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

Where’s Wally?

A dialogue between Apollo and Artemis

There was something warm in the old guitars
The valves that glowed in the dark
We were not like our fathers
At night, we sat by braziers
At midsummer, we were pagans
We drove westwards in our multi-coloured cars
Do you remember my old Cortina?
I was Lancelot, you were Guinevere

How did you find me here?
Who gave you my number?
I am a professional, not some pin-up
on a pre-Raphaelite poster
Your message is misogyny –
A demeaning patriarchy
You seek, clearly, to objectify
to diminish my authority
by the enslavement of beauty

Remember the squat in Amesbury
where I was busted for half a tab?
Do you remember the books by our bed?
You were my white goddess
All those years – Windsor and Stonehenge
The free festivals. Our history
I was sectioned in Salisbury
I was buried by the plod.

Well, you were always a little mad
To defy your parents’ authority
you made the sun into your god
with your weird version of anarchy
You didn't realise, my realm was lunar
The fleeting mysteries
of Bacchus and Dionysius
were burned up by your power

How could I disempower a deity
merely by saying that you were hot?
By the way, I worshipped you
If I have offended, I am sorry
In the modern world, all is rational
The scattered tribes of the Westway
have lost their remedies, their currency
People look at me as if I am crazy

Walk on air against your better judgement

Somewhere by a tousled strip of sea
troubled gulls fly busily.
In a seaside place, trading on past glories
a new life is waiting for me.

Beach combers and fishermen
will form my community.
They could almost be on holiday.
They have moved to the edge, untied the knot
there’s no shame in living in a caravan
exchanged their old place for a smaller plot.


Man’s lot is to travel hopefully.
Not all of them are lonely, or sad.
I will trade down my anxiety
for tranquillity – go on grandad!

I’ll be a tethered nomad
where the elements are broken down
gathering samphire and sea lavender
on the edge of some faded town.
The sea my friend, the sky my starry bed
I'll be happy, living in a shed.

My father's clothes

You are waiting for me in the wardrobe 

your slouched shape persists in wool and cloth

a form that you once inhabited

your old green cardigan, now touched with moth.

Form without breath, for they have vanished

your thick glasses, waiting by the bed

your sherry, your daily crossword puzzle

Lives of the Engineers – the books you read.

Like your spirit, they will rise to the attic

your wedding photo, that lived on the TV

boy at boarding school holding ball solemnly

your army beret, angled jauntily

Your precise rituals, never broken

are even imprinted on your old skin

your blurred initials, APH, that were placed

neatly, for the care home, on your cardigan.

Why do I dislike to dress smartly?
It could hardly be be to piss you off.
You barely seemed to notice me.
My big days, it seems, were not big enough.

Carefully, you avoided the foreground.
There was no sense of occasion for you
and yet, often, when I am slopping around
with no shame, splattered with paint and glue

I am touched by our strange similarity.
Hanging in the wardrobe, you are still there
I can breathe you in, step into your shadows
your slowness – the language that we shared.

Our arguments have faded into history
you would not have noticed the irony
of my reluctance to wear smart clothes.
You only had one suit, dad. So do I.

As I box up your stuff for charity
I can hear your slow, patient voice
and I remember what you showed me
when I am sawing a piece of wood.

 

Philip Larkin

That was Philip’s room

For you, it was always the lonely interior
At nine o’clock the curtains would be drawn
On the starched damask and flock wallpaper

Note the imprisoned begonias and the neat lawn
A study in sepia, some Highland scene –
Antlers and crepuscular melancholy

Everything here is cream or mushroom brown
Nature is subdued by suburban irony
Such houses have been lost to history

Old sheet music curls on the piano stand
If only the wild notes of some New Orleans band
Could impose upon this Victorian gentility

Through an open doorway I can picture you:
The tea-rings, the ash-burned coverlet
The stacked discs, your well-thumbed library

That was Philip’s room. I can imagine

Your history – faded and nicotine yellow
The dog-eared porn, Palgrave’s Golden Treasury

Phil and Ted

The church authorities are to place a memorial to Philip Larkin in poet’s corner in Westminster Abbey, close to Ted Hughes, the last poet to be so honoured

Why would they put your slab next to his?
You the melancholic librarian
He, the bludgeon, the contrarian
Come on dean, you’re taking the piss!

He had one good trick, his blood and gore
With his nervy wives and his cruel menagerie
You viewed your companion for eternity

As a curmudgeon – the pub bore

You had little time for the old sod
Now frowned over by feminists

Who think you were both misogynists

You must share a cold stone bed

With the laureate, your enemy

In the draughty antechamber of God

Two lonely old men, Phil and Ted

Locked together in perpetuity

Gunslingers

Fresh from welding cars these old-school hipsters
Wander quietly into the bar
These characters are small-town heroes
 
Their vices are hidden, like old tattoos
Slow to anger, they seek no favours
They are virtuous desperados

They chew the air, these low-slung lone-stars
There are scars on their battered Fenders
They could kill you with one cold stare
 
They can nail a riff at a hundred yards
In any fly-blown, one-horse town
They can lift the mood of the hardest crowd

Narrow-eyed, they check out the room
Casually, for opportunities
Cool customers. Quicker men are dead
 
Those who were too keen to impress
Who did not have the economy
Of true heroes: their legendary finesse

These men have stolen many hearts
With the tunes in their fingers
With their deaths heads and silver dollars
 
They’ll ride in, clean up and ride out
Leaving, merely, the air ringing
A twist of smoke. No forwarding address