It is said,

that the name you are assigned at birth,

by loving parents

or by the invisible masks of state

are only there for the price

of administration, that but for the benefit

of paperwork, those in charge would call

out a series of random numbers,

bar codes, binary relics

and your parents

especially when in the blackest of moods,

somehow remember your whole name

and not just the one of endearment

when you make them a cup of tea.

 

The name you are given is not as important

as the name you call yourself

and to those I like and love

e is groovy, e is me, e is my name

and has been since the first day of school.

Ian is O.K. Ian is satisfactory

but always seemed wrong when hearing

a woman, sheer stockings crumpled round her knee,

bra half cupped and the look of wanton desire

etched upon her face, call out my name,

perhaps not heroic enough,

or was that just me.

Mr. Hall, my father is that, especially

when I am around, Mr. Hall come with me

please I wish to discuss your son’s lack

of grasp of the importance of having

short hair, tie, buttoned up shirt, rod up his arse,

thinking of how to turn a profit,

how to be a member of a civilised race…

Mr. Hall, better than those who have

pissed me off, by just using my last name,

a fine upstanding name, steeped in history,

steeped in the annals of Birmingham, Canada,

Yorkshire and Scotland but not when used

with the spit in the eye and the forgetting

of my name as a whole,

Hall…I am not a corridor

where servants roam in packs

or the spectre of bell ringing out my name…

Hallllllllllllllll, ah fuck that.

 

e is me, easy to remember,

easy to digest,

but I do have to like you

before you can call me by my name.

 

Ian D. Hall 2015