we had a blind boy at primary school
with creamed filmy eyes
and I liked him a lot
though he never played chase
he always was led by the arm
from place to place
when it was my turn to lead him
I thought it an honour
I'd hold his hand tightly
walk tall and erect
and I liked that blind boy
with childish respect
then one day at dinner he needed to go
the class-goat tricked him
to shit on the ground
and we gathered round laughing
to point at the floor
we never did see that poor blind boy
no more
....
just in passing
women always have tales
of lost children
not the normal of the monthly
passing
but of specific
which of course
are terrific
in their everyday
how much laughter
the world has lost
for little cost or care
just a few cells
and a snatch of blood
never there
....
simple statement
amid the scrunch and phut
and patter and putt
and the squeak of my right boot
complaining at it's over use
I limp through the rain
and think of all the reasons
I love poetry
but they are the scrunch and phut
and patter and putt
of limping through the rain
in an anorak hood
with my left boot
laughing at the rights over use
...
fraternity
at some point today
I had one son on one arm
and
another son on the other
there were no cars
no dogs
nothing to fear
I wished only to swing my arms
breathe in the scent of the bluebells
but I held the offered hands
knowing it was love
and loving every step we took together
...
africa
compassion is not a virtue but a vice
just as nice isn't pleasant but an amalgam of
neat and precise
and they exactly make a perfect pair
for the empathic to feel superior
oh I know I am heartless
for daring to say
that I am greatly saddened
by the knowledge
most african university graduates
dream of working for an NGO
or being an emigre
but it's nice to have cut flowers
in every retail outlet
and those out of season fruit and veg
they simply will not grow themselves
and it is of vital import
to pile them high on gaping shelves
and then there's all the minerals
what must be gathered in
uranium is valuable
as is bauxite and tin
and those dark chaps in the way
they must at once go away
they cannot be allowed to stay
of course it helps those in control
of the mining rights and oil holes
own the compassion tap
for the NGOs to spout some crap
of how you are a racist knave
because you refuse to behave
and object to the plan
of evacuate and drown
but mind and never mention
- don't send blankets just send cash -
haitian hotels of grand dimension
for on the beaches tourists splash
while up the mountain out of sight
another child drowns in shite
as cholera that disease unkind
clears a path for the clinton's mine
oh yes the despots hold compassion
as the greatest of all virtues
without it they could not be stashing
the money nicely taken
from empaths like you
..
homeward through woods
in unison
we three step leap the stream
landing together
marching in step
and you cry
'look at how light the green leaves are'
elated
the crusted sweat of walking
flakes at our vibration
falls in snowdrops
to the rustled brown floor
all there is
is contained within
this bell of your voices
as you run to balance on stones
crack sticks to echoes
blow the stasis of winter
from your lungs
gather freckles
...
sonnet of the hanged man
only he who has lived in shadow
can know the truth of the light
or the joylessness of the lightdwellers
in their constant fear of darkness
only he who has drunk his tears
and been drunk on those tears
and felt his guts in his mouth
can know happiness of freedom
for all else is plastic of design
no matter how roughened the surface
and only we who have lived
in appreciation of our limit
and gone beyond without care
know the truth of foolishness
...
and we are
and the sunlight passes through us in laughter
- roaring and rushing at the joy of living -
spinning in the moment our arms o'erspan
our reach - grab all the eye can see to
cast up in silvered dancing - to shower down upon us
drenching all that we are - and can be
and we turn and we turn and we turn -
until we lift - how full we are with love -
....
faith
because I have rejected good and bad
and seek only what is
I am deafened with joy
no longer do I wrap myself
preparing not to receive
for now I
wash my soul - smell - and see
with a vivacity of which I could never conceive
or believe
before I allowed myself to let go
of those two bogus words
that from childhood define us
...
for a dead child
where shall I take these ashes
my urge is to the sea
to the wide norfolk sands
and trudge across the flatness
on a receding tide
so that I might have excuse
to keep you
I will keep you close
to my beating heart
lay down on the wetness
of drying sand
push my head
backwards onto mussel shells
so that I might have excuse
to keep you
and when the tide turns
chasing me to the land
I will find excuse
why I never take you
to the sea
for I am you
and you are me
and one day
we shall be
...
please don't say
it's the constant edginess that wears you down
that tight band around the ribs
a sickness that never wretches
but stretches
all muscles to tautness
until the only escape is trapped in the head
it's those thoughts that cannot be expressed
that leak out inconvenient
they terrify in their calmness
not raving
just the simple stating of tabboo
it's the urges to end it
to prove yourself correct
whilst trapped in your head
unbelieved
and if you really let yourself go
it's back to that moment when you met death
it need not be your own
it might be the image of a glue sniffer
head bumping at the top of the esculator
hair being dragged through the teeth
matted with evo
each cough pouring blood
talk about it
talk about it
but don't say you like it
don't be honest and say
how you really feel
and on no account point out
that you are sane
and the expert with a septic toe
poking out of his sandal
is crazy
...
ennui
on days when the blues play unwished for
I stroll out beyond - wish for more -
to blue remembered driftwood shore
light a fire among the dunes
and in the mists beneath the moon
give full voice to sadness - my croon -
if croon it be - laments across the faithless sea
and echoes - so it seems to me -
in verses neatly - three by three
....
bow bell
I see them now -
in the garden
eating oranges
she cracks them
relishing the tearing
licking his palms
and he
catches bees
in the juice
...
bushmills, though I prefer jameson
I used to go out drinking with an irishman
and play paul mccartney in ira pubs
'are you english or an englishman' they'd ask me
what the fuck
can't I tap my foot to the fiddle like you
we'd have a few - and when he forgot he was born in hull
he'd get all sentimental for danny bouy
and draw on a beermat his lines of advance
great sweeping lines they were
up they'd come from donegal, monaghan
sligo and leith
dancing jigs like on the somme
and I used to say to him 'oo you foiten'
he din't know, or din't care
stick a bomb in bin, blow up a kiddie
what the fuck - we'd had a feu
he's been to confession
I've had a wank
and the cat still visits the queen
...
dales
the farms - plump cottage rolls
biscuit walled, oven blackened
slate tapped -
sidle through
the valleys
in search of seclusion
stone floored
dumb - pretending - but tight
like farmer's unwethered grip
pulling the lamb and the land
into the fold
pushing the hills
with the balls of the hand
rolling them
and squeezing up
stonewalls with the fingers
...
before
england beautiful runic ing
how green you must have been
to those woodsman of germany
before the angles and crosses -
your dark tracked forests
pilgrim ways - on a journey
from the sun to the sea
and the mist and the marsh
and the upturned tree -
at times you resonate still -
still can the pulse be felt
on a clear cloudless evening
as the rookeries cease their squabble
stars rise from the turquoise waves
...
evensong
the town hall clock strikes maunful tone
tea washed and dried
she leaves her home
this time of day she calls her own
as she makes her way to evensong
those who live their life by reasons
will not comprehend her love of seasons
nor the smallness of her hoped for pleadings
as she slips away for evensong
she goes not for god or wealth
not even really for herself
but to hear the birds in full breath
in glorious joyous evensong
...
The Blue Book
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