensions and miscommunication

source: http://www.qe2.org.uk/

When they built the QE2

we did it at school.

Mr Higham

taught us all how long it was.

He said it was about

three miles long

from proud to sternum

or something

and we all had to go up the road

and stand

and be markers

and count all the

ten yards that would make up the three miles

or however long it was.

I was seven ten yardses

up from the school gate.

So I was standing there

and some people were left standing

being only two ten

yardses -

or three ten yardses -

they were really close to the gate.

Then everybody else

went round the

corner

to be two hundred

and fifty yards

or three hundred and ninety yards
and things.

And it all went very quiet.

For quite a long time.

I said to sixty yards

that it was boring.

He said it was too.

Fifty yards said he

needed to go toilet.

We stood there for ages

and you could hear all the others

a long way off

having

great fun

being

three hundred and seventy yards

and such.

Then after a long time

Paul Louth came running back

down

from around

the corner.

We got right to the post box -

he said.

But we’ve finished

so we can go back and have playtime.

So sixty ran off

back to the playground

and

fifty ran off

back to the toilets.

And so I ran off -

back to the classroom -

to get my marbles.

But Mr Higham

came breathing right down

low and hot

into my ear

just as I was

walking down the path

by the church.

I could smell his pipe.

His hand was as big as a bookcase.

It grabbed my elbow.

Where was I going

did he tell me I could go

one more thing like this and he was onto me

I should mark his words

just one more thing

he would not have anyone

making muckery of his lessons

did I understand.

I told him I did.

But I didn’t.

What is ‘muckery’?

I’ve never done it.

Later that afternoon

when I had done the picture of

the Police Cadet In His Uniform

I called Mr Higham

‘Dad’

by mistake.

My face went hot.

Everyone laughed.

Except Mark Donovan

who had come to school

with pink nail varnish on his fingers.

He had spilled it

but Mr Higham

told him he must have done it on purpose

because he was a girl.