Peter Gentle – a eulogy

And so, pained of belly
and more or less broken down

I lift my head and leave this dismal isle

England – our lonely planet

Of Bo-Jo and Cameron, of Gary Bushell
of The Sun and of egregious Littlejohn
of Ronnie Corbett, who from Shirley hails
and a host of others you knew so well
of reckless evenings in Soho
and of smoke-fogged pool halls
where you learned to sharpen your cue

(you were always so nonchalant and cool)
Elegant musician, mimic, comedian
you were Croydon’s Marlon Brando
a nocturnal, blue-eyed chameleon
as elusive as a wisp of smoke
even to those who knew you

You were a suburban sophisticate
an autodidact, a habitué of Herne Hill|
a fixture of steamy Streatham cabarets
a West Norwood Casanova
an existentialist of the South Bank

You were a runner, smoke was in your veins
and concrete and puddles and lampposts
a hunter gatherer, the South Circular was your Amazon

You were a mod, a rude boy
in Crombie and Parka
a historian of popular culture
charting that of which you were made
a radio commentator, a true friend
on a night out, charged with chaos and humour
or, even, a night in

You brought sparkle, laughter
and hope. It was fun to know you

I’ll miss you, mate, and I will drink
my next pint of amber nectar for you

Memorial to the fallen of Mokotow

These streets pockmarked by bullets and shrapnel

record, like an old photograph

the terror of a specific afternoon

the crackle of guns, a face at a window

This simple concrete memorial

protects the memory of infamy

There is no glory in tyranny

It does not wave flags, or boast

It does not parade through town on stilts
but records in simple lines

the shape of a helmet

a rifle raised carefully

a stick man falling down