London Overspill

I was something of a snob, I fear, when I was small...

When Michael Nichols

came to school

he called Mrs Higham

Miss

because

he was London Overspill

and he didn't know.

He lived at

Ten Acres

where the new houses

were,

and the bus picked him up at the end of his road

before

us,

so when I got on

he was sitting in

my seat.

He went and sat there on the way home too.

So I sat next to

my seat.

And he told me to watch out for his foot

because

when someone stood on it

it turned green.

But I did not

believe him.

So I stood on it

sitting down.

And he hit me.

On the nose.

It was a real

London hit

with his fist.

And I started bleeding

so I scraped at him

with my fingers,

and I scratched his face.

Then we were both crying

And John

did not know what to do to stop us

but he kneeled up

on the seat in front

and watched.

When I got home

Mum said I should not fight

and I said

I was not fighting

but she knew I was

so then I cried again

and said I would not go to school ever again.

She said

I should say to him

Look what you've done to my eye,

because he was London Overspill

and he was probably

upset

too.

So the next day

he was sitting in my seat

again

and I didn't want to

but I said

Look what you've done to my eye.

It was all blue and puffy.

And he said

well you've got really long nails.

And I did have

So I said sorry

for the scratches across his cheek

and he said

Sorry

too.

Then I told him

I was from Wanstead

but I wasn’t really

London Overspill

because it was Essex

and we wanted to come.

He said I was right

and he let me sit

by the window.

Something Useful

So when I asked Dad

what he wanted

for Christmas

He said

oh nothing.

So I said

come on, dad, what?

and he said

No, really, I don’t want anything.

You can’t afford it.

Yes I can

I said

I want to buy you something.

He said,

Well, all right then, but make it

something useful.

So I said

Like what?

And he said

Oh, I don’t know,

Something I need…

And I said

Like what?

And he said

Well I don’t know…

Something for the kitchen…

I know, 

we really need a new tin opener.

A tin opener?

Yes.

But that’s not a very nice Christmas present.

And he said

I don’t mind – that’s what I want.

So the next day

after school

I popped into town

before I went home.

I went into Sharp’s

and then into Humphrey’s

and they didn’t have many tin openers

but I managed to find one like the one we had before

for 49p,

which I could afford.

So I was just taking it up to the counter to pay

when Jonathon Luxton was there

and he came up to me

and he saw what I had in my hand

and he said

a tin opener?

Wow!  Somebody’s getting a nice Christmas present.

And I couldn’t think what to say,

so I didn’t say anything.

I just sort of shrugged and

smiled

and bought the tin opener

and then I went off to Harding’s

to find some wrapping paper.

Wet or dry

Mr Kelly

is sitting in his window

as I walk past.

Number 125

 I can see him

through the net curtains.

He’s holding something, 

cleaning it with his pocket handkerchief.

He sees

me looking in

I smile and give him a wave.

he waves back.

I think he's smiling.

And now 

I see that he is holding

his dentures,

buffing them with the cotton cloth.

I see the pink plastic gums.

I wonder whether

he prefers returning his teeth to his mouth 

wet

or 

dry.

"Ghosts of Devon"

 When I was a boy family holidays were mostly spent in Cornwall and North Devon.  A trip back in later life provided a mixture feelings

  

For thirty years

upon this shop’s wire rack

this book has lain:

bought, sold, restocked,

bought, sold

and stocked again.

And now I shuffle through

its creamy leaves:

the misty wanderings of souls in pain,

the dead of these stark fields.

I remember it from times before

on Hartland Quay:

buying ice cream, and postcards

of the Point;

or sitting in the car

to watch the rain,

and sipping at a cup of thermos tea.

The turn of every corner of the lane,

the hedges high as castles

and the sea

still dashing at the rocks

again, again –

the sudden childish heart,

the soul of me.

Here are the parents

of my childhood days.

Here are their faces

in my sleep.

You hear me breathing

in the thundering dark.

You see me weep.

For Granddad

My Granddad was a fishmonger in South Devon, driving to Exeter every morning to pick up a van full of fresh fish which he would then drive around the villages around his home town of Newton Abbot - homely, soft named villages, Bovey Tracey, Kingskerswell, Daccombe.

He always seemed somewhat aloof to me as a child, yet he became oddly approachable when overtaken by dementia towards the end of his life, kissing my father goodbye on my last visit to him - something he would never have done when in full control of his faculties.

I've taken some liberties with reality in this poem - I pictured him growing up in some seaside fishing village, somewhere like Robin Hood's Bay or Clovelly - not really true... And actually his afternoons were spent at his allotment.  So this poem is "for" him ather than strictly about him....

When the man first became a boy

he would sit, he said, on the old sea wall

where the village road spilled out onto the shingle

and the ocean filled his eyes.

He’d count the smacks -

out then in -

watching their weight in the water

as they rounded home into the harbour’s open arms.

And on high spring tides, he’d war his way

down to the sea’s fuming brink

and watch as it rocketed up against the grey -

wave upon wave of the ocean’s battalions,

assaulting the windows,

bloodying the doorsteps

of the town’s first houses.

Stuck in the snow... my granddad.

As a man, he caught the sea all unawares.

He’d slop it in pails and

fillet and fling it into

the open back of his van.

And off down yellow roads he’d sail it.

Home again for lunch

with salt and scales on his hands

and the last fish eyes glazed and dimming.

In the afternoon,

the woman would sit on the shore

and watch him wrestle the waves -

the confusion

of white skin in the surf.

I’ve seen the tide turn -

the man is a boy again.

An ocean has left him drowning on the beach.

The arteries have hardened round his heart.

The brine has bleached the colour from his creaking gills.

I hear the shifting of a thousand pebbles

as he breathes -

in then out -

and the salt sea

steals from his rheumy eye.

Sidewalk Quickstep

More confessions...

I forget myself.

In the quiet solitude

of the walk

back down the hill

past the park,

I forget myself.

In the relief

of the day’s full tension,

I forget myself,

and

calmly

express myself -

wind

blowing free

from my arse.

But this raucous reedy report,

which sends clichés of pigeons clattering

into the sky,

wakes me

from my

walking stupor.

The curtains of the moment open

and here I am

aware

of all the rest of you.

Now, I remember.

Here I am,

confounded

by embarrassment,

with you,

the attractive you,

right up there

slipstreaming

behind me.

And in my desperation

to reclaim my dignity

I scud the pavement

with the side of my boot

to recreate the offending noise.

Again and again

I skip and scuff at the tarmac.

I can

in no way

approach

the original fanfare

but you,

the beautiful you,

walking behind in my cloud,

yesterday’s sage and onion,

dive off down a forking path

and leave me

to continue

the kicking

sad pretence,

red-cheeked and solitary,

while the approaching

pedestrian

looks in quivering

bemusement

at my

sidewalk quickstep.

A few shorts... Italy, Lucky, Polka, Recycling & Parrot

A couple of memories from primary school days...

Italy

                          One day

                     we had

                   been do-

                 ing Italy

               and when

             I got home

            I told Mum

          that    we

         had done

       all about 

     the Leaning 

    Tower of 

   Penis. She said

I don’t think you did, dear.

Lucky

Neil Bond had

brittle bones

- but

they didn’t find out

until

I trod on his foot.

So that was lucky.

...and one or two more recent observations.

Polka

she walks on rapid feet

two soft cheeks

wrapped in polka dots

settling into an

eye-popping

syncopated

wobble

Recycling

Well I 

can’t

tell if

it   is

funny or

sad   that

Alan’s     Dad

drains the dregs

of the whisky at

the bottle bank

and finally a true story...

Parrot

And as they came in

he said

- but why?

And she said

- because you need

your vegetables

and fruit.

And he said

- Oh, I’m sorry

I thought you said

parrot.