A collection of poems and other writings...
Showing posts with label out&about. Show all posts
Showing posts with label out&about. Show all posts

Tuesday, 22 January 2019

No waiting


I will no longer wait
for this bus
because buses slow down
if you are waiting for them
and it makes no odds
if I see the very first moment
of its bumper
rounding the corner
at the end of the road

It will either come
or it will not come
whether I wait 
or not

No
I will no longer wait
but I will stand here
because this bus-stop
is as good a place to stand
as anywhere else

and I will watch the sun
creep in and out of the clouds

and I will watch children
running near the kerb

and I will hear their parents
scolding them

and I will watch
a starling
on the gutter of a house
preening itself

and I will breathe
the bus-stop air
rather than the air by the crossing
and that will make a change

and perhaps
while I stand here
watching and breathing and listening
I will count the chips of paint
on the bus-shelter
and fancy that I can see a face
forming in the dry stud
of chewing gum
that someone has posted
on the glass
and I will imagine 
the sweetness of the gum
on my tongue

But I am not waiting for the bus
because it takes too much energy
and I don't have that kind of wealth
No
No waiting
for the bus
even though
you said
you might be on it

Friday, 2 February 2018

Dead Pigeon

Walking home the other day I came upon a dead pigeon in the street.  The way it lay and the colour of the carcass led me to imagine that rather than being crushed into the pavement it was actually emerging out of it...

I snapped a photo of it and my talented friend Adry Ruiz (@xxxadryxxx) translated it into a pencil drawing to accompany this poem

From the ash of the asphalt I am born
fledged from flagstone streets
I will dance for you through broken air
for you will I thrill in flight

I am the chill of the wild in the town
I am a child in the still of the sky
settle my soul in the spirit world
fashion me feathers and fly

as a shaman's cape will I shelter you
although I am crushed and torn
for though my entrails grace the ground
no harm to me now can come

I'll dance once more through the greasy air
dance once more by the bridge
dance once more on the frosty street
where you creatures of the city live

come, dance with me as the day begins
dance with me as it ends
feed me scraps from the morsels bag
feed me love from your lips

I have the courage of an iron bear
the grace of a violin
I have the strut of an ancient mare
that drinks by the river's brim

for though I am crushed and split apart
though I am shattered and crazed
I live with you in the city's heart
wherever a city is raised

Tuesday, 18 July 2017

A Graveside Kiss

Lilies
     dense and white
     and speckled orange
     soft-stemmed funnels of sorrow
     bundled within a polythene sleeve
lie
     on the mound of churned earth
     that will cover her coffin
we
     thumb paper tissues
     into our palms
     sidle together
     our heads at forty five
     though a more subtle angle
     between your body and mine
     for we are inclined to weep
we each
     lean on the other's arm
     our soft palates each clamped
     against the grief
     tongues tying the tragedy tight

but here
     amongst the cannas and tigers
     a bumble bee
     fumbles one by one into the flower cones
     re-emerges after a moment
     reversing from each powdery trumpet
     pollen like polenta
     dusting its busby black and belisha fur
then
     its forage complete
     now all sweetness is gone
     it rises against the breeze
     and flies close
     between your shoulder
     and your ear
you
     flinch
     and shudder
     as the wing-disturbed air
     broaches your neck
     an intimate breath
     a whispered kiss
     at the graveside

Wednesday, 12 July 2017

H-Bomb

I climb the corner
from Valley into Upper Valley Road
the licorice evening
cat-curling round my feet

young boy
ten
walking towards me
drops an H-bomb
as he passes

I stutter my surprise
but then
remembering
its sometimes
good to connect
return the greeting

Hello
I say
back


Saturday, 23 April 2016

Friday deal

London Road
dark Friday night
and two
young men
one on his bike
are loitering
on the pavement
the other
next to him

negotiating
some transaction.

My heart pumping
I approach
wary of the implication.

When
I reach them
I see
that he
on the left
is pouring
into the hand
of he
on the bike

skittles
- go on have a few more.


Taste the rainbow

Friday, 3 July 2015

In the Queue - Cashier Number Five, Please

“Is it your birthday, Doreen?”
“It is my birthday.”
“I saw your badge.”
Doreen’s wearing a “Birthday girl” pin badge.  She perches on her stool counting out the woman’s money.
“I’m taking tomorrow off, Jean,” Doreen smiles, “making a long weekend of it. Might have a facial.”
“Ooh! That’s nice.  Is it a big one?”
“Not particularly,” says Doreen.  She mouths “forty-five” through the glass.
“Oh, I had you as older?” says Jean.
Doreen stops smiling.
“How much did you want, then?” Doreen asks
“I’ll have the full two hundred.  I’ve gave up smoking and every week I’ve been putting it aside – twenty pounds a week.  Now I’ve got two hundred!  Just from not smoking.”
“Amazing,” says Doreen.
“I’m still doing them e-ciggies though.”
“Right, but they’re much cheaper, aren’t they.”
“Oh, so much cheaper”

Crystal is serving me.  She’s new.  There’s a sign above her window “Staff in training. Please be kind.”  I push the banking under the glass as kindly as I can.  A small rubber band rolls out of the cloth bag, too.
“I’ve just got some banking to do and a bit of change – oh, and a small rubber band,” I tell her.
“Oh, haha!” says Crystal.  “Er…”
Dawn has been spring-cleaning the shelves on our side: one by one emptying them off, wiping them down with a J-cloth and a bit of spray, then popping the things back on exactly the way they were but without the dust.  She comes up to the counter to talk to Crystal.
“Have you not done banking before?”
“No,” says Crystal.
“You’ll be fine.  Doreen, soon as you’ve finished Jean off can you help Crystal?”
“’Course I can, lovey.  I’ll help you, lovey, I’ll just finish Jean off, you’ll soon get the hang.”
“Here,” says Dawn to me, “look at the colour of my hands,” she spreads her fingers out to show me their blackened tips.
“That’s me done,” says Jean.  “ Bye all!” and she walks out struggling to close her purse around her two hundred.

A man walks up behind me heading for Doreen who has sidled across to look at what Crystal is doing.
“Hello, Len,” they all say.  He’s a regular I’m guessing.
“Hello, girls,” says Len.
Crystal is occupied slowly counting out my twenties into piles of four and wrapping a fifth around them, so Doreen slips back over and sidles her bottom onto her stool to serve Len.  Len puts his card in the card machine.
“How much do you want?” says Doreen.
“All of it,” says Len “soon as I can remember my number, er… .”
Dawn has taken the rolls of silver wrapping paper off the high shelf above where Len is standing.  Now she tries to put them back but they topple off and one hits Len on the head.
“Oh!!  Watch out skies a-falling!” says Len.
“Oh! I’m so sorry, Len!” says Dawn and another roll topples down.
“Wo-oah,” says Len “you take your life in your hands in here!  ‘Sallright Dawn I won’t sue you.”
Dawn picks up one of the rolls from the floor and taps him a hollow knock on the head.
“Steady on, lass,” says Len, “that’s my weakest point! Oh, hang on…” he’s remembered his number and presses it carefully into the machine. “Had to be rattling round in there somewhere! I’m obliged to you.”

Crystal’s been picking up speed; she’s finished the tens, and fives too, and is just fiddling the loose change onto her little coin rack.

“Did you get them bees, Len?” asks Dawn
“What?” says Doreen.  “Bees?  What bees?”
“Oh, did I not tell you,” says Len, “got chatting to a man over Wombwell way last Sunday.  Beekeeper chap.  BMW they used to call him - Bee Man of Wombwell.  But he’s ninety three and he’s giving it up.”
“And you fancied a bit of honey on your porridge, didn’t you Len!” says Dawn.
“Eh, it’s not just that,” says Len.  “I do, like, but it’s not just that.  He says he’s got hundred thousand bees but he wants to give them away.  So I says, well I’ll have ‘em.”
“ Blimey!” says Doreen
“I know!  With all the equipment, like.”
“Hundred thousand!  That’s ever so many.” Doreen can’t quite believe it.
“But you took them back,” Dawn chimes in, “’cause when you got them home there was one missing!”
“You’ve not done it before though, Len,” says Doreen
“No, no,” says Len, “no, not done it before – don’t know one end of a bee from t’other.”
“Haha!” says Dawn, “well I reckon you’ll find that one out soon enough, Len.  Eh?”
“Oh, be-hive yourself!”  says Len.  “Be-hive yourself!”
"Eh!  I'm Queen Bee around here, aren't I Dor?"
"Oh, yes."
Dawn grabs her midriff in her hands and wobbles it.
"Look you can tell I've had too much of that royal what d'you call it, y'know..."
"Jelly," says Len
"Ay, that's it," says Dawn, "royal jelly.  Too much royal jelly!"


Thursday, 4 June 2015

Windowsills

Picturesque Valley Road, Heeley
These are
things
people have
on windowsills
on Valley Road

and some on 
Brooklyn

a sleeping cat
in black and white

two small dogs,
barking at me
and then at each other

an empty vase
like a large
upended aubergine

a stained glass tablet
propped against the pane
featuring
a church
beneath
an abstract sunset

a blue acrylic dragon
breathing
red acrylic fire
from its nostrils

another cat
mackerel
also sleeping

an alabaster sculpture
four inches tall
that gives the impression
of a couple embracing
two round heads
and encircling arms

a scrap of paper with
a shopping list
written in a ragged hand
in blue pen
including bacon
bread
and butter

a sticker sign 
that has peeled from the glass
warning that
all 
our belongings
have been
postcode protected

a dead moth
lying on its back
with
its legs approaching
the air 
from beneath

a tray
of leggy seedlings
leaning towards
the sunlit street

Saturday, 9 May 2015

match day

The crowds are out
it’s match day
and Bramall Lane draws
a constant current
of stripeshirted men
boys
scarved women
girls

A’Salt and Battered

is queued up
down the road
never seen it so busy
selling chips by the galleon

I’m against the flow
and he spots me yards off
as he climbs the street
past the Cremorne
till we coincide
outside cake‘r’us
he raises his left hand
in a high five salute

a black guy
about forty five

says
how’re ya doin?

we’re passing nearside and
instinctively
I raise my left hand
to give him back the greeting
it can’t hurt
he’s perhaps a little

squiffy

but
ah, he’s got me
holds onto my hand
now engulfed
within his
cold dry palm
a bricklayer’s hand perhaps
smooth calloused skin

It’s been a long time, he says
has it? I smile
you don’t remember?
oh, say I, no
do I know you?
you don’t remember?
I don’t think so
where do I know you from?
you tell me, he says
I can’t think… down south somewhere?
that’s it
London?
that’s right
funny, I say
I don’t remember at all
oh yes, says he
oh yes

he’s got me eye to eye
you know what I’m doing now?
he licks his tongue
around the gaps in his front teeth
soft and wet
er, an electrician? 
I hazard
I'm enjoying the cheek of it

no, I’m on the streets
I’m sleeping on the streets
oh no, really, where?
car park at end o’t Moor
oh
y’know what? he says
what?
I’ve been out since nine o’clock
nine o’clock this morning
just trying to get three pounds
for something to eat
just three pounds
just for something to eat
he looks at me full frontal

I hate to ask, he says
oh, right, I say
let me… er…
he let’s go of my hand

so I’m fiddling in my pockets now
just looking for something
my change purse
something
I find a penny
I’d picked
off the pavement earlier
but a penny’s not enough
he’s got me on his hook now
there’s no wriggling free
can’t find it anywhere though
so the bag comes off my back
and I’m rooting around
where’s my bloody change purse
God, I hate this
nope not in my bag

test my pockets again
and there it is

I hate to ask, he says

I tip the contents into my hand
two two pence pieces
a waitrose trolley token
and a two pound coin

I give it a last wistful look
as I drop it in his outstretched hand

I hate to ask, he says

well that’ll get you started
I say
that’ll get you started
he looks me in the eye again
takes my hand in his
in a formal handshake

I’m very grateful
he says
very grateful

No worries
no worries
look after yourself

Bless you sir
bless you

and I walk off 
smiling
and feeling slightly

mugged

Thursday, 30 April 2015

Lucy laughs at Marek

At the foot of
Shirebrook Road
two ten year old girls sit
on the steps of the house
that once used to be the old
Mini Motorparts Shop

they watch a boy
dancing bad parcour
around the yellow
municipal grit bin

girl two is giggling
at the boys looping
tumbles

girl one says
ok Marek
you made Lucy laugh
you made Lucy laugh
but you’ll never make me laugh
Marek
you’ll never make me laugh


Lucy in her
leopard skin dress
continues her giggle

and Marek continues
his dance


Tuesday, 7 April 2015

Anyway

Anyway

Young Yorkshire mum
with two young sons
walking up
Upper Valley Road

I’m in behind her
admiring her
South Riding
two undulating hills
in pure grassgreen
brushed cotton

that needs smoothing
I’m thinking

but I don’t…

Does my bum look big in this?
I’m remembering from the TV show
and I’m silently answering
Yes
but in a really good way.

Anyway

Son One is up ahead
testing out his leadership skills
knowing the way
Number Two a good bit younger
is hanging back and
has just hit whine mode


Anyway

she sounds pretty
patient with him
cooing and cajoling
but he’s climbing the whine gears
with indistinct complaining
and with each rising note
you can hear her
jaw clenching and
her teeth gritting.

Anyway

eventually

he hits High ‘Me’
and finally her fury
bursts buttons on her blouse
like popping candy
and she Yorkshire yells

“What, Timiteo?!

Anyway
we’ve got to go shopping!”

Thursday, 2 April 2015

Dragon in the City

She looks to nest
in the trees above the park
and waits till sunrise gilds
her scaly breast
then spreads her wings
to catch the dewy air –
her gulping flight to
breakfast on the green.

But there is flummox in the folk
that stare below
they bring stones and sticks
and washing props and rakes
and fling them high to
break her from the sky
reckless of her safety
and their own.

But sweeping all their
brutish jibes aside
she saddles once again
the florid air
and rides the gathering thermals to the sky
until these ants below have slaked their fear.

And she, now
grey with age,
flees once more
to the lonely
place where she can live in peace

the mists of myth.




Other Urban Faeries...

Mysterious Stark

The Pigeon Whisperer


Tuesday, 31 March 2015

Mysterious Stark

Another imagined urban faerie...

Behind the
cold, grey
concrete stairs
in the corner of the lowest of ground floors
in this
multi-storey
car park,

is a dark
and mouldy
den.

In the den,
so dark and mouldy,
that lies behind
the cold, grey
concrete
stairs,
is a gathering together
of leaves
and crisp packets
flattened cans
and sweet wrappers
and the cellophane from boxes of cigarettes
half a page of a newspaper
and some more
dry
dead
leaves.

This is the treasure
of
Mysterious Stark.

This is the home
of
Mysterious Stark.

He makes
no sound except
the sound that he catches
from the feet of the people
walking
up and
down
and up
the concrete steps
and across the
car park floors.

He grabs those sounds,
wraps them up in city mumbles
and rolls them up the stairs again.

He catches the clicks
of opening doors
and
slamming doors
and he
sharpens them
and spears them back onto Level Three.

He sucks up the noise of engines starting,
and he drinks them down
then belches them out into the grey
afternoon.

On special, windy Saturdays –
he waits for people coming out
of the supermarket,
their hands tied down
heavy
with carrier bags full of baked beans.

Then
he picks up a mighty
mittful of grit
and throws it in their faces,
right in their eyes
and he laughs at them
as they blink and cry.

But he’s not always so grouchy
sometimes just for fun –
in his mouldy dark den –
he catches
the smallest corner of the wind
and ties it by its tail
to the hand rail
so that it can’t escape.

Then
he stirs the loose end
of the wind
into his pile of treasure
and chuckles to himself
as
round and round
the leaves chase the crisp packets and
the sweet wrappers chase
the cellophane
and
the half a page
of newspaper
covers itself with wind glue
and
blows itself
right around the shoe
of a man named

Ken.

Monday, 30 March 2015

The Pigeon Whisperer

When I’ve got cheese and pickle –
they know!

When I’ve got halfway through my pasty –
they know!

Salt and vinegar or cheese and onion –
they know!

And down they come from every roof top,
from every branch
from every tree,
from a clear and birdless sky –

down, down they come,

and in a grey gathering,
as quick as chips,
they are flustering around my feet.

But if you look
not down,
to where the pigeons
coo and hoot
in front of you,
but up,
up over the gutters
along the telegraph wires
through the windy alleys
by the side of the precinct
maybe you’ll catch a glimpse –

Can you see her
in her rosy grey cape?
No bigger than
a pigeon’s wing
she leaps and flies
whispering the news to all who can hear.

“Scoff,
grub,
mash,
gobble!” These are the only words she knows

but in many bird tongues

“Snack,
snap,
scran,
chow!”

Each hears the word it likes
and like a stone drops from its airy heights
to the soles of my feet,
to gaggle around in search of
a bite,
a crust,
a crumb,
a crisp,
a cracker,
a crunch,
a pick,
a peck,
a pickle,
a pepper,
a punch,
a sip,
a sup,
a snip
a supper
a lunch.

And when the peeking
pecking
crowd
have done
from all around
are gone,
they’ll fly to wait
up on the gables ends
and window sills
and roof ridges
and tree tip-tops
until her cry comes
over the tiles again.

“Nibble,
noodle,
cropper,
shopper,
fiddle,
fudge,