Fly

In dreams I can fly

it is simple enough
a tightening of muscle
a shortening of sinew
a concentration of blood

there is
no frantic flapping of limbs
no wild leap into the air

No

I simply close eyes

tighten the core
breathe
flute my exhalation
through whistling lips
until I float
up, up into air
suspended

from the bubble

in my skull

in dreams I am free
from the poison of gravity

I tried it again today
in gusty hope
tried it as I walked home
in the belly of the wind

how certain I was
remembering the ease of dreams
feeling the fillip
beneath my arm pits
as my father
standing behind me
would grip his fingers
under these skinny pockets
and gift me moments
of fumbling flight
feet flailing free

laughing to dizziness

but today I was wakeful
and it is too hard
to tense each muscle

around the liver
summon blood

from distant corners

of a corpse

my will is oh so soft
while I am awake
and my father

is long dead

but one day
when my bones
are hollow as birds
and left sky-bleached
under gracious clouds
the ludicrous air will
whisper through them
of how I once could fly

jockey shorts

In an attempt
to drive
his taunting teenaged son
from his bedroom
as he tries to prepare for bed
the father strips

completely

naked

to the blue thread veins

that run across his chest
to the varicose vessels
that meander
from his groin
and delta down his inner thigh

the lad jeers
cheerily

at the whiteness
of the pallid skin
stretched shining
over the ridges of the shins

scoffs

at the loose-toned buttocks

revealed

as shapeless

jockey shorts

are thumbed down from the hips

complains
as a curtain of pendulous stomach

undulates in

a galloping adipose syncopation

but is silenced

as the father's flaccid weapon

larger than his own

claims victory

over the moment

the father

ignores the abuse

chooses to centre himself

in his thoughts

tosses the shorts

to the dirty linen basket

shakes creases

from folded pyjamas

stored beneath the pillow

ties a double bow

in the thick white cord

to ward against

further

more physical

attack

but

eventually

the lad grows up

and

sees that

he is
now the one
who strips to the white bone

before sleeping

contemplates

a ruined temple

as he yearns

for some more sensuous

corporeal sensation

sock drawer

Is this the drawer

where Grandad

kept his gun

wrapped in an old crepe bandage?

This drawer

with tortured walnut veneer 

where I now keep my socks?

An old service revolver

from his time in the war

the Great War

wrapped in a crepe bandage

and tucked at the back

of this drawer

next to a small cardboard box

of ammunition.

And did you find it once

when, aged fourteen,

on a cold Sunday afternoon

you were searching 

in forbidden places

for string

or a thimble

or some such thing?

And did you

when you spoke to him later

of your find

and though the sharp rebuke had

stung your ear

then understand what he had

had in mind

during the dark days

of 1941

when Hitler seemed invincible

when the War seemed lost

when he had promised you

and Joyce

and Grandma

that Adolf would never

take his family alive?

stroke

Hello, Dad.  Hello!

It’s me, Diane.  Hello.

I’ll just take my coat off.  

Where shall I put it?

Can I put it on the chair?

Shall I put it on the chair here?

Look I’ll put it here on the chair.

It’s not in your way there, Dad, is it? 

It’s not in your way there. 

There, I’ve put it on the chair out your way.

How’re you going on, Dad? 

How’re you going on?

You’re looking a bit better.

I can’t stop long, Dad.

Are you feeling any better?

Mike’s waiting in the car for me

so I can’t stop long.

You’ve got a bit more colour in your cheeks.

Have you been eating?

Ooh, it’s warm in here, isn’t it, Dad.

Are you warm?

I’m boiling, me.  It’s ever so warm.  Roasting. 

What did you have for lunch?

You look as if you’ve put a bit of weight on.

I said to Mike maybe you’ll put a bit of weight on in here.

Have you put a bit of weight on?

Oh, tell you what – I’ve brought you something.

I’ve brought you a bag of Werthers.

They’re your favourites, aren’t they.

Werthers.

They’re just in my coat.

I’ll fetch ‘em for you.

They’re just in my coat pocket.

I was going to get you some Wholenut

but they didn’t have any.

Not in the VG.

They didn’t have any Wholenut – not the big bars.

You only like the big bars, don’t you, Dad.

They only had small bars in the VG.

So I bought you some Werthers.

And you won’t need your teeth in for Werthers, will you? 

You can just suck them, can’t you. 

You’d need your teeth for Wholenut, wouldn’t you. 

So it’s probably just as well.

So how’ve you been, Dad? 

How’ve you been going on? 

Have they been looking after you? 

Course they have, haven’t they. 

I bet they’ve been spoiling you, haven’t they.

Bet you’re one of their favourites, aren’t you. 

I bet you’ve been loving it in here, haven’t you, Dad? 

All the attention. 

I bet you’ve been loving it. 

Ooh, it is warm though, isn’t it. 

Aren’t you feeling warm, Dad? 

It is warm in here.

I’m baking.

They keep it like an oven, don’t they? 

I s’pose it’s for the old folks, isn’t it, Dad. 

They need it warm. 

Don’t want them to get chilled, do they.

Do you want a Werthers then, Dad?

Do you want one? 

I’ll unwrap you one, shall I?

You can just pop it in your mouth

Here, look, I’ll unwrap one for you.

You can just pop it in your mouth.

Here you go, look.

Open up then.

Open up?  No?  Not going to open up?  No?

Shall you have it later, then Dad? 

Do you want it later?

Shall I pop it on the side here, by your glasses?

I’ll just put it here on the table, by your glasses.

You can have it later – if you feel like it.

After your tea.

Oh – hello, Dad!

Are you looking at me?  Are you?

Can you see me?

It’s me, Diane?

Hello, Dad, I think you can see me, can’t you.

I know you can hear me, Dad.

Here look give me your hand, Dad.

There.

Here I am.  It’s me.  Diane.

What’s that?

What’re you saying?

Hang on – say it again.

I can’t quite… say it again Dad, if you can.

No?  Can’t you say it again?

No. Ok.  I love you, Dad.

I love you.  I’m sorry.

Listen Dad.  I’m going to have to go.

Mike’s waiting.  He’s in the car.

He’s waiting on a meter and if I’m too long he’ll have to put money in.

But I’ll come back tomorrow, Dad.

I’ll come again tomorrow – all right?

For a bit longer.

Maybe you’ll be feeling better tomorrow, eh.

Maybe you’ll have a bit more colour in your cheeks, eh.

I’ll see you tomorrow then, Dad.

Bye then, Dad.  I love you.

Bye, Dad.

Dictaphone

I couldn’t keep up with the lectures.

I wondered if a Dictaphone would help.

When I phoned home I said to Dad – Dad, I can’t keep up with the lectures. I think a Dictaphone would help.

He said, I’ve got an old Dictaphone I don’t use, would you like it?

I said, Oh wow! yes, of course, that would be great!

I’ll post it to you, he said.

A few days later it arrived in the post.  It was a small micro cassette Dictaphone with a small microcassette already in the cavity where the microcassettes fit.  There was a note in with the Dictaphone which simply read:  “Press Play. Dad”

I pressed play.

Dad’s voice came out of the tinny speaker.  He told this long rambling joke about a farmer who no longer liked the tractor he had bought for some reason or other and so he was an Ex Tractor Fan, or something.  It wasn’t a very good joke - you could tell what the punch line was going to be very early on. But it was good to hear Dad’s voice.  I listened to it several times.  I love you, he said at the end.

He died ten years later.  A sudden heart attack.  He was unbelievably out there in the blue, floating around with no warning.

A few weeks after the funeral, I moved flats in Hull. Packing boxes, I found the Dictaphone.  The microcassette was still in the cavity where the microcassettes go.  I remembered Dad’s Ex Tractor Fan joke.

The battery had leaked so I replaced it and pressed play but all I could find was a muffled lecture on Shakespeare and the Traditions of Comedy.

Tankard

Brewer’s Gold

Left Hand Milk Stout

Modus Operandi

Dirty Stop Out

 

Down at The Two Brewers

on a hook above the barmaid

a tankard hangs

with his name engraved

upon it, ‘Ron’,

in a thin, unpractised hand.

A small plastic yellow clip

coils around the base of the handle

to distinguish it

from some other of a similar design.

It is a warm evening,

one that shepherds delight in, and

Ron trudges down to the Brewers

to take a nip.

Ron loves the ale.

Real ale.

Ale without hiss or fizz,

ale with honesty, brewed

with truth and taste

and sweet bitterness

that curls gently around his tongue

and dwells in him

for hours to come.

Black Betty

Smog Rocket

Neck Oil

Chiff Chaff

She sees him pass the small

window before he gets to the door.

She reaches the tankard down.

He walks in.

She knows his familiar time

and his familiar taste.

“Tanglefoot, Ron?”

she asks.

“Not tonight, Jan.

Bit too strong for

a school night.

I’ll have the Wadsworths.”

He knows them all -

specific gravity

hop mix

age.

Fursty Ferret

Black Sheep

Green Devil

Goats Leap

Three is his limit

on a social night

when Richard is there, or Tom,

but most nights

it’s just one that he’ll sip for an hour

stood up at the bar

waiting for someone to talk to him.

Nun’s Ruin

Warlock Stout

Bumblethwacker

Ghost Ship

So the week he died

and they brought him home

and we gathered

like elephants

gently moulding his bones

with disbelieving trunks

I could not bear to think of his tankard

hanging unused for months

before someone

there behind the bar noticed

how dusty it had become

and took it down and washed it with just

a short thought

for Ron and

rehung it in its place

for fear of dislodging some fixture

in time

and space.

And then to repeat the process

A few weeks later

and wonder again and

maybe ask

the landlord or the other staff

whether they had seen

him. Had Ron been in

recently?

I could not bear to consider

that outcome. And so,

one frosty afternoon,

a week after the funeral

I wandered down to the Brewers

and with my heart pulsing

in my throat and my eyes

burning with uncried

tears I asked

if I could have Ron’s tankard,

the one with the yellow plastic clip

as Ron would not be coming

anymore.

Jan was not there. The young

man who stood behind the bar said

“Oh, right.  I don’t know him.

Has he moved away?”

And all I could do was say

“Yes.”

And take the tankard

and flee back up the sobbing hill.

Dark Moor

Black Mule

Barnsley Bitter

Skullsplitter

And so

I’ve got it now

stood at the back of the cupboard.

The yellow clip has gone,

unnecessary,

there’s no mistaking whose it is,

the looped engraving

still names the man

‘Ron’

Fabarillo

Funky Pigeon

Fat Sprat

Nip

"Lingerie" and Lipstick

A tale of unrequited passion and underwear... fancifully embroidered from a few sketchy facts 

On returning in 1948, 

from service overseas, 

Ronnie at the age of twenty, 

took up lodgings in the house 

of a middle-aged widow 

and her adolescent daughter.  

The arrangement was hung 

upon the twin pillars 

of breakfast in the kitchen 

and an evening meal 

in the chilly dining room.  

There were contractual obligations on either side, 

standard stuff: 

payment a week in advance; 

a rent book; 

a laundry basket emptied weekly.  

And there were requests for consideration 

from the landlady 

regarding 

the use of the facilities; 

the practicalities of locking up if Ronnie should be returning late; 

and an insistence upon a reassuring absence 

of lady friends.  

Ronnie, 

though filled with an innocent confidence 

garnered through his years abroad, 

still harboured an unrequited yearning 

for a certain young woman 

named Dorothy 

whose acquaintance he had made 

at the American University in Beirut, 

and consequently he had, 

at this time, 

no interest in exploring 

other romantic avenues.

One afternoon, 

on opening the top right hand drawer of the chest in his bedroom, 

Ronnie was taken aback

by the presence 

of a pair of his own 

white cotton jockey shorts 

laid carefully 

atop the rest of the contents in the drawer.

source: https://www.etsy.com/uk/market/1948_vintage_ad

The shorts, 

softened with age and frequent washing 

and with a developing looseness in the elastic, 

bore the hallmarks 

of some 

unwarranted attention:

red daubs on the white fabric, 

which upon closer inspection 

revealed  themselves 

to be scarlet lipstick 

applied directly to the garment 

from what must have been 

liberally-coated female lips.  

Bow-shaped kisses 

staining Ronnie’s intimates.

Ronnie hurriedly slammed the drawer shut.

Then tentatively reopened it 

perhaps in the hope 

that the chest was in some way magical 

and offered the possibility 

that the garment might have

 mysteriously disappeared 

or at the very least 

returned to its unadulterated state.

It had not.

Removing the underpants 

from the drawer 

he placed them flat upon the candlewick counterpane.  

Then after a moment’s consideration 

folded them carefully 

ensuring that 

as far as possible 

the sticky evidence was 

concealed within the bundle.  

He then secreted them 

at the back of the drawer 

in his bedside cabinet 

alongside 

his address book, 

the photograph of Dotty in her tennis dress, 

his Authorised Version, 

his rosewood pipe 

and the two coiled sleeve supports 

sent to him by his mother 

in anticipation of some, 

as yet unidentified, 

desk-bound employment.

The meal that evening 

was somewhat more hurried than usual, 

and during it Ronald found himself 

studying the two female occupants of the house 

with questioning, 

curious eyes.  

He found himself checking 

their mouths 

as they chewed 

in order to establish overall shape and size 

and looking for any hint 

of artificial colouring.

In bed that night 

he continued his mental enquiries 

as to the identity 

of the perpetrator 

of this act of 

sartorial violation.

The older woman,

in her late forties, 

was somewhat dowdy in both 

attire and  disposition.  

Since the death of her husband, 

Ron surmised, 

life without her male companion 

may have provoked 

a longing in her loins 

and his own presence

may have brought about a 

surging of sexual desire 

encouraging her to throw 

caution to the wind.  

She may have regarded the lipstick 

as the final weapon in her 

arsenal 

of aging femininity 

and found her passion 

thoroughly expressed 

through this 

cosmetic ejaculation.

The daughter, Rosemary, 

fifteen and timid, 

had given Ronnie no prior indication of an interest in him: 

her fringe concealed eyes that shone but dimly; 

and she was as yet 

still seemingly unaware 

that the slight plumping 

out of her chest was a 

prefiguring 

of a general maturation 

of her pubescent body.  

Ronnie, 

having often observed her 

with one or other 

Victorian novel 

under her arm, 

wondered whether she had 

fallen prey 

to a powerful 

romantic 

attachment 

to him 

which could only find voice 

through this reckless act 

of passionate graffiti.

In his mind, 

Ron placed the two side by side.

Mother and daughter: 

the sexually experienced 

against the innocent.  

He balanced probability 

with desirability.  

He weighed his own, 

largely unformed, 

ideas 

of an imagined bedtime companion 

with these two potential, 

flesh and blood candidates, 

and then again 

cross referenced them 

with Dorothy.

His confusion was complete.

He rose at six 

after several sleepless hours; 

hurriedly packed his few things

(save the underpants) 

into his brown cardboard suitcase; 

wrote a brief note of apology 

(though not of explanation) 

to his landlady 

and inserted the next week’s rent into the envelope 

before quietly slipping 

out of the house 

toward the 

Green Line 

bus stop.

Oh Dad!

Pull my little finger

says Dad

Go on, pull it.

He’s holding out his little finger

I pull it and

a fart comes out of his bottom.

Dad!

What does a ship do when it comes into harbour?

says Dad.

I don’t know, I say.

Ties up!  he says,

and he flips my tie up in front of my nose.

Dad!

I’m in the car,

says Dad

when he isn’t really – he just wants to get going

but Mum says

there are still things to do and he can sit there as long as he likes

but she gets on better when he’s out of the way

sitting in the car.

And when it’s teatime

and he comes in from gardening

his grey jumper smells all smoky of bonfires

and there’s a drop of sweat dripping off his nose.

But when he comes home from work late

he tries to creep in so no-one can hear him

and he creeps along the hall

to the sitting room

where we’re all sitting watching Top of the Pops

and he pokes his head round the door very quietly

and says

hell-ooo

And we all jump

and go

Oh Dad!


Buy Egg Yolk & Blue Biro here

That & This

We have gently captured your soul

a willing prisoner,

in these jewel moments of your life

although they are just photos on the piano?

 

We have captured the growing girl:

here,

the beaming infant in you –

hands spread wide

to span the joy,

to contain the view,

you,

lying toothless on the play-mat

your sister used;

or here,

an older you

refusing the snap,

hands up batting away the camera

like some over-papped celebrity –

your crooked, self-conscious teeth

before retainers.

School photos and

birthday songs

holidays,

sing-a-longs.

For us

a record of your history

to check that we

have done the best we can.

For you

a list of treasure times

that step you from

Not that

to That

which you choose to

Be.

A road map to

look back at

and look forward from.

And I am

This

and have been caught by you, too,

in your mind’s eye.

But I, for you, have always been

This,

just This.

For as you grow

your change of view

accommodates the me you know

the fixed point

safe, slow

unchanging

as you come and go.

This is you, father.

My father is This.

Now you have left home

and your visits are less frequent

and the sliding of the years

appears to speed.

And you will see

This

age.

While you are not here

you will see the crest

fall

and the crumpling page

of my face as my cheeks sag

around the growing gaps in my teeth.

Muscles will slacken,

Jowls drop.

Where once I could contain the

issues of my body

now, I cannot.

And this crumbling hair 

will give up these final

feeble efforts

and you will see

the wind blowing

through the gaps

between hair and scalp

and realise that

This,

too,

shall pass.

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