622 - Twenty-eight years

Twenty-eight years now since Ian C died
At only twenty-three, as depression
Took hold and slowly choked him. Suicide.
That great wordsmith, performer. His vision
Lives on; the music of Joy Division
Created a new order, new glamour
Showed northern could be arty, though that son
Of Salford, Tony Wilson, was much more
Hyperbolic as usual, saying these four
Young men transformed Manchester from a tired
Post-industrial wilderness. Modern
And gleaming now it stands (in places), more
Modern than Liverpool. Ha! (Local pride!)
Still, that old port has music of its own
Sun 18 May 2008

379 - From Manchester to Birmingham return

From Manchester to Birmingham return,
This train trip took me back, and not only
In space, along its track, for me to earn
My corn, discussing oil excise duty,
But also back in time, to a city
I knew when young, but how it’s changed! The names
Of streets are the same, but I would not see;
My eyes rejecting the new, as my brain’s
Picturing old shops, old buses, old trains
From 25 years ago. To relearn,
Retrace, retread (the opportunity
My meeting gave), a search for what remains
Of memories of former things. I turn
Some pages on Proust to pass my journey.
Tue 18 Sep 2007

345 - Take care if you walk home in the evening

Take care if you walk home in the evening,
And watch out for those drunken teenagers
Whose parents seem to be happy leaving
It to somebody else to protect us
From misbehaviour and misdemeanours
Like violent assault and robbery,
And vandalism and disturbances
That mark the streets as their territory.
And so, in English towns, the old story
Of beer and fists goes on, continuing
Like fish and chips, and slips, and officers,
Loud crowds in no hurry to buy curry.
No, I’m afraid it’s just not the done thing
To risk a late night walk. Too dangerous.
Wed 15 Aug 2007

186 - Great scoops of ice-cream float in procession

Great scoops of ice-cream float in procession
Above the gleaming rooftops in the blue,
From fluffy factories they drift, destined
To feed a greedy god and all his crew.
See silver slivers slide away: would you
Gather them up, please? For we must not waste
Such delicacies. Soon the custard hue
Of evening will follow - oh sweet taste! -
Dessert for the deserving, downed in haste,
Drowned in the shimmering salt horizon,
Deserted, swallowed, leaving just a glue
Of black treacle stirred by bats into paste,
While milk-white owls shake their wings, sprinkling on
The sugar crystal stars reflected in the dew.
Fri 9 Mar 2007

129 - Today I went down to old Oxford town

Today I went down to old Oxford town,
Near the Eagle & Child where Tolkien drank.
Historic houses, colleges, light-brown
Or yellowish stone; home of student prank.
My daughter met her friends again, last seen
Before Christmas. A girl had dyed her hair.
Frenzied unpacking; creating a scene
Of life in the small room from what was bare.
Boxes of books, so heavy with wisdom,
And plastic bags with clothes, handbags and shoes
Spilled out across the floor, almost the sum
Of Pearl’s possessions; so little to lose,
But so much to gain in those student years;
The memory of them never disappears.

True account of taking my daughter to college for the start of the second term of her first year as a student.
Thur 11 Jan 2007

127 - I went to Liverpool. Guess what? It rained

I went to Liverpool. Guess what? It rained.
But the umbrella was useless: the wind
Just whipped and wailed, until its spokes were strained
And its black fabric stretched and badly thinned.
I ceased to struggle on the Mersey banks,
Accepting that my fate was to get wet
For my meeting, and also giving thanks
For my being on time. Umbrella let
Down. Leapt the wind-washed puddles on the ground.
Beneath a thick grey cloud blanket, naughty
Little clouds, darker, faster, frolicked round,
Chased and fought, then cried after each sortie.
And then, to add insult to injury,
The host took two hours to offer coffee!
Tue 9 Jan 2007

106 - Sh-shivering, we w-walk from w-work

Sh-shivering, we w-walk from w-work,
H-hands in p-pockets, r-red nose. Brrr!
On d-death hedgerow, c-cold turkeys lurk,
R-rednecks to be wrung. It seems wrong. Grrr!
F-fallen leaves, r-relieved from w-work,
Lie still, till freezing b-breeze b-blows. Brrr!
Stamp feet, heat the b-blood flow, s-stand, lurk,
R-red light girl, h-hooker on drugs. Grrr!
C-cars crawl. Stars all come out to w-work,
F-frosty eyes in frozen s-skies. Brrr!
On L-London Road, c-cold punters lurk,
L-looking for r-relief. “Here, love!” Grrr!
Sh-shivering, she sees his r-red car,
Her r-red nails sh-shining like a star.
Tue 19 Dec 2006

45 - I wasn't 'sent to Coventry' today

I wasn’t ‘sent to Coventry’ today -
I went there of my own accord, to run
In War Memorial Park, but long delay
In traffic meant the race had just begun
When I got there. This town was near-destroyed
By many German bombs in World War Two.
And then it built cars, but how to avoid
Closing the plants, with BMW,
And cheaper Oriental models? Things
Change, and the old jobs that our parents did
Have gone. Hey kids! No manufacturing
Careers here. If you’re poor, the lid
Of life’s great treasure chest is often locked.
Meanwhile, more hopeful immigrants have docked.
Thur 19 Oct 2006

7 - Just yesterday as I drove Gherkinwards

Just yesterday as I drove Gherkinwards
Along the busy, sunny Whitechapel
Road, I jerked and woke up in New York
Five years ago, and just the same, grappled
With downtown traffic and wrong turns. Blue sky,
Vain towers, blue eyes, dark hair, all enmeshed
In the September heat. Nagasaki,
Pearl Harbour, Dresden, here in London. Flesh
And flame all smells the same. It can’t happen
Here. Again. Not to us. We are rich
And powerful. But we can bomb Iran,
Iraq, or any non-white places which
We don’t like. Even though we ain’t been there.
Rogers, or some old mosque: what’s to compare?
Mon 11 Sep 2006