Poems about violent creatures with snapping jaws
That show how ‘nature is cruel’. Wow.
Poems designed to make the writer –
A slab-jawed man in a flat cap –
Who lives, incidentally, in Primrose Hill
Look craggy and interesting
Driveling lines about wild landscapes
And other ‘beautiful’ places
To me, suburbs are beautiful
The city is humanising
The countryside is inhabited
By the malicious and ignorant
Innocence is beautiful, certainly
And the pike and the fox are innocent
They are not, in any sense, ‘cruel’
So why does the slab-jawed man in the flat cap
Witter on about them
With his jabbing finger and his shining eyes
Like a man prodding a snake with a stick?
Go on, prod it again!
Tuesday, 23 December 2008
Monday, 8 December 2008
Old man
Man in a cap. Cold day
Man who moves slowly
Man who fixes things
Man who does not speak
Man who is dun-coloured
Man who is good with his hands
He has no vanity
He is rarely angry
Except for the odd explosion
He does his duty
He has low expectations
He does not complain
He is an old-fashioned chap
Well-educated but not showing it
If he feels superior
He does not express it
He does not impose himself
He is barely there
In his day, feelings were buttoned up
Don’t show off, don’t make a fuss
He was not used to being praised
As a father, he was uncomfortable with emotions
His responsibilities ended at the door
He was much happier with things
An old man sitting in his chair
His mind is gone – a blank screen
He probes for memories
Where am I? Who are you?
I wasn’t all bad was I, as a father?
I can’t have been all bad, can I?
Silence. I do not answer
It is not a punishment. I am thinking
What kind of dad was he?
A little gloomy, certainly
But there were many worse
He was a man of his time
Man who moves slowly
Man who fixes things
Man who does not speak
Man who is dun-coloured
Man who is good with his hands
He has no vanity
He is rarely angry
Except for the odd explosion
He does his duty
He has low expectations
He does not complain
He is an old-fashioned chap
Well-educated but not showing it
If he feels superior
He does not express it
He does not impose himself
He is barely there
In his day, feelings were buttoned up
Don’t show off, don’t make a fuss
He was not used to being praised
As a father, he was uncomfortable with emotions
His responsibilities ended at the door
He was much happier with things
An old man sitting in his chair
His mind is gone – a blank screen
He probes for memories
Where am I? Who are you?
I wasn’t all bad was I, as a father?
I can’t have been all bad, can I?
Silence. I do not answer
It is not a punishment. I am thinking
What kind of dad was he?
A little gloomy, certainly
But there were many worse
He was a man of his time
Feelings had not been invented then
Wednesday, 22 October 2008
Teleology
Is where we live most of the time
Observing the seasons carefully
Treating each fire, earthquake or flood
As if it were, a surprise.
Disturbed by our mortality
We make narratives of our lives -
Who killed whom, where and why.
And around each question
The explanations swarm, like flies.
But we are frustrated in this
By life's moral opacity.
The rich prosper, the poor die -
Burnt, diseased, starved or drowned.
We are deluded. Or are we?
Half in shadow and half in light
Our paintings and films
Express a fervent hope
Pathetic but almost sacred
That life means something, after all.
Friday, 3 October 2008
Demented dad (a meditation)
Who are you?
I am your son, dad.
Who am I?
You are my dad.
(Pause.) Where did we live?
We lived in lots of places. Every time your wife was settled in a job, your children were happy at school and had made friends, you made sure that we moved.
Oh. Was I a happy person?
Well, no not exactly. You were happy in the mornings. You used to sing in the bathroom. You had a nice, baritone voice. Although, of course – under the strict code by which you were brought up – singing in public would have been ‘showing off’. (Your mother, from what I can remember, enjoyed entertaining people. But none of her accomplishments were generous ones. She did not like people competing with her. Some people say that your father was ‘weak’. If so, how on earth did he become the Mayor of Droitwich? You do not seem to have any memories or opinions relating to your father. From what you have conveyed, he is a blank canvas. I find that extraordinary. But there are many things about you – midlands man - that baffle me.)
I suppose you felt that each new day offered possibilities. By the time the evening came, you had become deeply depressed. Disappointed by the imperfections of reality, I suppose. You would be drunk then. Not floridly drunk, but soporific. You would be uncommunicative and in a bad mood. Cut off. You would lie on the settee, with a bottle next to it, and fall asleep. Not just one night but every night. Exactly the same, for forty years.
Did I have friends?
A few, dad. You weren't unusual in that. Men, generally, don't have many friends.
Your mother was a happy person, wasn't she?
Yes, she was. She provided the happiness and optimism that were absent from your nature. Together, you formed one person.
Are you happy?
I try to be, dad. Having therapy has helped.
Therapy?
It doesn't matter.
I can't see the point of going on, really.
No, dad. But, you see, not believing in anything wouldn't help you there – ontologically – would it? Your nihilism has come to back to haunt you. It's a shame. But what can I say? You brought me up to believe that happiness is impossible and that nothing means anything. Those seemed to be your beliefs. I think that you drew consolation from them. You didn't really believe those statements. They were the armour that you put up against the world. In a Sartrean sense, they were your contingent belief system, your ‘bad faith’.
Your problem was you were too intelligent. What was it that you called most people. Ah, yes, morons. It's a lonely place to be, isn't it. Standing on an empty stage, in the dark.
Now, there are big holes in your brain, like a Swiss cheese. Holes where memories are supposed to be and the meanings and narratives that we attach to them. You are trying to make some sense of your life, retrospectively. You are seeking a meaning that has more dignity than mere gravity but your powerful brain is struggling. For example, you are reaching for your absent wife in the darkness. But she is not there. Even her memory is fading. Your recollections have to be jogged into life by photographs. What you mainly remember about her is how cheerful she was, how brave and how her love was boundless. You were guilty, at the end, of taking her for granted. I think that you have come to realise that. It makes your eyes fill with tears.
I am not going to tell you any of this now. It wouldn't be fair. You are near the final stages of your journey. You are like a helpless man being sucked into a whirlpool.
For the record, I would like to say that I do not like nihilism. It has never appealed to me, aesthetically or philosophically. That is why I don't like the plays of Beckett or abstract painting. Both make me feel sick – nauseous in Sartre's terminology. Life does have meaning, in my opinion – and not merely a ‘meaning’ that connotes with consciousness, a meaning beyond itself.
Also for the record, I don't think it was your ‘fault’ that you spent your life in an unhappy solipsistic universe, like one of Beckett's characters. Firstly, you had not felt loved or valued by your parents. Secondly, you were cursed by unusual intelligence, accompanied by emotional illiteracy. You were not a words person. You found consolation in drawing straight lines (you were a draughtsman) and in the certainties of numbers. It was one of the minor sadnesses of your life that neither of your children inherited your form of intelligence. (Numbers also make me feel sick. I hate the fact that calculations always produce the same result. It's like plodding along behind dreary tracks in the snow.) Everybody knows these things. That's why the people who are closest to you love you.
Now, you are like a demented Mr Scrooge – one who goes through the rigmarole of the ghosts and the clanking chains but who wakes up the following morning exactly the same person, because he has forgotten what he has learned. You are a goldfish man, Chauncey Gardiner in Being There, the character in Groundhog Day who is trapped an eternal and unchanging present (a film, incidentally, that you have never seen). It's cruel trick. A trick whose cruelty would appeal to you.
Who are you?
I am your son, dad.
Who am I?
You are my dad.
Where do I live?
You live in Kidderminster. It's a small town in the midlands. The people who live there don't make a fuss. They are very friendly. It suits you.
Do you live there?
No, dad.
Do you have children?
Yes, dad, and you have a great grandson.
Do I? Oh, yes. (Brightens, as he remembers). He's a happy little chap, isn't he?
Yes, dad. He is like the distilled essence of sunshine. He is the embodiment of the innocence and joy that we all have inside, before – if we are unlucky – it is stripped away by an unloving family or a corrupting world. You were loving by the way. I acknowledge that. But you did not have a language to express or negotiate feelings. And you were too isolated in your own way of being to learn one. Love is the God inside us. Oh and by the way, God exists. So you were wrong.
Does he?
l think so, yes.
Really?
It's too late for us to talk about this now. Let's just leave it.
I am your son, dad.
Who am I?
You are my dad.
(Pause.) Where did we live?
We lived in lots of places. Every time your wife was settled in a job, your children were happy at school and had made friends, you made sure that we moved.
Oh. Was I a happy person?
Well, no not exactly. You were happy in the mornings. You used to sing in the bathroom. You had a nice, baritone voice. Although, of course – under the strict code by which you were brought up – singing in public would have been ‘showing off’. (Your mother, from what I can remember, enjoyed entertaining people. But none of her accomplishments were generous ones. She did not like people competing with her. Some people say that your father was ‘weak’. If so, how on earth did he become the Mayor of Droitwich? You do not seem to have any memories or opinions relating to your father. From what you have conveyed, he is a blank canvas. I find that extraordinary. But there are many things about you – midlands man - that baffle me.)
I suppose you felt that each new day offered possibilities. By the time the evening came, you had become deeply depressed. Disappointed by the imperfections of reality, I suppose. You would be drunk then. Not floridly drunk, but soporific. You would be uncommunicative and in a bad mood. Cut off. You would lie on the settee, with a bottle next to it, and fall asleep. Not just one night but every night. Exactly the same, for forty years.
Did I have friends?
A few, dad. You weren't unusual in that. Men, generally, don't have many friends.
Your mother was a happy person, wasn't she?
Yes, she was. She provided the happiness and optimism that were absent from your nature. Together, you formed one person.
Are you happy?
I try to be, dad. Having therapy has helped.
Therapy?
It doesn't matter.
I can't see the point of going on, really.
No, dad. But, you see, not believing in anything wouldn't help you there – ontologically – would it? Your nihilism has come to back to haunt you. It's a shame. But what can I say? You brought me up to believe that happiness is impossible and that nothing means anything. Those seemed to be your beliefs. I think that you drew consolation from them. You didn't really believe those statements. They were the armour that you put up against the world. In a Sartrean sense, they were your contingent belief system, your ‘bad faith’.
Your problem was you were too intelligent. What was it that you called most people. Ah, yes, morons. It's a lonely place to be, isn't it. Standing on an empty stage, in the dark.
Now, there are big holes in your brain, like a Swiss cheese. Holes where memories are supposed to be and the meanings and narratives that we attach to them. You are trying to make some sense of your life, retrospectively. You are seeking a meaning that has more dignity than mere gravity but your powerful brain is struggling. For example, you are reaching for your absent wife in the darkness. But she is not there. Even her memory is fading. Your recollections have to be jogged into life by photographs. What you mainly remember about her is how cheerful she was, how brave and how her love was boundless. You were guilty, at the end, of taking her for granted. I think that you have come to realise that. It makes your eyes fill with tears.
I am not going to tell you any of this now. It wouldn't be fair. You are near the final stages of your journey. You are like a helpless man being sucked into a whirlpool.
For the record, I would like to say that I do not like nihilism. It has never appealed to me, aesthetically or philosophically. That is why I don't like the plays of Beckett or abstract painting. Both make me feel sick – nauseous in Sartre's terminology. Life does have meaning, in my opinion – and not merely a ‘meaning’ that connotes with consciousness, a meaning beyond itself.
Also for the record, I don't think it was your ‘fault’ that you spent your life in an unhappy solipsistic universe, like one of Beckett's characters. Firstly, you had not felt loved or valued by your parents. Secondly, you were cursed by unusual intelligence, accompanied by emotional illiteracy. You were not a words person. You found consolation in drawing straight lines (you were a draughtsman) and in the certainties of numbers. It was one of the minor sadnesses of your life that neither of your children inherited your form of intelligence. (Numbers also make me feel sick. I hate the fact that calculations always produce the same result. It's like plodding along behind dreary tracks in the snow.) Everybody knows these things. That's why the people who are closest to you love you.
Now, you are like a demented Mr Scrooge – one who goes through the rigmarole of the ghosts and the clanking chains but who wakes up the following morning exactly the same person, because he has forgotten what he has learned. You are a goldfish man, Chauncey Gardiner in Being There, the character in Groundhog Day who is trapped an eternal and unchanging present (a film, incidentally, that you have never seen). It's cruel trick. A trick whose cruelty would appeal to you.
Who are you?
I am your son, dad.
Who am I?
You are my dad.
Where do I live?
You live in Kidderminster. It's a small town in the midlands. The people who live there don't make a fuss. They are very friendly. It suits you.
Do you live there?
No, dad.
Do you have children?
Yes, dad, and you have a great grandson.
Do I? Oh, yes. (Brightens, as he remembers). He's a happy little chap, isn't he?
Yes, dad. He is like the distilled essence of sunshine. He is the embodiment of the innocence and joy that we all have inside, before – if we are unlucky – it is stripped away by an unloving family or a corrupting world. You were loving by the way. I acknowledge that. But you did not have a language to express or negotiate feelings. And you were too isolated in your own way of being to learn one. Love is the God inside us. Oh and by the way, God exists. So you were wrong.
Does he?
l think so, yes.
Really?
It's too late for us to talk about this now. Let's just leave it.
Saturday, 5 July 2008
Back on my own
And so farewell Friends of the Dragon. The play disappeared, like Communism, under the weight of its internal contradictions. It was too complicated corralling a group of people in the same direction, especially in the summer with holidays and exams looming, and, to be honest, we all drank too much. Anyway, maybe I have moved on as a writer. My next play will be much better.
Saturday and I'm at home, in my spare room/study which is shortly to be occupied by my nephew Jake, and Louise. So a load of books and guitars and amps have to go back into my bedroom. But it's a good thing having Jake and Louise around.
When you meet someone and think you can be friends you, that is I, I suppose, start to meld your ideas to fit theirs. But then when they reject your friendship you are back on your lonely, solitary path again. Maybe that person had different values to you and thought that you were a ‘bad’ person. Are you a ‘bad’ person? What does that mean anyway. It can only be assessed in terms of your interaction with other people. Nobody thinks that they are bad. How does one assess such things?
That's where I am today – and merging the contents of one room – a room full of stories and poems, the narratives of my life – into another one.
Saturday and I'm at home, in my spare room/study which is shortly to be occupied by my nephew Jake, and Louise. So a load of books and guitars and amps have to go back into my bedroom. But it's a good thing having Jake and Louise around.
When you meet someone and think you can be friends you, that is I, I suppose, start to meld your ideas to fit theirs. But then when they reject your friendship you are back on your lonely, solitary path again. Maybe that person had different values to you and thought that you were a ‘bad’ person. Are you a ‘bad’ person? What does that mean anyway. It can only be assessed in terms of your interaction with other people. Nobody thinks that they are bad. How does one assess such things?
That's where I am today – and merging the contents of one room – a room full of stories and poems, the narratives of my life – into another one.
Tuesday, 1 July 2008
Passing through the elephant
Preface
For the benefit of readers who may not know, Elephant and Castle is the name of a busy traffic, tube and rail intersection in south London, named after a Medieval pub on the site of a blacksmith's forge. This part of the city was flattened in the war by bombs falling just short of Westminster. From the early 1950s, it was redeveloped as part of the master plan for Greater London. Cars were catered for less than people. But people have clung tenaciously to the Elephant's perilous traffic islands ever since.
Next to the Elephant are some huge pre and post-war municipal housing schemes. They are thought by some to be architectural relics reminiscent of Stalinism. They are to be demolished and the tenants scattered to the four corners of the London borough of Southwark. Meanwhile, towers of more than 40 storeys will rise over the area. There'll be a new theatre, a new park, a new leisure centre and a huge 20-storey retail and residential ziggurrat. It should all be finished by 2014. There'll still be the glass and steel stump that is the London College of Communication (formerly printing). Generations of journalists, including me, have passed through.
I wrote a poem about the Elephant in 1995, before global warming, and this is an update.
Elephant and Castle 2008
A sickly, unnatural heat
Collides with the suya stalls
It toys with the lunchtime crowds
And warms the crumbling concrete.
This island at the city’s edge
Is part Lagos and part Warsaw
It is an agora, in the true sense,
A place to argue and assimilate.
Once pink, then red, the shopping mall
Is mouldering these days
But, despite the graffiti and cracked glass
It betrays, a pleasingly chaotic humanity.
The Coronet announces, bravely,
A meaningless jumble of words
‘Duckie presents gay shame’, it says –
Like the ravings of a madman.
Phones and shoes clutter the walkways
Bright beach towels, foreign sounds
The buses calypso through here
There is always a holiday feel.
Alexander Fleming House
A once grey relic, is flats now
In the gloomy pub that faces it
The ghost of Charlie Chaplin smiles.
For the benefit of readers who may not know, Elephant and Castle is the name of a busy traffic, tube and rail intersection in south London, named after a Medieval pub on the site of a blacksmith's forge. This part of the city was flattened in the war by bombs falling just short of Westminster. From the early 1950s, it was redeveloped as part of the master plan for Greater London. Cars were catered for less than people. But people have clung tenaciously to the Elephant's perilous traffic islands ever since.
Next to the Elephant are some huge pre and post-war municipal housing schemes. They are thought by some to be architectural relics reminiscent of Stalinism. They are to be demolished and the tenants scattered to the four corners of the London borough of Southwark. Meanwhile, towers of more than 40 storeys will rise over the area. There'll be a new theatre, a new park, a new leisure centre and a huge 20-storey retail and residential ziggurrat. It should all be finished by 2014. There'll still be the glass and steel stump that is the London College of Communication (formerly printing). Generations of journalists, including me, have passed through.
I wrote a poem about the Elephant in 1995, before global warming, and this is an update.
Elephant and Castle 2008
A sickly, unnatural heat
Collides with the suya stalls
It toys with the lunchtime crowds
And warms the crumbling concrete.
This island at the city’s edge
Is part Lagos and part Warsaw
It is an agora, in the true sense,
A place to argue and assimilate.
Once pink, then red, the shopping mall
Is mouldering these days
But, despite the graffiti and cracked glass
It betrays, a pleasingly chaotic humanity.
The Coronet announces, bravely,
A meaningless jumble of words
‘Duckie presents gay shame’, it says –
Like the ravings of a madman.
Phones and shoes clutter the walkways
Bright beach towels, foreign sounds
The buses calypso through here
There is always a holiday feel.
Alexander Fleming House
A once grey relic, is flats now
In the gloomy pub that faces it
The ghost of Charlie Chaplin smiles.
Monday, 30 June 2008
Good evening Biggleswade!
And so to the Red Lion pub, to witness a performance of Ellie Dee my friend Mick's band. It is a hot, sweaty affair in pub with low beams and horse-related nick-nacks stuck on the wall. The first set starts slowly. The band play mainly 8Os covers with great verve. Slowly the small performance area, little larger than an inglenook, fills up with drunker and drunker blokes and women in less and less clothing. It's a recipe for confrontation – a rock band going full tilt in a medieval dungeon equipped with axes, maces and the like and lots of booze-filled blokes feeling sexually-challenged. There is no actually fighting, merely “eye balling”. We escape intact at about one in the morning.
I help Mick and the band to shift their gear out through the pub's only small door – not easy, as the place is heaving. We stand outside in the cool night, our ears ringing. Around us is a typical English market town on a Saturday night. Black and white, Tudor cottages, weaving drunks, shaven-headed psychos and people vomiting their kebabs into the gutter. It's like Shakespeare's England. For hundreds of years there have been blokes playing lutes – and drunks. And now it's us.
I help Mick and the band to shift their gear out through the pub's only small door – not easy, as the place is heaving. We stand outside in the cool night, our ears ringing. Around us is a typical English market town on a Saturday night. Black and white, Tudor cottages, weaving drunks, shaven-headed psychos and people vomiting their kebabs into the gutter. It's like Shakespeare's England. For hundreds of years there have been blokes playing lutes – and drunks. And now it's us.
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