Collected Poems

The tide is fickle.

After going out it comes back.

The moon sees to that.

It’s what the tide reveals

When it huffs and leaves

That means so much,

And what the tide covers

On nibbling back

That opens our eyes:

Archipelagos left unexplored

And rivers unsurveyed:

But before the meaning’s known

The regimental rush of waves

Is preceded by

The brutal skirmishing of dreams.

Bricks build walls

They erect homes

Both rise up

Men make them out of earth and clay.

Water tightens them

Ovens bake them to withstand

Bullets and dour weather.

Rectilinear and hard

Red or blue

Porous or solid

Beautifully stacked:

They invite the mason’s hand

To choose.

Bombs are the enemy of bricks:

Stroke them tenderly,

And share their warmth.

How many died when the height was taken?

Upslope the armoured horses went:

Old refurbished iron-men

Zig-zagging from rocks,

And knights already fallen.

The cunning defenders

Jabbed soft underbellies,

Brought riders down

On gleaming daggers.

Victors mourned

As the defeated King rode

Into rain beyond the hill.

Blood makes history,

And desolation

A winter’s day.

If I rip these planks back

Will I see

Something new, or out of nature?

Years ago I put them on

Felt glee in my fist

As I swung the hammer

And saw each nail

Biting into seasoned wood.

I didn’t know what I boarded up:

Sunlight on the beach

Pebbles in my palms

Grass in my teeth –

An upturned rowing boat.

Thumb and forefinger held the nail.

I laughed at something new

Or out of nature.

They paid me — though not too well.

If I have the strength (or tools)

To lever off those planks

My soul will dazzle me with grief,

And out of my own nature blind me

With what I boarded up.

Well, they would, wouldn’t they?

They’d say anything.

Doris and Betty got undressed.

Bob and Fred did the same next door.

The things that went on in these changing huts.

Well, with the War over, what could you expect?

They came back like new men.

Well, they came back.

They came, anyway.

Sometimes it was you and my Fred.

Then it might be me and your Bob.

It was nice with us, though, wasn’t it?

Nothing but a clean bit of fun.

Sad they went in a year of each other –

The dirty devils!

Nothing but a clean bit of fun,

When we changed into our costumes,

The sea washed it off, though, didn’t it?

We had some good swims as well.

And now look how they’ve smashed ’em up.

Poor old bathing huts.

Never be the same again.

The sea chucked all them pebbles in.

Don’t suppose it liked the goings-on.

Then the vandals ripped the doors off.

They didn’t like it, either.

Old times never come back,

But at least we ’ad ’em!

A pier is a bridge that failed,

You might say –

Whatever else is said.

At the end are fish, and ships,

And underneath is water,

Or jewelled shingle.

Lamp posts point to the signal station

So does the toytown railway.

People buy and sell.

The planks smell fresh.

Not liking salt

They reach for land.

A rotund father and thin daughter

Stroll hand in hand.

Good for business.

A walking-stick clatters

But don’t look now:

The invisible man goes by.

Every pier has one.

He swaggers to the end and back,

Panama hat at an angle;

And then again returns,

Craving land beyond the water,

Wound-up to walk forever.

We came off the ship:

‘This is America. We’re here!’

A shorter crossing

Than the railway trip.

Having to make a living

Was better than in Russia.

Nobody tried to kill us.

America was smaller than we thought.

We lived three generations

In those houses:

New Year

Atonement

Passover.

Bricks talk,

But Books are eloquent.

He went to sea because he didn’t like the dark.

He wanted his ship to be looked at from the shore

By a woman who would wonder

Where he was going and why

But not where coming from:

His mother;

And stared at by a man who envied him

And craved to follow:

His father.

Many do not like the dark

But on a ship at night the lights stay on

Inside yourself.

You take it like a mother into you

In case the sun won’t show at dawn.

At sea there’s only

Space, and you.

After thirty years he came home.

He had forgotten the house

But recognized the window.

His sister never married

But she knew he’d come.

They passed unknowing in The Lanes.

The first iron dewdrop of the knocker

Shook dust

From the flowers.

‘Not today!’ she said.

He walked away,

Forgot the house

Forgot the window

Forgot his sister never married

Forgot the knocker made no sound

When it struck home.

The Big Voice, the Visual Scream

Shouts about the National Lottery

Or the advantage of travelling by Aeroflot

Or the holiness of the Virgin’s Grotto

Or a film about the antics

At the court of King Otto;

Or did someone win

A Motto Competition –

First prize a reproduction

On a theme by Watteau?

Or, taking it all in all (and altogether)

Let’s have a scenario like this:

The Big Bang Lottery Prize

Is a trip by Aeroflotto

To the Virgin’s Grotto

In a corner of the Empire

Of mad King Otto –

From which you come back, if at all

(You’ve guessed it) BLOTTO;

Crossing the frontier in a haycart

Concealed inside the wrappings

Of a Cracker Motto

Against an idealized backdroppo

As designed by Watto.

Speculation is a dead-end,

So forget it. A mindless hand

A single rip: we’ll never know

Where poster-dreams

And demons that lurk behind them go.