from this mad thing that was going for my throat.
Then a man’s voice cried out, “Get in. Get in.”
He’d pulled up and was holding the car door open.
But before I could close it after me the dog leaped in.
It went for his face. There was blood everywhere.
And the screaming. People on the pavement screaming.
Straight out of Hitchcock it was. Blood and screaming.
That’s why I’m like this now, you see. I can’t relax.
Three weeks ago and the police haven’t done nothing.
More concerned about the dog than me. I rang up.
“It belonged to a farmer,” they said, “but it’s fine now.”
“So bloody what,” I said, “but what about me?”
“That’s a civil matter,” they said, “not criminal.”
“Criminal? It’s bloody surreal.” I was standing there
bandaged up to my elbow, drugged up to the eyeballs,
cradling the telephone like a baby. “What about me?”
“Don’t worry,” said the policeman, “the dog’s fine.
As a matter of fact, he’s lying here in front of me
on the lino eating a sheep’s head. Happy as Larry.”
I couldn’t believe my ears. Who’s mad? I thought
to myself. Who’s mad?’ She gave me back the book.
‘Would you mind putting the date on as well, please?’
Clone
A genetic scientist
With literary leanings
Cloned old verses
And gave them new meanings
A genetic scientist
With literary leanings
Cloned old verses
And gave them new meanings
A genetic scientist
With literary leanings
Cloned old verses
And gave them new meanings
Muffin the Cat
Written at the Arvon Foundation, Lumb Bank, Yorkshire
I had never considered cats
until Nadia said I should:
‘If a person likes a cat,
then that person must be nice.’
So I seized the chance to be good
by taking her advice.
When Muffin (not the mule) called
around midnight to inspect the room
I was, at first, distinctly cool.
Until, remembering the New Me,
I praised felinity and made tea.
Offered him a biscuit. A cigarette.
Tried to make conversation.
He’d not be drawn. Not beaten yet
I showed him my collection
of Yugoslavian beermats.
He was unimpressed. (Queer, cats.)
At 2 a.m. I got out the whisky.
He turned up his nose.
After a few glasses I told him
about the problems at home.
The job. My soul I laid bare.
And all he did was stare.
Curled up on the duvet
with that cat-like expression.
Not a nod of encouragement.
Not a mew. Imagine the scene;
I felt like that intruder
on the bed with the Queen.
But I soldiered on till morning
and despite his constant yawning
told him what was wrong with the country.
The class system, nuclear disarmament,
the unions, free-range eggs.
I don’t know what time he left.
I fell asleep. Woke up at four
With a hangover the size of a Yorkshire Moor.
And my tongue (dare I say it?) furry.
Since then, whenever I see the damn thing
He’s away up the mountain to hide.
And I was only being friendly.
I tried, Nadia, I tried.
The Logic of Meteors
August in Devon and all is rain. A soft rain
that seems, not to fall from the sky, but to rise
from the ground and drape itself over the trees
and hedgerows like a swirl of silver taffeta.
But I am not interested in matters meteorological.
Not for me the logic of meteors, but the logic of metre.
For this is a Poetry Course and I am the Tutor.
Last night I had a visitor. (Not a female student:
‘I’m having trouble with my sestina’… ‘Please come in…’)
But a monster that kamikazied around the room
before ensnaring itself within the vellum lampshade.
Waiting until the moth, light-headed, went into free fall
I clumped it with Ted Hughes’ Birthday Letters
Consumed with guilt? Hardly. A frisson of imagined
Buddhism? Possibly. Would Mrs Moth and the kids
be at home waiting? Unlikely. It was either me or it.
For who is to say that my visitor wasn’t a mutant killer
waiting for me to fall asleep before stuffing itself
down my throat and bringing to a suffocating end
this short and insubstantial life… Do I hear thunder?
***
A second meteor, a host-carrier bearing aliens from
the Planet of the Moths, tears a hole in the damp taffeta
at the hem of the hills surrounding Black Torrington.
A soft rain still, but high above, a vellum moon.
In his room, the Tutor pours himself a large scotch,
guiltily wipes the smear of blood from the dust-jacket
and settles down, unaware of the avenging, impending swarm.
His poems are nets
His poems are nets
in which he hopes
to capture girls
He makes them at work
or late at night
when pubs are closed
He uses materials
at hand. Scraps
of conversation, jokes,
lines lifted from
dead poets (he likes
a bit of poetry in his poems)
***
He washes his hair
for the reading
and wears tight pants
When it comes to him
he swaggers out
unzipping his file
Exposes small dreams
which he breaks
with a big stick
His verse a mag
nifying glass
held up to his prick
***
His poems are nets
and like nets
can be seen through
Girls bide their time
Wait for the singer
to throw them a line.
A Critic Reviews the Curate’s Egg
‘It’s all bad.
Especially in parts.’
Two Riddles
(i)
To ease us
Through those difficult days
At hand to tease out
Waifs and strays
Though causing pain
We squeeze you again
And again. Vain? Not really
More a fear of the unruly
If you wish to borrow mine
Simply repeat the opening line.
(ii)
A rat (black) rattles across the floor
A cross (red) daubed upon the door.
A bell (muffled) rung in the early dawn
A grave (deep) dug far away from town.
A tumbril (full) trundles down the lane
Tomorrow (and tomorrow) it will trundle again.
People avoid me like the plague
What am I?
The Nearest Forty-two
I want to write a new poem.
What words shall I choose?
I go in. The variety is endless.
Images stretch into infinity.
I dither. Can’t make up my mind.
Inspiration becomes impatient.
Stamps its feet. Panicking
I grab the nearest forty-two,
The Written Word
(a Full Monty of poetic forms)
A poet of little repute
Desperate for something to do
One evening pissed as a newt
Decided to have a tattoo.
On his chest an unrhymed sestina
On his belly a fine villanelle
On each bicep a series of haiku
On each shank a tanka as well.
On each shoulder a Petrarchan sonnet
Making twenty-eight lines in all
An acrostic across each firm buttock
With a limerick, what else? on each ball.
On each knee, though knobbly, a rondeau redoublé
(which was terribly tricky to do)
On each pendulous lobe, a Pindaric ode
On each clavicle, a neat clerihew.
Any flesh that remained was minutely quatrained
(the odd couplet if not enough room)
On the sole of each foot, a virelai was put
An englyn and Malaysian pantoum.
***
This poet of Great Repute
Now travels from town to town
Goes on stage, removes his shirt
And takes his trousers down.
While audiences marvel
At the body of work so vast
Concrete, surreal and post-modern
Alongside the great works of the past.
And some are poetry-lovers
Who believe they could do worse
Than curl up every evening
With this anthology of verse.
For nothing can beat the written word
Especially on a torso, bared.
Word Trap
Sometimes they trap me
Stop me in my tracks.
Thinking my way through
Towards a promising idea
When I am distracted
By a sound. A spelling crackles.
Without a second thought
I am off into the thicket.
The next thing I know
It is time for bed.
Another poem finished
And nothing said.
Planet Babel
‘I found I could not use the long line because of my nervous nature.’
– William Carlos Williams
As soon as my voice is heard above the babble
Which ceases as people turn
I want to disappear. Hide under the table.
My pulse races and I consequently gabble.
Puzzled faces make mine burn
And make it crystal clear – I’m from Planet Babel.
On the Point of Extinction
Manx: The celtic dialect (Manx Gaelic) of the Isle of Man, now on the point of extinction.
Pears Encyclopaedia, 78th edition
An old man walks into his local newsagents
and asks, in perfect Manx, for a packet of Silk Cut
and the Daily Mirror… Oh, and some aspirin
for the missus. The man behind the counter,
being new to the area, says, ‘Pardon?’
Tobaccoless, paperless and aspirinless,
the old man returns home to find his wife
collapsed on the living-room floor.
He telephones immediately for an ambulance,
but the girl from the Emergency Services Provider,
being in Manchester, says, ‘Pardon?’
The old man rushes out into the busy street
and in pure Manx Gaelic appeals for help
to the passers-by. They either nod sympathetically
and give directions to the ferry, or say, ‘Pardon?’
The old woman dies. The old man is struck dumb.
And Manx Gaelic, having nobody to talk to,
sets off in search of the Land of Lost Tongues
as fast as his three legs can carry him.
The death of John Berryman in slow motion
We open on a frozen river
(the spot where the poet has arranged to meet death).
The whiteness is blinding.
The glare hurts our eyes.
From somewhere above he jumps.
We see the shadow first
seeping into the ice
like a bruise. Thickening.
There is no sound but the wind
skulking beneath the bridge.
Now the body comes into shot.
Falling, blurred, a ragged bearskin.
The shadow opens its arms to greet it.
The wind is holding its breath.
We freeze frame at the moment of impact
(noting the look of surprise on the poet’s face).
We then pan slowly upwards
to the grey Minnesota sky.
Fade to black.
One Poet May Hide Another
(for Kenneth Koch)
Kenya
A car held up at a railroad crossing
At the wheel, the poet.
To pass the time he writes a poem.
London
Holed up in his study, a second poet
Reads the poem, then ducks.
He realizes that it may hide another.
However
He is unprepared for the train
That comes hurtling out of the fireplace
Followed by another, and another, and
A Visit to the Poet and his Wife
(for Sidney and Nessie Graham)
To set the scene: A cave
in Madron, Cornwall.
On a warm September afternoon
Mr and Mrs W.S.G. are ‘at home’
to admirers bearing distilled gifts.
Mine host, after clearing
a mess of mss from the table
takes implements in their places
from its place, and puts on
spectacles to clear the air.
A warm, brown voice
with silver whiskers unveils
a poem that is the spitting
image of itself. The onlisteners
are amazed at its likeness.
Tumblers, half-filled with malt,
are topped up with bright
watery sunshine by the good
Lady of the Cottage. The afternoon
saddens at its own passing.
To set the scene: A cave
in Madron, Cornwall.
On a warm September afternoon
Mr and Mrs W.S.G. are ‘at home’
to admirers bearing distilled gifts.
All for Laurie Lee
(written for his 80th birthday)
I love the way he uses words
Will they work the same for me?
‘Sorry’ said the words,
‘We only do it for Laurie Lee’
But words are common property
They’re available and free
Said the words: ‘We’re very choosy
And we’ve chosen Laurie Lee’
I want to write like he does
But the words did all agree:
‘Sorry son we’re spoken for,
We belong to Laurie Lee!’
Educating Rita
(for W.R.)
Come in and welcome. You’re the first.
Let me take your things. Go straight through.
Now something to quench the nation’s thirst?
There’s lager by the crate. A nice Moselle
Local and highly recommended?
Or there’s whisky, vodka, gin as well.
When everyone’s arrived we’ll serve champagne
And wet the baby’s head.
God it’s hot. Never thought I’d miss rain.
But there you go. The auld country?
Not as much as I thought I would.
Fresh strawberries. Spring perha
ps. And Guinness
Which doesn’t travel well and never should.
Susan misses it more I believe.
The way ex-Scousers talk about the place
You wonder why they leave:
‘Ferries across the Mersey, the old Pier ’Ead,
Chip butties, the Kop, six in a bed,
The “gents” in the Phil, a cathedral to spare,
Liver birds with long fair hair.’
And going on and on about the native wit
You’d think the buggers had invented it.
But deep down she’s no regrets I’m sure.
She needed new friends, a fresh challenge.
She’s her own woman now, more mature.
She’ll be down in a minute with the star of the show.
Oh by the way, the Russells are coming
Whom I think you all know.
Nice couple. Although Willy will insist
On playing guitar and singing when he’s pissed.
And exciting news, I think you’ll all agree,
There’s a real live actress coming too
Who’s starred in a West End theatre show.
Filming out here, just passing through.
So all you sheilas take real good care
Lest Bruce or Norm disappear from the parlour
Into the yard to show her a Koala bear.