Thunder Alley
Page 2
while attempting to find the North West Passage.
She’s there too: The Sleeping Lady.
Rising out of the sea, like a mountain.
He’d lost his way – but she’d lost her heart.
Waiting in vain for her man to return,
she’d lain down to sleep by the water’s edge.
The snow fell, and the ice formed about her.
Moulding to her, it replicated her
in repose: her hair a dignified white.
She waits still: along with the mute Captain.
Both are contemplative: both immortal.
His towering achievement – Her deep love.
Regret vi
Impulse
For Will.
In the process of writing
my Grant Proposal, I
smoked some boogie-ball.
Out of focus - the words spread
across the page like bacteria…
And I found myself… Unworthy.
Killers
There are some things that just stay with you.
Seeing distressed dogfish abort live young on the
deck of a trawler: While the boatman ripping
the hook from the cod’s mouth outlasted the taste.
Saw a gut-shot possum; whose spewing intestines
hooked on a branch before unravelling in her wake,
as she leapt through the treetops in futile escape,
while I’m screaming: For Gods sake fucking kill it!!
I remember Mick wanting to reclaim his hook
from a perch, that had swallowed it,
wrapped the line round his fist, placed his boot on the fish
and tore – dragging out the crimped scarlet hem of its gills.
The dislodged maggot, now threaded like a bead,
and its heart – drowning; still beating on the barb.
Days like These
i.
It was auspicious all right - waking up naked,
the room crypt cold: the bedclothes having been
wrested from me in the night, and heaped
on the floor in what seemed a malicious act:
While all the room brooded in abstract shadow.
Dragging back the cover, and rolling myself
up to prevent my unwrapping again,
I began to feel a little claustrophobic…
Something wasn’t right – even the drizzle on the
window resembled the drawn desperate
fingernails of someone trying to get in:
The day finally arrives, and my uneasiness
seems justified when answering the door:
Might’ve known…on days like these the bailiff calls.
ii
OK, I tell myself, I’m well prepared for this,
when he wants my name - I’ll tell him something else.
‘Is it Mark, Mark Ward?’ he asks – like he already knows it is.
And I find myself agreeing, ‘cause I just can’t help myself.
‘Mr Ward you have a bill, outstanding with B.T.’
Those bastards will get fuck-all out of me!
It was only 97 and now it’s 253.
I write him a cheque, to make him go away.
Returning to my room, dejected, appalled
at my performance, after so many rehearsals.
My anxiety intensifies to see
the scrawny fingernails of drizzle from the night,
having transferred to the inside, are now tearing
down the windowpane, desperate to get out.
The Mansion of Aching Hearts
At the former Union Workhouse on the hill,
they’d sit in soporific bliss and stare,
as slanted latticed sunbeams sloped - and spilling
through the windows, split the melancholy air.
Wayne Ruben squints, adjusts his stool,
lines the light-shaft with the table and bench.
Jane will dip her toes, then skirt the pool
of sun: dark shadows more familiar, less intense.
Now the restraining cells are silent, and the halls
where the sectioned were sedated, and observed,
echo no more with disillusioned souls,
the corridors no longer the preserve
of aching hearts, the dormitories now still,
at the former Union Workhouse on the hill.
Regret vii
First impressions
Interview with Robert Woof, at the Wordsworth Trust.
It had all been going great; then:
Do you drink? ‘Well…Yes,’ I replied.
Smoke? ‘Affirmative.’
I was somewhat startled by the questions:
Had I disappointed him already?
No water-drinking bard here:
Just another flawed Coleridgean.
Shadows
He seemed quite normal – unlike the perverts
we’d normally see wandering round the park.
They were easy to spot - bit grubby; bit twitchy.
‘Come over here I’ve got something for you?’
Leaving my friends I followed him into the bushes.
‘Now close your eyes and open your mouth.’
I did, but cheated – just as his dick was coming out!
- At which I took off like a greyhound, across
the grass verge and back to the playground.
I wised-up pretty quickly after that.
Avoided shadows; was always ready to run;
and kept his face imprinted on my mind.
He’s there still…? Mid thirties with short dark hair:
About 5’9”; wearing jeans and a checked shirt.
Itchy Coo…
Was unmistakable; with his wide brimmed hat,
thick-rimmed spectacles, and a white beard
that 40 a day had turned the colour of
caramelised sugar, around his mouth.
We assumed him to be a learned man
as he seemed to be constantly reading:
On public benches; at the library;
even on the lunch-walk to Nazareth House.
Then one day he just disappeared
- Nobody
noticed at first: I suppose he’d been part
of the neighbourhood, without ever belonging:
It took a while to register he was missing.
By which time he’d quietly turned the page
and moved on to another chapter…
Amusements
I made my money that day, on the Penny Falls,
when my carefully slotted penny brought
down the whole row: momentarily fused,
it crashed hard; like a lump of solid bronze.
Half a pound heavier, and feeling rich,
I made my way up to the Marina,
where a rather sad looking dolphin, waved,
chattered and leapt through hoops, for our amusement.
From there, the Reptile House and its star attraction;
two alligators – in touching distance
through the railings. Bored and uninspired,
they lay motionless by the shallow pool,
every inch of their backs covered in coins,
thrown by frustrated punters wanting action.
Sequined alligators – Now that’s showbiz!
Regret viii
Self-Awareness
This infection on my face is proving
to be a marvellous form of contraception.
It’s a resilient beast: my top lip,
swollen and pustulating seems to draw the eye
of friends and strangers alike.
It’s a malignant bacterium: a trespasser reluctant
to move on …
Unwanted and uninvited it has its own agenda,
serving no purpose
other than making me painfully aware
of who I am.
Church Candle
&nb
sp; That night, he sacrificed himself for love.
Drawn to the naked flame in search of a mate,
he stumbled into a pool of hot wax,
and there – like a limed finch, he remained.
I found him the next morning: wings outstretched,
opaque: entombed in the central crater.
I re-lit the candle and released him.
Unbound, he floated brightly: his vivid
markings; a glazed umber and chestnut brown,
seemed to ripple in the soft bending light.
And so it continued each night:
Until
the well deepened, the high walls collapsed, and
the moth; consumed within an avalanche
of molten wax
– was ultimately redeemed.
November
i.m. M. D. Ward
Nothing should grow here, I told myself,
easing my fingers through the thin crust of frost,
into the cold red sand of the fresh grave.
The earth was already compacting – good drainage
they said; though I try not to think about that!
I prefer using my hands to cold steel:
This was no autopsy; more like contact.
The impression of my fingers created
fluted fist-size earthenware bowls,
and into each I placed four bulbs – a nest.
This month I thought we’d keep each other company.
What else is there…? An answer phone message:
That look, you gave me at the hospital door:
And this red sand in my fingernails, I’m loath to remove.
You could be Anywhere?
It happens sometimes on really dark nights,
when the orange street lights of Pendle Drive
and Roman Road, seem to float: They remind
me of the fire-boats at anchor on the
Bosphorus: men frying fish in iron skillets.
Taking turns to come quayside with their catch.
Only the other day the morning sun
over Whiteburk, glared with such intensity,
I thought of the bush-fires in New South Wales,
and closed my window to keep out the smoke.
In a misty haze; the rumble of trucks
on Preston New Road is Mosi O Tunya,
The Smoke that Thunders; rising as vapour,
from the bowels of Victoria Falls.
Regret ix
Prosthetics
Ben ripped his nuts off, sliding down a flagpole.
Caught them on the cord-hook…Ouch!
You couldn’t tell the difference when they gave him rubber ones.
Except they had a tendency to bounce.
Thou shalt be… Nothing.
Sappho
That Greek bird knew what she was on about!
I too was passed around and displayed for a while.
‘He has the look of you they’d say,’ laughing,
as even my non-fashion became dated.
As interest waned, I began spending more time
under the stairs in a dusty envelope:
Packed up, moved around and heaped upon.
Then, accidentally left behind in the move.
Not long now to complete anonymity.
Bearing no name and being of no relation
I won’t be tolerated down here for long.
My own exile beckons – consigned to a box
in the attic; yellowing; a little parched,
and beginning to curl at the edges.
Blakewater
You couldn’t feed the ducks or dip your toes,
King Cotton’s needs had sent it underground:
A culvert - Yes; a river - I suppose:
unseen - and sliding deep beneath the town.
Fish couldn’t see the stars to navigate,
inside the chamber underneath the town,
so ceased the urge to gather and migrate
to the Pennines- their ancient breeding grounds.
Choking, all the fish came up for air,
at King Street by the bone/glue factory,
where kids could get a shilling for rats’ tails
and folk could dump their mattresses for free.
In ancient times a group of settlers came;
building farms, then water-powered factories.
Now that from which the town derives its name
lies buried - with its cotton industry.
An Eventful Night
I tell you; it’s busy out there tonight!
People everywhere: See my mum as well:
Having dinner with the boxing promoter
Don King - At the Sett End of all places?
Everything’s real: nothing’s impossible.
Even the blind man is seeing clearly,
while the deaf girl hears him whisper her name,
by the kissing-gate, where she rendezvous.
Yep, it sure is busy: Yet oh so strange.
Everyone is familiar, yet somehow
out of place?
Suddenly, seconds later,
there’s not a soul about, and I’m clinging
to this ledge, a fingertip from safety,
wondering – Where the fuck is everyone?
Regret x
The Ratchet:
For Neil Rollinson.
‘What’s this? Victoriana! I don’t hear you
talk like that: It’s wrong: get rid, it’s out of place.
And tell me: What’s with all the fucking adverbs?
This poem carries too much baggage mate!’
T
Those long car journeys were pure quality.
People play i-spy; count Eddie Stobart trucks,
or listen to the radio between
service breaks: Tanya and I – we’d chat.
‘So I guess that makes me a fruit salad’,
she said, after some deliberation,
having learned that her genetic make-up
took in seven countries and two continents.
That got me thinking:
How we’re not made-up
of one thing – but many; and that the place
we were born doesn’t necessarily
define us. Identities are assumed
and discarded, as we seek out who we are.
The one we come to know and learn to live with..
Kingfisher:
For R.C.
Enchanted birds, kingfishers; and like water-sprites
seldom seen in these parts. Yet since I’ve taken
to walking with you, I’ve already seen
two: the last one only the other day.
More projectile than vertebrate, his long
beak gives him a severe countenance; this
is more than compensated by his bright
iridescent plumage: robes fit for a king.
We barely noticed the moorhen nearby:
Her modest down by comparison, seemed
quite drab: nor did we audibly gasp when
she shuffled nervously from the reed bed,
as when he flashed across the water like
phosphorous: alighting on the alder beside us.
Where sitting with you, in the late afternoon,
by the sloe-black river – everything was perfect.
Oh, and by the way…
I like you; I like the sound of your voice:
The deep resonance, of your earthy vowels.
Course, salty, yet familiar as the moist
dank air, and coal smoke seeping through rooftop cowls.
The Brewery’s rancid yeasty breath exhales
and mingles with the clipped consonants – no frills;
just calico, coal and raw cotton bales.
The filthy canal - a great sump for the mills.
Your abbreviated syntax feels like home.
Worn; uneven like the former cobbled lanes.
Hard-pressed for
bearers interred within the loam.
A broken iron downspout gulps and gurgles in the rain.
Your slow syllabic shuffle glides – and grapples
the larynx; through primary instinct, not choice;
the child, the fairground, the sweet toffee apples,
return and enrich, the sound of your voice.
Foreword
I once had a friend with whom I’d discuss writing. His was a dangerous mind, full of brilliant insights, and as we sat up drinking rivers of whiskey and eating crackers, I would greedily listen. An ever-present part of his mind was Wordsworth, and he would frequently talk of the notion that poetry is ‘a man talking to men,’ playing with the neat singular / plural opposition and, after a sip of whiskey, adding ‘whether they’re in the same room, or thousands of years apart.’ It is one of the greatest truths about poetry, almost self-evident, and it stuck.