A SILK PURSE: THE EVERYMAN THEATRE, LIVERPOOL

Before it was the Everyman Theatre

it was Hope Hall Cinema – and bar –

frequented by Dooley, Henri, McGough,

the Liverpool Scene. I saw Jean Renoir’s

1939 black and white ‘La Règle

du Jeu’ – Chekhovian, dystopian

entre deux guerres – in what was an untouched

dissenters’ chapel four-square between

the two cathedrals on Hope Street.

 

It became a theatre known for new writing,

new music – all with a political edge

and with humour, thumbing the collective nose

to one rule, one game – and genuinely

original staging of classics: the Bard’s,

Brecht’s, Brighouse’s examination texts.

Coach loads of young people from Liverpool,

Lancashire, Wirral and Cheshire would watch

the likes of Julie Walters, Jonathan Pryce,

Antony Sher, Alison Steadman

perform at rapt matinees, their teachers

relaxed that all was as it should be,

that they would never forget that afternoon.

 

That group of boys had seen ‘Hobson’s Choice’

the year before and we prepared for

‘Julius Caesar’ even more thoroughly,

listening to the Argo recording –

with Richard Johnson as Mark Antony –

while following the text. At what point

the parallel plan began to take shape –

with such diligence and application,

such textual scholarship and retail research –

or what inspired it or whom, I never

had the humility or joy then to learn,

and now too many threads have been unravelled.

 

As Act Three began – ‘The ides of March are come’,

‘Ay Caesar but not gone’ – some of the boys

began to be restless. ‘You gentle Romans -‘

Alan Dossor, the Artistic Director,

as Mark Antony, began. ‘Friends, Romans,

countrymen, lend me your ears.’ I can still see

the pig’s ear arcing towards the stage,

hear the audience’s gasp. Dossor paused,

picked up the ear by its tip and tossed it

stage left to much applause.

 

 

Note: the poem was inspired by current developments at the theatre: https://www.everymanplayhouse.com/the-company-2017

 

 

 

BRUEGEL: ‘RETURN OF THE HUNTERS’

                              i

To choose this as a classic Christmas card –

this composite landscape of Flanders,

Italy, the Alps, this Yuletide Europe – is

unintentional satire. The hunters

have caught just one fox. Even the hounds are hangdog.

Hunched the men trudge on past the tavern.

The sign is inscribed ‘Under the Stag’,

has an image of St Eustace, patron

of hunters, but hangs askew by one hook.

Beneath it a man, a woman and a child

are singeing a dead pig. The flames are reaching

a window of the inn. A solitary

magpie takes our view onto the plain:

the iced up mill wheel, indifferent skaters,

chimney on fire and tiny figures

running with pails; the walled town abutting

a frozen sea; the rearing mountains.

 

ii

We had prints at home – ‘In the Orchard’,

‘Off Valpariso’, ‘Hylas and the Nymphs’ –

but nothing like this. I saw it first

at the back of a schoolroom when I was nine.

My desk was beneath it. I found a copy

ten years later and felt I had retrieved

a lost gift, a book only half read

then mislaid. More than half a century on

framed now it hangs in our dining room.

 

iii

My grand daughter says, ‘I love that picture.’

‘Why?,’ I ask. ‘Don’t know,’ she mumbles. How crass

to have asked! I would not have known then

if anybody had cared to question me.

The print hung on the class wall unremarked.

While we did sums and spellings and tests,

the perspective at the back of my head

beckoned me.

 

 

 

A WINTER’S JOURNEY

Driving northwards, driving homewards, we pass

inundated pasture – mercurial

in shape and colour – its sheen reflecting

the late morning’s rare roseate sky.

Bared trees and bushes are a dull amber.

 

In time, cloud cover becomes leaden –

then snow falls: the downy flakes like weightless

seeds, which the windscreen wipers flail clear

again and again. The empty fields fill,

remorselessly, as early evening comes.

 

Miles on, the snow no longer falls. It has

settled. The ancient, snow-filled woods are lovely,

luminous. How far we have come in love!

How soon we will be home!

 

 

 

THE SILVER SCREEN

Let be be finale of seem.The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.’

THE EMPEROR OF ICE CREAM, Wallace Stevens

 

I try to imagine your childhood as if

it were mine – not just the steep terraced street

called ‘Coronation’ and the ice cream

factory round the corner at the bottom

but the cinema twenty feet away

showing double features every night

except Sunday and Saturday matinées

with The Three Stooges and Roy Rogers.

 

Ours minds were full of an America

that shimmered, that was large and echoed loudly

in the street – of love, anger, laughter, justice.

Our ears were filled with the roar of aircraft

from the local base. Behind the hall –

in the unlit entry where projectionists

took a smoke and couples courted after shows –

someone daubed in black paint, ‘Yanks Go Home!’,

and it is still there almost pristine! ‘Ars

longa, vita brevis,’ as some Roman wrote.

 

You shoot from the hips like Jane Russell,

utter coruscating one-liners

like Hepburn, whisper sweet everythings

like Veronica Lake. What sort of man

would I be now if I had slept only

yards from such magic! Perhaps a maker

of ice cream,  an emperor of seeming?

 

 

 

HORIZONS

From this house on its hill the sea appears,

through a gap in the trees two fields away,

like a wall  – grey, green, blue: the horizon

straighter than any true line in nature.

 

A spider perhaps two millimetres long

has spun a web in the outside corner

of a window frame. It catches flies twice,

thrice its size daily. Our granddaughter

and I monitor it before breakfast.

 

The bullocks see us and, curious like

all young creatures, trot over. Jostling

slightly, they lift their heads above the wall.

We can smell their sweet, grassy breaths, look

into their large chocolatey pupils, see

the pristine nap of their hides, count the flies

clustered round their tear ducts.

 

A south westerly is billowing the rain

like wispy smoke across the pastoral fields

and shimmying the woods of tall trees

in their finery like underwater weeds.

The sodden wide sandy beaches out of sight

beyond the shallow gap in the trees

have witnessed immemorial shipwrecks.

 

As the bullocks will, the web has gone.

She is too young to think of the past as past.

Spider and flies and the web’s almost straight lines

will be etched like dry points pristinely.

 

 

 

 

LESSONS FROM HISTORY

Snapped black and white in Kodak Verichrome,

more than seventy years ago, by an aunt

with a Kodak Brownie, I am supine

in a small pram. The park’s avenue

of lime trees in leaf suggests May

and therefore me, coverless, five months.

My fingers are clasped and bare feet are crossed,

like an effigy’s or a lounge lizard’s.

I am awake and eyeing the camera,

through half-shut lids, like an insulted

potentate – or an about-to-be-mardy

baby.  Behind me, in the distance,

is the spire of the Victorian

sandstone parish church, in the middle ground

tennis courts and someone serving.

 

Beside me, in sharp focus (on a bench

with concrete ends and wooden slats, ‘There’s-

a-war-on-you-know’ weeds burgeoning

beneath it) my mother, a handsome woman

with rich, auburn hair, a war widow since March –

her ancestors Welsh seafarers, some drowned,

some landlocked.  She is almost smiling.

 

Most days, in all seasons, we walk the park,

an Edwardian legacy, named

for Queen Alexandra, a fashionista

mother of six, a loather of Prussians –

being a daughter of a Danish king –

and disabled over time by her deafness,

then slowly losing speech and memory.

We talk of the present – how our daughter laughed

on the swings and now her daughter does.