From journalist to poet

The “words on a line” world premiere

Yup, calling it a world premiere may sound hyperbolic. But, technically at least, it happens to be true…

So here I am in full flow (rapture the photographer, Fabio Barry, called it) belting out one of the poems I read to a packed house (more hyperbole) in the Secret Garden behind the Castle Bookshop in Ludlow on August 5th.

Links to each poem below.


I am indebted to my poetry coach Pele Cox for getting me this far. The journey has only just begun.

Rehearsals with Pele at the home of Stephen Cox RA.
When you can’t find a lectern during rehearsals use a squirrel trap. Simps!

The hare

A little loose. Like a soft toy
sewn on where it’s lost it’s stuffing. 
Magpies showing 
zero respect

You sketched our field
with straight line speed.
Sent my blood coursing,
bounding. The hearts’ pounding
now stopped. In a beat.

A car I think. 
A scrape in the verge.
Your final form neverlasting. 

All this at Easter. No resurrection. 
No headstone. No graveside grieving. 
But a single tulip, this reedy
stem outstripping the long grass to
a mouth wide open.
Screaming. 

Before the petals 
dropped. 
And the black and white leaves fell from the lung trees 
clacking and hopping. 
The lung trees over the rhubarb patch at the bottom of our garden.

Words on a line

One way or another I’ve been writing for a living for more than 40 years – first as a cub newspaper reporter on the Reading Chronicle; then as a journalist and broadcaster for the BBC; and now as a budding poet taught for the past two very intense years by the poetry coach Pele Cox, a former poet in residence at the Tate and the Royal Academy.

But you can’t call yourself a proper poet until you’ve stood up and read your work in front of an audience. So I thought it was about time I did just that! And on Saturday August 5th in the intimate little space that is the Secret Garden behind Castle Bookshop in Ludlow you’ll be able to judge whether it was a sensible decision.

With readings from a small selection of my poems, anecdotes about the process of ‘becoming a poet’ and with the help of literary giants such as Dylan Thomas and Michael Donaghy, I’ll be exploring the literal landscape of the Shropshire countryside together with the emotional landscapes of memory and loss.

Tickets are available direct from the bookshop.

Coronation

Union flags and bunting.
The Kings Head.
A telly on the wall
And a row of mugs
Raising glasses.

Bottoms up, no shilling (coronation bitter £4 a pint)
But press ganged by the Daily Mail
All the same. Toasting two crowns.
Heads of state wearing uneasy smiles. And ermine gowns 
That would look better on stoats.

Buttoned up to their necks in it
Plastic caped crowds dripping long to rain over us 
The gloss taken off by a guilt-edged prince. 
No sweat, he’s hidden behind his sister
Feather hats off to the seating plan. 

Placards in the back of an old van. 
A sick Transit (gloria mundi).*
Serried ranks of #NotMyKing unsaluted. 
And ties that bind
Us to a past locked on tradition. 

Traitors mate. Sedition. 
Pageantry. It’s what we do. Britain at it’s best. 

Captured for posterity on countless mobile phones 
by the I-was-theres swearing oaths
Of obsequence. 
While the megaphones are silenced
By the defenders of the faith in blue
Uniform thoughts
Blue blood

And all of this because 
An accident of birth. 

Zadok the Priest.
Welcome to the King’s Head, Judas. Your shout! 
But you can’t handle another round and shuffle out. 

Dragooned.

Outside now. Uncrowned. Bare skinned for the flypast. 
A robin wearing military red. Two medal-ribboned goldfinches.
A wagtail conducting this anthem in an outdoor abbey
Not just for today but everyday. 
A pigeon clapping wings
And somewhere in the distance a peacock on his throne. 

________________________________

*Sic transit gloria mundi is Latin for thus passes the glory of this world. 

I was interested to read An Unexpected Guest, a poem by the poet laureate Simon Armitage to mark the coronation of His Majesty King Charles III. This is my poetic response in the spirit of the anti-laureate (a role I think should be established)!

After the plough

Ring rolling in a Bedfordshire field. 
Breaking up the heavy clods
And leverets. Blind to the danger. 

I stopped at first. Got down from the tractor
To shoo and scatter. 
At first. Too many of the sods 

Harrowing. The clatter
Flint on iron drowning out the sound. 
What now in the bottom corner

On the heaviest ground?
Fur gloves with missing hands 
And broken fingers. Pointing.

Too few the gods
Seed on the land
Grown houses. 

Two smiles

Tying up loose ends, you said
All crow’s feet and beak. A confiding bird
Perched by your desk pecking
At the keyboard when I walked in.

That smile still startles I swear it’s you
Spin sad to find myself window shopping for one not two.

The harvest of a lifetime. Paper bales laced up tight
Treasury tags. Twin bars bright
Conjoined. Green twine. The ties that bind.

It’s all here, you said. Hand atop the sheaf
Palm down, an oath. No testament, your will:

Accounts.
Policies.
Pensions.
And a note for your mum so she’ll know what to do.

Thank heavens for paperclips and staples, you said.
Coming round. Post stroke words.
The cubicle reflating. Breath held now out
Laughing as you confuse a comb for half a crown.

Ends frayed but held.
Your brain rewired. Wild hair combed.
Forward to post decimalisation.

Ten more years. I wondered how many times you subbed your copy.
Newspaperman to newspaperman
Before I wrote your obituary perched at your desk
In your study. Your hand writing.

The letter to mum. For Sheila: to be opened when I’m gone.
And two smiles becoming one.

The elephants in the room

It was billed as an evening of music and words. And because it was being held at the Chang Thai bar in Ludlow with its Buddhist kitsch decor, was called The Elephant in the Room.

What the organisers hadn’t reckoned on was a bunch of boozy builders on a pre Christmas night out rolling in just before the first poetry reading. Elephants in the room. Plural.

I don’t think the landlord was down as a performer. But he got the first line: “Don’t be a prick in my pub” he said whilst simultaneously pulling a pint.

The second line fell to the poet, Gareth Owen, reading his piece about a Western gunslinger with a Virgilian theme. He may have said Virginian theme. Sixties television, Shiloh Ranch and all that. But we couldn’t be sure as the shushes and the shut-that-doors ricocheted off the walls when some of the posse went out for a smoke and others came back in.

And then something magical happened. The words began to register. Maybe it was the meter. The narrative. Or all three. As one by one the lads fell silent and listened. By the end they were captivated. Shot through the heart with a silver bullet as it were.

Poetry can do that. Move everyone and anyone in unexpected ways.

They didn’t stay after that first reading. But I like to think the words stayed with them.

Thank you to my poetry coach Pele Cox for being there to witness the magic.


Black Hole

Bloodless skin too tightly drawn for lips. 
White. Like supermarket chicken. 
A row of teeth along the bottom curve. 
None along the top. (You lost those long ago.)
And that moustache that grandmas get
And tickle when you kiss.

It’s four. 
Trying to remember that last conversation for company. 
Except we didn’t know it was going to be the last conversation. 
Not then.  The detail’s faded. 
And without that to cling on to we’re drowning. 
A black hole.
Pulling everything 

In and out

All this framed from your broken boxer’s nose to your chin
By The Mask of Sorrow (you liked that film, the one starring Douglas Fairbanks. Or was it Tyrone Powers?)
Held in place by a loop of lawn green elastic. Stretched. 
But not yet snapped. 

Out and in

To breaking point. What does a fractured skull look like? I’d take a picture with my phone and send you. 
The police officers standing at the head of your bed have. For “evidential purposes.” 
One in uniform. The other in plain clothes.  A detective. Made them feel sick. My italics. My mother. 
Smash all the mirrors. 
They have no use anymore. 
Let’s have some bloody dignity here. Yes bloody. 

In and out.

Contusion
That’s the word the doctor uses. That and depressed fractures of the orbit. Dr Murray. David. I like his trainers. Why do I notice them when he’s telling me your eyeball has dropped into the place where your cheek bone used to be?
Look up from the Nikes. 
Neanderthal. Yes that’s the look. And with the head bandage a touch of Mother Teresa. 
Confusion. 

And out

“You can talk to her. She can probably hear you.”

“Pick a fight with someone your own size next time Mum.” 
As bright as the fluorescents.
The nurse gives me a strange look. Pity or disdain. She knows what I’m thinking. I think. 
And I’d like to have her. 

In 

That was a performance. Privacy now. Blue curtains drawn. Neat pleats. You’d like them. Voices on the other side. 
On this side whispers. Through the orange neck brace to your blood-flaked ear. 
The roar of the ocean inside a seashell. 
Cromer beach. Drowning out the beeps. Can you hear it?
I want to cry. Like the last time I saw you crying. When dad died. 
But I can’t. Him telling me to be strong. 
So I tell you that you are loved and list your children and grandchildren one by one. Eight names. Living. Breathing. Without your spark none of this.
None of us. 

And out

Let me hold your hand. 
It’s warm under the giant bubble wrap blanket. 
Dying this way is a numbers game. 
I’m an expert at this now.
I’ve been here four hours. 
A screen. About the size of that telly you won from the competition on the back of the Kellogs Cornflakes box. But in colour 
Top row. Green.  Waves. Listen with mother. The shipping forecast. 
Tyne, Fisher, Dogger, Heart Rate. 105. falling slowly. 

In

Second row. Yellow. 100%. 
Gold star. Tollington School for Girls, East Finchley. Top of the class. 
Except the oxygen machine is doing your work now. Cheat. 
And there’s a picture with your exam results. 
An X-ray showing your lungs are half full of fluid. Or half empty.  Whichever way you look at it. 

And out

Bottom right hand corner. Smallest font. Two numbers. In red. Blood pressure. 
Shannon, Sole, Systolic, Diastolic 
45 millibars falling more slowly. 

And in

Numbers. 
You were breathing too quickly when they brought you in by ambulance 
Morphine 
Now we’re counting the seconds between the breaths. 
It’s up to four. 
We’re in Italy. (That holiday you wrote about in the diary we’ve just found. The first family holiday after dad died).
We’re on the quayside. 
There’s a gentle breeze off the land. Scented. Filling the sails of the night fishing boats. 
Such small boats. 
Such a huge ocean. 
Slip the mooring. 

And out

We watch until she’s safely over the horizon.

Poetry as therapy. This is a work in progress, still raw. It’s been thoughtfully and lightly edited by my poetry coach, Pele Cox, and her fellow poet Sally Read. Between them they have offered invaluable support and knocked off some of the rougher edges. I am indebted to them for this and I have no doubt we will do more work on it together in due course. But for now I thought it important to post the piece while the events that prompted it are still fresh.

Many of you already know the circumstances and have very kindly reached out to offer your support. But for those who don’t, it’s about my 88-year-old mother, Sheila, who in early October was beaten by another resident in her care home and died from her injuries in hospital a few hours later.

My mum, Sheila, with my dad, Brian, on their wedding day. Matinee idols the both of them!

Read also…

The Patron Saint of Paint

Shaving

Cloud lines

We live on the lower slopes of Titterstone Clee Hill in South Shropshire. Our house straddles the ever-shifting boundary (sometimes less than a vegetable patch wide) between what is shrouded in mist or cloud and what is clear. Between the seen and the unseen. Between what is perfectly rendered by the eye and imperfectly remembered by the mind’s eye. This is the space that many of my poems spring from.

Kite

The Hill: you, me, and dad
wearing the green jumper 
that still smells of him. 

The kite: an orange lozenge 
of ripstop nylon
skin tight on a wooden cross.

Me: running fast
enough to take off
but bound by string
to earth.

Your laugh sticks in my throat.
I cough to clear it
but it’s in my head.
The kite lifts a little 

Then nosedives through its arc
and lands 
with that whipcrack you hear 
out of sync like
summer lighting. One spark and

This whole dark scene 
Silvers for a second
And is gone
Blacker than before
The thunder. 

Learning by rote

I hadn’t learned anything by rote – apart from my bank PIN number – since playing Friedrich Von Trapp in the Parkfields School production of The Sound of Music. And that was back in 1972. So when my poetry coach, Pele Cox, asked me to commit to memory Fern Hill by Dylan Thomas I wasn’t even sure I could do it. Running to 467 words over 54 lines and six verses, it was certainly longer than the script for my stage debut (and, as it turned out, finale). Plus, a 61-year-old mind was surely going to be less malleable than that of an 11-year-old used to reciting his times tables to teachers armed with knuckle-rapping rulers?

But it turns out I needn’t have worried. It took time – nearly two months in all (although I reckon I could have done it much quicker if I’d been able to commit to it full time like, say, an actor doing it for a living). And it took discipline – reading each line again and again and again… Probably more than 100 times in all.

That repetition was instrumental in cementing the words in my memory. But to give those words voice and to imbue them with something more than their narrow semantic meaning required me to occupy the poem and, therefore, by extension, the poet’s head. This, of course, sounds like pretentious twaddle! So let me explain…

I don’t mean that I read the poem in a Welsh accent (although I did) or that, like Thomas, I occasionally combined my task with alcohol (although I did). I mean that I strutted around my own garden from “under the apple bough” to the “lilting house” listening to the “tunes from the chimneys” and watching my farming neighbours in their “hay fields as high as the house.” Each time I walked by the brook that flows “all the sun long” at the bottom of the lane I declared (to any passerby who cared to listen) that “the Sabbath rang slowly in the pebbles of the holy streams.” Every swallow swoop was a reminder of the “loft by the shadow of my hand.”

Being inside the poem in this way helped me both to learn it and to feel it. If at any point a word or line was lost I could, in a very real sense at least initially, look for it. Not in Fern Hill in South Wales but in my half-real, half-imagined recreation of that landscape in South Shropshire. I am “blessed among stables” and realise this process might have been more difficult had I been living in South London.

So what have I learned from the exercise – apart from the obvious – and was it worthwhile?

That my brain isn’t as knackered as I feared it might be.

That poems – or certainly good ones – are like onions and can be peeled back layer by layer to reveal things you miss in a single, cursory reading. Forgive the crass metaphor but for me it’s not unlike the difference between a one-night-stand and a lasting relationship. The superficial may be gratifying – beautiful even. But intimacy – spending longer with a person, poem or poet – is revelatory and ultimately so much more rewarding.

One such reward revealed to me by spending days on end with Fern Hill is that eventually you can move beyond the words (like a couple of old lovers sitting in silence) and hear in that quietness the “breathing” – the rhythm, tone and cadence – of the poem. That musicality is one of Thomas’s many gifts.

But I guess the biggest lesson is that to achieve anything remotely close to the mastery of language demonstrated by Thomas I must spend as much time living and breathing my own poems. Anything less will make them superficial.