The Fortune Teller

‘Come, sit,’ he says, ‘be easy.’

Now he sits across the table from me, smiles,

‘Be at ease,’ he says. ‘Be at ease with yourself.’

He holds my gaze and wishes not to let it go.

Doesn’t care I see this, but if I give an inch

I shall become a fleeting image in his coffee coloured eyes.

His dark skin faintly smells of the Sahara, his hair

I swear is powdered not by artifice but airborne dust.

His jeans I note are Soviet, his shirt

a geometric Burberry.

Unhurried, he unwraps his cards from their sleeping place,

a red silk handkerchief. He folds the handkerchief in half.

He folds it in half again. Lays it on the table.

Hands me the cards. ‘Shuffle them.’ Then,

‘Cut them.’ Once more,

‘Cut them.’ Then once more, ‘Concentrate.

Concentrate. Cut them one final time.

Now place them, gently, face down on the table.’

He moves his gaze from me to the cards,

spreads his hands around the cards, flat upon the table. Au Claire de la Lune.

He has eyes only for the cards, hands upon the table. Au Claire de la Lune.

The melody falls away as he lifts the deck;

I am all alert for sleight of hand, he sees

what I am thinking, opens a mocking smile, just a little

as with his slender fingers he lightly caresses cards from the top of the pack.

One card he lays down,

two to the left, two to the right, two above, two below;

blind eyes into a life.

Where I come from, where I could be going to,

personal challenges, potential hopes and joys.

He comes to rest, closes his eyes, takes

a few deep breaths; I see

his neck and shoulders soften into relaxation.

Between us lies my story –

his hand on my cheek, his hand stroking through my hair.

‘Shall we begin?’ he asks; his right hand hovers

over the centre card, eager to conjure it alive.

The truth is, I don’t believe this fairground trick,

I don’t believe in power of planets.

Nor in fate. Nor in the ability to meld a thought.

Nor extrospection through images on cards

with strange names and mythical iconography such as:

Death, the Wheel of Fortune, the Fool,

a Tower struck by Lightning, the Magician his table full of tricks,

a Sun, a Moon, Hierophant, and Charioteer.

All these I should bury with dead and dying thoughts.

So why does my pulse rise, just a little,

why does my stomach churn, just a little,

why do I worry my moonstone signet ring,

why do I catch my fleeting shadow?

Why commit these words to paper?

I’ll tell you why.

The fortune teller is the miracle worker,

the fortune teller conjures from the air threads

of meanings, floating seeds

of being, vibrating echoes

of the ages, and weaves a tapestry to wrap us in

to keep us living when the pain’s too much to bear alone.

‘Here you are,’ he says, glancing up for a second,

turns over the centre card. ‘Here you are.’

Come with me, my young man,

There is fear fleeting across your eyes

I recognise it, you see,

I have seen it many times before, you understand.

The strangeness of my appearing is frightening,

I recognise this, I admit it

but I have no power to change this,

though I wish I could. I do my best

to appear Work-a-day,

appear Part of everyday life

because of everyday life I must be a part;

because of everyday life I must be the final part.

Let me help you see this, my man.

I would like you to come to me without fear, my love.

I would like to hold your hand,

my hand is the gentlest hand you will ever hold;

I would like to touch your cheek,

my touch will bring you peace such as you have never known before;

I would like to kiss your lips,

my kiss will be the sweetest kiss.

Listen, listen to me, listen

to me, to what I have to say:

There is no dark river we have to pay to cross,

no isle of shades we have to reach across a darkening sea,

no circle of fire, no for-ever darkness.

Let me hold you in my embrace,

my embrace will bring you peace you have sought so long.

Don’t shy away from me, my man, my love,

don’t come to me in raging fear,

come to me in restful joy.

Gifts Of Love

You give me an antique song; you say: ‘Will you sing for me?’

I have practised notes and times and keys and modes,

and their power to capture a heart:

I will sing a song for you.

You take me to a mountain; you ask, ‘Will you climb it for me?’

I have watched mountaineers, listened to them, read their books,

I know of toe holds, crampons, ropes, belays;

I will climb a mountain for you.

You cross the sea; you say: ‘Will you swim to me?’

I have studied the skills and styles of swimming,

crawl, breaststroke, back troke, butterfly;

I will swim an ocean for you.

you hold me; you ask: ‘Will you die for me?’

I have studied many sorts of death,

age, illness, accident, execution, broken heart;

but I have not learned to die.

My local river is a poor, unloved thing

made ugly beyond belief by planners’ hands,

by environmental managers to fit on virtual maps

to keep us safe and sound, you and me.

It is sunk into a wide ditch you need a tar-mac’d bridge to cross,

bound in place by a concrete girdle;

trees and bushes slant among unruly grasses,

lest anything escape, glowering railings demarcate firm boundaries.

The river’s song, as it races through the neighbouring park,

is silenced by the time it reaches me,

its voice box a seeping wound of utterly defeated joy;

no rhythm here, no pulse, no endless melody.

I have walked with this tortured being, talked to bring it comfort,

touched the crystalline purity of frost on its winter branches,

marvelled as I listen to the gentle whispering of its opening spring blossoms,

sorrowed as I accidentally trod upon its summer flowers

and sighed with it as the autumn cycle takes hold.

I have run with my companion as it finds its way to freedom and open country

to laugh and sing once more. But these seasonal memories, you should know

are technicolour dreams born of urban solitary confinement.

I phone my council for a Special collection:

‘Please take away my unwanted words.’

I’m fed up with the cluttering up my house, however neatly

I box them, pack them, bag them, they still get everywhere.

I find them down the back of the sofa, in the fridge,

the freezer, I’ve found them with my Weetabix,

in the dog basket, in the tea caddy stuck in the internet.

I had thought I might burn them,

raking them together like the olden-day gardener, raking his leaves,

raking them into a pile and lighting a satisfying fire

that crackles and pops, warms your cockles.

But I’m a responsible urban dweller,

am sure my neighbours would object to random word remains

whisping uncalled for into their living rooms, bedrooms, kitchens,

especially their kitchens where my ashen words would confuse

their warm pre-prandial smells and burgundy noses.

The Council takes 5 items for £25. But that would make

it expensive to rid myself of my unwanted words.

They say: ‘But words are weighty things

and not to be messed with.’ They tell me:

‘We will use secure landfill;

that costs, you know, anything less secure

your words could seep into the soil, pollute

our water table, our streams and rivers, flow

into the open ocean. Do you want that?

Dolphins could ingest your orphaned words and die.’

I see that as a responsible citizen I must take action

with care. ’But I have hundreds,’ I say,

‘thousands; I can’t afford your safe landfill, please

help me.’ The Environment Associate on the other end, sighs;

‘You are profligate in your verbiage usage. Your generation

treats words as disposable style accessories; you will destroy

our planet. Start to act responsibly.’

I ask: ‘Is recycling words a viable proposition,

albeit I recognise words are neither glass, plastic, metal,

nor, of themselves, paper or card.’

‘A good question,’ the Associate says,

‘we do not, at this time recycle words. But, moving forward,

I could set up a working party to discuss

a recycling system for no longer wanted spells.

We would produce a report and ask word mincers such as yourself

to comment on the usefulness, the cost, the cost

effectiveness, and impact on underrepresented minorities.’

‘Oh, dear,’ I said, ‘that sounds as if it could take a long time.’

The Environment Associate caught my note of disappointment.

‘By any chance, sir, do you have a composting bin?’

‘I do not,’ I said, ‘but if it helps I can surely get one.’

‘Words can be considered vegetable in origin’ he said,

‘which means they would be good for domestic, non-commercial composting.’

‘I will get one,’ I said, ‘post haste.’

‘That will be excellent,’ said the Associate,

‘most responsible. And you can speed up the composture

production by personally micturating

upon it. I have heard this on Radio 4

Gardeners’ Question Time so it must be true.’

Now is the meaning plain, my way clear,

follow this advice with neither favour nor fear;

compost with speed my unwanted words, weighty and light,

piss on them from a great height.

Adam filled the cask an hour ago as darkness fell,

beneath it, practiced well, he’d lit the flame.

Now the cider, mulled, will warm your tongue, your belly, and your heart

for these are one, the same.

Adam adds to cider cinnamon, ginger, nutmeg, allspice,

and the apples all his friends bake,

and oranges and lemons, cloves that heal,

he adds all these for pleasure’s sake.

Hear this,, here comes the skimmington glorious in its noise,

young, old, ancient, the dead, the yet to live,

pots and pans, sticks, drums, horns, bells, and brooms, barking dogs and all,

guns, too, loudest gifts they give.

Now Adam calls: Come walk the orchard hither, yon and round,

loud, make your clamor fright bad magic away,

good and hard, now beat them trees to wake them from their winter sleep

new year’s on its way.

Adam says, friends lets drink our needful fill

one for you and one for me , and one for every tree,,

give the trees an ample share, their roots grow long and deep,

drink one, drink two, drink three.

Dip your fire-toasted bread into our cider pot,

and for apple trees they are our host,

eat some yourself and some in apple branches, lodge.

So we raise our toast

Come say I, dear friends, give me your ears,

come, for a moment let heart and mind fly free,

come, raise your cup, your mug, your glass. For the New Year

come, raise a toast with me.

Whim-Wham

An Eighteenth Century English Trifle

There’s nothing to it:

a few sponge fingers,

spread with raspberry jam,

their brittle nature threatened

with sunshine taste of orange juice

a generous glass of brandy

and several glasses of Madeira.

There’s nothing more:

except a billowing mass

of Chantilly cream

topped with toasted almonds.

The madness of John Bull.

Zac measured his way along his undulating hills,

his path still narrow, still unscarred

by raucous motorcyclists who invaded

from time to time from once distant towns.

It was cut, the path, deep into the grass

which grew tall along its sides,

opening and closing as brief clouds

played at hide and seek with the sun.

The grass, dry from the long summer heat,

swished as he brushed against it.

This is, he thought, the only sound

in this wide, heat-lonely landscape.

The only sound, he thought, until he stopped,

paused for a moment, paused for no reason, no reason

other than to pause.

Then he could hear, just on the edge of hearing,

the slow drone of carefree insects.

Turning back, the tiny village of Latimer

could no longer be seen,

had disappeared from view hours ago.

Turning about Zac could see the town of Abinger Cross,

for two or three hours it seemed to get no closer.

Zac felt weary,

more weary now than he had earlier

leaving his home in Latimer.

his tiredness had not flown with the morning mist,

atomised with his dreams of a better life;

Zac breathed a great sigh,

it rose from his belly, rose up through his chest,

past his heart, which did not falter,

as it would in a hardy story,

or a poem by the youthful Wordsworth

though Zac knew nothing of Hardy nor Wordsworth,

so his heart stolidly beat on,

one of his great-grandfather’s old steam engines.

On he measured his way to Abinger Cross,

the town stubbornly blue in the summer haze.

This path he walked, Zac had been told

many times by the old women and even older men

in the butchers, in the bakers, sitting on the green,

over pints of beer,

was an ancient coffin path;

even in the bright sunlight

Zac could feel the tread of a thousand feet

of a thousand of mourners carrying their sad load

from Latimer to the ancient church distant in front of him.

This ae night, this ae night,

every night and all,

fire and fleet and candleleet,

and Christ receive thy soul.

Zac, perhaps foolishly, carried

no plastic bottle with still or sparkling water,

no, nor banana no, nor chocolate bar,

no, not even laundered knotted handkerchief

with crusty fist of homemade loaf

and chunk of salt-bitter cheese.

He could still hear the drone of insects,

they called him to sit awhile.

Why not? he thought,

I’ve nothing to hurry for and sat.

He noticed around him clovers,

remembered how, as a child,

he had searched for four leaved ones.

He noticed, too, the little daisies;

for no reason, no particular reason,

other than the reason they were there;

he began to pick some.

A butterfly smile grew and took flight.

He pierced the stem of one

and threaded another through the damp slot;

this was not as easy as it had once been.

tiny hands with deft fingers,

his fingers now were thick, rounded, as undeft

as unlovely, but he persevered,

succeeded, even with the final task,

to thread the flower of the first through the stem of the last,

even in this he succeeded, because he persevered.

Zac lowered the garland around his neck.

The insects released him.

He rose and turned again to Abinger Cross

measured his way onwards,

in the bright sunlight the ear worm, out of time,

measured its own measures,

This ae night, this ae night,

every night and all,

fire and fleet and candleleet,

and Christ receive thy soul.

Lines 87

(in response to The Unfinished Sonnet by Ros Woolner)

He thinks he’s firm. Says Sorry, not tonight.

The other thinks: Cool. He just needs softening up –

like plasticine. So a little squeeze - all’s differently firm.

Oh, says the first, you turn me on all right.

The second, Tom, grins, a Cheshire cat,

while Roger, slowly wakes, uncoils, submits

to his love, who loves to unleash an awful storm

a hurricane, how Roger loves all that.

Tom’s become a raging storm at sea,

and Roger, a boat, on mighty waves he’s tossed.

with moans, and shouts, and groans of certain death,

which comes, as Tom’s great storm blows out; they’re free.

Tom now spent, is calm, he sleeps, but then

the Roger-cat leaps: Come take me to sea again.

A1

As the day folds into night

We are shadows in the fading light

Restless in the magic gloaming

Through the fields and trees we’re roaming.

A2

We hear all of Nature’s laws

See beyond this world of yours

People tell you we are wise,

Hear the sadness in our cries.

B1

From the time that the earth was ice and water

To the time that the earth is burning,

restless the wheel of time we live under;

the great wheel of Time just keeps turning, turning.

A3

Our common our glade, our glen

Are going, going and then

A barren landscape; so we say

We are the shadows, we fade away.

A4

You are born with the skill to fly

So Look between the earth and sky,

Value every life you see;

This alone will set you free

B1b

From the time that the earth was ice and water

To the time that the earth is burning,

restless the wheel of time we live under;

the great wheel of Time just keeps turning, turning.

C1

We are the shadows in the night, we are the sounds in the stillness,

Our song strikes fear in the stoutest heart.

We mean you no harm but feel our power

To Tell your truth from your lies; it sets us apart

We are shadows . . .

We are shadows . . .

Dear Raven:

Why are your dark, sharp eyes so scary?

Why does your blackness make us so wary?

When you copy me speaking why are you so eerie?

When you star in a film, why so utterly feary?

Omen of evil, is it fact or theory?

Dear Rod:

No stone unturned, no deed undone.

Admire my colours awake in the sun.

Impressions impress, I do them for fun.

My film roles, my darling, just earning a crumb.

The Devil’s familiar, that’s branding, my son.

Raven, dear, please grace my urban garden, please sing.

Rod, my dear, towers and abbeys and castles are really my thing.

Extract from General Guidance

(This is an extract in drama form from a large collection of poems of mine, General Guidance. The collection plots my journey towards owning and learning to work with a Guide Dog (Dixon.) It also examines loss of vision and shifting perception of own identity.

Rod is me, Dixon is the Dog. Kate is the Guide Dog Trainer, The Chimp is the Chimp on my Shoulder who tries to protect me from failure and disappointment.)

One: First meeting

Rod

Then, out of the blue, Thursday Thirtieth Jan:

Kate

Hello, it’s Kate from Guide Dogs. We’d like to do a walk with you.

Rod

The arrangements are fixed faster than my brain can keep up.

There is much stressing of:

Kate

This is not a matching meeting.

We want to see how you get on with a dog.

Rod

This is not an official matching meeting.

Kate

This is not an official matching meeting.

Chimp

The chimp is linked into the conversation:

They’re right to manage your expectations,

I’d hate you to be disappointed.

Rod

Dixon arrives at 10 as planned.

Kate

Here we are. Here’s Dixon.

Rod

Hello Dixon. But Dixon does not reply.

Dixon

Poirot-like he susses out the lie of the land

down the living room, left into the kitchen.

Nice Kitchen. Galley kitchen. Black and stainless steel kitchen very gay

right into the conservatory up the conservatory through the living room

reach Home. This could be fun.

Scratch my feet on the little brown mats.

Kate

Don’t do that.

Rod

In no time I find myself on the starting line being given starting orders.

Kate

Here’s the harness. Give me your finger.

This is the safety lead.

And don’t worry I have a safety lead too.

Rod

Oh dear I feel a joke coming on.

I grit my teeth but it forces its way into being:

Just like a driving instructor in a dual control.

Chimp

The Chimp screams through Rod’s letterbox:

You can’t keep your stupid trap shut can you?

Rod

I’ve locked him in the house he’s furious,

Chimp

I’m furious alright you’ve locked me in the house.

You’ll live to regret this.

Rod

My god I’m cast adrift powering through the park

no not adrift

I’m tethered to this modest creature who unphased trots at my side.

I hold a light metal harness lightly in my left hand

and through this can feel the up and down as Dixon walks cheerfully along.

Kate

Hold the harness lightly keep relaxed

walk beside him

don’t look down

feel the light tautness of the harness

talk to him as we go.

Dixon

Dixon thinks: Men can’t do multi-tasking,

the brothers and sisters all say this.

Rod

Good boy what a good boy aren’t you a good boy?

Dixon

Bless him. He’s doing his best for a learner.

Rod

My level of conversation has plummeted multi-tasking you see.

We turn the sun blazes I can’t see a thing,

Kate

Says Kate cheerfully: Don’t worry trust Dixon.

Rod

I’m wary. I know there is a narrow gap to get through.

To get out of the park. I hold back.

I’m going to crash into the gate post I just know this.

Kate

Says Kate: He’s waiting at the kerb to be told Forward don’t keep him waiting.

Dixon

Don’t keep me waiting. I’m at the kerb

I’m through the gate mate.

Dixon

I’ve already guided him through the gate.

Kate

through the gap at the end of the gate

Rod

the pedestrian gap he’s already guided me through the gap at the gate.

Rod

I have to process this the kerb comes after the gate

to get to the kerb I’ve gone through the gate

Dixon

Now I must wait for him to tell me to move.

Rod

My senses are swamped. I left myself somewhere in the park.

My chimp is locked at home but I hear his voice.

Chimp

You’re not coping I told you you wouldn’t wazzack.

I told you you wouldn’t but you won’t listen.

Rod

Dixon is a higher priority than the chimp.

I ignore the Chimp. I focus on Dixon.

At least I can get this right: Forward.

Kate

Not yet. Don’t say that yet. Step back.

Feel the harness go into tension.

Rod

I can feel Dixon as soon as he moves.

Kate

That’s it. That’s it. Now you can say it.

Now you can tell Dixon the F word.

Rod

That’s it. Now. Now I can say it: Forward.

He confidently crosses.

Kate

Kate talks as we progress.

Rod

Oh no. I’m to talk as I walk.

I consider silent meditation a better option.

Not to be. I must talk with Kate.

I must talk with Dixon.

Kate

Kate says: Don’t look down when you talk to him.

Dixon

Dixon says: It’s only polite to look at a chap when you’re talking to him.

Kate

Kate says: He’s moving you to the left to avoid a parked car.

Kate is edged into a hedge.

Rod

Kate says:

Kate

Don’t worry, I went down a bank last week.

Once we could replace an element in a kettle

but sooner or later the kettle would spring a leak

stuff your rosy specs back in a drawer

get used to it.

Parts inside our washers and our driers can be replaced when buggered

but they’re so expensive it’s not worth it

better buy a new one

get over it.

You can buy a shirt that lasts for years

but after a year you won’t be seen dead in it

fashion cracks its whip

off with the old on with the new.

apple sends signals to speed up technology decline

but it’s only a short-cut to the inevitable

not worth fighting it

enjoy it while you can.

I know an oak tree that’s 350 years old

its trunk reliable its canopy welcoming

now it’ll spend 350 years dying

as they say in English c’est la vie.

once I was 20 then 30 then 40 then 60

and so the whirligig of time brings in its revenges

I’ll have my leaks sealed my software checked thank you

rapid replacement parts yes please.

but I’m going out of fashion no denying it

my sap no longer rises as it used to

Just get used to it.

like fuck I will.

I’ve been reading poems from my past

hoping they had morphed into the endearing sepia tones

of old times photographs that make us gasp:

‘Oh look at that, just look at that’ and

‘How the tones bring out the golden hues of autumn setting sun.’

These are the tones that touch each scene, that touch each person with true romance.

But my poems cling to whetted edges,

show no signs of calming down.

I tried a bold experiment,

took up a poem and scissors from my desk top drawer.

I cut away sharp corners

but for each corner I remove I then have two.

I remember that a circle is a two-dimensional shape

with an infinite number of straight sides, I persevere;

with relief I cut with gusto,

a means to create a pleasing round.

But I leave myself with fluttering strips of paper,

flotsam of purpose but of no meaning,

paper is good for compost heaps.

I read a handful of my poems again

I thought they might be improved with

post-its embellished with my chosen pronouns.

But the post its will not post,

I think my age is watering down the glue.

I lined my poems up for a mile

along my dining table top,

the poems shine in the light of my new bought LED style angle-poise. I remembered

how words had flitted as I conjured them,

how words changed their colours and patternings,

how words refused to come to rest.

I remembered how this had frustrated me.

I look at them now

I will them to start and quicken once again,

to take flight one more time;

but they are now become as

dangerous butterflies of olden times

bright colours gassed and pinned into a glass-closed frame.

I don’t play with Harry, says Anita.

Harry’s a Zombie, says Ashok.

Jilly adds, Harry don’t play football.

Cause he wets hisself, sniggers Siobhan.

Harry don’t sit with us at lunchtime, says Ismail.

George puts in, Harry can’t count to a thousand.

Harry’s a Gypsy, my Mum says, says Alice.

Don’t be rude, says Mrs McIntosh, Anyway

They’re not called Gypsies, they’re called Travellers.

Harry ain’t a traveller, says Jordan,

He lives in Greenbank Close.

With all the other Gypsies, adds Malik.

I’m a bit worried about Harry, says Ms Davies,

Such a loner, Fills in Mrs Baird,

I should speak with his Mother.

Mr Hobden, the Head, says, Not much point,

Not too much upstairs, if you know what I mean

Harry does PE in his pants, gabs Megan.

Not anymore, counters Corin, I give him my Villa shorts.

Harry sits in a corner at lunchtime,

He sits on his own, which he likes to do.

Them other kids, he thinks, I hate them,

Always picking on me, poking their noses in,

I hate them, I do.

Harry contemplates his lunch box,

Opens it, snaps the catches,

the click That always makes him smile.

Finds, today,

A marmite sandwich, sometimes it is tuna, sometimes cheese and salad cream,

An apple sliced, cored, wrapped, sometimes a pear, sometimes a peach,

A pot of yoghurt, or sometimes, cream custard, sometimes rice pudding,

on special days fish fingers with tomato ketchup with chips,

on Fridays a Kit-Kat he can snap or crunch or lick off the chocolate first,

Or sometimes a little Mars bar, or Snickers, or Bounty bar.

While he works his way through this feast

He thinks of Ms Kafka, his teacher last year.

And how she:

told them all brilliant stories with magic and pets who talk,

made up plays with them with aliens and vampires,

got them to listen to music and do paintings.

And how he learned to do imagining

and now he can imagine anything he wants.

I walked into the living-room that morning;

Danny was where he fell the previous evening, sleeping fitfully,

Simon, never one to give up, sipped beer slowly,

valiantly persevering in the search for himself.

There wasn’t a head among us that morning;

Simon tunelessly sang a 90’s snatch, featured the previous evening,,

Danny started, staggered to the bathroom for a shower,

it helped him piece himself together, bit by agonised bit.

It wasn’t easy to share goodbyes that morning;

Danny cried, he had the previous evening,

Simon braved a strong smile, raised his glass,

We waved, grinned, nearly touched and parted.

God loved me, you know,

loved me more than anyone else.

It’s true, was His, I was for Him alone,

He created me for Himself alone.

Then he got bored, he’d other things to play with,

He no longer wanted me around.

I buggered off, right enough, but what else could I do? –

Hang around where I wasn’t wanted? –

Hang around, devoted acolyte to satisfy His vanity?

So I got in with the wrong crowd –

not a bad crowd, not really bad;

though anything, anyone who wasn’t completely His

was spawn of the Devil, as far as He was concerned.

He invented that.

That’s when He started whispering,

He started His whispering campaign.

Every chance He got He’d blacken my name.

A word here, a word there

a word up anyone’s arse

That I, me, I’m the devil,

he said that, that’s just what he said, bastard.

I don’t have hooves for feet, look.

or horns, nor look like a goat, do I?

I don’t have pointed ears - not even slightly pointed.

My skin’s polished ebony, it’s true –

but am I condemned for that?

My eyes aren’t green, nor even red,

but dark and deep as the void before time.

Look into them. What do you see?

Look into them.

Welcome to the Wayfarers' Café, here no rules apply.

Here you're free to sit in comfort and be whoever you wish to be;

it's a place of refuge for all who hate grey skies,

who wish to escape the parcel-taped and courier labelled box of every day.

Our Mission is to please; you'll be fulfilled.

We make no demands; choose not

to ask you to buy a meal with your coffee or small glass of beer;

we've no means of knowing how long you stay - we've no wish to know.

You'll see we keep our walls panelled in dark stained oak

to soften the brightness of the sunlight

as it shatters our windows and strikes our parquet floor;

this is how we keep our café cool, free you

from unnecessary irritation. We're happy if you snooze a moment

sinking into one of our armchairs; should your book

fall from your filleted hand we'll retrieve it for you,

lay it, closed, place marked, quietly on the table

beside the sleeping you. And if, as we do it, we should note

the table wobbles, we'll fold a paper serviette

and slide it under a leg to keep the table firm.

Afternoon teas are our speciality, but stay into evening,

even through the night; we never lock our doors,

and every morning we serve a hearty breakfast

from our full range of British and Continental fare,

and a choice of cold drinks, teas, fresh ground coffees, or fruit infusions.

January is a cruel month;

I shudder to feel its stealthy approach

though through my un-curtained window I see only stillness.

Consider the style of Januarys measured coming,

its tart taste, its clamour, the self-centred nature of its arrival.

I know these things, feel the midnight song singing in my bones.

Still, I wait, wait with glass filled

wait to hear the clang of the bolt thrown, the New Year snapping into place.

I see there are footsteps across the grass

transformed by crystals in tonight’s hard frost,

they would crunch if I walked them;

they’ll disappear in the morning sun.

This is out of joint, not a January joy, but a joy of April,

April, the cruellest month of all.

Christmas Lights, 21 December 2020

Rod Dungate

This year has been a horrible year

so I’m going to adorn my window with fairy lights

to bring to my street some urban cheer,

they’re a bit camp, sort of Julian Clary lights.

I’ve measured my window from every angle

which, I must say, is no mean feat –

and I didn’t put the lights away in a terrible tangle,

but wound around all tidy and neat.

Put them away all safe and sound.

So bloody safe they can’t be found!

Because he saw my notebook

the man beside me, supping his pint, began to speak.

Here's the gist of what he said . . .

People get too worked up about loose ends, worried they are,

as if living a life is meant to be all neat and tidy.

But it isn't, my friend, not neat and tidy; not meant to be

I shouldn't wonder if, that is, there's design behind it, life.

A loose end means a new beginning, my friend; I celebrate them,

each and every one. Finish one, find another, follow it,

see where it goes. The problem, my friend, in life

is the need for too much completion it’s an addiction,

and completion brings certainty as sure as eggs is eggs.

I'll tell you what I hate, my friend, a person with too much certainty.

Celebrate your loose ends I say.

I told him of my mother and grandmother,

they were both expert knitters - I recollected this as he spoke,

here’s the thrust of what I told him . . .

steel knitting needles with numbers at their heads -

click, click, click at a speed I couldn't match, mimicking them,

though my needles held no wool.

Mysterious codes in tight paragraphs on sensuously shining paper:

3 rows knit, 3 rows purl;

knit 4 and put on a holder, knit 2 together; place a marker

work garter pattern for 15 rounds, change to stocking stitch . . .

I watched them knitting with four needles

pointed at both ends; I tried to fathom

how the separate sections became a joined-up tube.

But what amazed me most of all

was that they never tied a knot to join a finished hank

to a fresh one. The free ends

were laid on top of one another for about an inch,

When I die don’t come and stare, just

smile we all must take our turn,

note that though I spurn a grave, so

too, I have no wish to burn.

Place me in a cardboard package,

carve no head-stone, shape no mound,

note the spot so I’m not forgotten,

let me lie in the living ground.

When my skull is freed from flesh, my

inner frame is quite laid bare

all that’s left is for my bones to

crumble into chalk dust there.

Sure there’ll be an ash nearby,

daisies and cowslips, celandines,

poppies and buttercups, primroses on my

grassy bank where the moonlight shines.

two o’clock sky unmitigated blue

heat unrelenting waves few

choose to walk brittle grass

crunch dusted paths to pass

to sanctuary shadows church seems cold

air stuffy prayers old

tales retold no voices sing

a massy oak great branches swing

low defy gravity sweep

grass not paths ancient to keep

cool vigil for all for free

do I hide myself in thee

child tiptoe eyes wide grin

grabs branch climbs up sits within

straddles swaying bowsprit proud

to make it embarks now laughs out loud

Anya

‘My husband fights his cousin,

A line drawn on paper years ago is a battle line drawn up.

To get away, I travel through

unrecognised countrysides, cross lands, rivers, oceans with mysterious names,

walking over the dead, I sneak across

disputed demarcations over the same land with different names.

I fear

the powerful flux that flows through these lines.

I want, again, to teach, keep shop, farm, parent, nurse, sweep streets, be a stand-up,

to cook, gossip, sing.’

Grainne

‘All my life I’ve farmed this land

like my father did, and his father, and his father before him.

Now if I move

from Shepherd’s Hill to Willow Pastures, I cross from one country to another;

A pencil line severs my house

in two, my kitchen in one country, my parlour in another.

The line curves into a question mark;

What countryman will step across my scrubbed doorstep, tomorrow?

The music in these walls, the dreams in my ancestors’ bones, are shifting;

whose songs shall I sing?’

Al

‘Our city streets are unsafe;

I write to my MP, I rate her, she gets things done.

It’s like a war zone,

killings, muggings, drugs, I’m afraid to go out.

Streets are Local Authority,

but I write to my MP, she gets things done, I like her.

She writes back:

‘I’m not your MP, now. Constituency boundaries have changed.’

It seems some people have moved a virtual line two streets along.

No-one asked me.’

Pat

‘I keep my desk tidy,

but Marie, next-door to me, has heaps of papers on hers that slide on to mine.

I’ve had words;

tell her I’m uncomfortable, she says she’ll keep her papers in order.

now it’s her coffee cups.

I’ve told her I’m anxious I’ll knock the coffee over and she says she’ll stop.

But she doesn’t.

I speak with HR. Tell them I need my space and they arbitrate.

There’s now an agreed demarcation, where one area ends and the next begins, But I note

her stapler has crossed the line.’

The old geezer balances on his crate in New Street,

selects me, furiously warms me I am damned and destined for an early grave;

he wheezes on his anger and judging from his Halleluiah voice

I’d say it’s him whose die is early cast.

I’ve no cash in my pocket so take from my satchel

my lunch-time apple and place it in his dish.

The geezer’s not impressed, steps off his crate,

picks up my apple and tosses it into the gutter.

in my satchel - home-made compost for just such an occasion.

I feed the apple; in less than 1 minute 30, a fruit-laden tree.

Look at that I say to the crowd I’ve gathered: Tree of Life.

Yea, right, the old geezer says, you’re damned, you’re for an early grave.

‘Looks like rain,’ the Bagman says;

he addresses the couple sitting on one of the park benches,

a look of panic settles on their faces they engage in deeper conversation.

I have seen the old chap several times, on and off, in town,

down Mosely High Street, Selly Oak and up Five Ways;

here in the park he is off his beaten track.

I slide behind a sturdy lime, observe his ambling progress.

Aldi carrier bag in one hand

two Tesco bags slung across his opposite shoulder, tied together with string,

bags for life.

‘looks like rain,’ he says to a passing youth,

‘yea, boss.’ It doesn’t, blue skies. The youth laughs.

Bagman ambles on.

From my vantage point behind my sweating lime

I track him to the corner of the park, he crosses the road.

A car rounds the corner, vicious on the horn,

Bagman stands his ground,

‘You need fucking specs mate.’

A witness on the far corner, neat in sombre top and long black skirt.

‘Nearly got me papers,’ she smiles sheepishly;

‘I should take him to court, got the price of a cup of tea?’

Witness takes refuge in flight, ‘Sorry, no change.’

Bagman laughs quietly to himself, moves onward.

Witness too rapidly approaches my hide,

I emerge lest I be discovered,

reach the corner of the park myself.

Watch him down the road approach a bus queue,

he engages, no doubt blagging the price of his cuppa,

half a dozen people each one concentrating hard on whether their bus is coming.

Walks on as far as the convenience store, halts.

I stand in the doorway of the Chinese, a disinterested observer.

He places his bags on the ground,

reaches into the bin, selects a folded newspaper;

scans the front page, then the middle pages,

takes the two double pages from the centre and neatly folds them,

rolls the newspaper and replaces it in the bin

slides his folded pages into an envelope he carefully draws from the Aldi carrier,

he reslings the strung bags over his shoulder and takes up the single bag,

moves steadfastly on,

I follow at a discrete distance

until he reaches the traffic lights;

he turns left towards The Parade, I turn right and cross.

Here is the parting of our ways.

Bully-Boy Putin: 22 February 2022

 Bully Putin’s in a win-win game,

and brave Ukraine loses,

the rest of the free world huffs and puffs

but remember Putin lives with short fuses.

Deep Souls and Huge Hearts: 28 February 2022

Listen to the great Church music of the Slavic nations,

you hear the deep souls and huge hearts of the peoples.

Putin does his best to bleed those hearts and souls,

he becomes bloated with that love and passion

as he turns it to poison within him.

Today Ukrainians feel that pure passion coursing through their being;

if ever Justice lives, they will prevail

Putin will rot from his self-generated poison,

and a beautiful peoples can live as one. 

Cries of Anguish from Ukraine: 08 March 2022

‘I want to live a normal life.’

‘My mother is 82, she won’t leave.’

‘All the time the bomb.  The bomb.  The shell.’

‘I come back from the border.  I leave them there.  My child, my wife.’

‘We don’t cry.  We fight.  Tomorrow, we grieve.’

‘This is my country.  My beautiful Ukraine.  It is become Hell.’

Top Behaviour: 15 March 2022

 Has Putin lost his sight?

that he doesn’t see the deserts he creates

in the country he wishes to own?

Or perhaps he averts his gaze

dabs away a tear of crocodile concern

for the land he violates.

But then again, perhaps he sits and gloats.

Brothers: 23 March 2022

Hello Brother, I fought for my country,

a white marker is all I have to show now.

Brother, hello; so you fought for your country, too,

I sleep now among the rubbish on the streets.

Brother, I fought as well, just like you;

my Commander-in-Chief will not allow me home.

I also fought, Brother; I was confined to battlefield ovens

for fear I carry bad news home, wind-bourn ashes now,

Brothers, hold my hand, hold me.

But we have no hands to hold.

Pussy-Footing: 30 March 2022

Why do politicians and media moan Biden said Putin must go?

Most of us, in our heart of hearts agree with Mr President.

Why do the Powers That Be say Putin must have a means of saving face?

He’s a bully, his face should be seen no more.

Why is there talk that Ukraine must compromise?

In any compromise Putin wins with his illegal invasion.

Why aren’t the Western countries giving Ukraine the tanks and missiles they need? 

We are rationing our support.

Why don’t we offer the no-fly zone Ukraine calls for?

We need to face up to the bully, stop pussy-footing around.

I’m told the universe exists in an acorn.

I was out walking the other day in a deciduous wood

when that old saying popped into my head

so I picked up an acorn to find out

I pulled it from it’s cup

as children we told each other fairies drank from acorn cups

I could well have believed this

as I’d seen plenty of documentary evidence

picking up along the way that fairies seemed to vary an awful lot in size.

This whimsical memory brought into mind

all the pictures I’d seen in my early years books

except we didn’t have early years then they were just children’s books

of red squirrels with fantastic bushy tails and sparkling black eyes

hiding acorns that they mostly forgot where they’ve put them

which may well be a problem inherent in hoarding.

Drawing myself back to my living present

I split the acorn open to inspect the universe

but inside it was a pretty simple affair and no universe in sight.

So I chucked it, left it for the squirrels to dine on.

I was struck by something I’d recently seen on the television or heard on the radio

some woman was talking about her grandfather

he was some rich old landowner

or rather he was old-style aristocracy so he may well not have been rich,

how when he was a young man he walked about his lands with a pocketful of acorns

and every now and again he’d plant one.

This particular ground and I can’t remember where it is probably National Trust now

is well known for is large number of splendid oaks

strategically placed in the wide English landscape.

It’s a good job the old chap as a young chap didn’t look for the universe in his acorns.

I have no idea how much of me is true.

All the damp bits of me, all the hard bits of me,

all the squishing, squashing, throbbing, filtering, pouring bits of me,

these are true; these are the hardware bits of an unstable machine.

A miraculous machine, to be sure,

but a unlikely machine, nevertheless,

flawed by the inevitability of its aging.

It’s me I’m concerned about.

The unknown network that binds me together,

through which I am perceived,

through which I have meaning

Through which the machine has purpose and identity.

You might say, my audience, that I’m too much inside my head as I write,

worrying about the truth of me,

you might suggest, my audience, I should get out more.

I would love to oblige but I don’t know from what I should get out.

Literature loves the magic list of three.

Here is my trinity:

my genes, my environment, my memories.

My genes point me in preprogrammed directions, my memories can nudge, override, comply.

My environment offers me action and change, decisions are filtered through my memories.

My memories are self-selecting, selections managed by genes, environment, and memories;

memories are managed by memories; they buff each other up

that they dovetail correctly.

Some days I feel I am completing the straight edges

though I have little understanding how many edges there are to complete. On other days

I feel I am working towards the centre clumsily

clicking bits together. What worries me

is there is no picture on the non-existent box;

no sat-nav to guide me

to the memories I know sing in the machine.

(A Schoolfriend Gets in Touch)

I had forgotten

in all my rush and dash my filled-up days and years

of our shared joys

of a time of striking poses just for fun

of a time when attitudes were changed like trendy suits

of a time of collars, cut of trousers, of hair styles,

of the charm of an eccentric chosen form of transport

a time

when Christopher Logue would soar with his Red Bird

when Ray Charles pleaded to loosen chains around his heart and be free

when Richard Hoggart told of the ways of literacy

and the Beatles rolled Beethoven over

when Arnold Wesker displayed his family roots

I’m beginning on my own two feet I’m beginning

time

when puberty was at its blood-hot peak

of rightful peacock strutting

of striving to be so bad which felt so good

when life was for living in earnest

and the earnest we believed would inherit the earth

and we were there to inherit it

views we discussed at length

in all-night alcohol-sparse cellar parties

before or after we moved a wine-glass

around a coffee-table spread with letters

while the meek who would not inherit slept

when am I going to die we dared it

but we got no answer we who were there to inherit

in those days

we began the twistings of the thread

that pulls us now through more than fifty years

hasn’t let us go however much we tangled it

not tethering us to a false time when the sun shone more

but keeping us safe to ensure we do not float away pilotless

from a time when our sun shone brighter

We race

down dirt tracks through serried ranks of conifers

summer holiday sun is hot on our faces

in our noses is the earthy tang of bracken

we can taste it even

who cares how we will make the corner at the bottom

nor what will happen if some unsuspecting mother

climbs this shopping short cut into town

our minds focus on the gathering of headlong speed

and we yell to tell the world

life is not for stopping

we have our inheritance to claim

you remember

call me across the years

strike a far-too-long silent chord

you remind me we wore top hats on a tandem.

(Inspired by The Young Poet—Self Portrait, by Arthur Hughes, Birmingham Art Gallery)

I sense that you have been asleep

and were disturbed by passer-by,

pop-up to put yourself on show

With well-practiced - I?

Unblemished face that should not age,

Black olive eyes that ought not harden,

so much like Rosalind you look

Transformed in the Woods of Arden.

Time to ignore poetic sunlight,

walk from your forest if you can,

time to acknowledge creeping shadows..

grow into a man?

I can be your looking-glass

a bendy one, all out and in;

when I reflect you back, you laugh,

this is my Clown-world, welcome in.

I can find a bit of me

I’d much prefer is in a bin,

as clown I ridicule its sting;

this is my clown-world, please come in.

No-one lives I can’t embrace,

for everyone my kith and kin,

I’ve so much love I want to give,

this is my clown-world, do come in.

No restraints; within my play

creative power will always win;

there’s not a thing I cannot do,

this is my clown-world, will you come in?

Spill some milk, I’ll make a lake,

or give a haystack, find a pin,

A thousand cooks, a tasty soup;

This is my clown-world, please step in.

I can take the smallest thing

and help you sing for joy within

a warm embrace you’ll not forget.

this is my clown world, welcome in.

(The storyteller is comfortably in mid flow.)

‘We may be nancies,’ Graham had asserted,

‘but we are men of steel.’

Graham is fond of asserting

but it doesn’t mean he’s always right;

me: I’m a man of cotton-wool.

It was in our diary for TODAY, that day;

Climb the Old Man of Tunsford.

This is some crappy bloody sandstone Up-crop

with some really bloody stupid name.

Graham had asserted that was the day we should get to the top,

man of steel that he is.

It was absolutely pissing down;

‘The showers will be hit and miss,’ Tomasz Schafernaker had charmed,

‘but if you are unlucky enough to catch one, it could be torrential.

So take your brollies, just in case.’

‘You can’t take your umbrella’ –

Graham had seen me furtively unfurling it.

‘Why, contrary to health and safety?’

‘Don’t be daft,’ Graham asserted, ‘when hill-walking, it’s undignified.’

Cats and shitting dogs –

excuse my French.

I swear it was 90 watched-kettle minutes trudge

up this god-forsaken prick en l’air

to the great, boring, barren, bog-wash summit.

The deep valley below was just discernible

peering through the murky lurking Scotch mist.

The reservoir with its two tributaries, gross snail slime,

the orchard, behind our holiday farmhouse, a slithering slice of grey,

the village nearby, a suburb of war-torn Mordor.

‘Could it be worse?’ you ask.

O yes;

Graham had brought a pigging, picnic, which we must eat.

‘It’s just such fun, old boy –

nature red in tooth and claw.’

Cheese and pickle sandwiches sauced with rain,

custard tarts served with fresh pneumonia,

hardly Ritz al fresco.

But I soldiered on

man of soggy cotton-wool I am.

By 4 o’clock even Graham had had enough,

he began to squelch things back in his back pack,

he stood in his determined way

signalling action.

At last, rescue from certain death by drowning, I thought -

a presto inverse treatment of the main theme,

a quick canter through the coda to the double bar line.

But not to be!

A bolt of light.

The sun breaks through.

Gone is the mist.

Gone is the murk.

The whole valley lies below us in full, vibrating colour.

The reservoir and tributaries shine as polished marble.

The village glitters as a Constable on speed.

The orchard, behind our farmhouse, shouts with a splash of joyous white blossom.

I swear swallows sail overhead.

And a group of butterflies dance a galliard or a branle gai.

Graham turned to me

his haunting green eyes shining with joy;

he held me

and squeezed me so tight I could hardly breathe.

‘Look’ he whispered, ‘look, my sweet,

The Old Man of Tunsford reveals his secret

and lays it at our feet.’

If I hated you

this is how it used to be

if I had suffered some affront and hated you

I would draw my blade from its jewelled scabbard

thrust it into your unready flesh

I would heed with pleasure

your look of surprise as your blood flowed staining your exquisite tunic

you would not have thought to suffer at my unworthy hand

I am not bred as you but I am the better blademan

with upstart accuracy I have pierced your heart

or some other throbbing part of your being machine

as you come to silence you would reflect your temple is as fragile

as the smoke that rises from the hearth beside you

I would watch you die with the belly thrill of remorse

I can afford remorse My vanquished foe

I would have created a tale to be told by grandfathers

sitting around a fire on winter evenings

a tale to frighten children with or nursing mothers

who now whisper frightening themselves a jewelled scabbard is a thing of the past

Or if I were not a blademan

I would take up my age-old pen

with calligraphy to die for

with words more sharp then steel

with words that cut more cleanly than a diamond

for I am an expert wordman

I would mar my virgin page

protect my gloating colour in a sheath

make it safe for all weathers

pin it on a busy tree to catch all passing eyes

or pay threepence for a prime spot in your local shop

or invest in a quarter page in your local rag

it’s certain you will not die from my poison dart

but as I feast upon my cooling revenge

day by day hour by hour minute by minute

I would smile

I would watch your friends fatten on your marrow

return to my page run my fingers over my spells

perhaps chew them Perhaps swallow them whole

I could greet you at a party and say with a smile of sympathy

touching my hand tenderly upon your shoulder

My dear what terrible things people say I feel for you I really do

But today I need no pen

I stab at a keyboard What skills are there in keyboard stabbing

I produce words that have no form

words I give birth to but live beyond my reach

In a non-existent cloud where are they where

are they

though they drip with personal venom

there is no true danger in them how can there be

they are not there where not anywhere

yet with a few more stabs on my plastic keyboard mass-produced

I can send my incorporeal bullets to other clouds

from where they will flicker onto a million mirrors

for a million viewers

who is the most beautiful of all

they say power lies in numbers

once I could never have reached such numbered power

my revenge is swift and thorough as can be

though I regret I cannot see it

and nobody knows my name

Here’s another thing

I no longer need the skill of blademan wordman or stabber of keys

I need a sturdy backpack mass-produced

filled with hard edged flotsam

hard-edged Jetsam forged in fires as of hell

propelled by household chemicals with household names

I used to clear the drains

cunningly I mix this sweet confection

stir this brew

prepare this chemistry experiment

because I hate you all

with an anger as deep as it is general

I can leave my holy gift

I can coolly retire observe my messenger’s punishing cry

it rings above the cries of those who carry the message on

all around me I see the flickering images

Who is the most beautiful of all

you will not forget my message and I will overcome

if it should be that I come to hate myself as much as I hate all you who weep

then I can stay on guard watching over my precious picnic

then there is no need for words at all.

(This little set of three poems is my response to the discussions that took place in a series of workshops I was leading with South Asian LGBTQ+ communities on Identity. Their ideas, thoughts, and views on this topic formed the basis for an artwork created by Dan Auluk. The poems are not part of the artwork but are my personal responses to the discussions.)

Me: For a start

Rod Dungate

I’m brown. Tanned. Been out sailing.

A darker shade of brown.

Better say BAME.

Not supposed to say that now. White people get embarrassed.

Ethnic Minority then.

Or is it Minority Ethnic I forget?

I get confused.

I’m Londoner, English, Indian, British, Earthling, Milky Wayling.

Person of Colour.

I’m Brown. Me, Black Country.

Mustn’t say Black Country

might be offensive to people of Caribbean or African Heritage.

Black Country is because of the heavy metal in the Industrial Revolution.

That’s under dispute.

Look at the Black Mountain around Powys. No heavy metal there to fear.

Put yourself in Oswestry and around there, though,

Invasion of marauding Welsh to worry about.

And people of Welsh origin I suppose.

And people of Welsh Heritage, too.

Sunshine and rain

Rod Dungate

Red

In bed at 08.15

Orange

At college going into class

Yellow

Dancing at my sister’s wedding

Green

Five of us out and clubbing and dancing

Blue

Hill walking with a soul-mate

Indigo

Sharing a candlelit dinner

Violet

Reading a book in the evening

In the pile

Rod Dungate

I am at ease among the pile of coins within which I sit,

though I have turned one half turn too many in the air

and have landed up tails.

We are stacked together for a moment

put together by chance;

We rest solidly one upon the other,

edges commonly worn in different places

surfaces severally scratched in similar ways

some shine with newness ready to go,

some display signs of wear and tear.

Each of us awaits action

It is ours, we believe, to start and ours to finish.

In truth we all fit into the same slot machines,

they accept us on some days

and reject us on others.