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PLAYTHING OF THE GREAT GOD KAFKA
ROGER HUDSON ——————————————————
Belfast Lapwing
PLAYTHING OF THE GREAT GOD KAFKA
ROGER HUDSON
Belfast LAPWING
First Published by Lapwing Publications c/o 1, Ballysillan Drive Belfast BT14 8HQ lapwing.poetry@ntlworld.com www.lapwingpoetry.com Copyright Š Roger Hudson 2013 All rights reserved The author has asserted her/his right under Section 77 of the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Since before 1632 The Greig sept of the MacGregor Clan Has been printing and binding books
All Lapwing Publications are Printed and Hand-bound in Belfast Set in Times New Roman at the Winepress
ISBN 978-1-909252-34-9
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
My thanks to my poetry mentor Steve Downes for his ongoing support and suggestions, to Susan Connolly and John O’Rourke for looking over these poems and commenting and to members of Anne Tannam’s and Liz McSkeane’s excellent and enjoyable Dublin Writers’ Forum for their constructive comments that made all the difference to several poems that were giving me difficulties. Terry McHugh for his friendship and help. Grateful thanks also to Create Louth for financial support with launching the book and to Drogheda Creative Writers for getting me going. A number of these poems were previously published in the anthologies Census, Soundbite, Drogheda Writes and Drogheda Writes 2, also in Boyne Berries and other magazines, and performed in venues in Cork, Drogheda, Dublin, Limerick, London and San Francisco on my own and with Claire Fitch as Hudson ‘n’ Fitch and, as Word Jungle, with Nuala Leonard, Brian Quinn and Anne Tannam - thanks for the exciting new experiences, folks.
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CONTENTS
PLAYTHING OF THE GREAT GOD KAFKA - - - - - PLEASURES OF PUBERTY - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - LIKE A GANGSTER MOVIE - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - SAN FRANCISCO DREAMING - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - BEFORE DEODORANT - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - EVERYTHING IS POSSIBLE - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - LEARNING FROM BOCCACCIO - - - - - - - - - - - - - - THERE IS NO APOLOGY - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - PREJUDICE BEGINS AT HOME - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - SILENT FAMILY - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - BULLNIGHT - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - ALWAYS IN BLACK - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - GOOGLING THE PAST - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - PROPAGANDA LIVES - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - FIRST WEEK OF THE REST OF OUR LIVES - - - - ALDWYCH THEATRE, LONDON: 22nd October 1962 TRANSFORMATIONS - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - OLD HOUSE - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
7 9 11 12 15 16 19 20 21 26 27 31 34 37 39 41 42 44
SNAP DECISIONS - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - IS THE BEARD ESSENTIAL? - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - IF WE MET AGAIN - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - A VERY BRITISH COUP – - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - IMPRESSIONS OF DUBLIN - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - FRIDAY NIGHT RITUAL IN STONEYBATTER - - SATISFACTIONS OF AN EARLY RISER - - - - - - - - SMILE AND GRUNT - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - ARCTIC CIRCLE CHALLENGE - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - SUN AND SILHOUETTES - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - IMAGE OF A POET - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - DROGHEDA ON THE BOYNE - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - BIOPSY - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - IN A WORLD OF GROWN-UPS - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - I AM WHAT I DO - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - LAST VICTORY OF A DETERMINED WOMAN - - AINT GONNA DO THAT - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
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46 49 51 52 55 57 59 62 63 67 68 70 71 73 74 77 80
TO Baby Lincoln Jae and his big sister Tara may her enthusiasm for reading never wane
Roger Hudson
PLAYTHING OF THE GREAT GOD KAFKA Oh, no! Not AGAIN!!! Everything going fine Everything normal then Great God Kafka wakes up in his crazy heaven and decides to take charge of writing the script of my life
yet again!! Absurd
Dadaist
SurreAl
Rid ic
U
lous
Disastrous Out of c on • • trol
You name it!
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A friendly colleague suddenly a bitter foe No reason A triumph turned to failure by a desperate panic attack A truthful criticism where truth is not welcome leading to dismissal A sudden attack of overconfidence standing up to new boss souring future relations A false memory leaving me standing in front of large audience unprepared and tongue-tied Sudden forgetfulness Causing missed appointment Important opportunity lost It has to be Kafka
Great God of me Stirring from his comfort sleep to meddle mischievous for a while before letting me go again to regain a small degree of self-assurance before once again pulling the rug for another pratfall to make me world’s top
PRAT 8
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PLEASURES OF PUBERTY In zinc tub on red tiles of kitchen floor his mother scrubs his back, as he sits in the few inches of rapidly cooling, specially-boiled water, trying to bend body, arms to hide that first erection. Shortly after, sister menstruates and father converts storage room to bathroom with electrically-heated water. Bath filled extra hot to luxuriate in, as room fills with steam. Lying, relaxing sensually on big, soft bath-towel on concrete floor, as body sweats itself cool. Swimming in narrow stretch of local river where no-one goes, naked body stroked coolly by waterlily leaves and flowing weed. Lying to dry in warming sun in long grass on riverbank that patterns his skin as he presses into it, hearing in sharp detail the hum of insects, the twitter of songbirds, caw of crows, coo of distant doves, experiencing as new smells of nature at ripe midsummer, subtle shades of greenery against clear blue sky, subtle taste from sucking tender end of gently pulled grass-stalks. All senses heightened, 9
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luxuriating in sensuality of becoming, not wanting to become, something different, emerging from boyhood, wishing for the assurance of newly emerged dragonflies that dance and zoom on rainbow wings elegantly close above him.
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LIKE A GANGSTER MOVIE The hesitant phonecall from the callbox across the road. The gloomy stairwell and lift. The setting sun picking out the backs of old sandstone buildings glimpsed through the window. The big green leather-topped desk in oak-panelled office. The broad-shouldered heavy-featured dark-suited man, leaning into the pool of light from the one green-shaded desk lamp his eyes penetrating the supplicant for any sign of weakness. The tension. The cigar stabbing the smoke-filled gloom for emphasis. Just like a gangster movie, he thinks. This big man who reluctantly smiles and extends his hand is her father and the supplicant is here to try to prove himself worthy to marry this man’s daughter unsure he can do it but determined he will. The gruff-voiced interrogation: “She’s been swearing since she met you, young man. Comes home and swears at us, her parents.” “My mother brought us up not to swear,” he replies offended. “I don’t swear. She didn’t get it from me.” “I hear you drink. She has come home smelling of drink.” “I like a drink but most nights it’s a pint or often half a pint. I’m not a drunk.” Surprised, her father softens They talk about her tendency to exaggerate, to dramatise, to want to shock and find common ground in their mutual admiration … of her.
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SAN FRANCISCO DREAMING Last night in dream I missed my flight by having no documents wrong documents and was endlessly looking for ways to right the situation this desk that desk arguing pleading featureless world of airports over and over getting nowhere over and over getting nowhere A replaying perhaps by my mind of the time I lost my passport in San Francisco and the hectic day spent reporting to police reporting to Consulate obtaining emergency passport checking insurance rebooking flight by internet by telephone by footslog tram taxi uphill downhill in amazing steephill skyscraperland of movie memories Nightmare daymare that brought Opportunity Opportunity to visit North Beach stamping group of Kerouac, Ginsberg, Beat Generation. Through alien brash-coloured Chinatown into drab, urban decay, traffic hustle into Beat Museum into fifties world, monochrome but exciting 12
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fading photos, press cuttings, memorabilia, first drafts, marked proofs, doodles, Jack’s battered typewriter, Alan’s back door, Neal’s beat-up Cadi (or something like) Dropouts, drunks, druggies? No – rebels, newthinkers, prophets! Prophets of freedom Freedom from convention, tradition, expectation. Opportunity to read own poems. Caffe Greco 8pm Were they once here? Unlikely but imagine Phillip Hackett’s Open Mic Was he one of them? As he writes my name in notebook, seems old enough. Did he know them? Poets, audience from many countries, local older poets Did they know them? as he shambles slow to mic. Black poet rants his anger, anger at now, anger at society, authorities, environment, people, life. Angry like them Called I read my childhood wonder, my teenage anger, hopes, fears, my adult defeats, triumphs, struggles, frustrations, loves, losses, feeling in place, out of place, but soaking up applause. “Like your poems,” says older poet. “Well done,” says another, as I make my way back to seat. Surely they knew them? 13
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Walk on air back to hotel These streets knew them back through now magic Chinatown, closing down for the night. Dream? Reality? What’s the difference?
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BEFORE DEODORANT We didn’t smell in those days Or maybe everyone smelt the same and it didn’t notice Sunday night was bathnight Zinc bath on kitchen floor So Monday was carbolic soap smell day if we’d only noticed But after PT on Tuesday Sports afternoon Wednesday Wet the bed Thursday or any other random night with only cursory wash round Cadet corps Friday sweating in heavy boots, uniform Cycle to school every day in the days before showers You say we didn’t smell? But no-one noticed No deodorant Add in Pipe-smoking father Open coal fire Cuddling of smelly pets We must have smelt to high heaven But we all did So we didn’t smell in those days
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EVERYTHING IS POSSIBLE In an infinite cosmos everything is possible, speculates Stephen Hawking So in a parallel universe to ours another ‘you’ was killed at 16 when his bike brakes failed going down hill cycling home from school in busy traffic. Another at 9 fell from houseroof climbing up via cracked gutter to favourite chimney stack reading perch and spent the rest of that ‘you’s’ short life in a wheelchair. Another ‘you’ didn’t have that attack of fear and did go forward to collect the prize from the BBC producer, ensuring that ‘you’ was accepted as a BBC trainee, leading to a glistening career in radio and television or… maybe to a nervous breakdown at age 28 or 36 or 42. In a different timeline a ‘you’ who did learn to drive, accessing all the freedom to travel where and when, a flexibility opening up new possibilities, giving new confidence, before a crumpled end in a car crash, accidental or deliberate. Another ‘you’ did marry a girl from money, did not get angry with her and break it off and that jump-started a high-powered career with designer house, designer suits, designer drugs, 16
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addiction, decline, divorce, desolation. But, then, there’s his doppelganger in the world next door who remained stable and died respected at a ripe old age. There’s even several ‘you’s who settled on one career path and went for just that, instead of jumping between different ambitions. For one it was journalism, using experience of his first job to apply for one higher up the ladder as one should, wrote freelance features on the side to open new doors which he then went through instead of ignoring and stepped upwards to quality nationals, to radio, to television and fame but failed in marriage after marriage, died childless (saved those anxieties) and alone but not discontented. Any number of ‘you’s who had the natural self-confidence, fluent conversation, decisiveness needed to succeed and exploited them all for gain of themselves, their family and society, for material and psychological benefits. Cocky bastards! Is this supposed to offer consolation for failures that in at least one other world ‘you’ got it right, or deeper regret 17
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for any ‘you’ not one of those self-confident achievers? Or just confirmation that any ‘you’ in any universe can be as easily ignored, dismissed, eliminated, as we suspected all along. He’s only one of millions in a chain so infinite even major achievements shrink into insignificance.
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LEARNING FROM BOCCACCIO “This passage contains magical terms that proved untranslatable,” read the editorial note. Working his way through the thick translation of Boccaccio’s Decameron in the town’s reference library in the school lunch-hour, he decided he didn’t believe that - not when the story was titled “Putting the Devil Back in Hell.” So ploddingly, word by word, with the help of an Italian/English dictionary, he penetrated the prudery of the respectable Edwardian publishers and, with raincoat draped strategically in front to conceal the bulge of triumph, he returned to afternoon school, his lesson in sex complete.
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THERE IS NO APOLOGY - on watching the documentary “Winter Soldier” Handsome long-haired bearded hippies confessing on camera, they smile embarrassed “Did I really do that?” smiles, as they own up to atrocities seen or done in Vietnam. Prisoners hurled from gunships. Villages shelled in sport. Children shot for jeering. Ears cut off for trophies. They smile in apology. Brainwashed by marine corps bootcamp training, becoming teenage, unthinking, non-human, military puppets, assaulting, killing, mutilating other non-humans they know only as geeks, gooks, commies… these handsome young men with haunted eyes smile in apology. Aware now of the psychological mindshifts they performed on themselves not to see the inhumanity, illegality, detestability of what they and their buddies were doing, they smile in apology. To live with it, joke and laugh about it, play games with death and destruction, while officers, government looked on, condoned, falsified, lied, from whom no apology. “It’s in the national interest” justifies all to individual, platoon, army and nation. But there is no justification. And these are the good guys, the brave ones who confess to atrocity, while thousands remain silent. But does that really excuse, explain, allow us to forgive, lessen the horror? There is no apology. 20
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PREJUDICE BEGINS AT HOME Mum has spotted a skin-black Sikh, colourfully turbaned, smart suited, suitcase in hand, walk up neighbour’s path. “Stand back. Duck down behind curtains where he can’t see us,” she says. Now he opens our gate. “Duck down, out of sight. Pretend we aren’t in.” As he knocks on the door: “Stay there, till he gives up and leaves.” Faces in our village Are all white. Other colours not welcome. “I can’t stand them,” Mum readily admits. When introduced to a black person once, she refused to shake hands. “Couldn’t bear to touch that skin,” she says. Locked in phobia, fear of the alien but real fear, brought up in the North of England, where no black faces ever appeared, yet she was the nicest of people, got on with everyone, not an enemy in a village of gossipers. 21
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* * * Gypsy women selling pegs are in the village. “Don’t open the door.” she says. “Stay hidden. Pretend we’re not in.” The same with male tinkers, unless mum actually needs pegs, or a pan mended, or a knife sharpened, when prejudice is overcome. Thoughts of a bargain swing the balance. Or is it fear of the evil eye? * * * Years later London urban village, multi-ethnic community, West Indian, Chinese, Pakistani, Cypriot, Irish as well as English, we feel at home, easy. Everyone seems to get on. Prejudice against early immigrants has softened. But has it gone? Crept indoors maybe, except for necessary exchanges in shops, restaurants, doctors’ surgeries, schools. But some cross-race socialising apparent. Some of our best friends, our sons’ best friends…
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* * * Central Dublin urban village, still later, white faces vastly predominate, seeming strange. “All these blacks coming in,” says a neighbour, angrily “Where?” we ask. “Where?” Looking round, remembering London, lucky if we can see one dark face in fifty. Pleasantly the proportion increases. A local Irish man cycles past two Nigerians walking along pavement in quiet conversation. He spits towards them. “Go home, niggers,” he yells. But what have they done to him? Is this the same prejudice all over? Yet the Irish themselves subjects of prejudice, hatred, even riots in other lands, other times. “No Dogs, No Irish” notices said “Irrelevant,” he would say. “This is my home. I don’t want them here. Home is for people like me only.” So home is where prejudice begins.
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* * * In country town Drogheda one evening, unexpectedly, local pub doors are closed, locked. Tap on the window. Door opens and, recognised as regulars, we are urged inside. “Travellers in town,” he whispers, and bolts the door behind us, explaining, from past experience, once allowed in a pub, a few pints too many, fights start, pub décor is trashed, bar staff attacked. Is this prejudice or self-protection from recognised danger? Or both? * * * One evening, in bar of hotel, Irish couple express racial hatred, question, attack my Englishness, drawing on 700 years of occupation, oppression that they never experienced I never perpetrated. Targeted aggressively, discovering what it feels like, win reprieve 24
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only by threatening to report their racism to their public service employers. Soon immigrants integrate attitudes soften with familiarity, friendship or lie hidden till the next outburst.
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SILENT FAMILY Click Clack Click go mum’s knitting needles in rhythms of habit, eyes fixed on library book before her ears absorbing comedy show on radio. Beside her on settee before the range Gran crochets and listens. Laughs are rarely loud. At living-room-cum-dining-room table, spread with school books and paper, son struggles with complex homework that will continue when others are in bed. Conversation negligible. The silent family performs the nightly routine till supper time bed time sleep. Clock ticks to empty room Tick Tock Tick Tock
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BULLNIGHT “Hep! Hi! Hep! Hi!” Starts National Service indoctrination, depersonalization after lonely-in-a-crowd train journey to induction centre away from home for first time Age 18 Obeying orders Serious-sounding orders Threatening orders Orders to be obeyed “Hep! Hi! Hep! Hi!” To barber’s Razor buzz Sheers scalp Standard short haircut “Next!” Razor buzz Standard short haircut All the same “Hep! Hi! Hep! Hi!” To stores Draw uniform Dress uniform, Air Force Blue 1 Battle dress uniform, Air Force Blue 1 Belt, webbing 1 Overalls 1 Boots, black 1 pair; Shoes, black 1 pair Shirts, blue 2; Vests 2; Underpants 2 Gym shorts 1; Gym shoes 1 pair Neck tie 1 Beret, blue 1 Peaked cap, blue 1 Cap badge, brass 1 Woollen socks 2 pairs; Darning kit 1 Kitbag 1; Shoulder pack 1 “Next! Change into uniform New identity Parcel civvy clothes and post home You’re in the forces now! 27
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All in uniform All the same “Hep! Hi! Hep! Hi!” to barracks hut Bed, bed space, locker In hut with multiple Bed, bed space, locker Slide on felt pads to keep polished floor untarnished “Hep! Hi! Hep! Hi!” to big PT hangar full of recruits “Up, down, up, down” Endless press-ups “Up, down, up, down” Endless sit-ups “Touch your toes” “Reach” “Touch your toes” “Reach” Obeying orders till muscles scream and next morning is agony “Hep!. Hi! Hep! Hi!” to parade ground “Atten… shun!” “Ri-ight turn!” “Quick march” “Hep! Hi! Hep! Hi!” “Keep those shoulders back!” “Arms straight!” “Swing those arms!” “Shoulder height now!” “Le-eft turn!” “A-bout turn!” “Bang those heels! Bang those heels!” “Hep! Hi! Hep! Hi!” “Squa-a-ad Halt!” “Le-eft turn!” “A-at ease” “Stand easy” Comfort of conformity 28
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Unease of anonymity Obeying orders “Hep! Hi! Hep! Hi!” to barracks hut Bullnight “Lift, carry, position, down” as beds are moved from one side of hut to the other Next bed “Lift, carry, position, down” Smear polish on floor till old sheen is gone Buffer in line up hut “Push, back, push, back” “Buffer, buff, buffer, buff” Buffer in line down hut till every inch sparkles Then beds again “Lift, carry, position down” Back to original position “Lift, carry, position down” as move other side beds across “Lift, carry, position, down” Smear this side floor Buffer floor to a glistening shine “Buffer, buff, buffer, buff” Operation repeated as hut corporal orders directs glances at watch Faster Faster Every Thursday the repeated ritual Disciplined Self-disciplined Training in obedience Training in self-effacement Training in teamwork Do it faster, better, shinier as learn to fear, resent, evade, avoid as leap at chance to skip drill, cross-country route march while hide in corporal’s room 29
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“Don’t let anyone see you!” and paint his nameplate. Reward for A-level Art Weird A person again Valued for own skill Brush in hand But crouched on floor Below one small window Out of sight Hiding at mercy of corporal’s patronage First foray into vital skill of skiving Staying out of the way Avoiding notice Evading orders Surviving National Service
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ALWAYS IN BLACK The little old lady in long black dress In memory always the same black dress Prepares our meals when Mum is at work Never goes out Sits reading the paper Listening to the wireless Looking through the window to see who is passing Silent. That’s Gran. My father’s mother. She must have been like that Since her husband died Who sounds as though he was A jolly, outgoing, successful sales rep Liked by all. Was she once a match for him? Or a subservient slave? I share a bedroom with her Till about age nine The room redolent With the smell of age Heavy curtains always drawn In darkened gloom. Later Every evening I fetch from the pantry Her health-giving bottle of Guinness And pour it for her. Black drink for a black lady. At square bashing During National Service I learn she is ill Near to death. Panicked Feeling closer to her than I really ever was I cite this In pleading with the officer in charge 31
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To grant a pass To go home for the weekend. I go. She dies several months later While I am serving in Germany And lies buried in the cemetery Across the road from the house In a country village From which the rest of the family Moved away Her grave never visited Alone. Who was she? Hints only. A fragment of a tale Of having, as a child, watched Her drunken father Throw the family silver On the roaring fire Melting away its value. So a background of substance. Yet, when her husband died, The freemasons refused to pay her A widow’s pension When they discovered She was born out of wedlock. And that’s all I ever knew. Yet she looked after A prosperous middle-class house And husband, Gave birth to, Brought up, Saw through education Three children, Then hung on A silent black ghost Background figure Throughout my childhood But conveyed No sense of a personality Needs, desires of her own 32
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Just fitting in A convenient childminder A hint of company A shadow moving through The remains of a life.
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GOOGLING THE PAST Googling the names of past associates reveals interesting and sometimes unsettling patterns of life and achievement. Click name Pass over same name economist psychologist There he is Identified by magazine he edits. The innovative pedant (is that a contradiction) building on something I had started with him long ago in exciting creative arguments over pints of real ale, building on that to forge a lifetime career, an achievement to be remembered by. Could I have gained satisfaction from a project that long and repeated, repeated, repeated? The third in our triumvirate Click name (unusual so no rivals for space) click Guardian obituary had died recently of cancer. Regret for her passing flavoured by jealousy that she had made a success in entirely different field, while I still tried my hand in several to limited avail. click Wikipedia entry and others no mention of our work together High peaks of listing in Who’s Who or Debrett’s limited to only two I had known at college.
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One a lustful old flame now resting on respectable past achievement top of her profession click agency entry now offering herself for after-dinner speaking engagements. The other a perfect career line to top rank in civil service healthy pension to be assumed Though another whose glaring ambition had offended but had paid off Click name, click author’s website, click book reviews, click newspaper interviews click… in determined Best Sellerdom again and again via a combination of planning, contacts, talent, luck that had escaped me and another, movie stardom. Well known fact so no need to click or search Not a close friend anyway And yet another Click name, click relatively new personal website, click his company website, click… repeated film industry awards for his film and television works. Played differently with something like his self-assurance maybe I could have been part of this Others, top business executives, administrators, professors, mayors, councillors
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Click names, eliminate duplicate names, hunt‌ not a word or captured only by presence on a committee for a retirement pastime that happens to reach the internet Click name, click bowling club, cricket club, golf club Click school board, click local charity that features name Otherwise, in non-career areas, here an indication of marriages maybe a divorce or two, children, job changes, leisure activities in a few cases but as to joy or misery of relationships, happiness, contentment, compromise, conflict, self hatred, not a hint from Mr. Google and his robots.
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PROPAGANDA LIVES I We were the victors victorious allies in 1945 occupying territory of defeated enemy till they become well-behaved and democratic. But we, who have to do the occupying, 18-year-old national servicemen, we had grown up during the war, subject to war propaganda as well as rationing. To us, Germans are still raving monsters. Yet, from the stiffbacked train, crammed in among kitbags and kit, we see an elderly peasant encouraging his elderly wife as she pulls the simple plough through the hard earth, too poor to afford a horse. To us, Germans could eat children, gas, burn, starve people, blitz the world, our world. Yet, when we venture out from camp to shops, bars, the forces’ English-language cinema, the citizens seem respectable, respectful, ordinary, like us, as they go about their daily lives. To us, Germans wanted to overrun our country, kill and maim and brutalise us under the poster jackboot, the evil germs of health posters merging with evil Germans in the child mind. 37
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Yet, on the radio from home, a children’s choir from Obernkirchen, a nearby village, cheerfully sings what must have been a Hitler Youth marching song that now tops the UK charts.
Yet here on camp in the RAF hanger, the German male cleaner aggressively asserts that we, the British, are all idiots (idioten), could not possibly have defeated the master race, if this had not happened, if that had not happened, expressing his own indoctrinated hatreds long-learnt superiority of the master-race inferiority of all others reinforcing, reviving all our propaganda fears, hatreds absorbed in childhood. II At “Red Alert” exercise at the end of the runway we urgently refuel, rearm our jet fighters as they land, turn round, take off to meet imaginary attack. No warning to the old enemy this. Warning to new enemy, ex-ally Russia, the Soviet Union, celebrated in Boy’s Own magazine, when we were boys, as heroic co-fighters. Cuddly, smiling Uncle Joe, and his brave, hardworking, smiling people, now transformed into ever-threatening monsters of new Cold War propaganda whose flipside makes us their nightmare monsters, whose planes and bombs threaten their peace, their lives. But propaganda was never about truth. Truth is too complex for that. Humanity in a broken mirror.
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FIRST WEEK OF THE REST OF OUR LIVES Buffeting flanks of police horses Flashing lights in cold dark city night Shouts Chants Screaming banners Bawling loud hailers Introduction to demonstrations in first week at university as invasions generate protest. Suez Hungary Excitement and indignation combine in night-time phantasm of newfound power of mass action. Absolute release from routine of school, boredom of national service, to freedom of life as a student. Blank, bleak, black, once elegant London of trolley-buses and tube trains of cars, vans and trucks and cycling amidst them in trepidation and bravado, of puzzling to find one’s way around in the big strange city, of lectures in converted Georgian terraced houses, in old Victorian tiered lecture theatres, in postwar concrete Nissen huts, fascinating, interesting, boring, doze-worthy lectures Opportunities to experiment, challenge, fail, achieve in student societies in plays, newspapers, newsreels, debates cramming the hours with activity A time of making new, of coffee bars and magic word ‘cappuccino’ and hours of talk over one coffee, of skiffle groups, jazz hops of classic films in discomfort 39
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of ancient tiered lecture theatre, Potemkin and The Somnambulist, Citizen Kane and Bicycle Thieves, of Nouvelle-Vague and Angry Young Men and Kitchen Sink, of sitting in the gods of theatres to stare absorbed down on Lilliputian actors emoting in Osborne, Wesker, Pinter, Shakespeare, finding time to read Amis, Sillitoe, John Braine in a world of innovation, social change teabags and instant coffee supermarkets and motorways radical ideas and styles. But did we know, we first-timers, that this had not happened for previous generations, that we were inventing life for ourselves, our generation and could get it wrong as had others before us.
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ALDWYCH THEATRE, LONDON 22 OCTOBER 1962
Excited, sociable audience settles into red plush comfort in fashionable Victorian theatre, embraces stage picture in cosy dark, as great mauve canopy billows out in stunning theatrical effect of sheer physical beauty, as young lovers Troilus and Cressida are carried on stage in ancient war to end wars Homer and Shakespeare unite in portrayal of glory and misery of war, as we the audience sit enthralled, our hands clenched in dread, aware that across the Atlantic, beyond our control, rulers of Camelot debate decisions that could unleash the nuclear war to end our world and we are powerless to save ourselves or the Trojans.
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TRANSFORMATIONS Lifted from murky foul-smelling scum-covered tanks Brown wax peels back Chrome magic glistens The steaming misty battlefield of the foundry Its sandpiles of knocked-out moulds Revealing still redyellowglowing smouldering castings Flames flickering in newfound air In daily fantasy world Of sweat hard work application Time-served cunning Hard grey chunk of steel alloy Turned Milled Drilled Ground Now this side Now that side Careful calculation of Metal strength Cutting tool Tool speed Cutting angle Emerges Shining multifaceted component Of engine Turbine Machine tool Dull bodywork metalwork Rolls through paintbooth Sprayed By man in mask and goggles By robot arms in jerky elegance Red green blue Bright-coloured Dictator of our environment
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Schoolboy Dullard at maths No interest What’s the point in that? Blossoms with hand eye brain Sheer human apprentice skill When sees a reason To make something new To do the magic on it
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OLD HOUSE “There’s woodworm,” the surveyor’s report screamed at us. “There’s a big crack by the front door.” “The roof leaks.” “It needs rewiring.” Strangely, he didn’t mention the damp in the gable wall, though you could smell it in the stair cupboard and could see the electrical system the owners had installed to try to counter it. “We’ve bought old houses before,” we said, “We can deal with that”. It still got us down when we moved in. The depressing colour schemes were worst, especially in meagre winter daylight. Dingy dark tones, ceilings in deep colours, maroon and navy, walls clawing in claustrophobically in jail-like stripes and acid greens. Then the piling of furniture and possessions into room after room as we decorated. We started to wonder what we had seen in the house with the long, jungle-grown garden.
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But gradually, as we fought the war against dinge and decay, as we repainted room after room, choosing light colours for the walls, white for the ceilings to reflect as much light as possible, the transformation began. It became a different place light, airy, open, easy. It was ours.
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SNAP DECISIONS Summer afternoon. Lazily Relaxing in the sun On bank of Highgate Pond Idly watching children Splash in the water. Suddenly young girl, Walking carefully out from the shore In pale brown swimsuit Turns Waves to unseeing mum Slips Goes under All of her. Reappears Tries to find footing Fails Head goes under Again Without a sound. Immediately Onto your feet As her head Appears Disappears Again. Walk quickly into water Pull her out. Other people have looked on astounded What is this man doing walking into the water With his clothes and shoes on? Chatting mother alerted Artificial respiration Coughs splutters She is OK. Thanks, gratitude. “How easily it happens.” “I only took my eyes off her for a moment.” Says the mother. Says a stranger “They should put up a sign 46
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The shallow first few feet Turn to a steep drop Into deep water. They should put up a sign.” While I Ring out my soaking trousers To walk home with my own family In wet clothes And squelchy shoes. Another sunny day Walking along busy Saturday market street Little black toddler Smartly dressed in her best party clothes Leaves her mum chatting to her friend At shop window Walks across pavement in front of me Straight between two parked cars Towards the road And the zooming traffic. Without thinking I grab her and guide her back To her mother. “You naughty girl. I only took my eyes off her for a second.” Not true but, Late for an appointment, I don’t argue And continue walking. If I can react That spontaneously And accurately To save two lives, Why do decisions on more mundane and routine matters Prove so difficult to make And to get right? Compare the other times When doing what seems right Saying the first thing that comes into your head Is wrong, wrong, wrong. Causes immense offence Destroys relationships. 47
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Yet delaying To think over What is the best course? May mean an opportunity missed, A contact not made, A rift not mended. How does one tell? Or is the lesson How easy death comes When you least expect it And don’t want it. How difficult When you do.
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IS THE BEARD ESSENTIAL? “Is the beard essential?” the interviewer asks. “Not at all,” he replies. and gets the job. Away with the beard goes the casualness of film studio life. Hello to respectability to office hours to suit and tie every day and nose to the grindstone. Goodbye to long filmmaking hours to early morning ensuring actors arrive on time for make-up, hairdressing to the boredom of hanging around while others make their contribution to the next take to the weirdness of moving from one fake studio world to the next of trying to warp real location world to fit drama of filmscript of persuading the public out of camera view and picturesque ducks to move in and the status of working in an industry outsiders fantasise about despite reality of lowest of low dogsbody work and prospect of small, slow steps to any level of real creativity.
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In with the suit and tie comes pressure of newspaper deadlines postal collections launch dates of rapidly expanding world of public relations world of press releases house journals news conferences of design and artwork of print buying of persuasion and damage limitation of exciting new skills and contacts of forced acquisition of confidence and communication in a world of business, money and assurance. potential of status and questionable creativity and guilt of working in a world friends view with disdain and he doesn’t feel entirely committed to, despite giving overtime unpaid to ensure job well done. Keeps escape route open. Contact with film world by secret life of freelance interview features for film magazine. Contact with theatre by out of hours life acting and directing in amateur theatre. Ambivalence of political social attitudes readily encompassed by keeping too busy to think it through. Delighting in gentle duplicity.
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IF WE MET AGAIN I sometimes wonder would it still be there if we met again? The fire, the can’t-keep-their-hands-off-one-another that drove the relationship when we were young and careless? Or would we each be repelled by the flab, the wrinkles, the stolid habit-ridden lack of sparkle of our aged selves? Or is there something there that wasn’t sex, the senses, flesh and is there something still that is a flame, a passion, a kinship, a burning affinity that kindles regardless of age, of change, of pensionability, an eternal youth in a cage of wrinkles?
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A VERY BRITISH COUP – OR WAS IT REVOLUTION? The lines are drawn. Eminent generals, air marshals, judges, pillars of the establishment, line up to pontificate in Sunday newspapers, bemoan failure of democracy, urge need for strong hand, tough measures. Ex-ministers now Lords emerge as figureheads. The smell of coup, of takeover in the air though no-one quite uses those words. Reading between the lines, should we worry? As economy declines, unions assert their power, negotiate direct with prime minister, strike for more, strike to prevent closures. Power cuts. Short-time working. Three-day week. Garbage piles in streets. Life is grey, miserable Especially for the unemployed, homeless. No-one smiles Students protest, sit in, smoke pot, play rock, inspired by antiwar protest in US universities, join mass marches, demonstrations, bring London to a halt, threaten US embassy, take message of protest, of revolution to communities in newspapers, magazines, leaflets, street plays as lefties join in. It’s exciting, fun, as well as being serious, important. Establishment fears losing next generation of bosses, administrators, as their children play revolution, alienated from tradition. 52
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Far left mouths revolution, as grapevine whispers of secret training of acolytes with rifles, grenades on distant country estates for armed uprisings, for resistance to expected coup, for revolution, plants members in car factories, in docks, print works to arouse workers. Call for General Strike, inspired by May Events in Paris, where students and left take over streets and battle police. Black power, flower power, disruption of Democratic Convention in USA, Weathermen plant bombs, as B52s obliterate Hanoi, day after day. Civil rights protests, riots in Northern Ireland. On telly, would-be leaders debate revolution. Angry Brigade plant puny bombs. Outrage. Rounded up. Tried. Imprisoned. Generals, judges mutter in clubs, empathise with Soviet ruthlessness in Prague with US bombing of Vietnam. Scared, deterred, Left argues among itself, fragmented, impotent. Students graduate, get jobs, become yuppies, join the establishment, take the political route find money, power, corruption to their liking. Economy revives. Rule of law and order, the old ways survive. Life goes on, as people get richer, until the next recession. 53
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But revolution? Sorry, no. Not just yet, as establishment backs iron lady with iron hands. No need for coup now, they purr.
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IMPRESSIONS OF DUBLIN Arrive late cubbyhole of a B&B but step out next morning whole new land. Slower pace hangs in the air. Step out casual, free of London urgency and stroll just stroll. Leopard paces to and fro to and fro in cage in zoo in mighty park that gives freedom to humans, children, sportsmen, joggers, cyclists, families, dogs, wild birds but not to leopards and jungle beasts. Litter in gaudy, menacing, neonlit O’Connell Street, already strewn with fastfood outlets, though one provides chance to chat up young waitresses looking for freedom, exploration or just excitement of extreme flirtation in land of inhibitions and restrictions. Work trip one: supervise PR exercise of painting competition on building site of client. Work trip two: supervise exhibition stand in RDS. Sleep disturbed by noisy boiler in posh hotel. Stage Irishry of O’Casey production in relocated Abbey Theatre, of toe-tapping trad concert in Clontarf Castle does not deter. 55
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Toehold, own toehold in urban suburb, typical suburb church, school, pub, supermarket, post office, bookies but 45 minutes from town centre. Drop it and move to centre Even now Dublin pace a welcome refuge from dusty, dirty, crowded, noisy, selfish, car-ridden London. Urban village. Attractions of urban village. Outward friendship – proves superficial. Noisy gossip – distorting facts. Amounts to spying Attitudes change with yuppy invasion. Me-first attitudes follow us from London. Dirt, dust, cars, excess follow us from London. Get out to friendly Drogheda. Rapid recognition, a greeting from every neighbour, every barman, every checkout girl, every waitress. Life in the easy lane. But dirty, dangerous, two-faced Dublin drags us back for entertainment, for work, for friends, for family, for socialising, For that extra something.
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FRIDAY NIGHT RITUAL IN STONEYBATTER Weekly ritual starts Wife to hairdresser Friday hairdo Chats under dryer Perm or blue rinse To suit her image of herself As befits age and status As mother or grandmother As does the dress she puts on That evening After bath or shower Make-up, perfume Having fed husband Home from work sober tonight For weekly ritual Chased from telly slouch To don weekend suit and tie Together they walk To favoured pub Upstairs to Lounge Not the Bar he frequents on other nights Tonight respectability rules Casual greeting to other couples, Friends, neighbours already there His pint of Guinness Her gin or vodka with mixer of choice They sit then Not together But women with women Men with men Neat dress and hairdo with neat dress and hairdo Suit and tie with suit and tie Lookalike matrons comfy in their weekend finery Reluctant men, Uncomfortable in soon to be loosened ties Rapidly discarded jackets Females to gossip of other neighbours, Their own health and family problems 57
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Males to chat of football and hurling Jest at rivalries of rival teams supported In Ireland and Britain Of Celtic and Liverpool Dublin and Kerry Round of drinks succeeds round of drinks In social occasion of the week Only social occasion of the week When husband and wife are together But not together Meeting friends and neighbours Closing time Call for last orders Polite fiction As bar staff draw curtains Close window shutters Lock outside doors Continue serving Till whatever habitual time is reached Or enough couples have dribbled out and home 1am, 2am Final bit of craic, laugh, argument On pavement outside And home together He silent As she Out of earshot of friends Reports gossip she has gleaned He silent Ears closed Concentrating on walking Staying steady and upright Keeping up Friday night respectability Until through their own front door.
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SATISFACTIONS OF AN EARLY RISER
1. PHOENIX PARK Antlers of fallow deer extrude eerily above white shroud of autumn ground mist Fantasy Vikings stealthily invading the new day to distant rrrroars of waking hippos declaring hunger to weary zoo warders Summer sunrise spotlights lone joggers early-rising walker pacing out quadrant of green-glowing park pauses in huddled Celtic grove to hug trees for comfort, fingers clutching rough bark of oak of hawthorn commune with earth goddess to morning birdsong. Thrush. Blackbird? Chaffinch! Far-off c…coo… coo… of homely wood pigeon. Before, seated in just open-café, return to excitement of re-inventing Ancient Athens for new novel when not distracted by play of sunlight and shade in fluttering leaves outside
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2. SMITHFIELD FRUIT AND VEG MARKET In winter dark dodge through mechanical ballet of delivery trucks forklifts to tune of
BEeeePInggg hoRRrnns RRreVVinGGg eNNngines RRReveRRRsing geaRRRs WarRRninGGg alAAArms alAAarms
AlAAaarms HUUUman SHOUTS as blue of daylight gradually merges and conquers harsh orange glow of neon street lights to be conquered in turn by rising sun creeping slowly down roof statues head, shoulders, torso, legs down ornate Victorian wall-tiles picking out more and more detail
revealing SHOUTING brash bright
RED YELLOW ORANGE ORANGE GREEN
Green GREEN of new-piled fruit and vegetables peppers bananas oranges carrots cabbage lettuce apples 60
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Take refuge in working men’s cafÊ for full greasy Irish, head into proofs, checking for faults, plot-holes, repetitions, when not wondering at character, motives, mood of multi-shaped shop, office workers clip-clopping to city centre workplaces over cobbles outside
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SMILE AND GRUNT With a smile and a grunt They commit us to borrow Pay interest on Another few billion loan Has to be done Say the politicians Don’t object. Has to be done Says the EU Face up to it. Has to be done Says the IMF Vote for it. Only do it quickly Say they all Embrace your new poverty. Just a few more taxes Just a few more cuts Don’t worry You’ll have it all paid off In a generation Or two Or three Bite the bullet Say the prevaricators Spotting the urgency At last Too late Support us in one more disaster Before we leave the stage Thanks for your docility
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ARCTIC CIRCLE CHALLENGE Excitement of being chosen for filmscript edit workshop near Arctic Circle Stress of three-leg flight to get there Dublin – Manchester Manchester – Stockholm Stockholm - Uluu and on by minibus Upset of coffee spilled down pale blue sweater big brown stain mopped at with tissues as strive to read everyone’s submitted scripts Worry of waiting, waiting as no suitcase on carousel at flight change in Stockholm as other passengers collect theirs and go collect theirs and go Panic as ask advice “Run for it or you’ll miss your connection suitcase will follow” run panting sweating to next terminal and just make it Discomfort secret embarrassment of wearing same sweaty clothes all weekend sweater back to front under one light jacket to hide stain till suitcase arrives 63
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Nervous at meeting other screenwriters, tutors Dutch, German, Swedish, Hungarian What will they think of your script, your baby The organisers must like it or you wouldn’t be here. Would you? Annoyance at whining, dive-bombing mosquitoes biting relentless in welcome evening at town’s writers’ centre no warning bare skin saved only by quickly loaned repellent stick Comradeship as split into teams comment on one another’s scripts appreciation of what’s there a few suggestions “Liked the way you…” “That made me laugh…” “Wasn’t clear what you meant by…” “Why didn’t you…?” But tutor says “I want more than that. Stronger analysis. Deeper analysis. We’re here to knock these scripts into shape.” Rivalry grows bitter as learn to rip, tear, bite at flaws – real, invented – in others’ babies “That doesn’t work!” “Your hero’s not believeable!” “She wouldn’t say that, do that!” “Cardboard, cardboard!” “Your plot goes astray when….” Session after session Descend into savagery Red in tooth and claw No room for politeness now 64
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Desperation as come to feel not much left Your baby in pieces Torn apart Thrown around And trampled on Again and again Determination as rise early in land of no darkness to computer room to write new scenes rewrite old ones modify characters adjust dialogue to send back into the firing-line Try to please everyone Relaxation in magic summer green of Arctic Circle forest Pines, birches, moss, still lake, sunshine, silence, solitude Stroke horns of gentle reindeer whose barbecued meat you eat with pleasure as Saami campfire smoke keeps mosquitoes at bay Relief in solo session with tutor as she finds way to stick it together again “How about a new opening scene where…?” “What if the priest character was…?” “You could end with a lighter tone maybe if….” Sound suggestions but is this still your baby? Viable script maybe but is it what you wanted? Comradeship restored at evening meal on raft drifting down middle of wide slow-moving river where mosquitoes do not venture 65
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Satisfaction of ordeal completed of a script revised that can be worked on more once home but others feel their babies slaughtered dead all gone Dispirited All enthusiasm destroyed by over-enthusiastic workshop designed to help budding screenwriters move their careers forward
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SUN AND SILHOUETTES Sun on Georgian pillars. Sudden green surprises of lush squares, city gardens, museums, galleries, relics of alien empire amid hurrying dawdling tourists, seeking these relics of occupation and the revolt against in arts and life. Walk home along Liffeyside quays in magic twilight hour when clear sky still light enough to silhouette faintly lit domes and rooflines, roofmounted statues of saints virgins heroes, dark outlines against glowing sky reflected in slow-flowing river. Dreamtime in Dublin competes with roar of petrolfuming cars and buses behind.
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IMAGE OF A POET He plays it old this famous poet His pose His pace His body language His statements All proclaim “I am an old man” OK, not just that “I am a nice old man with a lifetime’s achievement behind me” “I am a wise old man with over 40 years of poetry behind me”
But he is my age! Do I come across like that? Is there no young man inside that head still eager, still excited, still angry? Or has that faded with the years recallable only by reading past poems in public?
Or was he never these things? Does ill-health, overweight dictate this manner? Or has he calculated that this is the most appropriate image, most readily acceptable to his audience, his public?
Is it a calculated image? Or do some people’s thought patterns age with their body so that they are old inside as well as out not merely going along with what society urges as how an old man should be but living it?
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Or am I denying the things I don’t really see about myself from inside my head? The slower, huskier voice, the pauses for difficult memory recall, the bowed shoulders, the slower, heavy-breathing walk It’s the younger man inside the head that is the lie, the self-deception
But who am I kidding? I have been alarmed at hearing my own voice on an answering machine. The throatiness, the heavy breathing, the long pauses and slowth. The slow walking uphill failing to keep pace with younger not so younger friends. The memory lapses. Own up! It’s here, it’s you!
You’re old too!!!
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DROGHEDA ON THE BOYNE From the train, riding high across the valley on which the town is built, it looks very grey and industrial. Dusty stone and concrete warehouses, silos, oil tanks jostle for space by the riverside. Ships loading, unloading from the quays, derricks and cranes, trucks delivering, collecting. We ride on through to other places, though fingers of medieval ruins, poking skywards, suggest another story. Descend into the town, Drogheda on the Boyne, and walk the hilly streets, a different townscape round every corner, elegant Georgian and Victorian shops, houses, along narrow streets that slow the cars to a walker-friendly pace. Churches and ancient ruined fragments of abbeys, convents tell of a time when this town was the biggest in Ireland, a centre of religion and the religious life and later a bustling trading port, focal point for the surrounding towns and country. But industry declines. The town changes, modernises, absorbs immigrants. Shopping centres replace defunct factories, aged buildings, new restaurants of many flavours, new cafes, teashops. Bustle of busy main street damped by revamp for pedestrians. Downturn. Recession. But a paint job glamorises to attract tourists New hope for town on the ever-flowing river. 70
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BIOPSY The usual long wait expected for any hospital appointment anxious among the anxious where only reception staff laugh but when finally called to small grey room with giant grey biopsy machine towering over grey couch not even the dignity of undressing and a smock. “No, don’t take your shoes off.” “Just lie up there.” “Slip your trousers and pants down to your knees.” “Put your knees up.” Do as you’re told A boy again Do as you’re told As two lady doctors take revenge on your bum for generations of male abusers, rapists, dominators, As they twang, twang, twang, fire darts at your essential male organ prostate to extract samples, As they talk blithely about rugby world cup, explain risks of infection, need for antibiotics and you leak embarrassingly onto the couch. But over quickly. Ushered out. Disoriented, a child again under teacher’s orders, you sit. Drink water Drink water 71
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Drink water as ordered Drink water. “Stay in the canteen for another hour,” she orders pleasantly. “Drink fluids.” Drink coffee Drink water Drink tea Try to pee Wipe away expected but scary blood. Only thought sore arse, pain in the arse, as one, two, four, five young interns on lunch break successively invade your table space, your self-pity space, invade your thoughts, non-thoughts, with chatter, banter of the young about work, colleagues, more rugby. Still no pee. “Is that alright?” Check. “That’s alright.” Taxi to bus. Read on bus to take mind off it. Exit to shopping centre toilet - urgent and give unexpected birth to great jelly blob of congealed blood plop into underpants halfway lowered. Scary aftermath effects that gradually disappear. Normality returns while await report. 72
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IN A WORLD OF GROWN-UPS So what is it this adulthood? You see them on the telly being interviewed, these adults, talking with assurance as though they know how the world works, have the ability to control it, work with it. Until the crisis, the panic, when it turns out they don’t. They behave like the children we all are. Do what the stronger tell them the big boys the financiers the bank managers the developers the bullies the boys who got us in this mess then hide away say nothing do nothing, hoping the problem will go away, like a child. Are they all pretending to be adults? Or are some of them, most of them, really in control of their lives, all our lives? What trick did the rest of us miss that we start each day wondering what will go wrong next? How we will cope with each new burden yet not show that we are not in control, as we muddle on? As do confident-seeming ministers, officials, euro leaders, world leaders muddle on with all our futures. 73
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I AM WHAT I DO In English lessons, we learn them as characters, what a person is: Hamlet – the intelligent and perceptive man unable to make up his mind; Othello – the outsider dominated by jealousy; Macbeth – the sensitive man destroyed by ambition. The people in Chaucer, Dickens, Jane Austen, Thackeray, Henry James. All definable as characters from the outside for us to understand and assess them, to answer exam questions about. But I’m not like that I suddenly realise. Do other people know who they are as characters? I don’t. I really have no clear idea of myself, as security when talking with others, when planning what to do. So who am I? Over the years I watch myself. The way I react to situations. The way I fail to respond to challenges. The way I take on more than I can chew. The way I fail to plan. The way I sometimes know what I should do but don’t do it. The attacks of fear, of confidence vanished. The butterflying from one activity to another. The crowding every hour with tasks. that pushes the most important to the back undone and prevents me standing back and looking at the whole picture eye on the ball not the goal. And they repeat, These behaviour patterns, Over and over. That must be me, that person doing these things. 74
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It must be me. But I? I seem to be just an eye looking on. I have no sense of that me in my head. Is this a known psychological disorder? For other people do seem to have a clear sense of themselves. Assertive, full of self-confidence, they seem to know who they are, that they will always behave in the way they want to behave, ways that are logical, rational within their lifestyle, social situation, career plan, that their peers, tutors, parents, mentors, partners, would approve. Where did they learn this? Where did I miss out? More important, can I change myself? Break out of this pattern? But why should I? That’s obviously me. Or the best understanding I’ll ever have of who I am. So let it be. May not be great but the best I’ve got, ever likely to have. But strange - what’s this? Other people – how do they react to this creature? Some seem able to ignore him as expected. Others do seek his company or, if not seek it, enjoy his company when it’s there. They must see him as a personality. Who is he? Who is this me they recognise? I’m the one with the energy, the drive, to get things done. The one who can stand, however nervous, before an audience 75
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and hold their attention, can organise and plan an event so that people thank after. Is that personality? Or just keeping busy? Who the fuck am I?
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LAST VICTORY OF A DETERMINED WOMAN For Yvonne Corbally-Quinn 1968-2009 It is not often one writes a socially useful poem but I read this poem at the graveside and it seemed to provide Yvonne’s friends with a framework for grasping and holding the strange and moving experience. Many people asked for printouts of the poem afterwards. A framed copy now sits on her grave. “Only days to live,” The doctor told her, Tears in his eyes. They decided to get married In the time left Yvonne and her long-term boyfriend Peter And do it in style. Friends rally round Chase contacts Pull in favours Church Hotel Dress Transport Cake All the extras. Do it for her Do it in style Never complaining Always a welcoming smile. “Not a bother on me,” She says, Sipping her barstool drink Through a straw But not short of a sharp answer To a stupid comment. Stunningly like Mona Lisa Though long black hair now gone First victim of her unsuccessful cancer treatment. Do it for her Do it in style 77
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So weak So much pain It takes ages To get the wedding dress on An hour and a half late At the church No-one complains As white-veiled bride in wheelchair Majestic down the aisle. Fantasy experience As we watch the ceremony play out The photographers flash By the altar Whatever she may demand. Do it for her Do it in style Two hours late at the hotel. Tables laid in dazzling white In elegant formation Waiting staff waiting While rapidly assembled family and friends Take their seats. Do it for her Do it in style No-one complains. Stubborn as ever Determined Yvonne No longer able to walk Will have the first dance After the meal With her groom And copes amazingly Till near the end of the tune The wheelchair reclaims her But then allows her a second dance Turning on its wheels Hand in hand with her brother Back by a miracle from the USA 78
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After 16 years Her eyelids slipping shut From tiredness Exhaustion But snapping open By sheer willpower To go on To the end Heartfelt applause Of assembled friends and family Giving her strength. Do it for her Do it in style We say goodbye And look into her eyes But she While aching to squeeze this last event of her life To the maximum Already stares beyond us Into the great unknown. Still battling at 1am To a friend She says, “Aren’t you staying for the singsong?” And stays on partying In the hotel bedroom Inviting all to join in Till 5am “I’m tired,” She tells best man Roy. “Ask them to leave,” And falls asleep In the rose-petal strewn bed She requested Never to waken. Battle bravely fought And who can say she lost.
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AINT GONNA DO THAT Comes a time you realize, “Aint gonna do that” Things you’d like to have seen. ‘Hundred things to see before you die,’ they tell you. Or even ten. Forget it Pyramids Machu Pichu Easter Island Seen the photos Read the descriptions Why trek all that way to see them? What are you going to do with the experience? Who are you likely to communicate it to? Forget it Aint gonna happen Costs too much anyway Books, plays, scripts you wanted to write Crossed your mind at some point A few ideas scribbled on the back of an envelope An outline typed and shoved in a drawer A few chapters roughed out Characters brought to semilife Yesterday’s dreams Forget it my friend Not to be All those day-to-day routines and tasks getting in the way Promised commitments to family friends colleagues creative or not fill the remaining time 80
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before death. Select one project maybe to tackle in the gaps of time. Might just get completed. Scribble what poems or fragments leap into the mind unbidden. Will they see light of day? Light of another reader? Many readers? Does it matter? Life goes on so do it regardless Who knows? Might get a result‌
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L A P W I N G PUB L I C A T I O N S
ROGER HUDSON
As a latecomer to poetry, in this new collection Roger Hudson trawls deeper into his eventful life for intriguing, dramatic and moving incidents and observations as subjects for his often long, rhythmic and sensual poems. Even more recently, he has turned to performing them to impact an even wider audience in Cork, Drogheda, Dublin, Limerick, London and San Francisco and venues from O Bheal to Tongue Box. Recent experiments with the presentation of poetry Roger has organized include “Experiments in Mood and Meaning,” working with the improvisations of ambiencellist Claire Fitch and dramatizing poems with three other poets as Word Jungle, and the fully-staged Great Drogheda Poetry Show last November. His previous collections are Lifescapes in the two-hander Side-Angles, Pagan Publications (2005) with Steve Downes, and Greybell Wood and Beyond from Lapwing Publications (2010). Evacuated from London as a baby early in World War II, Roger grew up in the Surrey village of Bramley, was educated at Royal Grammar School, Guildford and University College London, lived and worked in London before moving with his wife Sheila to Dublin and more recently Drogheda, where he now lives and plays an active part in the literary life. He is also a novelist, filmmaker and photomontagist. He has dual Irish/British nationality and two sons. “Roger’s poems capture treasured moments, and, when he reads them aloud, he gracefully unfolds them for us - this is a blessing!” Stephen James Smith, performance poet “Each poem is memory recalled through a cascade of images, the narrative punctuated by fascinating asides and digressions. There is humour and honesty here and the voice, though rueful or sad at times, never judges the younger self but instead filters the experience through the wisdom of hindsight and a life fully lived.” Anne Tannam, poet Cover: a segment of a complex photomontage by Roger Hudson titled Story of the World No Less, Past, Present and Future? Printed by Kestrel Print Hand-bound at the Winepress, Ireland
ISBN 978-1-909252-34-9 £10.00