POETRY

COMMERCE

By eyes as blue as heaven we are appraised,

and found wanting. Their owners jostle away

squealing. In open sheds high on the moor

hundreds of pinkish pigs, bred in Scotland

to be slaughtered in the Home Counties,

are fattening. Out among the heather

and abandoned bell pits, whose worked-out coal seams

are long grown over, Blackface sheep graze safely.

 

East, over the sea – blue too today,

and with an oil tanker sailing north –

is the rest of Europe, and, out of sight,

the AI and the East Coast line: West,

the Cheviots, and Eildon Hill’s three peaks

over the border, and centuries

of banditry between.

 

 

 

 

HERITAGE

From this part of the Hall the pit’s winding gear –

now defunct, of course – is clearly visible

above a line of oaks and beeches

a mile or so across fields and hedges.

A narrow coal seam was opened up

nearly a quarter of a mile below,

and subsidence, now fixed, cracked the chapel walls.

Visitors note the different shades of plaster,

and that the stained glass windows were undamaged –

then stroll among flower beds, along

espaliered walks, across well-tended lawns

loud with children’s cries. Hundreds of yards beneath

are abandoned tunnels, unworked coal seams.

 

 

 

 

DIVERSIONS

Two sets of works on local busy A roads

on the same day, morning and afternoon,

diverted me down lanes I had not travelled

for decades: eastwards to Beeston Castle

on its sandstone rock, westwards to Essar’s

refinery on the Mersey marshes;

spring lanes edged with cow parsley, and banked

with hawthorn hedges flowering; Friesians

glimpsed through a gate, a ploughed field’s furrows

the turned colour of mahogany;

through Saxon settlements – Foulk Stapelford

and Hargrave, Picton Gorse and Little Stanney,

Hoofield and Wervin – as if the Romans

had never come, and the Normans never would;

from doomsday parish to doomsday parish;

sunlight shifting, seasons unfolding,

the past almost within grasp.

 

 

AMONG WINTRY REEDS

Among wintry reeds not far from the horizon –

where mountain rain water and ocean brine,

the Dee and the Irish Sea, become one –

is a large, white, upturned hull, storm-wrecked

from its moorings in Connah’s Quay, perhaps,

certainly abandoned for twelve month and more,

too costly, maybe, to salvage. Such

a motley of flotsam: rusting buoys;

splintered pieces of superstructure;

frayed strands of nautical rope scattered

like serpents through the wetlands’ runnels;

decomposing in the teeming marshland

this sunny, January afternoon.

 

The light has gone in the west over the hills.

The chattering in the hidden lagoons

among marshland reeds has almost ceased.

Returning from the stubble fields inland

thousands and thousands of pink-footed geese,

collegiate in flight, were black and calling

against the westering sun. Now – migrants,

wintering from the Arctic islands: Iceland,

Greenland, Novaya Zemlya, Svalbard –

they are roosting in silent communes.

 

GLIMPSING GODS

That evening in the Poseidon Lounge of our

5 star clifftop hotel, spa & resort –

with the tideless Mediterranean

lapping soundlessly, timelessly out of sight –

there was something about the in-house

entertainment team’s announcing

the week’s festivities, some gaucheness perhaps,

an enforced glee, which reminded me

of school camp on the Lleyn Peninsula

the August I was nine, and we ate

Wagon Wheels round the fire, and told jokes

about Hitler, the war being recent.

 

The first day I woke anxious at dawn, and peed

in my sleeping bag. I told no one, and slept

in damp bedding for however many days

and nights we were there in the ex-army

ridge tent, vast, dark, noisome. Even in sun I

shivered and drifted as my fever rose –

and nobody knew. On Porth Neigwl beach,

or Hell’s Mouth, where Atlantic rollers roar

I dreamt –  beyond my insouciant fellows’

paleness in the shimmering and pulsing waves –

I saw a glistening, slate grey dolphin

rise and fall, effortlessly, endlessly.

 

 

 

 

MISTAKEN IDENTITIES

‘The middle classes, in England as elsewhere, under democracy are morally dependent upon the aristocracy, and the aristocracy are morally in fear of the middle class which is gradually absorbing and destroying them. The lower classes still exist; but perhaps they will not exist for long. In the music-hall comedians they find the artistic expression and dignity of their own lives…With the dwindling of the music-hall…the lower classes will tend to drop into the same state of amorphous protoplasm as the bourgeoisie. T.S. Eliot, MARIE LLOYD, 1923

 

When I was a teenager in the ’50s

BBCTV, as if to prove

vaudeville were dead, would feature, at peak hours

music-hall acts in ‘variety shows’.

One such was G.H. Elliot, the self-styled

‘Chocolate Coloured Coon’. That a white, light tenor

and tap dancer should put on black-face, or rather,

brown-face, hence the ‘chocolate’, seemed no more strange

to my adolescence than Nuclear Tests,

Suez, Hungary, and the slowly emerging

truths about the Holocaust. In school,

about this time, we read The Journey

of the Magi – which prompted, sotto voce

at the back of the class, the cod carol,

‘We three kings of Warrington are, two

in a bottle, one in a jar’ –  and I thought,

possibly with youth’s wishful thinking,

the poet and the song-and-dance man were one.

I marvelled how the same person found time

to be both a ‘variety star’

and a ‘serious poet’, never mind

acquire the necessary know-how.

 

The poet has a plaque in Poets’ Corner,

Westminster Abbey. His ashes are buried

in East Coker, Somerset, from where

his ancestors moved to pillage and rape

the New World – and his anti-Semitism

has been duly contextualised.

The artiste’s headstone has been removed

from his grave in the parish churchyard

in Rottingdean – on England’s south coast

near Brighton, once popular with show-biz types –

pro tem, because of its ‘offensive language’,

which a stone mason will eradicate.

White, Christian entitlement, with its

patrician, imperial longings,

refreshing its lipstick…