Nitrogen
‘O’ is for Oxygen
so gregarious
whereas I am
colourless
odourless
and tasteless
unattractive you might say
unreactive in every way
nitrogen: the night
to oxygen’s day
I am 75 per cent
of the air you breathe
so keep me clean
For when I latch on
to fumes that cars exhaust
I am poison
Nitro-glycerine
that’s me as well Dynamite
I can blow you all to hell
But I’m not without
a sense of humour
N2O is the proof, nitrous oxide
Inhale some laughing gas
and see my funny side
N is my symbol
N for nebulous
necessary
and nondescript.
Carbon
I am an atom of carbon
And carbon is the key
I am the element of life
And you owe yours to me
I am the glue of the Universe
The fixative
used by the Great Model-maker
I play a waiting game
Lie low that’s my secret
Take a breath every millennium
But though set in my ways
Don’t be misled. I’m not inert
I will go down in cosmic history
as an adventurer
For when I do make a move
Things happen and fast
I am an atom of carbon
And carbon is the key
I am the element of life
And you owe yours to me
When the tune is called
I carry the message
to the piper
Take the lead
in the decorous dance
of life and death
Patient, single-minded and stable
I keep my talents hidden
Bide my time
Until by Time am bidden.
Iron
Fefifofum
As hard as nails
As tough as they come
I’m the most important
Metal known to man
(though aluminium
is more common
do we need another can?)
Five per cent of the earth’s crust
I am also the stone at its centre
Iron fist in iron glove
Adding weight to the system
I am the firma in the terra
Fe fi fo
Don’t drop me on your toe
My hobbies are space travel
And changing the course of history
(they even named an Age after me
– eat your heart out Gold)
And changing shape of course
From axe heads and plough shares
To masks maidens and missiles
I am malleable
I bend to your will
I am both the sword and the shield
The bullet and the forceps
I am all around you
And more much more
You are all around me 2, 3, 4…
You’ve got me
Under your skin
I’m in your blood
What a spin that I’m in
Haemoglobin
You’ve got me
Under your skin
So strike while I’m hot
For if I’m not there
What are you?
Anaemic that’s what
Fe fi
High and mighty
Iron
Gregarious and fancy-free
Easy going that’s me
No hidden depths
I’m not elusive
To be conclusive
You get what you see
Fe Fe
Mercury
I repose at great speed
The joker in the pack
I cannot be fathomed
and turn your preconceptions
upside-down
You’ll find me attractive
But I’m bad
(a poisoned chalice)
Hatters did
and they went mad
(ask Alice)
Alchemists
throughout the years
have been besotted by me
And understandably
I promised Gold
Immortality
The secret of eternal youth
What I delivered
was Death
A stab in the back
As befits
The joker in the pack
Quicksilver
I am a messenger
And the message that I bring
is…
Sulphur
I’m what gets witches
a bad name
Funny smells
Gobbledy spells
Given to theatrics
I go in for special effects:
Brimstone and treacle
Hellfire. Eureka!
Gold! The Elixir of Life! Immortality!
Chinese alchemists were obsessed
Emperors were impressed
But in Beijing
I couldn’t stop them
– ageing
And so they died
(But not in vain)
For a potion more mundane
was chanced upon
The Chinese called it:
‘Fire Drug’
Mobsters
got where they got with it…
Children
play a lot with it…
Cities
glow white hot with it…
Guy Fawkes
hatched a plot with it…
Gunpowder.
Gold
I’m not a colour
Let’s get that one straight
right from the start
Sunsets Daffodils Eagles
All take my name in vain
For vanity it is
Let me explain:
I’m the heart of things The core
The Emperor of metals
Hence, or
Without me, commerce
would grind to a halt.
No money No trade
Civilization (as you wish to know it)
simply fade
Of course, I can bring out the worse
I admit
That people kill for me
That rivers of blood
have been shed in my name
But that’s you Not me.
I’m not to blame
I glister
Am all show All style
My aim is simple
To make you smile
Come closer:
If you had gold
and were offered something else
Would you swap?
No
You see, I’ve every right to crow
Le Coq d’or
… The one on top
Fool’s Gold
I’m not real gold
A sham
Pyrite is what I am
But I’m gold to the touch
And look like gold as well
So who can tell?
Except the scientist
(this alchemist who casts a spell
exposing me)
But I don’t care
I had a good run for my money
Besides
All gold is fool’s gold
For what is it after all?
Bright yellow dung?
The sun’s tears?
Satan’s urine?
Gold
All who love you are fools.
Element 109
A mayfly blinks
I have lived and died
a thousand times
Mine is a short life
but an
exciting one
I am man-made
and owe my existence
to science
I have no name
merely a number:
109. It suits me.
I could go on
for hours and hours
about my various properties
But I won’t
Now you see me
Now you…
Bob Dylan and the Blue Angel
What benign stroke of fate took Bob Dylan
to the Blue Angel Club after a gig at the Liverpool Empire
in 1965 remains a mystery. But there he was, seemingly alone,
all tousled up and shy, with Cilla goofing at the bar,
and Freddie Starr on stage downstairs.
Alan ‘The man who gave the Beatles away’ Williams
introduced us. ‘He’s a poet too.’ So we talked poets and poetry,
music and lyrics, and soon we’d talked our way out of the club,
away from the noise and the crowd
and into the history of rock ’n’ roll.
At the intersection of Bold Street and Hardman Street
he stopped. ‘I’m at the crossroads, Rog,’ he said.
‘I can see that, Bob,’ I said. ‘No, I mean my career,
I don’t know which way to turn.’ ‘Seems clear to me, mate,
let’s have a coffee and I’ll put you straight.’
So over cappucino in the Picasso I laid it all out.
Dump the acoustic. Forget the folksy stuff and go electric.
Get yourself a band. I remember the look on his face.
Sort of relief. The tension in the trademark
hunched shoulders seemed to melt away.
Hit the booze, make friends with cocaine
to get that druggy feel. Divorce your wife, the pain will pay off
in hard-won lyrics. His eyes closed, the bottom lip trembled.
Poet to poet, you asked for my advice.
I’m not here to give you an easy ride.
Ten years from now you’ll be an icon. Sounds nice
but trust me, go against the flow. Dismantle the status.
Reinvent yourself. Embrace the faith of your fathers
then give Christianity a go. With nothing to lose
make albums that serve to confound and confuse.
Then consolidate. A Lifetime Achievement Award,
and then perhaps an Oscar. By the time you’re sixty…
He smiled, ‘Hold on there, boy, we ain’t never
gonna grow old.’ ‘You’re right, Bob.’ We laughed
and made our way back to his hotel.
On the moonlit steps of the Adelphi
we exchanged phone numbers and addresses.
Suddenly he looked young and vulnerable.
Mumbling his thanks he hurried towards the entrance.
‘Don’t forget to write,’ I called. But he never did. Never did.
Hey, Dude
Paul has probably forgotten about the incident by now
But I clearly remember that Saturday morning
In the sun-filled drawing room of his elegant home
In St John’s Wood. His brother Michael and I
Relaxing over coffee and the morning papers
When he came bounding in like a young puppy.
‘I’ve gorra new song, d’ye wanna hear it?’ Needless
To say, we nodded and lowered our newspapers.
He was already at the baby grand. ‘It’s a gear tune,
But I haven’t got the words sorted yet,’ he explained
By way of introduction, and then began to sing:
‘Hey, dude, get off of my cloud. Dumpty dumpty
Di dumpty three is a crowd di dumpty dum di dumpty
Dumpty dum Or I’ll push you off like Humpty Dumpty.’
And so on and so on. And as the final chord faded
Michael and I made the required appreciative noises.
To have done otherwise would have seemed churlish.
‘No, seriously,’ he said, ‘what do you really think?’
I knew from the way he was looking directly at me
That it was the truth he wanted. ‘To be honest, Macca…’
I hesitated, but his eyes were begging me to continue.
‘I think that the lyrics are working against the melody.
There’s a lovesong in there, trying to get out, but…
Well, it sounds more like Jagger than McCartney.’
The reference to the Stones brought him to his feet.
To underline my point Michael sang the opening bars
Of ‘Get off of my cloud’ while his brother, head lowered,
Leaned against the piano as if his world might collapse.
I had to think on my feet, so I stood up and said,
‘What about “Hey, Jude?” You know, use a girl’s name?’
Paul looked puzzled. ‘That’s a funny name for a bird.’
‘It’s short for Judith,’ I explained with all the confidence
Of someone having it off with a girl called Judith.
‘Forget the dude. Forget pushing people off clouds.
Forget Humpty Dumpty. Think of the lovely Jude
And you’ve got another number one on your hands.’
He didn’t say anything before going back upstairs
But the gentle squeeze of my shoulder spoke volumes.
As we left the house we could hear his guitar
As he unpacked his rich mind-hoard of love lyrics.
Outside, Michael and I selected a couple of the likeliest-
looking Beatles groupies and whizzed them down to the pub.
A Bolt from the Blue
In no way am I trying to lay claim
to kickstarting the career of Jimi Hendrix.
What took place that night might well have
happened anyway. But please hear me out.
The early sixties. At the Scotch of St James
in the heart of Mayfair, a meagre crowd
has turned up to witness Jimi’s first UK
appearance. It was an embarrassment.
After the show, Chas Chandler came over
to ask if, as one of the only real celebrities there,
I would pop backstage to offer a few words
of advice and comfort to the young man.
Smaller in real life, he was languishing
on a velvet settee looking for all the world
like a black Little Lord Fauntleroy.
He groaned: ‘I ain’t never gonna play again.’
As I was about to protest, he picked up a cloth
and began to wipe the neck of his banjo.
It was then that I had the idea.
It came to me like a bolt from the blue.
Thank U Very Much
Taking a break from recording at Olympic Studios
the Gallaghers, large as life, were outside my local
that August evening, when, pen and notebook in hand
I strolled past as inconspicuously as possible.
But in vain. It was Noel who recognized me
and well-nigh dragged me over to their table.
Liam bought the round: red wine for his brother,
large whiskey for himself, and a lager top for me.
‘Tell us about John Lennon.’ ‘Tell us about the Sixties.’
‘Tell us about…’ A double-act that was difficult
to penetrate. ‘Relax, lads,’ I said, ‘well understand
your excitement, but one at a time, please.’
‘Tell us about Scaffold.’ ‘Tell us about Brian Epstein.’
‘Calm down, calm down,’ I said with Aintree irony.
‘If you’re really interested, why not hit my web-site?’
Liam removed his shades. ‘Gob-shite.’
My Divine Juggler
Jugglers, as you can imagine,
are great fun to be with.
Mine i
s.
Alert and ambidextrous,
rarely dropping an aitch or missing a trick,
head in the air, clear-eyed and smiling,
I’m mad for him.
No couch potato he.
After a hard day in the busy town square
he comes home to prepare supper.
Under the spotlight in the kitchen
he works the vegetables, eight at a time.
Spins plates, tosses pans.
In orbit, knives hiss with pleasure.
In the bathroom, ducks and deodorants
spring to life in his hands.
Loofahs loop-the-loop. A Ferris Wheel
of shower-caps and shampoo bottles.
Flannels paraglide, soaps and sponges
dance a perfumed fandango.
I would die for him.
He will be the perfect father, I know it.
In the maternity ward he arrived,
laden with champagne and flowers.
Matron gasped, midwives giggled,
other mothers marvelled as the newlyborn
went spinning through the air like startled planets:
Mars, Mercury, Jupiter. Our triplets.
My divine juggler.
Love Cycle
Up against the wall
Locked in passionate embrace
our two bicycles
M.I.L.T.
Blessed are the children and happy the spouses
Lucky the neighbours who everyday meet
Mothers In Leather Trousers
Pushing their buggies in T-shirts or blouses
Swish-swash hear them shimmying down the street
Blessed are the children and happy the spouses
Bricklayers’ labourers stop building houses
Scaffolders, road-diggers, drivers compete
To whistle at Mothers In Leather Trousers
Collected Poems Page 28