I remember my first day
and the grey jumper of differing sizes
and snot stained cuffs
to which I was then tied throughout
my seven years at Moor Green
was one in which I met you
and forty years later I still
think you’re pretty cool.
We stood side by side in class
and in the playground, though I had further to travel
as we didn’t move to Selly Park
till the days when the Four Seasons
sang of a decade before and my first game against
She removed the breadcrumbs from the base
of her fingers with what to some
would have been just the casual flick
of a an irritating itch easily quelled
by the simplest of caresses
but having watched her sullen expression
take root and a mean glaze searching
for the right level of disgust
as she destroyed the turkey sandwich on rye
as though it was the last edible substance on Earth,
I saw her flick her fingers dry of the small
leftover fragments as if she was brushing
Autumn turns
and the September sky turns Sapphire
as it glimmers against the coming golden
harvest and the thoughts of nestling winter.
Halig remembers her time as a boy,
the January child who raged and stormed
at the loss of his mother and the only delight
to found was the springing of trees gracious furniture
as she danced with feline seduction
as the May Queen, now these leaves
and plants are dying
as she walks with severe majesty
in the crisp September morning
glory dew.
The beat provided by the laptop on stage
needed two men to seemingly
twiddle the knob
and press the bells
in which the girls came tumbling down
towards the front and make the monitors
and speakers blush and have
the onlookers either look
on in amazed silence at the agility
and flexibility
of the main girl as she taught
the boy who caught her eye
just how to make love
without touching skin
or making the bed in the morning,
the awkwardness of Saturday
It is into the kindness of strangers
that I must thank
after rescuing me
from the dizzying black haze that
swept vigorous broom like
over me on the night I fell out
of my chair down Florrie Maybrick’s Bold Street.
I have had hardly been out on my own since…
For the fear, for someone who is only afraid
of one thing, of such a tumble,
such anarchy in the mind
as the battle rages between
blood and bone,
between sinew and breath,
My right eye bled
and I could not fight back,
if I had, I may have ended up
in a worse condition, one that
surely would have had me
as close to death
as the day my appendix
no longer grumbled
and instead shot poison
into my system almost to the point
of no return.
My body stretched out like dough
being rolled out to make bread
for the hungry teens
on Cooper School field
and my battered face, sharp elbow dented
Let the cameras roll
and show the world our happy side,
a side show to the main event
in which tonight we shall ever be
the star with a smile and
the director of our final moves
caught on film
and like some great old movie
in which the heroes jump
out at the end and go
determined to be seen
as with guns blazing
we shall not hear the word action
over the roar of the crowd.
A good friend of mine once said
The loud room, empty of everything
but the silent chatter of a million voices
all asking the same ridiculous
questions time and time again
I have come to understand as pointing blame,
apportioning censure, charge and guilt
my way because it is so much easier to
attribute condemnation to the man
who will only fight back when
someone he loves is in danger
but who will happily absorb any
bruising cut you snake out on his skin;
for the silent chatter that grows and fans out across the empty room
I once wrote a small Nordic saga
in the shape of a poem for you,
to say thank you
for the precious gift you gave me,
an ear on a bad day, a shoulder
on one of the black days
and yet nothing I wrote in the space
of the blank page, was adequate enough,
not good enough to match
the beauty that your words that had soared
above the crowds inside St. George’s Hall
or caught fire in a cascade of glass
and petals as you sang with truth and honour
So I’m your poison that you gladly drink,
the bitter harvest in which you have reaped
the rewards of conquest and now the trace
of almonds, the shade of night,
the cold touch of stout fast Oak and
velvet caress from the cyanide in which you
say you have taken from me
is all but an urge to be a martyr
on your part for not agreeing with you.
I am your poison
But you may as well scamper with Napalm