PALM TREE PUBLISHING Iver, England SL0 0LB

© Robbie Moffat 2014

First published MARCH 2014 Revised SEPTEMBER 2015

Typeset: Times Roman

ISBN: 0 907282 55 6

The right of Robbie Moffat to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988

All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is pure coincidental.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that which it is published and without similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent publisher. LAST QUARTER

This collection of poems covers Robbie Moffat’s poetry output in the last quarter of the 20th century and the 2nd Millennium. It commences in 1974 and ends in 1998. Many of the early works are simple, but they are included here to show the poet’s development.

Besides the major works The Undergraduate, Universal Being and The Wanderer, the collection contains many of Moffat’s unpublished works previously uncollected, un-typed, and forgotten about.

In all, this collection contains almost thirty thousand lines of verse and is set out in chronological fashion. The poet’s notes on when and where the poems were composed are included and these give an insight into his life during the twenty five years the work covers.

Because of the volume of work, it has taken fifteen years to gather all of the poems into this one collection. The two major exclusions are Frog - A Tale For Adults, an illustrated poem first published in 1980, and Fettlepan Fayre, written in 1975. Otherwise, the poet believes most of his work is represented here, and if it is not, then it was not meant to be preserved. I dedicate this collection to everyone who inspired me to write for them, about them, or because of them. Thank you.

Robbie Moffat LAST QUARTER - Robbie Moffat

IN SEARCH OF A GURU

BUS CONDUCTOR BARCELONA (fragments) [Spring 1974] [17th Aug 1974, Barcelona]

Dreaming … thinking of what life is – We have reached Barcelona, If I applied myself, the genius I could be. And now we venture forth … I’m really rather clever, its not plain to To hitch our way to Madrid see – To end this tortured road. My dream is to be accepted by society. The room is great, white walls, Fighting in an army isn’t for my likes – tiled and easy on the soles. The navy? The sea’s not for me. The bed’s soft, pin-stripped top, Flying does not wow me with joy – Maggie’s happy, laughing at it all. So its the buses collecting fees. LERIDA A1 SOUTH [18th Aug 1974, Lerida, Spain] [11th Aug 1974, A1, Gateshead] Maggie says she’s losing weight, Maggie and me going over the sea I think she’s just joking – To see what we can see - Her lily legs resemble We’re standing here with all our gear, The plucked skin of a chicken. Waiting, and waiting and waiting in fear In case we can’t get a lift our of here – Rain, rain, go from Spain, Who knows, we might be here a year Go back to England once again. Before we make it abroad. NO MORE DOUBTS DOVER [19th Aug 1974, Madrid] [12th Aug 1974, Dover] Phones to my ears, the music Waiting on the Dover quay – Bringing on the tears – Passport in hand, My sentiments are running high, Francs from the bank – My fears are lost in blue skies; Just waiting, waiting, waiting. Here worries don’t exist, STUCK Happiness is not a myth, [15th Aug 1974, France] Everything is working out – I have no more doubts. The sky is blue, the grass is green, The air is clear, the water is fresh; But what a shitty place to be dropped And left.

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FRANCO (ii) [19th Aug 1974, Madrid] Britain seems a long way north – Franco’s got a bad leg, Scotland, Glasgow, Shawlands Cross. Cancer or something they say. The rain brings back many thoughts Who should be believed though? Of times in youth I had forgotten; The Church? The Doctors? The Army? How long will he live? Those days when summer came and went Tomorrow? Next year? A decade? And winter passed on to Lent; We’ll all find out one day – I’d cock a snoot, have no cares When fascist Spain is saved. If outside it was fine or fair.

MAGGIE The rain for me cleansed the streets, [19 Aug 1974, Madrid] I’d pad and paddle, sodden footed; My mother, worried for my health Maggie has taken some prunes Would try to coop me up indoors. To help with her digestion – I guess we’ll know soon enough She’d say ‘You’ll catch your death by If they’ve aided, helped or hindered cold!’ Her constipation. I’d not agree, and speak out boldly – An action that oft brought regret A RAINY DAY IN MADRID When I got a clout on the head. (fragments) [20th Aug 1974, Madrid] Back then, all I had to pass the time Was the burgh clock’s distant chimes; Back a hundred years – I’d watch the raindrops earthwards fall As the power fails, the darkness splits Into puddles, pools and holes – Into a thousand sectioned shadows By candlelight. The steamed up windows, my only fun Drawing pictures with my thumb - Madrid is – the Prada, All other things seemed unimportant Piatza de Roma To the make-belief of an infant. The Calle de Goya, The Banco de Espana, The rain stops, my memories fade And the Metro I return from my childhood daze – Under the centro. The sun begins to split the clouds To shower rays on my reflections. We live by the autopista, A life of leisure and ease, For now I’m free to go outside With friends Inaki and Joahna – With no fear of a mother’s chide; Some Premmies from Arturo Soria. I choose in Madrid to stay indoors And dwell upon my fading innocence. The rain pours, and pours – The washing gets wetter and wetter.

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GERALD R FORD One foot on the wall, [21st Aug 1974, Madrid] One eye straining at the door, The other closed. Gerald R Ford made a statement today, And it wasn’t about the weather – My cabin mates scurry to and fro, In fact it concerned the new vice – pres, I lie here, calm and cool – Ex-major of New York – Rockafeller. Perhaps they should be told That in my mind, I travel Nelson, you see , is really quite pleased Not in inches, or by hashish, At being appointed over Barry Goldwater; To an inner land, a distant star He was full of big smiles, a mouth of No amount of dosh can get you to. cheese – But I doubt if things will get better. My star is reached by thought, Thought alone - a far land For Nixon by now, we know all about, I am trying to know, to get to - His friends Erlichmann, Haldeman, Dean; my jouney’s end. History will say, without a shadow of doubt, FO RMENTERA They were dirty, crooked and mean. [26th Aug 1974, Formentera, Balearic Isles] All of them now have bitten the dust With the exception of Spiro Agnew – The beach last night, it was okay. He’s been forced to resign amidst public I could have hoped for better – mistrust But now I don’t care – the weather Over the back tax bill he’s acquired. Has turned wet. It rains, it shines, It rains, it shines – I think we wait President Ford has the task of his life For winter. Who knows? Who cares? To get callous America straightened – I do not for Formentera. Let’s hope it’s the end of what we’ve lived through ROUNDED UP BY THE FASCISTS Since Kennedy was murdered in Dallas. [27th Aug 1974, Formentera, Balearic Isles] TOMO RRO W IBIZA [23rd Aug 1974, El Saler, Spain] Formentera – we must leave For the police say so. Rounded up, Tomorrow we sail to Ibiza – Passports taken from us hippies. That golden isle of sun; To sleep on the beach is not Perhaps we’ll think it’s worth it The Franco way – they’ve let us For all the miles we’ve come. Know so.

I TRAVEL NO T IN INCHES To Ibiza we must now go – [24th Aug 1974, Valencia Ferry, Spain] To find a place to sleep - Herded on to the ferry – One foot on the ventilator, at gun point, we shuffle like cattle

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on to the crowed deck - The light on its stern. the spirit of Europe’s youth made to revisit Auschwitz. When out of the darkness five figures appeared – IBIZA four were the boatmen, [27th Aug 1974, Ibiza, Balearic Isles] the fifth we all cheered.

Ibiza is a shitty place, As everyone inwardly I really am pissed off – Let out a sigh – I must keep a smiling face Amazed that the man For Love and Peace, man. Stepped aboard still alive.

MAN OVERBOARD FRANCE 1974 (fragments) [30th Aug 1974, Ibiza-Barcelona Ferry, [ 31st Aug 1974, Cerbere] Spain] Out of Spain, and the rain – A man fell overboard, Into France, and bon chance. As the ship sailed on – The alarm was raised, [1st Sept 1974, Toulouse] The ship blew its horn I went for some food We searched for an hour To fill myself up, Or two, then much more – And what did I do? Still we saw nothing, I broke a china cup. We gave up all hope. The lift I had hitched in a sports car Suddenly – someone pointed Of all things, with this man who Far into the dark – Was a flier. He drove into a ditch The searchlights played the water, Which bent his springs, that gave We’d found him at last. Us a bloody flat tyre.

But it still wasn’t over – [1st Sept 1974, Ussel Sur S…] The ship couldn’t stop. We cruised for ten minutes A man bought me a meal last night, Well past the poor chap. And boy, it sure was alright – I took some beautiful bites – A boat was finally lowered, Every bite a delight – when I slept It retraced our wake – I went out like a light. We all hoped, some prayed That he would be saved. [3rd Sept 1974, Thiers]

We waited, and waited Yesterday, we took the train For the boat to return – From Ussel to Clermont And then it was sighted,

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Because of all the rain – MUNICH IN THE RAIN Hitching was just not on. [6th Sept 1974, Munich]

Instead of buying tickets, Sitting in a nice, clean restaurant, We rode the train for free. Drinking coffee, eating chocolate, The ticket collector came, Listening to soothing music We jumped and ran away. Making with the conversation, Thinking about some distant nation. GENEVA HO STEL It’s Munich in the rain. [3rd Sept 1974, Geneva] It plips, it plops upon the roads, I’m sitting on the hostel stairs Shoppers passing, very drenched, In the beautiful town of Geneva, Umbrellas flying in the wind, Chatting away to two young birds Wet hair sticking to their necks – About nothing much as yet. The town seems quite and very dead. It’s Munich in the rain. Now, they are talking to me about mint And the patch that they going to grow, It has no end, the hours pass, About work permits, and things like that, The light it fades, there is no lapse – And of course, Catch 22. In every pool, the water rises, Workers weave and dodge the splashes ALMOST KNOCKED DOWN Made by other workers dashing. [4th Sept 1974, Lorrach, Germany] It’s Munich in the rain.

I crossed over the frontier into a town It drips from every leaf and twig, Where the German townsfolk wore serious Raindrops carried with the breeze frowns; Into gutters, down the drains The roads were busy, and being a clown Into the S-bahn gurgling sewers, Eager to cross - I was almost knocked Lost to our over world of light. down. It’s Munich in the rain.

MUNICH (song) It eases off, the wind now dropped, [5th Sept 1974, Munich] Strollers smile, begin to chatter, Gaze above, view the sky, At last I come to Munich – The clouds part, the sun breaks through – That town of song and beer, At last, the day reveals its truth. Perhaps if I remain for long It’s Munich in the sun. I’ll also know good cheer. BACH It is a place I know quite well, It holds quite dear to me – [7th Sept 1974, Herrsching, near Munich] The last time I came here Was pre-Olympic year. Bach plays softly in my ears, And I begin to lightly doze, The echoes of the many strings

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Carry me off to a distant land. LIKE A SCO TTISH DAY [10th Sept 1974, Mittendorf, Austria] The rising lark winging high, The trees and meadows speeding by, The rain drives down again, The hills and valleys over which I fly I huddle against the wall To rest, and lounge here, now. Of a little log cabin. It’s not unlike a Scottish day, Relaxed, though tired as I am, The mist rolling down I lie here thoughtful, relaxed, and calm To flood the valley below. As innocent as a suckling lamb Without the stirrings of the ram. BULGARIAN-TURKISH FRO NTIER [12th Sept 1974, Turkey] Time, it passes – I notice little So deeply lost in my own thought; They asked me for Dollars – I’m happy here with what I’ve got – I said I had none. Though Bach, I’ve found Bavaria. The asked me for Francs – I said I had some. THE NUN WITH A FAG They asked me for Marks [8th Sept 1974, Andechs, Bavaria] I refused then to pay. They asked me for Pounds – The saintly nun with graceful air And that saved the day. Ambles with a monk – but not in prayer; She holds not in her hand her beads, ANKARA But disgracefully what we call – the weed. [13th Sept 1974, Ankara, Turkey]

The halo that surrounds her head I walked five K into Ankara, Comes not from the life she’s led – Far up Cankaka Hill – It is in fact some man-made stuff, I was asked by a stranger Not holy smoke on which she puffs. If things were difficult.

The fag she holds to her lips, I didn’t say all that much – In contrast to the cross she grips - Then we took a car. In joy removed, then slightly raised, Now I have a weekend room She gives the cigarette her praise. In villa-side Ankara.

I SLEPT IN A HAYSTACK THE CHILDREN’S CRIES ECHO th [10 Sept 1974, Mittendorf, Austria] [16th Sept 1974, Ankara, Turkey]

I was picked up by a girl, The trees sway in the wind. And invited to stay the night. Then I notice the lack of birds. Then I found out – The children’s cries echo, I’d have to pay ten Marks. I see only in the distance, clouds. I slept in a haystack. The sun radiates its warmth. I see a man watering his lawn.

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The people pass quickly by – IRANIAN FLY I see that I watch all alone. [27th Sept 1974, Maku-Tabriz, Iran]

CHESS AND CLUES He’s a happy little fly, this fly. [17th Sept 1974, Ankara, Turkey] He crawls on my hand full of life – He feeds on my blood with great pride – I sit here, the chessboard in front of me, He rubs his wings in delight – The game won. Upstairs I hear the voices And I try to squash him on sight – Of the neighbours & cops, an American He succeeds just in time to take flight – Recounting his story of the break-in. He’s a smart little fly, this guy. I hear them probing about searching for clues as to the identity of the intruder. HASHISH (fragments) [ 3rd Oct 1974, Herat, Afghanistan] RAMADAN [18th Sept 1974, Ankakra, Turkey] My creativeness is dissipated, My body drained, and my thoughts. It is the eve of my departure The culprit – After my long Ankara stay. the abominable hashish plant. It coincides with the start Of the fasting through the day. Climb every mountain From early in the morning Cross every wall Until the sun has fled away – Ride every camel The Muslims who are faithful Beware every fall. Eat by candlelight after prayer. KABUL THE FRENCH CANADIAN [5th Oct 1974, Kabul, Afghanistan] [24th Sept 1974, Ankara, Turkey] The flies are buzzing around my head – His name is Jacques, he lives at the back I’m lying here playing dead – Of a hotel in Ankara. Staring upwards, my thoughts astray, We talk about dope, about our hopes Light bulb swinging, its cord well frayed. And the days we still have to come. The calling birds are chirping out – FLAG DRAPED CO FFIN Aggressive dogs in barking bouts – [25th Sept 1974, Bus to Erzarum, Turkey] A woodman chopping – his echoes bouncing On a bus to Erzarum, Back and forth between the mountains. Through the window, a passing car With open boot – HIMALAYAS A flag draped coffin [17th Oct 1974, Manali, HP, India] Sticking out the back. Is there much ceremony The bus winds its weary way slowly to the Over the dead these days? top,

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The engine whining all the time as if it’s MARIJUANA IN CALCUTTA going to stop; [28th Dec 1974, Calcutta, India] The passengers grip their seats in fear of pending doom, Smoking on down the river, The driver steering round the bend with Passing people on the shore. none or little room. Smoking on, winding ever – Scrapping bottom at the fords. Until at last we reach the crest and gasps give way to sighs, Puffing hard, moving upstream, The view I’ve travelled far to see is now Grass is green, head feels more. before my eyes – Easing off, to drop the anchor, The peak is its centre piece, its minions At last I’ve docked, reached the shore. scattered round, The roof of the world – Mount Everest – SHARING WITH PIGEONS lies cloudy bound. [4th Jan 1975, Puri, Orissa, India]

MANALI TO KULU Cigarette ends lie on the table [13th Nov 1974, Simla, India] Scatted amongst the mounds of ash, Candle wax and spent matches. From Manali to Kulu, The light dances in the breeze We pass the mountains by. In tune to the pounding waves, Onward to Mandi The ceaseless clicking-buzzing And darkness plays its hand. Of the insect world. The road disappears – The headlights form the path, My book lies open at page 327, We career round bends, My mosquito cream lies at arm’s length, The driver in command; And my chillum still feels warm. Trucks scrapping past - My room mates, four in number, It’s not a lot of laughs. Belay their presence with feathered droppings. THE DEALER [1st Dec 1974, Delhi, India] HO TEL RO O M IN INDIA [10th Jan 1974, Madras, India] Delhi, the city of dope and hope When you’re gambling with your money. Just another typical hotel room – Delhi, the city of folk and scope Bare light blue walls, and If you’re looking to make some money. The inevitable five speed fan, For money makes the living easy, A paint splattered mirror, Gives you a style that’s free and breezy; Six plastic, two broken, wall hangers, An air of confidence gained with rupees, And an energy saving 40w bulb. With an appearance that is rather freaky, You are as straight as the next man – Two wooden thin mattressed beds, Just a bit sneakier. check covered, plus a metal legged

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Paint chipped three-by-two pink clothed And just for a fleeting moment, table, I too, believe in it all. resting on a well swept smooth surfaced Grey concrete floor – makes it just MO SQ UITOES another typical hotel room in India. [17th Jan 1975, Pondicherry, India]

CLO CK Mosquito net billowing in the draft to [10th Jan 1974, Madras, India] form a door. A droning heard, increasing to high- At midnight, pointing northwards, pitched scream Heart beat steady, with a white face Within inches of my head. And then … And hands clasped together as in prayer – My paranoia begins that makes each hour They slowly part, to present us with Of the night an endless age without sleeps The beginning of another day. or rest. Each hour becomes a fear of death itself - A COW BATHES IN THE OCEAN Until by dawn, my enemies depart, each [15 Jan 1975, Pondicherry, India] one a winner in the game that rules their lives; Lonely palm trees, The game – survival. Empty-netted fishermen, White topped waves A FAR OFF SIGH And bobbing sail boats. [26th Jan 1975, Madurai, Tamil Nadu, India] Fly infested sand, Horizon forming clouds, I find looks matter not in this far off land. Long striding man, To groom oneself is, I am afraid, a And in she goes again. pointless task. Admiration is a far off thing that reaps no HARIJAN fruit; [15th Jan 1975, Pondicherry, India] A passing glance, a flirty smile – And always in the end, a far off sigh. Harijan woman, praying to the son of God, LETTER FRO M HO ME Jesus Christ. [26th Jan 1975, Madurai, Tamil Nadu, Harijan woman, religion means so much India] In your lower class. Devotion to an idea, to a super being Half a letter is better Has left you in the depths of the world. than one, or none; For if none, you have nothing, Lift up your head, But if one, you get one, For even I find it easy to be taken in But you never get one again, By the surroundings. As the last one Painted statuettes, and stain glass Left me with nothing to say windows, In the next one.

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THE GOOD SHIP SRI LANKA FIRST TIME FLYING [9th Feb 1975, Colombo] [21st Birthday, 25th Mar 1975, Jaffna- Colombo train, Sri Lanka] In the good old days of the king, Her maiden name was Ceylon – The sea forming into layers of skin – But when she had her complete refit Wrinkled, pitted, Sri Lanka was how she became known. Flashing, dying, Rising, flowing, Rocking gently afloat in the ocean, Pulsating, living, She stands the chance of running aground A thousand streams and rivers going – nowhere For she’s steered by Capt Bandiaranaike Foaming, falling, Who flies the red flag over the bow. Forming, folding layers, Of oceanic skin. She calls into Havana quite often, Each time the cargo the same – SWEAT But the hold is a bit on the small side [14th Apr 1975, Madras, India] And she must take on visits elsewhere. Sweat dripping from my forehead, Peking offers most for the Sri Lanka Streams and torrents rushing down, And her hold is really quite full – Until at last they reach my neck A rough sail northwards to Russia, And trickle down my spine. And leave Valdi low on her fuel. MONSOON RAIN Back in her home port of Colombo, [14th Apr 1975, Madras, India] Wheat, rice, and sugar shared out – There seems to be an overall shortage And the rain never ceases Though the crew look to be doing alright. Flash and smash And the heavens give a warning of DEAD BANANA FOR THE COWS A broken peace with the Gods. [25th Mar 1975, Tiruchirappali, India] But their anger never lasts As the train begins to slow – And in the end they shed a tear A sticky hand lets it go; To cleanse the wrongs of It hits the track all arms and legs A world that’s in their hearts. To lie prostrate in a manner Unbecoming to the dead. UNFURL THE DAWN [10th May 1975, Hydrabad, India] From a nearby filed, heads are raised – Blacks, browns, whites, greys, As the cockerel sounds reveille, Some with horns, and some with stripes, Nature hoists her flag – Their rolling tongues revealing thoughts Background greys, subdued rays Over which they’d fight. Cascading forth in spectrum To unfurl the dawn.

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THE FRO GGIES They really could cope, [10th May 1975, Hyrdrabad, India] Then all they’d be risking Are their watery hopes. All my friends are little froggies Who live in a pond, There are many more froggies And each little froggy And leaves in the pond, Lives in a world of his own, In parts that have been heard of Each has a green leaf And parts that have not – Which he calls as a home, So if each froggy has time In a pond where each froggy To come up to scratch, Is bored to the bone. The pond could become more Than just a green patch. Each froggy can swim But not as well as he leafs, PRESENT DAY And when he goes out [16th May 1975, Allahbad, India] It’s to a friend’s leaf, For his friends live close by Tomorrow is an endless waste And there’s no need to swim, Of shifting blue-moon sands So each little froggy hops Surrounding the thirsty man From leaf rim – to leaf rim. Who cannot drink From the worn well What goes under the pond Termed present day. Is a mystery to them, For they never go diving OH INDIA And in the end never learn; [16th May 1975, Allahbad, India] What happens beneath them Is of little concern, Oh India, oh India – To them all that matters I’d love to call you my own, Are their friends and themselves. So why do you all always ask me Where do I come from? So none of the froggies Care much for the pond, Oh India, oh India – Apart from the part I like you as my home, They’re particularly on – Yet sometimes I really wish But they don’t know that either, You’d leave me well alone. Because they don’t swim, So due to this failing Oh India, oh India – Their knowledge is thin. I want the love you’ve shown, But I fear the heartbreak’s come If the froggies went swimming And now this bird has flown. And dived down real deep, And left the security Oh India, oh India – Of all their green keeps, Parts of me still remain, To see if just briefly But when I return some future day

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It won’t be quite the same. Of tolling bells and near to distant voices.

JOHN LENNON’S AMSTERDAM Small boats rock [16th May 1975, Allahbad, India] In the wave of pleasure cruising vessels Avoiding shaven-headed swimming For me John Lennon’s Amsterdam was pilgrims. different, I didn’t spend all y time in bed, By the water’s edge I didn’t have a Yoko who could listen The last smouldering of embered fires, To all the things I had to leave unsaid. Each pyre, a loved one lost.

The tulips there were far from being The laments unceasing, pretty, The mourners wait patiently to torch They really looked as though they all Another funeral pile. were dead, I found the cafes were full of too much Darkness comes! One small spark, acid Heat and light Which had withered far too many tulip Reclaiming man to endless night. heads. NINE MONTHS of PENNING The diamonds no longer had their sparkle, [22nd May 1975, Benares, India] It’s glass beads the public were being fed, The jewellers there were all small-time This page is all that’s left to end chemists Nine months of pennings, and yet Whose stones turned many living into Not enough to catch the endless meaning dead. That lies within my mind.

The dykes of self-restraint had been For only time will free the mental tongue blown, To offer the words The kids were hanging on by a thread – for every context The wards were full of many flipped-out In the right degree. heroes Who were the only ones in Amsterdam in THE WALLS ARO UND ME bed. [22nd May 1975, Benares, India]

BY THE GANGES The walls around me have no shape – [18th May 1975, Benares, India] My memories keep me from my sleep;

The steps leading down to the river Reaching out – I find one left, Radiate more than a gentle warmth A striking match preludes its death. As dusk designs its fall. The room becomes a shady show - Three snowy geese The match goes out, the ciggy glows. Crack the incense air

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STONED ON HASHISH Look everywhere for that true friend. [17th June 1975, Peshawar, Pakistan] SHE SLAMMED THE DO O R My mind is bottled up like glue; [15th July 1975, Aathal, Switzerland] I’ve had too much – I think that’s true; My thoughts are sticking to my skull, She slammed the door, My tongue feels useless, dry and numb. And that was that – But a few hours later But what’s the use of using both, It really hit me that I needn’t think, or talk, or croak; More and more For all is here to look and watch – That slammed door The rising sun, a babbling brook. Had cracked the frame Of my pictured life. MIDSUMMER’S DAY, KABUL [20th June 1975, Kabul, Afghanistan] It left me nothing, Just completely numb, Midsummer’s day, and what a way to Just an empty nothing, spend it – Just a nothing, Eating alone, speaking in tones that Just nothing, reflect it. Nothing. Lying around, listening to sounds to forget it. Smoking a joint, reading of Quant, enjoying it. Drinking mint tea, scratching at fleas, regretting it – Till soon, the moon replaces, the sun’s bright face And brings on Midsummer’s night.

CARRY ON GIRL For Zindra Zita Skesteris [4th July 1975, Macou, Iran]

So carry on girl, And travel the world But make sure you find a true friend.

You may travel the world To all of its ends But you might never find a true friend.

So open your heart And let your love free

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CAN’T FIND THE BEACH

LO SS O F A BEST FRIEND Where are we going, [23rd July 1975, Edinburgh] What are we seeking, What are finding out about ourselves? The Royal Mile, and I smile – I’m back again. Who are we fighting, Nothing’s changed - ain’t that strange. Who are we kidding, Who are we really but ourselves? The music’s sweet o’er by Arthur’s Seat, Life’s rearranged – two of everything; Why don’t we know it, Gold wedding rings, the hope of little feet, Why don’t we show it, Him working hard; sending Christmas Why don’t we be just ourselves? Cards to her kin. SKIVVIES LAMENT (fragment) Tuesday’s washing day – [5th August 1975, Edinburgh] Nightly telly plays make life sadder, While his guitar lies idle, no longer I wash the dishes Vital to stop his decay into From seven till three – mediocrity. I scrub the pots, I make the tea. BUNNY For G THE FALL [26th July 1975, Glasgow] [14th Aug 1975, Queen’s Rd, Newcastle-u- Tyne] Blue-jersey woman with green dreaming eyes, The fall being early Chocolate brown hair, milky cream It was time to sweep thighs, The autumn leaves Silver tipped lashes, long strawberry nails, Into a pile. Black stockinet legs, and a fully puffed As the rain descended tail. Upon the bronzed stack With blackened tears WHY DON’T WE KNOW IT (song) And fading smile, [4th Aug 1975, Edinburgh] In hark’ning frosty nights Of frozen sleep, Why don’t we know it, Of warm less stars Why don’t we show it, And hostile owls. Why do we hold it to ourselves? For summer green had gone, What are our feelings, And ice-cream cones What are our reasons, Gave sway to hot broth soups What are we hiding from ourselves? For steaming colds, As time ticked by

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A little faster every day, And kills them stone dead; A little slower, In the darkness of winter As the evenings They meet a cold end, Long and lengthening, To lie prostrate at windows, Stretched on to winter. Cocooned – in cobwebs.

TWENTY O NE SHO E GIRL [1st Sept 1975, 10 Chester Cresc, [1st Sept 1975, Chester Cresc, Newcastle] Newcastle] Toe nails so large and red, Twenty one, and still a lad And on each foot a little ball Whose knowledge mounts to nothing less Of flabby skin, and worn out corns than nothingness. From constant use of shapeless shoes And flashy boots to impressed the vicar At twenty five, more a man, As he is on the outlook for a wife. Perhaps my knowledge will mount to nothing less than nothingness. PAY DAY [5th Sept 1975, Chester Cresc, Newcastle] At forty – that’s getting on, My knowledge will mount to nothing less Friday, pay day, some I dare say than nothingness. Feel it means much more than Just a day to have a few pints, The day I die, a child once more A dance, a winch, a quick bite My knowledge with be nothing less On a bag of chips before the night Than worthless. Sets in and the evening’s gone.

FLIES For it’s the weekend, no work tomorrow [1st Sept 1975, Chester Cresc, Newcastle] Morn, and guaranteed a good time With no going home as early as usual Flies leading a fuzzy summer life, On last orders … for finding ourselves Hopping and buzzing, Out on the street swaying slightly, Humming and flying, Yet still on our feet, looking for a party, And getting around to laying eggs, But with little hope unless a friend And eating at sores, Is on the know. And walking on floors, And dog shit, And she’s disappeared, the entertainment And dustbins, Stops – there is nothing left to And everything that smells. But stride it out on the homeward walk And think what might have been. But heat is a problem For these little pests, It singes their wings, It scotches their legs, It freezes their bodies

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PEOPLE LIKE YO U I’m not a reactionary – For Carol There are no real causes. [12th Sept 1976, Newcastle] There is - no government to overthrow; People like you are changing all the time. no army to fight; You now accept the dangerous marijuana,. no suppression; You talk of liberation at the front; no intimidation; You sip martinis, yet seem never to be no poverty; drunk; no racial disharmony. You drop the pill in case you might get This is the UK – fucked; Not farthest Africa. You lead a nice life – one day you’ll hit a rut; FORLORN People like you are changing all the time. [13th Sept 1975, Chester Crec, Newcastle)

CONTENTED 21 YEAR OLD ON I feel it coming on – TYNESIDE The urge to be forlorn [12th Sept 1975, Newcastle] And hopelessly lost and obscure So that no one understands a word, Why change? A time old question. Not one word of what I say. I’m happy as I am, Sitting every evening For if they did – My young wife at my arm. They’d say I’m wrong Or mad, or lock me up I’ve got a colour TV, For being different from what A kid in a pram, They think I really am. A dog that still needs weaning, And a cat I canna stand. So what I think, I think, And only now and then My job is really steady, Do other people learn No threat of laying off, Of what I’m thinking. I reckon when I’m sixty That’s time enough to stop. Only then is it someone special, Someone who will understand Meanwhile, the day’s tick by, Not what I say, One night’s like the next – But what I am. I’m really looking forward To taking my wife to bed. SEEING IT MY WAY [14th Sept 1975, Newcastle] THE FASCIST [13th Sept 1975, Newcastle] They said ‘Try to see it my way’, But I know I’ve tried that too. I’m not a revolutionary; I’ve tried to see it their way Today there are no revolutions. And found it’s not what’s in my head.

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I see their point, I understand LETTER TO MY MO THER But still I think I have better plans [15th Sept 1975, Newcastle] To live my life the way I see That I should. It’s like a maze, a garden full of images, The mind works fast, but the head just YOU KNOW WHAT I THINK drags For Ollie Its weary weight across the page. [14th Sept 1975, Newcastle] Perhaps, someday, in times to come Woman, full of understanding, I’ll just sit down, put up my feet, and You’ve lived abroad close my eyes And still you’re only twenty. And think before I fall asleep You say you’re always free, Everything I wish to say. You want to head out East And see old India – I think that’s …. And bang! When my piece is said, Well, you know what I think. I’ll have a long tape of all my thoughts Ready just to stamp and post You spend your time with men And sent to you. And you have no lady friends, You have a little flat, so BLIND CONVERSATION It’s not so hard to get away [16th Sept – 20th Oct 1975, Newcastle] To be alone. I think that’s …. Well, you know what I think. I feel words say little and not enough. I imagine the flickering of an eyelid You like to get around, Can convey a truer, fuller meaning And keep your eyes up, Of what I should have said You always smile and wear the clothes But for which I couldn’t find the words. which haven’t yet come into style, you feel your international; An eye for an eye - I think that’s …. And yet the quickest briefest insight Well, you’re breaking my heart. Can split the heart asunder And pale the stoutest fellow THE ART O F LO VE To a mediocre fool. [15th Sept 1975, Newcastle] In this kaleidoscopic world, The art comes from being apart, Inside a maze of optic mind, Keeping from falling over heels Beyond the sight of all the blind – And ending on your knees Words don’t say it all. So that the music no longer plays At the same speed THE NIGHT TIME BUZZ As your poor old heart. [7th Oct 1975, Newcastle]

The night time buzz Of humming lights and fridges,

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Of clicking clocks and hinges To help himself, Creaking in the draught. When the deal he’s getting is raw, The mellowed moans And more than just Of melting fires, A petty useless squabble - Of circling hawks, Of chiming churches, While an anonymous somebody, The watery hush In an obscure and grubby Of dock land tugs and foggy horns Paper strewn office in some Of rumbling cars Hitherto anonymous government lobby over mumbling manholes Goes on a power trip - Carrying through the dark. And brands your friend THE SPIDER O F LO VE A red, or fascist pig, [12th Oct 1975, Newcastle] And locks him up!

I try and I try again, Would it be just another friend Perhaps another time - Forgotten, and a friend abandoned? The sorrow is just a passing Would you be a friend to a friend Phase of consciousness. who speaks out, breaks the law?

It will pass tomorrow, ART Or the next day, [4th Nov 1975, Larkspur Terr, Newcastle] Providing not much thought is spent in useless channelled trains Art? Now that’s a subject Of pointless reminiscence. Wide and vast, Pointless, fruitless, I will try again Classed as wasteful And hang my past. By the tactless, thoughtless Senseless individuals TIME TO GO Of artless minds [12th Oct 1975, Newcastle] And stone cold hearts.

I’ll see you to the door – WALLFLO WER It’s time to go, [9th Nov 1975, Newcastle] Though the music’s still playing, And the dope is still lying They all think they’re great here – Somewhere between Living in style, On the floor. Hitting the straight parties, Getting the odd smile, INTERNMENT Knowing a few people, [20th Oct 1975, Newcastle] Thinking it’s enough To get themselves by with Would you be a friend But not out the rut. To a friend who breaks the law?

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AMNESTY DAY KEEP CITIES PO LLUTED [11th Nov 1975, Newcastle] [14th Nov 1975, Newcastle]

Amnesty Day – Big city liver, It’s about front lines, The rest, just won’t forgive you And trenches deep For being brought up And full of mud – Where they never had the chance Where soldiers died, To sample and feel Where few survived The city’s inbred arrogance To pick red poppies. For them, the country bums And small town weeds. The sad red poppies, Still blooming after fifty seven years, But big city liver, With the world still fighting Don’t you worry one hit, To shed it’s warped fears – The pigs aren’t worth it, Right and Left still killing They know nothing of your ways – To erase the other’s ideas. They breathe through their noses, And complain about the air. While the soldiers remember, But what do they know? With scarred eyes, Let them all go back Crippled sighs, To their small time snares. Tortured cries, And march, WHY ARE WE DIFFERENT? To shed their last tears [4th Dec 1975, Newcastle] For the senseless agony, Of wasted lives, Why are we all different? Of wasted lives. I sometimes feel ashamed To think that I might think faster ASCOT GOLD CUP CHASE Than my closest friend. [14th Nov 1975, Newcastle] She’s supposed to understand me, The Black and White whiskey Gold Cup But really never does … Chase, I’m frightened to admit it And how many Ascot gentlemen In case it causes hurt. Are already one over the eight On yet another great outing of hats, I MIGHT HAVE GOT IT WRONG Bobbing heads, and mounted mares; [4th Dec 1975, Newcastle] As Easby Abbey, the odds on favourite Flashing by – a cert – the nagging doubts Who’s right? I guess it isn’t me, Of taking a tumble forgotten No by heck, it isn’t me. As she takes the last fence For what on earth can I be sure of And romps home by a clear length When today, I know it, and tomorrow To the cheers of ‘Well done, girl!’ I’ve forgotten it, yet in between, By her backers at the post. I might have got it wrong.

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A STAGE SHE’S GOING THROUGH Eventually shows itself to me by [8th Dec 1975, Newcastle] What you say and do to make me understand She goes on and on, Your inner self as well as you do. Nagging all the time – It drives me mad, I CAN’T FIND THE BEACH She’s pushing me with her voice [24th Dec 1975, Newcastle] To the edge of sanity. I’m feeling high and dry, She feels she’s being had Though my feet are on the bottom As a fool. What can I do And the waves are winding past my ears; But treat this present hell as a stage For sure I’m not drowning, She’s going through out of love I’m swimming, For me. But I can’t find the beach.

PROFOUND WORDS WE ALL HAVE DOUBTS [21st Dec 1975, Newcastle] [9th Jan 1976, Newcastle]

For once I’ve found some truth – We all have doubts. No more lies to hide behind, I expect each of us has felt No more twisted minds in battle That moment when the world Hell-bent in gaining superiority. Has seemed a place that has no point Of being in existence but to infinitely Being myself, untied and loose to find Serve the cause of birth and death. A way of being great with myself – Free to choose the options without force WHISPERING WINDS From sources pure in life. [3rd Feb 1976, Newcastle]

Saying yes and no - Whistling, whispering winds, without the doubt of being wrong Wynd through the weary winter months; reaching deep within myself Till spring appears in showers to give advice and keep the peace; And dreamy snowdrops shyly sheltered help the helpless help themselves; ‘neath the crooked., twisted boughs feed starving minds with profound words. And budding apple blossom branches – Half in shifting shadow or luke warm sun, UPS AND DOWNS The clouds meander quietly by … [24th Dec 1975, Newcastle] The silence broken by a blackbird’s cry.

The ups and downs, ins and outs LACK O F HEART Though our minds, lost in words, [9th Feb 1976, Newcastle] Trying hard to cope with life. Thought to brain, Who trusts who? I don’t know – Conscience holding back, I guess I feel my way until the trust Frustrating all my senses,

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Restricting me to facts. From the day that’s gone. I can’t imagine, or Invent my own space. MISGIVINGS [20th Mar 1976, Larkspur Terr, Space to earth, Newcastle] Gravity pulling hard, Like the white stallions Not a happy day would pass Tethered in my head – Without containing an unhappy hour. Reined by experience And a lack of heart. Not an inch be gained with out a fight About our stupid self-centred, narrow LO VE Pig-headed beliefs. [3rd Mar 1976, Stell Green, N’berland] No room for change, Love is …. No sun to make the buds bloom forth What need I say that hasn’t found its way To show their hidden colours. On to the lips of all past and present lovers No concrete legs of understanding Who have trod the road of passion. To give support to our towering problems. But love forever changes, Hearts stay golden, the harvest ripens No compromise to our needs or wants, Until the winter comes and the snows But cries of selfishness to chill the ears. begin To freeze a love that rarely stays. No basis, no reality. No contentment, no fantasy. ANNIE No present, no future, just past. [8th Mar 1976, Newcastle] No hope, no faith, Annie, you’ve drained my soul No trust, no love, just hate. And my hope has gone And left me empty, AT THE CROSSROADS But much at peace. For Chrissie Brown [21st March 1976, Newcastle] Our ties are broken, Our strings have finally fouled, Such a long and ponderous time, And yet, our parting words How the years fly by, Were on the soft side How the memory takes a jolt Of our senseless speech. When confronted by a friend Who’s just blown in. I feel the need to say more, But I think it’s best And still the ease with which To leave things as they stand – The words flow off – Tomorrow may hold a different look No sticky ‘How are you?’,

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But something warm and touching, Back behind the wheel, Tender beyond the smallest flicker. Rain driving down, Wipers waving through the spray How I’d missed the presence Of heavy laden trucks. Of a stretching past – Not a new and freshly found acquaintance, LIGHT But a friend who’s had her changes [26th Mar 1976?, Newcastle] Close to mine. Rays of changing scenes, How the world seems a different place – transcending all the pasts, Not as transient, and ever changing Bringing forth a view, As life might suggest – haloed in a sheen, as to last, That people pass, stop awhile, but fading on to new And wander on. and brighter flashing paths. Time winds its hand around Every path that leads away has a its fleeting shafts, crossroads. To cause a change. There lies the choice – The smooth surfaced track of POPULAR conformity, [3rd Apr 1976, Newcastle] or to take off on the rough and tumble bandit ridden road. One day you are nothing, Then it all clicks with all How the years fly by – the dudes around you, And rough and tumble road that your company, somehow Finds friends waiting at the crossroads. really gives them kicks.

SINGER IN A BAND How long will it last? [23rd Mar 1976, Newcastle] A couple of hours? A number of days? Singer with a band, a merry life? Several weeks? Riding round the towns, In and out the bars, Or will it be back Just to make a few bob. To the old type of life, the ordinary every-day bum, Knocking back the jars, who shares in the laughs, Entertaining hard to please punters has fun for awhile. Who think the know a star When the see one. Your company once vibrant, Exciting, unstyled – On the road again, Becomes to the dudes Sleeping in the van for a few hours, Like a disinterested smile – Crowding over a coffee Something returned with a frown. As the night turns to dawn.

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THE BOSS [5th Apr 1976, Newcastle]

He doesn’t care about his minions, He hasn’t time for their opinions, He treats them all as if they’re shit, Or worthless useless bits – Of maladjusted and illiterate scum Who work for him – the boss; A jumped up, two faced, cunt and bastard, No good bum.

RO NNIE [2nd May 1976, Newcastle]

Two children, and ten years later With still no sign Of being a bitter life hater. Only the smile of a beautiful lady, Capturing the heart Of her much younger playmate.

PO ETS DREAM [9th June 1976, Newcastle]

Poets dream of a better life, Of lovers flocking to their side In hope of some laughs and smiles To balance up their minds Of tumbled, broken, hard-luck times.

Lovers wait for their poets To make the sun shine, Make life fun and understandable. They give their love - while poets dream of a better life And not of them.

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ROAD TO AFRICA

HULL [11th Aug 1976, Hull-Rotterdam Ferry] That since Amun’s time has crumbled, decayed; Here to find ourselves alone The memories of Karnak, the pillars, the Aboard a ship – lake – Here to find ourselves once more Thebes and the heights its dynasty once In life, adrift. scaled.

ROMA THE VALLEY O F THE DEAD [19th Aug 1976, Brindisi, Italy] [? Sept 1976, Luxor, Egypt]

Roma, a city in ruins – Sun peeking over the horizon, Incomplete on many levels. And extendable Marks and Sparks Roma, built on empires – umbrella along for the shade. Now a mound of crumbling earth. Roma, the tourist’s nectar – A wooden boat with inboard motor Rip-off merchant’s ten-a-penny. Ferrying me across the Nile. Roma, the Christian’s Mecca, For those who kiss the ring. Eight miles to the Valley of the Dead, Primeval villages like disused cannons TWA FLIGHT MEAL To the left and right. [29th Aug 1976, Athens-Cairo flight] Near the Valley entrance, stopping, listening, A cold meal of turkey, fish, cheese on The barren rock, surrounding semi-desert bread, Devoid of vegetation – the air still, One mushroom, a tomato, an olive, a Nothingness. sprinkle of parsley, followed by coffee - No birds, no breeze, Orange juice served before - Nothing – only silence. Coca-cola served after to wash it down. A piece of cherry cake to round it off. A complete emptiness; LUXOR A world of non-existent life, the dead Shadowless, whisperless reaching out [2nd Sept 1976, Luxor, Egypt] To touch the fingertips of the living. The journey to Luxor a trip and a ride, The silence disturbing – the burning sun, That took me one day from Cairo by Heavy breathing, lungs in gasps for air, train. Reminding the living, of life. I arrived at the heart of the Pharaoh’s domain

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O N THE NILE On the bank the trees grew, [9th Sept 1976, Aswan Dam, Egypt] Tall and straight, and wild.

Lying on the roof of a flat-topped paddle We chugged on through the jungle, steamer A thousand miles in length – With the sun an hour to set. Steaming out of rain storms, The Arabs wait patiently to eat – Steering round long bends. One idly chops salad for the daily end to Ramadan, EVERYO NE’S CO MPLETELY While pennywhistle music heats the SMASHED humid air. [24th Oct 1976, Kappoeta, Sahel, Sudan]

Irritated chatter fills the pauses between From Khartoum, up to Kathmandu, The banging noise of the cattle loading, From Kabul, down to Kinshasa – Heavy footsteps weigh the gangway; Everyone is blowing grass, With a last minute toot, Everyone is wrecked on hash, Tyres screech on the hot sand, produce Everyone’s completely smashed passengers. On ganja, bang and charis.

Over to the east in contrast to the dying DEATH O F SUMMER sun – [3rd Nov 1976, Lokichogio, Turkana, The silver of the rising full moon; Kenya] The water calm, a tickling wind Stretches out its rippled surface skin Let me take you in my hand As the battered smoke-stack issues forth Through the fields of slaughter – Its chronic scarring black to the ancient Past the years of uncut grass chug of an empire worn Perkins engine, Down the path of slumber – The ferry drags its wooden slated paddle Onwards to the days of breath through the thick Nile mud. Beyond a given number – To seek a meeting with your death, UPPER NILE A slow and crippling murder – [23rd Sept 1976, south of Kosti, Sudan] At the jaws of Winter’s cur, Cruel, deceiving Autumn. The brown and sombre Nile; Its smile now gone, Until your life is squeezed and crushed, Its weeds floating thick – Your green a conquered black – Its hyacinths, until your gentle, soft caress Scabbing at the shore. is stilled by Autumn’s bark – until the point your light of day UP THE NILE is cut by Winter’s dark – [2nd Oct 1976, The Sudd, Sudan] until at last your breath is cold, your body white, your stare is stark. We were paddling on a boat Up the river Nile,

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O UT O F THE DESERT Gave him malaria [26th Nov 1976, Kitale, Kenya] But straightened his aims; He saw the new sunrise Stepping from the innocent wilderness As a dream he’d slept through; Into the concrete jungle of sophisticated, Finally, he realised Wheeling dealing downtown Kitale. What it was he should do.

Just tripping on nightclubs, bars, and loose He went back to the concrete, women; The jungle, the race – Spade-type suits on henchman type dudes Cut at his hair, Fast talking, moving, jiving people, Shaved at his face, Zipping, zooning, zapping evil. Held down a job, Married his hell – Hitting the beers, crashing the ash, Then steeped in the boredom Splashing the cash, living real flash Withdrew into his shell. - just amazing. But then came an explosion Stepping from the bush into the concrete And wrecked him again, jungle When he started to think Of downtown Kitale. ‘Christ where will this end? I’m heading for nowhere, THE HITCHHIKER Got to get off my ass!’ [10th Jan 1977, Livingstone, Zambia] So he abandoned his wife, His three kids, packed up his bags. There was young hiker Who was sick to the teeth, ‘But where will I go?’ So he hitched across Europe he asked of himself – To the Indian truth – ‘India’s no mystery, He searched for a guru and Africa’s the past.’ But instead found himself, He looked to the sky – Then returned to the concrete ‘I’ll reach for the stars! Contended, but with little else. I’ll future the cosmos, Find galactic highs!’ He went back to his habits Of dope, beer and bed; While down on the earth Signed on the dole - His children played on, Felt it was good for his health, His wife cried in sorrow, Met a young woman For her husband was gone – Who gave him sheer hell, As two men in white coats Until having enough – Led him away, He trucked off, sick once again. To a straight-jacket life And a world of grey. The desire for change In the African vein,

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BLACK SUNRISE Down and out without a cent – [27th Jan 1977, Johannesburg, South Temptation is trying to make me bent. Africa] I’m trying hard to play it straight – Hell knows when I’ll get that break So Soweto finally broke the chains of To take me back on the road – bondage, To happiness and freedom. My bonnie yappies. Its made you think that blacks aren’t TUT-TUT IN THE VALLETY O F THE happy being slaves. KINGS And soon you better watch out for those [April 1977, Johannesburg, South Africa] Militant kaffirs; For once Zimbabwe’s free, your slaves are (i)The Tomb next to be the new world braves. Sixty discovered, six open LYING PO ETS To the eroding steps of visitors. [7th March 1977, Johannesburg, South Biban el Muluk, Tutankamun’s the Africa] smallest. Dug deep into the bedrock, The words issue forth like tumbling Downwards carved a hundred feet. waterfalls, Downward steps – passing faded As alliteration allures additively in every Coloured wall-crafted hieroglyphics; situation. The dark enclosing – finally opening Yet all the phrases uttered in despair Into the burial chamber, the sarcophagus Are hardly compensated by the semantics That housed the Pharaoh and his wealth aired Before the robbers came and stripped By the university educated bard – who’s The tomb of its priceless treasures. never Experienced life as hard, and tough, and To take to Cairo, Paris, London. shitty New York, Tokyo – around the world Beyond real words – who’s never hit rock Several times and back. bottom, Or been disturbed beyond the frivolous The tomb now bare – the stone nice sounding sarcophagus lines made neat, and trim, and pretty one Empty – the Pharaoh snatched to hundred decompose, times rewritten until the message dies – Consumed by jet lag. and all that’s left are metered rhymes and stanzas of (ii) The God Of Afterlife Ignored premeditated lies.

DOWN AND OUT Osiris shed a tear for another lost one. [7th Mar 1977, Johannesburg, South Curse that Carter – and cursed he was, Africa] Fooling himself he acted for posterity.

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The bandwagon-haggling over artefacts, If I could I’d leave, While selfishly unconcerned about the So don’t act smart! spiritual – unlike Osiris. ‘Cause if you do, I’ll knock you, Jack! The cultured always fool themselves. They are no better than the looters Get off my back! Of the millenniums, the robbers spurned Before I knock you, Jack! by greed, Jabbing horses sides like Spaniards – ITS JUST NO T LIKE HO ME Eyes turned green by gold – the heart left [23rd April 1977, Newcastle, England] Untouched – their spirits cheaply bartered. Goodbye Johannesburg, South Africa, Hello, Europe, England – I’m back. (iii) The Left Overs Nice to see you all again.

In the chamber the Pharaoh’s biography Would you like to sip my African wine? remains. It’s none of your shitty stuff. But gee, it’s nice to be back. Endless rows of figures on the walls – A lifetime’s work by the artists of How’s things? Snow, colds, Karnak. unemployment? I wonder at their devotion for their king, Inflation and no hash? Dearie me! Each artist unaware that their descendants It’s still nice to be back – Africa was fine Would reflect and wonder at their work. But it’s just not home.

They, by time worn acclaim, are successful; They, the artists are immortal - Not just Anubis, Apis and Aten.

GET O FF MY BACK (song) [20th Apr 1977, Johannesburg, South Africa]

Get off my back! I can’t stand your laugh. Get off my back! Before I knock you, Jack!

I can’t pay my rent, I would pay every cent, I’m out of work, I’m out of luck.

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ROAD TO SOUTH AMERICA

SATURDAY NIGHT [21st May 1977, Newcastle] The women leaving, the guys Drinking on the dog-end dregs. Saturday night highlight – Going to the pub and getting drunk, I guess it’s home, nothing left Involved in the gossip To make a stay worthwhile; Of who slept with who last night. Anyone I know? Nope … No one living down my way. Yet it all seems normal, The talks polite, the introductions Heading up the road, black cats formal, Staring from high walls – With occasional hints of boredom, Front door key – Saturday night Overshadowing the party still to come. And going home to bed, alone.

Outside – a cloudy night - RO SIE Ringing footsteps find the right house, [29th May 1977, Newcastle] Give a knock, someone opens up To let us in. Rosie, novocastrian liverpudlian, Stare intent, smile forgiving, The music is blaring, party-goers Wanting nothing else Standing, leaning, dancing, moving – But to give yourself Smiles all around – And keep on giving. It’s nice to see the usual faces. THREE WAY AFFAIR Have you got a drink? [4th Jun 1977, Newcastle] I never got round to bringing a bottle. I like the music – Really dig this chick, Fancy letting go and having a jig? But my best friend’s in the way. Every time we look, You’re moving well – how come His shadow lurks, as if to say – You haven’t been around for ages? Been away somewhere? ‘Please I am a nice guy, Still working in the city, maybe? Please don’t hurt me in this way, I met her first. Really out of touch …. So let me have this break – I lost out on that encounter – Approaching others, but the phrases I’m sure she’s going to love me, Are wearing thin. If you give me time to make Her understand my love. Got a light? Please do it for my sake.’ Hell, it’s really getting late –

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How can I tell him? I got kind of drunk last night, Should I tell him straight? Ended up standing out in the crowd. Should I really let the chick Know the situation - DYING FOR A CAUSE [12th June 1977, Newcastle] How we’ve come entangled In a three way love affair – As a realist viewing the world, Where we lovers are kept apart He didn’t understand, By my best friend’s stare. The subtleties of nature And its wandering roving hand – AFTER THE Q UEEN’S JUBILEE (song) He didn’t have intuition, [8th Jun 1977, Newcastle] He didn’t have much at all, He didn’t know the proverb – I got kind of drunk last night, Pride before a fall. Ended up standing out in the crowd. I usually blend in with the scene, And down and down he tumbled, But last night I freaked out Hurting all the way, And ended up using foul language, The realist lost to nature, Gyrating my body quite obscenely. Nature had its say – He developed inhibitions, Everybody laughed, or looked the other He dwelt on foolish dreams, way, He believed in foolish ideas Some played along, I was doing the And idiotic schemes. entertaining Being a one man cavalcade, As realist, now idealist Being a one man cavalcade. On the absurdities of life, A semi-politician Earlier, everything had gone right, Who sanctified all strife – Then I met this chick who told me He now had intuition, I knew nothing – I just didn’t understand, He had it all to give – So I said ‘To hell! Screw you!’ Yet foolishly he’d forgotten Why it was he lived. I went on the booze, became degrading, Knocked holes in egos, screamed at the NO T Q UITE A FEMINIST band – For Caroline Everyone thought I was another punk [21st Aug 1977, Newcastle] rocker, Some even thought I was a New Wave A woman in search of the mystic, shocker, Bar what she’s already found To be non-existent. Then I met another drunk – She was also doing some screaming, A woman who love to live, I swayed in her direction, And is loved for living And we found ourselves competing. By the ones who have nothing to give.

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A woman surrounded by the weak, Are we not compassionate gardeners? The boys, the little crying babies, Let us brush aside our dock leaves, The mediocre and the meek. And leave the roses to the weak at heart.

A woman who wants a man, LEAVING NEWCASTLE To hack down the weeds [9th Sep 1977, Newcastle] And face her with her garden. Granville, our days are almost over, A woman with a need - I turn to Stockton in despair, That none can fill Yet London lingers in my thoughts, While her heart bleeds. My heart, belongs there.

WE PICTURED O URSELVES I’m tossed between three homes – For Diana One is old, one is new, and one [30th Aug 1977, Newcastle] Is where I want to be – Time will make it clear. We pictured ourselves in a beautiful garden THE RO AD TO WHERE? Where only the ones who saw beauty in [1st Dec 1977, Newcastle] nettles Saw beauty they could handle. Fucked up again, Is it expression or pain Too many stings have smitten our That brings the tears pouring down. gardeners. Screwed in the head , They shy, turning to their roses – The body’s a mess, To the beauty of delicate petals they Feeling that life’s a pointless end. fatally damage. Strange. Where to begin on the road – Yet we know differently; how not to be The road? stung. The road to where? Those wonderful nettles – caress them gently, WHY DO WOMEN TAKE MY BODY Let their acids - not burn. [28th Dec 1977, Newcastle]

It’s said they smother the roses. Why do women take my body Ah, those poor roses! Need we feel their And squeeze the life that’s left, pain? Suck on the juice of living Fertile upon the finest soil. Till I lie here soaked in sweat; They’re not content to listen, If the roses cannot fight should they Or be mastered by the tongue – survive? They’d rather be roughly ridden Why must the nettles be uprooted, Than have their praises sung. Cast aside, and left to die?

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They crave for my attention – and sliding the gruel over the splatter My smile, my wit, my guile, marked counter, Behind their coy expressions, she said – ‘Five pence a mug, luv. Hope Their passion’s running wild; that you like it.’ They lie against my shoulder And cry of love affairs, MAKING CO NNECTIO NS I turn gently to caress them [30th Apr 1978, Port of Spain, Trinidad] In their apparent teared despair. The usual waiting …… And more they cry for loving, Travelling is usually waiting, And more and more and more – For the next bus, or boat, My smile, my wit forgotten, Or even plane if you’re not broke. It’s lust they’re craving for; That’s why they take my body Waiting for that next ride, And squeeze the life that’s left, To move you on to something new. Suck on the juice of living Till I lie there soaked in sweat. Then waiting once again, For the next bus, or boat, CAROL Or even plane – once you’re bored. [25th Jan 1978, Newcastle] When the new has passed to old, She’s tearing up my mind And the penalty of boredom, By being so hard – Is to wait anew. Yet she doesn’t know What she’s doing at times. GUYANA (song) [5th May 1978, Georgetown, Guyana] Her mind is fixed In one track – We don’t have no soap for our hair, And her confusion We don’t have no salt for our peanuts, Brings a blank. We don’t have no milk for our children, Heh, tell me what’s wrong with Guyana? THE BUS DEPO T CANTEEN [March 1978, Wheatsheaf, Sunderland] We don’t have no glass for our windows, We don’t have no bowls for our toilets, She fished out a tea-bag from a metal We don’t have no books for our libraries, biscuit box, Heh, tell me what’s wrong with Guyana? And threw it into a brown ringed-stained mug. We don’t have no jobs for our Indians, She poured stewed water over the top, We don’t have no smile for our Negroes, Till the tea-bag surfaced in a splutter and We don’t have nothing for our cough. Amerindians, Then drenched in long-life sickly milk, Heh, tell me what’s wrong with Guyana? she shovelled in sugar to thicken it further,

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LIFE’S HARD ON THE ROAD O LD MAN ATLANTIC [6th May 1978, New Nickerie, Surinam] [30th May 1978, North Brasil]

Life’s hard on the road – The beautiful sea, his waved greying top, The pennies jingling, Combed by the breeze, uncurling his The notes jaded, crumpled, torn; knots, A back pocket as a wallet Bleached by the sun, his last golden locks, In a pair of jeans, Swept back from his brow by the bow. Faded, creased and worn. AMAZONAS THE BANKS OF THE OYAPOCK [1st Jun 1978, River Amazon, Brasil] [15th May 1978, Saint George, Guyana- Brazil] Sweet waters of the Amazonas, The Rio Negro makes you smooth, By the banks of the Oyapock, And darks your brown – The Amazon growth – matted and wild, While by your shores the rubber trickles, The Indians undiscovered by white men, The crocodiles slither, Cast their nets for the fish in the night. The toucans hang your jungle With myriad sound. By the banks of the Oyapock, The dug-out canoes – graceful and still, Sweet waters of the Amazonas, The Indians, figures outlined in the Mankind intends to cleanse his wrongs, moonlight, And pollute you black – Haul their nets for the fish in the night. While by your shore the oil trickles, The chemicals slither, By the banks of the Oyapock, The factories slake your jungle The silvery glint – thrashing and tied, With concrete slag. The Indians, white teeth gleaming in knowledge, THE GIRL FRO M IPANEMA That their nets provide for the tribe. [22nd Jun 1978, Rio de Janeiro, Brasil]

PLAIN SAILING Where was that girl? [28 May 1978, Securiju, Brasil] I looked on Ipanema; But all I saw …. Give me rough sea, the gathering cloud, Was hazy Corcovado, The wind, the wail of the scavenging gull; With Christ, outstretched arms The sail full sheet, the waves breaking Looking too. aft, The cracking of timber, the sway of the COCA LEAVES mast. [15th Jul 1978, Cochabamba, Bolivia]

Leaves of broken green and acrid taste, Grinded by an eager jaw on ragged teeth,

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Sucked by numbed out tongue in vain The shadow of tyrants. relief. You shall remove them, Did Christ take the cross for cocaine’s So your old men sins? Can straighten Black cat on the prowl, doing the rounds, Heightened by your youth. Razors out his lines in double vision, Counts one, two, and three in mild You shall succeed. derision. Teach your children Did Christ take the cross for cocaine’s To know the value sins. Of freedom, And open speech. SOUTH AMERICAN GUNSHOTS [18th July 1978, La Paz, Bolivia] For you all know, That in a lifetime, Politics of the heart, One revolution is enough. Emotion of a sort, Expressed in an action CONDOR Of violence, [19th Jul 1978, La Paz, Bolivia] Against the negation of words. Wingless condor in a windless day, As the young cry. Carrying wishful messages of peace Freedom of thought. Across the desert plains, Freedom’s what they want, Passing through the door of sun, Not chains, Diving down to Titicaca’s shore, Not a dictator’s bonding laws. Where once the Spaniards came In quest of gold. Rise up in anger, Destroy all the fear, FIESTA Tear down the national flag. [29th Jul 1978, Chalhuanca, Peru] It’s slavery Not justice that you have. Trumpet and horn, While drumming along, Burn down the palace While natives in bowlers, Drag out the minions. Dance in circles together, Hang every single one Keeping time with a bottle On lamp posts. That’s keeling them over – Finish them all off. As they sway down the street, The fiesta continues For you need change. Far into the night. To bury the loss Of those years of dark, Of youth wasted, Your fathers humbled.

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COLOMBIAN COPS AIN’T SO BAD I care nothing for my freedom, [10th Aug 1978, Guayaquil, Ecuador] I’ve given up the fight.

It was a heavy situation, Tomorrow will bring nothing, Cloak and daggered, Tonight I die alone. Whips at the ready, Tonight I take my own life, Cops soon on hand to drag us For which I shall not mourn. Down to the station And beat us up. So do not pity suicide, It glorifies the act; But it turned into a joke Forget I died of hunger Of Keystone humour – And be nourished by that fact. Good natured captain Lounging behind a large wooden desk OLD MAN ON A PARK BENCH In off-hand manner, [28th Aug 1978, Port Obaldia, Panama] Letting us depart with a waving finger, And a word in our ears Blow blossom, blow wind About behaving ourselves. Through the trees of the mind. Blow helpless, blow gently, We, all smiles and chuckles, Scatter leaves on my past. Relieved at our freedom, Went skipping into the sun filled day; Hush quickly, hush quietly, Praising justice, The autumn returned – Extolling liberty, Coat softly, coat velvet, Thankful at our skill The pains of gone love. To tell bold lies, Agreeing they should have locked us up For the wind howls swiftly Just the same. Over crab-crinkled boughs, Gathering the seasons, SUICIDE ACT While beginning to plough [22nd Aug 1978, Turbo, Colombia] The past into future, Stuck between the going on, The past’s scattered leaves, And the point of no return. Helplessly blown Held up, broke and hungry, In an attempt to deceive With little hope of moving on. The old man’s own memory I have no chance of catching Of what was before. The shadows in the night, A clarity of reason Exchanging hope for despair That sensibility has bourn - I’ve lost all my rights. To make the old man For I’m nothing without my courage, Remember an age My will to combat life. Of romance, emotions

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Of passionate rage – His deck was salt-stained.

That since then has gone But he lay on his bunk, And left him to gaze Rolling the waves – At Spring’s falling blossom, In the safety of harbour Rather sadly replaced - In a pacific coast bay.

By hazes of old age I watched on as first mate In its last final blaze, As my captain declined, The slumber of waiting, And I felt growing anger A solitary wait, In the seas of my mind.

For the wind to come rushing, I unslung my hammock, To silence the birds, And we then parted ways, Hushing a stillness, I shipped out of harbour A murmur of words – Of that Pacific coast bay.

Blowing blossom, blowing wind I gazed back at the Princess, Through the trees of the mind. The captain’s doomed ship, Hushing quickly, hushing quietly, And watched to my horror The thoughts of old time. As she began to side-slip.

YOUNG CAPTAIN COSMOS I saw young Captain Cosmos [7th Sep 1978, Taboga Isle, Gulf of Erect at the bow, Panama] As the Princess keeled over And finally went down. I supposed him an old sea-dog Hit by hard times – I supposed him an old sea-dog But he turned into a captain, Hit by hard tides – Harbour locked by design. But he turned into a captain Harbour locked for all time. He was the youngest afloat The Pacific sea-board, BELIEFS But time was fast gaining [12th Sep 1978, Panama City] On his barnacled boat. When the pages of one’s life, Oh young Captain Cosmos, Blow out the window, Just wasted away – Bourn by a storm that’s raging – He’d deserted the wind, And traded the waves. The feeling that the heart Stops ticking - His sails needed mending, And the damage to the mind they’re The anchor a new chain, leaving The hull wanted painting,

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Is not relieved by forgetting With the rising, inner wanting, - A loss - Tempered with a sexual longing, That’s not regained by recollecting. Frustrating ever haunting, For the release of nature’s giving SCANDAL MONGERING That symbolises man. [14th Sep 1978, Panama City] For without woman’s coupled body, May I stop to curse the dawn Deemed as instrumental normal, Of evil thoughts and abject wrongs, He turns an inner dwelling, Raised against her noble head. To a sin that’s only mortal That typifies all men. For me, she is the one I love And no one in the depth of anger PARTING Shall wrought lies in sweet revenge. [18th Sep 1978, Panama]

For I am the protector of my maiden’s When the love flows over and out, honour, And down beyond the edges, For in my bosom rests my To the limits of restraint. Maiden’s heart. When the longing for desire departs, CREATIVITY And loses all momentum [15th Sep 1978, Taboga, Panama] Beneath the pain.

Night draws in – and the artist lost in ink, When rejection of well meant intention, Little knowing where the next stroke Is spurned and hurled backwards Will lead his thought. As abuse.

His imagination, once so immersed in Then it’s time to burn the bridges of reality approach, Now quickly altered to flounder And retreat in hasty action of divorce, momentarily in the dark. Before the massacre ensues.

The light and vision of his work, Lost beneath a wave of endless new frightening possibilities.

SELF INDULGENCE [17th Sep 1978, Panama City]

The erect penis, and the steady hand, Teasing, squeezing, stroking, Extracting warming juices, With a fragrance mutely floating, Across the barrier of man.

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ROAD TO THE AMERICAS

THE AFRICAN GIRL And life quite simply nut-shelled as – For Carol Woodruff A house, a job, a car. [28th Sep 1978, Newcastle] LO VE HUMANISES From the mountains of Morocco, [2nd Nov 1978, Newcastle] she came garnished in sea shells, with a smile to stir the waves Love straddles the body on to the pounding English shore. And empties the thoughts Of all other idle curiosities To the bleak moors of Northumberland, Regarding life. She went to be tarnished by the cold winds, Love encompasses the being Made bitter by an east-chill Like a shrouding mist, So typical of home. And envelops in its veil A cloak of secrecy. And there banished in a northern field, She cried – her tears evoking Love embellishes the heart a song bird to softly lullaby With gentle tears, her Moorish sighs. For tender reminiscences Of lovers in the past. THE SYSTEM [26th Oct 1978, Newcastle] Love humanises the soul In enlightenment, Existing, more than just, And opens up the void Living with a lust for life, To show compassion. Greater than the forces out to hinder and restrain, THE GIRL IN THE PONCHO The progress of the questing mind – [9th Nov 1978, Newcastle]

Going beyond the boundaries of You breezed into my life about noon, conditioning, And asked if you could without being Forced upon the individual by a prude, benefactor Take my dog for a walk. Who guides divergent thought Into the funnel of opportunity – I was as busy as hell writing my book, And you upset my rhythm with your That channels all the minor tracks sweet euphemism Back upon themselves, ‘I’ll be coming back in awhile’. To converge as abstract ways On the beaten path - I tried sensibly to ignore your return –

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But your innocent style and childish Reading from a book smile, ‘neath the opaque rays Had me head over heels wrapped in love. of dull and cheap bought light-bulb hours – LENNY [26th Nov 1978, Akenside Terrace, That destroys the vision Newcastle] Of a childhood’s brilliance, And decays the twenty-twenty She rang my door bell, Of a young man’s life. Then asked me shyly If I could remember who she was. PARAGUAYAN MORMONS [19th Dec 1978, Newcastle] I had been expecting her, But showed great surprise Oh we are two wide-eyed Mormons, As I let her in. Spreading out the word, Who dance and sing and like to think With the log fire ablaze, It’s in the name of God – The candle illuminating her face, How could I not fall in love. But really all we’re doing Is running form ourselves, GREY TITS Convinced we know the answers [30th Nov 1978, Newcastle] From within our empty selves.

Settling in for winter Oh we’d love to go to Rio Midst falling snow, And try the rumba thing, And withering garden poppies. We’d love to visit Chile For the wine we cannot drink – Idly watching grey tits Steal discarded tit-bits We’d cry to see old Lima, From the wheelbarrow. Of the drugs we’ve heard so much – But we’re hooked up in religion Stroking my agile dog, As saviours of the Church. Eager in her instinct To be off in hot pursuit. Oh we’d love to break our morals, And go back to being saves, READING IN CHEAP In a world full of sorrows ACCOMMODATION And of people filling graves – [12th Dec 1978, Akenside Terr, Newcastle] But we haven’t got the courage, We no longer feel that brave, With the grey light, We are blind to all the changes Unique in its setting, Because we are afraid. In the dawns and winter days Of festive England.

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So we go on with our conversations, And all the wrapping paper With humour and with plum, Crinkled in the dustbins We endeavour to spread wisdom To await collection – On you and everyone – Time moves on to the New Year.

We try to make it easy, Yet, we must wait, But it isn’t always fun, Each ticking second, Though we hope you understand, From the Christmas let-down We’re trying to harm no one. To the drinks of Hogmanay.

LO NELY CHRISTMAS The last hours of the year, [23rd Dec 1978, Newcastle] Edging forwards, With a week of quick remembrance It’s almost Christmas and there’s no Of the fifty-one before. snow; Tradition lets us down again. The final waiting days The radio stations of the world Of another festive season, Are jingling bells and interviewing That work pervades Thoughtful people passing helpful words And money leaves an empty pocket. of love to the lonely. As we all wait for New Year, It sounds sad – As time ticks, Yet Christmas underneath it all We hang the past, Is a sad time of realisation at where And raise our hopes. And with whom, one stands alone Or on the fringes of care – NEW YEAR 1979 As others go off home to be [2nd Jan 1979, Newcastle] With Ma and Pa. Another anno, What would many say if they knew Another carnival over, That your Christmas dinner was And the seriousness of life A half pound of sausages Waiting with a hangover And a boiled parsnip? In the heavy morn.

No one’s so unfortunate – WEST CO AST LIFE But Christmas highlights the alienation [4th May 1979, Seattle, Wash. State] Of living on one’s own. It hides the truth ‘neath the tinsel LA, Frisco, Portland, Washington, And the gifts beneath the tree. A West Coast hike from Sun State, Through Oregon – TIME TICKS BY Green trees, black roads, [27th Dec 1978, Akenside Terr, Newcasle] Blue skies over mountains high, Pacific waves and silver fish, With Christmas gone, And shells in the sand.

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Seattle, Spokane, Olympic, Rainer – The flowers into blossom, and the grass Washington State, into seed. Without its beauty - Red lights, walk signs, THE AMERICAN TRAVELLER Squirrels dancing there, [21st May 1979, Seattle] Campus girls with golden hair And bluebells ‘neath the trees. Back in Seattle, looking to settle, Mellow out and search for a job. U of W meets 15th at 45th, Or instead head for Frisco, College types - Or across to Dakota – Lying in the grass to think, To a friend out in Fargo Dreaming on white clouds, Who’ll be busy all summer On coffee cups and raindrops, Playing music and spaced out on pot. Everything of student work That makes for simple life. Or what about Palm Beach, To lie in the noon heat, While at 16th and 52nd, And bake out on cocaine and snort. A writer – Or the bubble of New York, Smokes a reefer every hour, To hustle the back street, Sees only blank walls, To get pissed and run with the dogs. Dying plants and cheap bulbs, Living with his type-machine, Or the jazz of New Orleans, Alone and unaware. Walking to blue-beat, Where lamp-posts prop up the broads. JAKE’S CORNER Or freeway-land LA, Jacked up on bad speed, [15th May 1979, Beaver Creek, Yukon, To be choked and gagged on the smog. Canada] As the rain in Seattle, It’s beautiful here. Tranquil and Falls real, and falls gentle – picturesque. Summer slips by green and wet. The small hotel and gas station, For to remain in Seattle, With its free ice-cream for every Is the question to settle, customer. Before melancholy makes me inert. The road to Atlin winding down to the frozen lake. O LD MAN PHILLIP The sun still high, the breeze cool and icy. th The mountains glazed in snow – the [28 May 1979, Seattle] Alaskan Highway long and stretching and deserted. Old man Phillip Rolled the brush along – Out in the bush, always, the cry of birds, With painting cares Singing their spring songs, helping the sun That greyed his hair along in its battle against the ice. But never aged his spirit. Soon the trees will be breaking into leaf,

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IT Now go-go girls dance and sing, [1st June 1979, Seattle, Washington State] Paid in kind by the rugged rich Who slave their guts welding line, Women plan it, Canning fish, or trapping fur – Men don’t understand it, Out their minds in drunken stupor, In between that difference, Fleeced by robbing pimps, rip-off tykes Lies the lie. Who’ve forced Alaskans to sell up - Make way for the rotting future. Hearts rule it, Heads ruin it, VAGRANT OF THE WORLD And bodies make it speak 10th June 1979, Seattle, Washington Before it dies. State]

Children take it, The broken steps of Macchu Picchu, Aged break it, I climbed not long ago – Rulers turn its power The raging falls of Livingstone Into war. To which I barred my soul – The holy waters of Benares Hate beats it, Where I lost my hope – Greed defeats it, The majestic powers of the Taj Time rots its apple Said words I never spoke. To the core. The drifting sands by Pharaohs tombs Fools deride it, Withheld a timeless power – Pride blinds it, The Herat fort Iskander built Rejection when its given Detracted and devoured – Kills the soul. The bleakness of the Roman Wall Awed and it inspired – The wise take it, The slender columns on Athens' hills The smart make it, Set history’s torch on fire. It fills their all With its gold. Six minarets of Islam’s might Held my Byzantium in a spell – ALASKA The Rio Christ outstretched arms [5th June 1979, Seattle, Washington State] In grace before, I knelt – The Golden Temple of the Sikhs Alaska’s snowy hoary wastes Dwarfed my beggar man – That beckoned gold-diggers, then oil While Siddartha’s fragile boa tree sheiks Gave shade on my content. Was long before I drove and lost my nerve The bottomless pit of Kimberley On the road into the deepest north Threw diamonds from its depths – Of arctic fox and permafrost – The obelisk of Hatshepsut Needled hieroglyphic death –

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The treasure house of Paris art And come on over. Drew a smile that paralysed – The artefacts of Inca gold You name it, we’ll play it – Blinded my weakened eyes. From High Chicago To Follow the Whore – The Colosseum of Caesar times Or Mexican Sweat – Echoed roaring lions – Or Five Card Draw with Jacks The neat white crosses of Verdun Or better, to open, to win – Recalled fields of iron – Seven Card Stud, or whatever. The Lucknow fort of blood red brick Just bring some beer. Relived an Empire’s trial – The missing nose of Giza’s sphinx THE GALS OF ALASKA (song) Napoleon’s marching files. [5th July 1979, Fairbanks, Alaska]

The visions bought by travelling far It is the time to loosen my tongue subverts modern standards – And let out a howl, then ease to a hum, The foreign culture of abroad Set free my heart with a wilderness song Oft as left me branded – Straight like a trail that bumps right along The bridges crossed into these worlds – Here I have reflected– The pictures of a vagrant life Oh the gals of Alaska, so sweet and so Is all I have intended. pure, They’ll take a man’s heart and he’ll IRELAND never be cured. [13th June 1979, Seattle, Washington State] I’ll tell of my days in Fairbanksian bars, My nights with those gals under the For centuries the battles have raged, Northern stars, Irish hands have been blood-stained,; A bottle in hand, and the Lights as my In cypress shadows the children have been guide raised Making love by the pipeline over Quarter In endless wakes, the morning broken Mile side By Fenian blasts or Loyalist shots – The covenant of the Lord – broken. Oh the gals of Alaska, so sweet and so pure, THURSDAY NIGHT PO KER They’ll take a man’s heart and he’ll [29th June 1979, Fairbanks, Alaska] never be cured.

Who’s in for poker? THE CANNERY BLUES If so, bring some beer … [25th July 1979, Seward, Alaska] We’re going to have a party. The game’s at my place tonight – Who wouldn’t gets the cannery blues I’m lining up the shots of tequila, When a toke of marijuana, So get your asses moving Or a lunch-time beer obliterates,

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And wipes away the slime hollowed and sheltered timeless snows Of another fourteen hour day and glaciers from the Arctic sun. Bent over the silver salmon That finds its way onto the tables Conifers of spruce and firs halted the eye Of families living high on life. From tracing the ice down gullies and canyons to the very sea. Back in the cannery, A warm southern wind made hardly a Slimmers slit the lumps of flesh, ripple of white to disturb the calm. Rip the guts and innards, Inspect, and score and scale THE BEACHCO MBER The King of Fish – [28th Aug 1979, Kodiak Island, Alaska] Until it disappears as a silver slush Along a chute headed for the canner Howling gales are all too common, And a half-pound home of metal, Splintered boats to deepest fathom, Destined to be shelved at a store, Drift ashore locked in flotsam, And bought by some housewife Beach combed up, lost in flames For some outrageous retail price. To the reaper of the waves, Sitting with his star-struck gaze. BACK TO LIVING [21st Aug 1979, Anchorage, Alaska] Lost to all the world over, Wind swept souls perdu at sea, I can hardly believe the work is over Gusty fires sweep the heart-ache, And I can get back to life. Steal the voice and lonely hope, Twenty nine days of slog at the cannery Replaced by a mighty blankness, And I need a rest. Tighter than the wettest rope. It reminds me of quitting the oil rigs – The same physical exhausted feeling, Forgotten lives are time immortal, The constant desire to sleep, Saddened figures – we know them all, The vacuum left by having spare time Raging storms we learn to live with, After a period in which very minute Feel the pulse of nature’s war, Was accounted for. Thrown at the broken shoreline, At the man who knows no love. MOUNT MARATHON [23rd Aug 1979, Seward, Alaska] GOING TO HAWAII [5th Sept 1979, Fairbanks, Alaska] Resurrection Bay stretched exquisitely south too meet the Pacific Ocean. Paradise, being what it is – The piercing mountains hemmed in I’m expecting to eat a lot of fruit, the dark blue arm of sea dotted with Stroll a lot of beach, tiny sailing boats and a large lumber ship And catch up on a lot of sleep. trailing timber, heading for port.

Gouged out cums and ragged crags knifing North from razor cut arêtes –

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ALASKA PAINTING A PICTURE [6th Sept 1979, Anchorage, Alaska] [22nd Sept 1979, Lydgate, Kaiui, Hawaii]

Some call it Oil-Capital of America, When a coca-cola can Others - Last of the Wild Frontier, Without its quaffed brew, Where pipelines are in confrontation Becomes a ready cup With the natives hunting seals. For a coco split in two – The turquoise of the ocean Tourists fondly recall the snow peaks, Prints an artist’s view, A number can name all the bars – That roots the painter’s easel And most can’t forget the long evenings And halts his brushing hues. Or the night sky without any stars. For his eye in subtle magic For Alaska is Alaska, and no less Transcends the tropic hues, A state once founded on gold – That belie a postcard’s softness Where a man is a man in his own right To crush and harshly bruise – And an old man at twenty years old. As in person on the shoreline, The artist dabs anew, I came to Alaska in Seventy Nine, The kaleidoscopic ocean I arrived unshaven and broke – Ripens wholesome, fresh reviewed. I worked fifteen hours a day on average And left with a wallet of notes. LO VELY HAWAIIAN MAIDENS [25th Sept, Lydgate, Kauai, Hawaii] THE LO WER FO RTY-EIGHT [8th Sept 1979, Anchorage, Alaska] Captain Cook blundered As God ripped asunder – Alaska, I ask you – His blood dripped red on the shore. What are you going to do? The Owyhee’ns turned savage, Wrapped in wool Devoured and savaged, By government rules, A man their maidens adored. They are slowly fleecing you. Then later the whalers, THE LIFE O F A BUM Four-year mast sailors – [Lydgate State Park, Kauai, Hawaii] Their lust so patiently stored; Would watch as the maidens, Flying high on full sail, Naked and swimming, Just breezing along – Climbed ready and giving, aboard. With my girl overseas, And a reason to sing, And now it’s no different A reason for whiskey, In Oahu’s light districts A reason for rum, Or Waikiki Beach dance-floors; An object for living If the pockets play jingle, The life of a bum. And the eye holds a twinkle, The maidens will love you as yore.

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THE HUNTERS brought on by a hungry and a knotted [28th Sept 1979, Kokee, Kauai, Hawaii] stomach is further intensified by being destitute Green in its shadow, bright in its sky, in a hostile city. The mynah birds cry to the winds – Storms pass through as whistling words The streets of San Francisco are paved As strangers tarry in the towering woods With many such men down on their luck, offering shelter and shade to wild Crippled by work, and maimed by a creatures. society That is at a loss to help them. These visitors, armed and round bellied Who come to take all that they want – In other finer cities, the citizens turn Depart with their trophies, spoil and gain, Their heads the other way on seeing a Unknowing leaving their souls behind - bum Lost in a wood of far greater deception. Collecting ciggy-butts, or wine-eyed slumped. SECOND OF OCTOBER [2nd Oct 1979, Kokee, Kauai, Hawaii] In Frisco it is hard to turn one’s head Without eying a worse case of hardship – Today is a day of non-thought The lonely figure with the shakes – Spent lingering in the sunshine The bum talking to himself. Being close to nature and to life - These bums are no different from their Feeling not a heartbeat, Counterparts in Bombay or Calcutta – Nor a stirring of the soul Living their lives by hand-outs, sorting That usually stirs the mind. through The garbage that others see fit to discard. For today is a time lock, Tied in tangled vines Only their disfigurations make them less And captured now forever – Obvious a case for making them social outcasts - Stored as a keepsake Yet on closer look, many dockside winos To ponder over slowly Or park grass-dwellers are mental-home As a time sublime. rejects, Disability pensioners, one-time petty Today is a day of all days crooks That listens to the silence Who couldn’t make a living by petty That seals this final line. crime.

ON SKID ROW Few are there by choice – circumstance Has led them down a road of degradation, [14th Oct 1979, San Francisco, California] Left them jobless, homeless, spouseless And utterly useless to the general Being broke sometimes ain’t no fun. community. The feeling of deprivation -

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In Dickens' London, through the eyes of a Strung on the thread child, That wove the coat of fame - The same world existed as now in San Success wore a dress – Francisco Spun from the cloth Where I find myself on Skid Row. Of another’s distress And cloak of pain. CANNERY ROW VISITED [15th Oct 1979, Monterey, California] IMPERIAL VALLEY [9th Nov 1979, Mayan Hotel, El Centro, A cold wind blew along Cannery Row, Calif] The workers looked haggard and old; Eighteen long hours they hungered their Home in the valley, lives, A bed down by the tracks, Lay bare their muscles for gold – In a beat-up old motel That gleamed in the eye of the Besides a lettuce patch – bartender’s wife And the girl next-door - a whore, Where gypsies camp or tarry, The work-shy who only worked at night - Where vagrants soil their hands, Thieved everyone on Cannery Row. Where winter blows in workers Who migrate from other lands MO NTEREY BAY [17th Oct 1979, Pacific Grove, California] DISENCHANTMENT [11th Nov 1979, El Centro, California] Silent flies the gull, Soundless swims the cod – How come, as every day passes But roaring breaks the ocean, I feel the need I must be somewhere else? Foaming, churning surf. How come as each moment ceases, I sense I must return from where I went. NO HOLLYWOOD BUNGALOW [30th Oct 1979, Hollywood, Los Angeles] THE COUNTRY CLUB (ON ACID) [18th Nov 1979, Holtville, California] Those LA nights – Hollywood striving, fighting – The singer-pianist Nancy was a My heart pounding, frightened professional, Not for myself, but for the future The manager was just another crook – Beneath Sunset’s famous lights. The clientele were rich Vegas people Who used a bottle as I use a pen. The running never stops – Only the looking back The bar staff and waiters were - Takes longer to forget. Starched minds squeezed into white coats; The Country Club was Sinatra and Martin, HOLLYWOOD The acid didn’t help – they threw us out. [4th Nov 1979, San Diego, California]

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DESPAIR THE FARMER’S DEMISE [23rd Nov 1979, Holtville, California] [23rd Nov 1979, Holtville, California]

I have lost touch with the high life, Pain is no sorrow I have sunk to the depths of despair, In the fields of the morrow, I am crushed internally, I cry in pain, Where cotton runs high I detest that I have to dirty my hands. And white as pure snow – Where the furrows run dead-eye, I soil my clothes and play second best And the burrows hold vermin, To individuals who should be my pupils, And the wind howls treetops I am delving into introspective terms, To an old preacher’s sermon My total dissatisfaction with present life. In a rickety torn barnyard, The corners in cobwebs, My love for living has shrivelled - Harbouring young field mice Lies buried in a woodworm riddled casket And a one-eyed old owl, Far beneath the earth that soils That sits on an oak beam The lowest labourer’s hands. Hushed by the Lord’s words That carries the law I have been driven by the devil Across the wide country miles – To the the furthest edge of torture, That rings in the hollows Racking hate for all members ‘The Farmer has died’. Of my fellow man. ARIZO NA FARMERS I have reached the muddy bed [26th Nov 1979, Holtville, California] Of a lake of fear, That stirs the mind to act Arizona farmers are cantankerous, old In twisted outlook. Twisted, gruff voiced, ill mannered, Totally unreasonable, cripple-minded, I am torn between two ponies Damn pig-head sons of bitches that ever Sent east and west for distraction. Walked - no – crawled this earth! I am dying every second, Every pain filled moment. CO TTON PICKING [26th Nov 1979, Holtville, California] I have lost my freedom, I am nothing, If ever there was a more boring job I am gone, Than cotton picking – you name it. I am dead. Cotton picking may sound like an occupation I remain incarcerated, That reaps of humour and bad jokes Chained in the dungeon About racism and callous slave masters. I have nailed myself in. It is not so. The humour is non existent, Southern California - The racism exists –Mexican, not Black– It may be my grave. The white slaver is now an Arizona farmer.

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THE PICKER’S LINE Dry the eyes the dust has reddened, [26th Nov 1979, Holtville, California] Hoarse the throat the wind has whipped; Fierce the sun has blazed the forehead, The Arizona farmer’s whip Hot the sweat has coolly dripped; Lashed the air about to hit Hard the back has bent in labour, A poor lost Mex losing ground, Toiling on the desert strip. Falling behind the pickers line – The pickers line, the pickers line, Evening fades the end day shadows, Picking cotton all the time; Red and black the mountain sky; Picking fat white snowy balls, Quietly ate the hands that mastered, Picking, picking, until he falls. Quieter still the hands that sighed; Quietly lay the hands together, And thus the farmer drives his slaves, Silent prayer on which to die; Picking cotton every day; Still-like lay the rake so life-like, From dawn to dusk the Mexies toil, By the hoe that gently cried. Tilling deep the cotton soil – Picking cotton all the time, Windward blew the winter’s harvest, As pickers on the pickers line; Seeded and o’er ripe to pick; The pickers line, the pickers line, Wet the eyes the tears had deadened, Picking cotton all the time. Prayerless was the tongue equipped; Piercing pain had creased the forehead, THE DUNES O F GLAMIS Cold the icy mountains ripped, [4th Dec 1979, Holtville, California] At the back bent down in sorrow, Toiling on the desert strip. Thirty days beneath the broiler, Windswept nights, huddling closer, A POSTCARD Wastes of sea taking over; [19th Dec 1979, Holtville, California] Beached upon the dunes of Glamis, Riding on a four-wheeled camel, Where is this land where the river runs Slinging beers in buggy travel. bold, Where the arbors catch sunlight in fiery 9,394th DAY O F MY LIFE glow? Where the mosses lie red ' neath [12th Dec 1979, Holtville, California] shimmering gold Of cascading leaves descending like snow rd Today was the 3,633 day of the decade, To garnish like ribbons, tie up as bows The 20th last day of the Seventies, A bower of seclusion in quiet And the 9,394th day of my life. undergrowth?

THE DESERT WO RKER DO WHAT YOU CAN [13th Dec 1979, Holtville, California] [23rd Dec 1979, Holtville, California]

Winsome grows the winter harvest, Do what you can Green and yet unripe to pick; While you can.

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Ask what you can Whispered and aired in passionate sides, Before you can’t. Floatingly said in idle soft hours.

BACK ON THE ROAD Patroned by gentry and beauty forlorn, [Christmas Eve, Mexicali, Baja, Mexico] Fringed by low artists midst psychic reform, Back on the road that winds down on Searching the rainbows of rocky purdah, south, Seeking immortal the seaside bazaar. Back to a life of waiting for time – Waiting for time to frizzle away – Laid on the shores for amorous designs, Waiting to pass it down Mexico way. Caressed by the surf on lazy moon nights, Filtering the gaze of starry-eyed want, TEQUILA FO R CHRISTMAS DINNER Sharing the peace of the palmed [26th Dec 1979, San Quentin, Baja, Mex.] waterfront.

Ensenda lies behind me – A SMALL MEXICAN VILLAGE The residue of my stomach with it [3rd Jan 1980, Mazatla -Puerto Villarta Why did we start on that glass flagon of Rd, Mexico] tequila With the coiled snake lying at the To be dropped in a small Mexican village bottom? is one of the delights of travelling, but I had hitched to Aguas Calientes - one of the nightmares of hitch-hiking. It was Christmas. The Yaqui Indian bar- tender Something to savour and dislike, Born in New York, raised in California, cherish and abhor, it requires little Was straight out of the book of life. compulsion to move on, Saint Simon he called himself – and fosters a compulsive desire Jesus never had no disciples like him; to remain on the road out of fear - Tequila for Christmas dinner – of abandonment in a quaintness The last thing I remember was the snake’s that suggests a forlorn acceptance of life. head Looking at me from the flagon – A dream and a nightmare, it is best solved A car in a ditch - a fist fight with sitting by the roadside watching labouring Mexicans peasants, sleepy shopkeepers, locals Trying to help us – a thunderstorm, lounging out of work - by warily keeping Before waking up in a hotel room in an eye on the stretching highway Ensenada. offering a choice of leaving or remaining, on the whim of a thrown thumb. RAINBOWS OF ROCK PURDAH For Lee and Heiko SO BE IT THE DOGS [1st Jan 1980, Mazatlan, Mexico] [3rd Jan 1980, La Cumbre, Mexico]

Washed in the waves of recaptured love, When the sun goes down, Gently relaxed by the murmur of words So does the tequila.

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When the rivers run dry, A phrase that starts as nothing but a So do the teardrops. thought of rough design, When the music stops, Completed, starts to sound as poetry of a So ends the heartache. kind. If something must die, So be it the dogs. Creation of freedom we try for all the time, THREE LINES And there we have a sentence brought to [3rd Jan 1980, Manzanillo, Mexico] life divine, So next we need a phrase that will fit into It takes free verse the rhyme, To string three lines So add imagination, creation undermined. To make a rhyme. Creation of freedom is creation LO PRIMERO VERSO (Muy Malo) undermined, [4th Jan 1980, Guadalajara, Mexico] Investigated deeply by a prying artful clown, En al mercado a la lado Out to prove by values, imagined metal De la calle Mexico crimes Hay una casa para el peon Existing within the walls of the structured Quien no haber una lugar imprisoned mind. Ni una casa pero la via No conoce iqual a los campos PAMELA El partir hace un rato [12th Jan 1980, Isla de Mujeres, Mexico] Para la vida barata En un pueblo de Mexico. A small Kiki bird With an eye for the bottle HOW NOT TO COMPOSE A POEM We emptied together [8th Jan 1980, Mexico City] Then made love by the water On a long Mexican night. To understand more fully, the different kinds of rhyme, PUNTA GORDA A general little rule should be utmost in [30th Jan 1980, Punta Gorda, Belize] the mind, It requires little knowledge beyond a Trapped at the end of the world, simple line A jungle waste, the last of the colonies To comprehend the meaning the words Clinging like a dead man to a sinking ship. knot and bind. Trapped in a tropical hinterland Not fit to grow bananas, If you take the word creation, it means A steaming forest of nothing. nothing on its own, Marooned by a river - But add a word like freedom, then a Waiting for a ship. phrase begins to roll;

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JUNGLE TREK innumerable cones of soft ice-cream. [1st Feb 1980, Cuyamelma, Honduras] Each of us dreams of another world One day in Guatemala and we took to Unknown to the other. We maintain The jungle and crossed into Honduras. A company with one another as though We have known each other fifty years. It was quite a way and one for a novel. Banana trains and jungle treks are usually We rarely speak. Occasionally we Only restricted to movies. exchange Warm smiles – we are lost to one another I have taken other jungle trails before, By the circumstances in which we find But none so enjoyable as the journey Ourselves in a strange affair of love. We undertook into the heart of nowhere. UNEASY SLEEP TRAVELLING WITH A GERMAN [16th Feb 1980, San Juan del Sur, Nicar,. [12th Feb 1980, Mangua, Nicaragua] Uneasy sleep steals my dreams, In volcanic eruption As uneasy rests the coming dawn – The problems poured forth, Hard on its heels, the hungry storm. Fiery and hot and flaming – To consume all my forest, The nightmare in a fit, seizes my throat, To cover in ash - my unripe bananas Strangles my life, destroys my hopes and coco-hung palms; Of clear blue sky tomorrow. That I had pictured as perfect, That had formed my sublime, WAR Before her smoke had enveloped [16th Feb 1980, San Juan del Sur, Nicar.] My quiet peaceful mind. Morning, coming morning, NICARAGUA Only in a dream, [12th Feb 1980, Managua, Nicaragua] Fastened by steel bolts Riveting the seams Nicaragua is a land of volcanoes and lakes, Of all the plans being moulded, Rolling hills and green sweet fields – Of all those welded beams A land of pleasant smiles and peasant That support the central structure dreams, Of fabricated schemes. Of almond blossom and red flame trees. Dawning, slowly dawning, ELKE Emerging from a sleep, [15th Feb 1980, San Juan del Sur, Nicar.] Rolling, thundering steel stock, Rumbling death machines – We are alone now – we rest quietly Made from all these moldings, In a small fishing village on the Pacific All these welded beams, Coast, and we have just passed a warm To fissure and to rupture breezy day, sipping coffee, ravishing Regardless of the means.

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Morning, bright red morning, With great effort erases No longer just a dream, The dictator’s debases With streaks of jagged lightning As the volcanoes smoke on. Muffled, strangled screams – Choked by spitting moldings, A NATION OF FOOLS (song) Crushed by welded beams, [20th Feb 1980, Managua, Nicaragua] all buried under rubble To end further schemes. As a nation of fools, No longer rulers of the waves, SAN JOSE We think nothing of our pomp [18th Feb 1980, San Jose, Coast Rica] And nothing of our ways.

This is not the place for a lonely man. God save the British! I have had it with Latin America, Let them dig their graves! The romance is over. Each day has become We go blindly in our thinking A pointless journey through a land And deaf like poor slaves Lost to me. To the values of our peers And the ideas of today. LO NELY MAN IN THE TRO PICS [18th Feb 1980, San Jose, Costa Rica] God save the British! It’s too late to make the change! Another day gone and where was it lost Between the bus journey, and an empty EL SALVADOR Coke glass, that stared back with a [22nd Feb 1980, San Salvador, El Salv.] coldness, Its icebergs in cubes, while the sun melted There are people everywhere, Ice-creams with a long sticky look that And not all are rich. Defrosted my face, crinkled my brow – A red-faced white-man in the tropical On the contrary, there is much poverty south here. A revolution is just around the corner, AFTER THE REVO LUTIO N I can feel it in the atmosphere. [19th Feb 1980, Managua, Nicaragua] It is a hostile environment – Back in the land of smoking volcanoes, We evoke cold receptions and stand-off Black market excesses Behaviour from the citizens of this city. Amidst the continuing process Of alphabetisation - But what I see, I like, despite the tanks Now the dictator is gone. And the children with no shoes.

An illiterate nation In revolutionary phases, In propaganda phrases,

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BRO KE IN MEXICO From their window-box churches. [28th Feb 1980, Oaxaca, Mexico] CRUMBS ON THE FLOOR On the road in Mexico, [1st April 1980, 1700 Dollie Madison Tired, hungry and broke, Blvd, McLean, Virginia] No money for a coke, No pesos for a smoke, Coffee and toast reveal so much Only dust to make me choke About a lifestyle of breakfasts, The long gruelling miles. And lunches, and late evening snacks, With pretty, lonely girls who’ve come On the High Sierras in a truck To talk their blues away, and perform That’s broken down – a repertoire of perversion – No shade is no joke, No water, and no nope, before smoothing out their skirts, Only sun and heat stroke combing back their hair, The long gruelling day. drinking the dregs of their cup, and crunching the toast crumbs In the cold mountains of the night on the floor, as the amble to the door, In the starry dark – and leave. No poncho as a cloak, No wife as my whore. LIFE ACRO SS THE O CEAN (fragment) NEW ORLEANS [2nd Apr 1980, DMB, McLean, Virginia] [3rd Mar 1980, New Orleans, Louisiana] To the misogynist man, And the lazy river rolled on by Or miscreants of other lands, The home of Jazz – Life across the ocean While a tap dancer on the levee, To the distant glistening sands – Tap-tapped his heart out. Is a sea of pale-blue calmness, Of cloudless perfect want, SUNDAY IN BATON ROUGE Containing every dream [9th Mar 1980, Baton Rouge, Louisiana] Of heavenly thought.

Sunday is a day of rest, Thus carried on this notion, Meant to satisfy the clans Sets forth this sadist man, That flock to worship at the feet To voyage the unknown vastness Of silk-robbed priests intent on sending To attack and savage hearts – The yawning throng of ties and bonnets As a barbarian, cold and sanguine, To the edge of sleep. Like a pirate stealing plunder, He vents his treacherous hatred It is a Spring morning - ‘neath a thick veneer of wonder. Bounded by the scriptures, The God-blessed good-soul folks Sprout like flowers

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IN A HAUNTED HO USE What of those other poor fools out [4th Apr 1980, DMB, McLean, Virginia] there? Noses to the wind – In a haunted house off the highway, Avoiding the smell of the garbage Creaking floorboards, crunching driveway They’re up to their necks right in. Sends the lonely tenant crazy Listening to the shutters bang. AT SEA IN D.C [9th App 1980, DMB, McLean, Virginia] Doorknobs rattle, ne'er a hand But his, cold-sweat shaking bones Lost in a wave of colossal dimensions, For forty years a recluse – Hung on a breaker of misapprehensions, Locked up in his own jail. Tottering on the edge of illusions, Crushed by the force of utter confusion. Rarely seen but as a shadow, Flirting past the curtained windows – CATHY Already of the other world, [16th Apr 1980, DMB, McLean, Virgina] His lips satanic black. There was a lady named Cathy, GLOOM, DARK GLOOM Who I met over coffee, [9th Apr 1980, DMB, McLean, Virgina] Then took to my chambers To caress her soft body; Gloom, dark gloom, blow from me, Love had is way – Sweep the shadows of a love Oh, you poor sad babe. Into a forgotten room, And not my lounge. DAFFO DILS THRU LILACS [20th Apr 1980, DMB, McLean, Virginia] Ladies, fair-blooming in Spring, Strike at me in torment, I met her when the daffodils Throw fits of anguish, Were first in bloom; Enough to end my life. Our relationship went right thru - The cherry blossom, CLASSLESS The primroses, and the lilacs. [9th Apr 1980, DMB, McLean, Virginia] THE SEED So they think I’m an uncouth adult, [20th Apr 1980, DMB, McLean, Virginia] Born an adolescent, Who talks like a foul-mouthed parrot A squirrel out in Spring-time forage, In their den of enchantment. Dodged a car and crawled a hedgerow, Crossed a field and forged a ditch, Please fane from laughing, dear people, Swam a stream and found a niche The joke is not on me – Beneath a wizened budding oak, Although I have an accent, Protruding roots brown-leaf cloaked, All my thoughts are pure. That hid a hollow secret store On which the squirrel clawed in chore.

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A fox stalked quietly through the woods, Cast aside the doubts, the heartless tears, The birds perched mute in the trees – The childish thoughts and selfish Observant of the hungry greybeard, introspect – Scornful, full of their own fears - And instead grasp I, the naked flame. On the scent the fox now followed That led him from his peaceful den Abandoned, no, discarded Towards the kill he sadly wanted The lonely man’s illusion of happiness, To feed is green-eyed discontent. The solitary soul and island dreamer – For instead touch I, the blood red rose. The hounds, they rallied to the horn That crossed the field that Spring-time Forgotten, no, erased, morn, The sceptic views the ignorant holds, That forged the ditch, swam the stream, The conceited fool, the ways of old – That found the fox beneath the oak, To instead brave I, love’s fragile kiss. Its jaws locked-hard around the squirrel, Grey, but streaked a red day-glow – For thrown, abandoned and forgotten While on the earth lay the store Seem the nights I slept alone From which one day an oak would grow. On the road and pass to heaven – That instead cross I, and her I hold. THE PRO MISE [26th Apr 1980, DMB, McLean, Virginia] THE SISTER LIGHTHO USES [5th May 1980, DMB, McLean, Virginia] Ah, Miss Laura Cann, my flower, Unfold your fragile petals On one side of the might ocean, And allow this honey bee Two lost souls held hands, To plunder and to rape Gazing far across the barren sea Your heaven-given pollen To glimpse their thoughts in dreams. And honey-scented residue; In turn I’ll make you fertile They stood bound hand in hand, And pledge my love to you. Inseparable as the mist from heather, Gasping at the fear that bit ANO THER TAKES THE STAGE Their cheeks with salty blows. [26th Apr 1980, DMB, McLean, Virginia] They pondered in their isolation Another young lady takes the stage, All that mattered most, And lays open her desires to the rake; They heaved great sighs of love Break not her heart, my sweet fellow - That they grew close to understand. As tender as the petals open, Cruelly does the blossom fade. They felt the new life coming And dared not look behind, NO MORE LONELY ROADS They dared not move their wet toes [May Day 1980, DMB, McLean, Virginia] Washed white by the tide.

Thrown, no, tossed my cares,

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They were frozen in their terror, The old Virginia pine grew tall, And stone-struck in their awe, Near shady dell and trickling creek, They remained forever on the shoreline That bleached the bones of Johnny Red Beacons in a fog. A bullet and a century gone, Remembered only in a song They cheered a mariner homebound, The dogwood natives learn at birth. They tear’d one fond farewell, They stood sentinel neath the cliffs A cardinal flamed the forest dark Witnessing the swell. And streaked the hickory hollow quiet, Sunlight crashed upon the pine, WET DOWNTOWN A blue jay sang its morning song, [18th May 1980, Washington DC] Like the Yankee soldiers heard The day they shot old Johnny Boy. The police, in siren-wails That cut the ocean’s howl, Yet who can find that lonesome pine And the driving of the sleet – Or Johnny’s bones bleached so white? Tore the glassy surface A bullet and memory hidden, Of the deserted blacked-out street Forgotten bar a whistling song – With their screeching tyres. About the lost old southern nights Of peace before the Union dawn. SCARRED BY VIOLENCE [20th May 1980, DMB, Mclean, Virginia]

A pretty face scarred by violence, Tempestuous love, brutally branded By the vicious arcing hand Of a man’s cruel command.

IDEAL HO ME O F A NO MAD [22nd May 1980, McLean, Virginia]

Just a little place on a hill, A stile across a fence, A horseshoe at the door, The roses framing hedges, A dog upon the lawn, The parlour full of servants; And a lady of fabric - To furnish my earthly wants.

O LD VIRGINIA For Terry Paine [30th May 1980, Bull Run, Virginia]

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SIX MONTHS IN ENGLAND

FROG (an illustrated collection) LIFE AS A DREAM [22nd Jun – 25th Jul 1980, 2 Victoria Sq, [27th Jun 1980, Newcastle] Newcastle] (See Notes) Some see life as a dream, THE MILKING BO Y In that others pay the price [22nd June 1980, Newcastle] For all the little niceties That coat the cake in ice. Summer rain and English weather, Slow, and gently closing in, They cannot see the labour On a dawn of soft, light yellows And the toil to struggle free Resting on the hedgerow sprigs; Of their subtle inner-wanting Crossing swiftly through the meadows, In one giant pot-pourri. Green and ripe in the rain – As the cows lay ‘neath the shelter While one soul shelves the shekels, Of a spreading, towering plane. The other amply spends All the saved up pennies Slowly wound the walkers’ pathway, The other scrapes to lend. Broken and betrayed by mounds, Tractor wheels and muddy boot steps And so in some great sulk, Traced all life upon the ground, I dwell on my affairs – Brown and mangled in with pebbles, Financially and private, Soil, and grass, and daisy rings, A partner takes her share. Vetch, and clover thrown in daring, Tempting bees and other things. NO MORE LONELY ROADS [27th Jun 1980, Newcastle] Down the pathway walked the young boy, Whistling on a humble tune; No more lonely roads to travel – Cloth cap resting on his blonde hair, Jungles, deserts – it little matters, Shoulders hunched, his arms limp still, Life has grabbed me by the legs, He ambled on down the pathway And shackled me with all its weight – Hidden by the tall hedgerows, Lead balls and ankle chains, Toes-tapping on the pebbled highway, Woes and pain, the tears and strain The only road he’d ever known. by which responsibility, it appears, Has been my only worthwhile gain. The whistling ceased like a songbird Made to think upon its vow – ARTISTIC WRANGLES As he leaped the five-bar field gate [1st Jul 1980, Newcastle] And began to call the beasts, Whistling now like a herdsman Caught in a tangle of artist rights With great loving for the land; wrangles, Whistling with a country frankness That the world could understand.

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Brought on by confusion from every So tell me another, brothers, I shall not angle, listen Initially caused by the change in a plan – To stories woven on lies and excuses. The change being better that the original My eyes do not deceive me – design You are one and all, trapped in cages. Of having three artists, scribble and draw For the privilege of embellishing a poet’s THIRTY THREE YEAR O LD HIPPY words; [4th Aug 1980, Newcastle] When all that needs done is one artist to dab, He was just another flower Hippy, And the poet to comment to avoid the Lost within an age of reason, drab – At a time when peace wilted Instead of having headaches, and petty Beneath contempt and treason. squabbles That develop enemies – overnight - over For over green and pleasant hills, baubles. Glanced his gaze in higher thought, While underneath his sandaled feet CAUGHT IN A ROOM Marched his enemies to war. [3rd Jul 1980, Newcastle] He let his soul and spirit fly, Caught in a room Free transcendence in his look; With the window open wide, But all around in abject chains, Affording a gaze Masters led their slaves to work. Across the wild countryside, To the far-away mountains, He cast aside his outer garments While I am trapped inside. And bared his chest to all the world That honesty had taught him how – WHY ARE YOU ALL IN CAGES That instead – they drained of love. [28th Jul 1980, Newcastle] For who cared then to spend the time I have never been caged – To listen to a Hippy’s words – I sleep where tiredness overtakes me, That a heathen world rejected I eat where providence leaves me. By sacrificing God’s own son. I know the stars better than any mystic Who pretends to deceive with his charts ME AND THE RO AD and horoscopes. [4th Aug 1980, Newcastle]

I’m not one to live by astrological I have no greater desire in this world reckoning, Than to travel the four corners and seven We live in an age of science, not seas ignorance; To take me to the boundaries of Superstition adds only senseless confusion understanding. To a world already rotten with deceit.

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For without the freedom of time and Listened to the driving rain – place, Descending on their ill-lit place, And the knowledge that restrictions of A log-hewed timber home of peace, movement Lost in a wood of tall pine trees. Are non-existent – then I am a traveller programmed The drumming on the porch outside, By nationality, a tourist controlled by Imbibed him freely to recite – visas, A lilting love-song melody; And a tramp restrained by the fact I’m Released upon the dark rough walls, broke. Hummed to a portrait on the tall-boy, A handsome face, age has destroyed. THE ARTIST AND HIS WO RK [1.25pm, 4th Aug 1980, Newcastle] The rain like time’s own sweet blood, Caught the woodsman in a flood, Before the artist drew a line, Recalling sweet surrender moments - He had somehow to pay the bills – Of his life his ballads told of – So knowing that the rent was due, Songs not yet quite fully sung, He dropped his brush, laced his shoes. Of life not yet completely run.

Off we went up the street, The fire spat, threw some light Immersed in bright, pastel colours, Upon his hound stretched outright, Until he reached a building site, Close by his masters feet – Punched his card, joined his brothers. Inches from his Fender lead, Plugged into his ten-watt amp, He wheeled a barrow up a plank – The woodsman picked on his guitar. All day long he carted bricks, Hauled the cement from the mixer, I’ve been a woodsman all my life Clocked the hours, bit his lip. I’ve preferred blues to having a wife. And if you think me wrong … Oh yeah? At dusk, and time to travel home, Then don’t listen to my blues songs. He shuffled weary legged and weak, I’m a backwoodsman …. Yeah …. Knowing that the rent was paid – I’m a backwoodsman ….. The following day he’d work for food. With a howling dog …. And this this is my song. But underneath, he gnawed to work On his art and not his keep – IT’S A MATTER O F LATITUDE For every night he raised his brush, [3pm, 9th Aug 1980, Newcastle] Tired and worn, he fell asleep. As it happens, I was born BACKWOODSMAN BLUES (song) Faraway to the north – [7th Aug 1980, Newcastle] And when I finally left home, I went south to sun and warmth. In a land, I know not of - A lonesome man, and his dog I lazed about by hotel pools

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And mingled with the idle rich, Disturb my peaceful love nest, Petty, silly in their whims, Lest I perchance return the deed in kind. I spent their money, getting kicks. So I glanced back at the garden, A mirage - my town of birth And saw the sweet-faced maiden, Cloaked in a mountain mist, Waiting with a patience Lost its lure to champagne corks That not all men have as theirs to pass. And lines of easy chicks. And I plucked at the receiver For living in the sunny south, Like some ill-tempered no-believer, Was like living with the devil – That the person on the far-end While returning to the icy north Was someone elses, and not my wife. Was beyond my latitude level. CONSTRUCTING WORLDS CROSSROADS [11.20pm, 5th Sept 1980, Newcastle] [21st Aug 1980, Newcastle] The builder packed away his tools Crossroads again, and what choice now? And laid aside his white hard-hat, The ways divergent beyond the far hill- Unslung his coat from a nail, brow. Closed the door, and that was that. The winding broken road, the twisted fence The day had gone to grey with rain, I lean thoughtfully on, in lull. The trees they dripped, sagged draped- wet; CALLED FRO M EVE IN THE GARDEN The builder dry and soothed by work, [28th Aug 1980, Newcastle] Homeward went in casual pace.

On an evening, on a pale mild night, And home he reached, to settle down The telephone commenced singing, To an evening of reflective thought, With its insistent constant rhythm Of what the day had offered him, That drowned out all the birds. And what of life the day had taught.

I left the garden and my cocktail, And quiet the evening faded on, And the maiden waiting there Soft fell the novel from his hand – With a look of earnest longing, The builder lulled into a world That I return forthwith to talk of love. Constructed by another man.

I strode swiftly, beckoned quickly SAD POET, UNHAPPY PUBLISHER By the ringing pending misery [10pm, 10th Sept 1980, Newcastle] That I knew must be the reason For being disturbed on such a night. I published a man’s poems the other day Though the contents brought on despair, For I lived lonely in the country, And gloomily depressive long thoughts And knew no one who would want to That the poet had written in misery –

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Telling us why he was a poet, not a man PICKING GRAPES and BAILING Who went about the world without a pen, STRAW (song) Nor armed himself with a smile [5.47pm, 16th Sept 1980, Newcastle] And a wit that won all to his cheerful side. The day I gave up work, I laughed – The money jingled as I jumped. So why did I publish the poet, you ask? I made my way into a bar I would like to know this myself – To spend my celebration, drunk. For all his stanzas dwelt on heartache, And mended none of life’s cruel flaws I’d grafted on the open fields, That he pointed at; that he amplified so Picking grapes and bailing straw; large The produce of the land lay stored, As to make everything bare and empty; The farmer paid my time by law. I wrenched from me, a happy man, Moral tears, from both eyes. All the while I laboured there, Three months of sweat, knuckled bone, THE BAND WHO CAME TO DINNER I thought on my time passing by, [10.15pm, 10th Sept 1980, Newcastle] The water flowing o’er unturned stones.

We had a band who practised in our I thought of the girls I missed – basement, Their sweet bodies, their tender lips, Who came and went, sometimes stayed Their homely gossip by the hearth for dinner; Whilst fired by their fingertips. A male band who went about their business, I pondered on the missing treats A magic band everybody agreed were That coaxed a man to spend his change; winners. The courteous passing in a street Of a face that was not strange. Then one day - close to the end of summer, I was just a fresh-faced lad A girl appeared, all charm and glitter – Living far from home to work – She, it was announced, was the new lead A foreigner in another realm, singer, Earning riches from ploughing dirt. And everyone agreed she was a stunner. And now back home, instead of pain, Then in an instance, as if a wand was My time abroad was not a waste – waved, The memory of those labour fields The magic band no longer played together Are happy as the memory fades. – The lead guitarist ran off with the glitter, TWENTY SIX LETTERS in SEVEN And the band no longer came to dinner. WORDS [9.45pm, 3rd Oct 1980, Newcastle]

When gazed above, Sixty jumpers fly quick

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HO MELESS LO O KING FRO M THE O UTSIDE [5th Oct 1980, Newcastle] [9.02pm, 6th Oct 1980, Akenside Terr, Newcastle] On the run is a family man, Woman and kid, bags in hand Cold and hungry gazed the tramp, Walking the streets in search of a home, Haggard mouthed and blood-shot eyed Wandering like beggars with nowhere to On a man who read a book go. By the warmth of his hearthside.

Asking for change on meeting a friend, Envy flashed across his troubles, Looking for cash that someone can lend, Memories of his life of old, To fill the mouths of the starving kin Before the decay and the rot, That the family man has led to ruin. Ate his love and stole his heart.

Knocking on doors in utter despair, But pity also lingered there To see if someone can spare a room, For the man that life passed by, Or a floor, or corner out of the way, Trapped beside his open book, As long as its somewhere they can stay. Old and grey beside the fire.

The council man had offered them beds, For had that man another life, Kipping in with the down and the helpless He would not thus be sitting so – – He would be travelling with the tramp A hostel where thieves and tramps had Turning now to walk the road. shelter, But where they never receive any further MARRIAGE help. [9pm, 12th Oct 1980, Newcastle]

It was better he thought to stick together, The ring upon his finger shone with light, The bandage of love that had brought Illuminating the future, bright and clear; them hither, While his wife held his hand in happy Was more precious than any refuge faith – Secure in joy, and tears. from rain Given in exchange for heartbreak and OCTOBER 13TH IN ENGLAND pain. [6.05pm, 13th Oct 1980, 87 Byker Terr, Walker, Newcastle] So they wander the streets, still together, United in their love for one another – Autumn’s almost gone now, Though already they’ve spent a night in Yet broad green leaves still hang the cold, From drooping boughs. They’d rather die than let go of each other. Thistles not long dead Stand brown unbarbed Upon the pastured ground.

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Lapwings catch their meals, One cannot complain about this man; Before flocking on a few more miles He is English and a citizen, To lakeside perches. Placed amongst the shipyard folks With his fresh and smiling look – Bees at the end of plenty – He is the ideal corner-shop chappy Cool and thoughtful Who with his fish has the locals hooked. On the verge of barren days. THE GATESHEAD JEW Grey and black, bleak views [1.05pm, 14th Oct 1980, Walker, Carry the eye across the wasteland Newcastle] To reconcile the mind for winter. BANG! BANG! “Hello, are you there?” THE WALKER FISHMO NGER A scrawny voice shouted out [6.30pm, 13th October 1980, Walker, As Laura pulled the door ajar - Newcastle] A little man jumped with fright.

There is a fishmonger with a shop “Hello? Are you the tenant of this house? In a place called Walker, England, I’ve come to see about the rent. Who feeds the working folk I think we haven’t met as yet. With a fresh and smiling look, I think it’s time to talk. Right?” That agrees with all their comments, But disagrees with all their social views. “I’m not the tenant” Laura said, “I’ll get my husband to speak to you. He’s a conservative at heart, he admits it, Robert! Can you come right now? For after all, he is a businessman It’s one of those Gateshead Jews.” Who takes the money from the locals With a fresh and smiling look “Yes, can I help you?” I asked the Jew, That accepts their hard luck stories, “Yes” he said “I want the rent …” Yet refuses credit, as it’s against his rules. “I’m sorry, mate, I’ve no cash today. Can you come back next Friday?” He is a pleasant man, that is true; He buys his fish fresh from the docks “I’ll get the law on your back!” And opens his shop at seven for the locals He threatened me with vile spite, With a fresh and smiling look “One more word” I said to him That sympathises with their ills, “I’ll pull your beard, squash your hat.” But knows that’s why the hospitals are full. The little Jew squealed in fear And ran pell-mell from our door – Just the same, he is a good man – We lived there all of three months more He talks to the children and old folk, And only heard from him by post. And finds time to chat to the locals With a fresh and smiling look That keeps the customers happy, And keeps the orders full on his books.

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SLEEPING UNDER NEWSPAPERS ON And the fame went. A PARK BENCH [12.32am, 15th Oct 1980, Walker, Newc.] And with it went no sad regret – Anew the pearl he quietly palmed, Turn another page towards the future, He returned to peace and inner love; And what transpires? His ethos simply – Fame be damned! Another word towards and ending, And then the fame came back. Another line towards a sentence Laid upon me by a judge – FRO M EAST TO WEST The God Creator, up in heaven. [11pm, 18th Nov 1980, Walker, Newc.]

Turn another page towards the future, When I get to America And what comes next? I’m going to buy a car Another leaf towards my autumn, And drive across the continent Another black print day of horror, From east to west, and back. Pressed upon me by the Devil, I’ll set out on a journey Counting me amongst the fallen. That few will ever make, I shall travel on forever, Turn another page, I dare not, Leave memories in my wake. And what occurs? Another page turns itself – The dream that inward burns Another day of written torture, Isn’t mine alone - Forced upon me by my failings – I’ve known countless others This bench my bed, my sheets sodden. Less able, far more prone To fits of homesick languor, FAME Depressive pining thoughts, [11pm, 30th Oct 1980, Walker, Newc.] To home’s alluring comforts Easy times once brought. Before he had the world – a pearl Safely held within his palm, For me, well, I’m different, A shining sphere of precious love I like the life of skies – That yielded all its dazzling charm. The peaceful inner warmth And then the fame came. Revealed on every rise That I wander as an innocent Then as he grew to be known Of lingering inner-doubt; And share his solitude of calm, The past one step behind He lost the inner-wanting peace My road stretching out. That always lulled away the harm. But the fame stayed. But when I get to New York, I’m trading in my boots The present that the fame now stole For the automated comfort Took the pearl without a qualm, Of a pedal underfoot – Substituted a fist of gold A car, perhaps an old one, That broke his once perfect calm. I’m going to take a car

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And drive across the continent Where ploughs the crofter From east to west, and back. Now that winter’s come? The grey wind bourn clouds PERFECT LO VE About the waters turn – [11.15pm, 18th Nov 1980, Walker, To maul and howl in tempest Newcastle] The black swirling sea, By the Highland shores When love is perfect Of the wild Hebrides. And untouchable, And neither sad nor tearful, 28TH NOVEMBER 1980 Nor unapproachable, [10.40pm, 28th Nov 1980, Walker, Then love is perfect. Newcastle]

For what without love The snow came down to paralyse Can life be? The thoroughfares and walkways; As neither likeable, nor gay, With knee-high drifts and overhangs, Nor permeable, All life moved precarious. Then love is dead. INSPIRATIO N Love makes the snowflakes dance, [11.02pm, 28th Nov 1980, Walker, Newc] While hate makes the heart freeze. All inspiration has gone; THE WILD HEBRIDES All causes have died, [11.30pm, 18th Oct 1980, Walker, And only the wind washes memories Newcastle] Once washed by the tides

Sitting by the lakeside, That roared, and brought change - Idly passing memories Adventure and freedom, From the ripples of pictures Lust, and excitement – Created by the tide, And ocean carried seaweeds That inspired when over. Washed along the loch, The Scottish fishers sail on CREATION Hauling crayfish pots. [11.12pm, 28th Nov 1980, Walker, Newcastle] The purple long since gone, Lingers in the sand, When the mountains were dragged each tiny speck of past From the bowels of the earth; counting time while tightly clasped And the oceans were melted to the bosom, and the heart, From the rocks nature cleft; tuned into the gulls And the skies were coloured plunging on the waves From the blood of God’s themselves – with reckless cries. Man was little more than four billion years … behind.

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THE BLIZZARD NICARAGUA (song) [4pm, 6th Dec 1980, Walker, Newcastle] [11pm, 13th Dec 1980, Heathrow, London] Snow again coats all the earth, The stubble corn on winter fields, Watching the old volcano smoke, the dying fern on barren heath – Shadowing the small sailing boats. lost beneath white icy sheet. Licking on an ice-cream cone, Sipping a Nicaraguan coke – The trucks labour on the roads, The clouds drifting over the slopes The salt and grit turned to mush, As the locals sat telling jokes. The heavy, grinding axles groan, Chewing slush and throwing mud. Still the tall volcano smoked. I reached the rise to travel on. Trains halt snowbound on the moors - Chewing on my thoughts to go, While far at sea a tempest roars I left the scene for the road; To drive all ships upon the rocks, The sun setting on the sailing boats, To wreck upon the blizzard shore. And those Nicaraguan folks.

And there the farmer, no better placed, Cloistered by the winter snows – Sits cut-off in his granite croft, Perched upon sleet-beaten slopes.

I’M GLAD TO GO (song) [13th Dec 1980, Heathrow, London]

I’m leaving Walker now, Leaving England now, yeah. I’ll work here no more, I guess I’ve had enough.

I’m on a bus for Heathrow, To catch a plane to San Fran, To land in the sunshine. I’m sure glad to go.

Surfing on the waves, yeah, Driving by the shoreline – Living like a man should, I’m sure glad to go.

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BALLADS FOR THE PACIFIC BEACH

SIX THOUSAND THOUGHTS OF I’ve got drugs, man … EXILE I don’t have to say a thing. [14th? Dec 1980, England-California] Time flies. That’s right, Six thousand thoughts of exile, I share it every day with the Parking Across six thousand miles, Man and my lover. What’s my craze? Across the Arctic heartland What drugs I rate. To the other side of life. I’ve got life, mate … I don’t have to sing. Beyond six thousand memories, During six travelling years, THE WEEKEND TRAIL (song) Six thousand east or west, [5.33pm, 22nd Dec 1980, San Leandro, It’s six thousand just the same. California]

Goodbye England, little kingdom, On the weekend adventure trail Goodbye six thousand ways – Of alcohol and drugs – Welcome to the U.S., Rolling on the the highway straights, Six thousand miles away. Driving through the night.

Six thousand thoughts of exile, High on the weekend road Across six thousand miles – Of kicks and rubber – Across the Arctic heartland Gliding through the bright lights, To the other side of life. Reflections in my mirror.

SAN FRANCISCO BAY Travelling those weekend lines [21st Dec 1980, 14619 Darius Way, San Of cocaine and life – Leandro, Calif] Coasting on the evening black, Driving through the night. I came to my newest dream As a stranger to the scene – LAST CHRISTMAS EVE Coastal breaks upon blonde shores 1.54pm, 24th Dec 1980, San Leandro, Girt by a cold sea-board. California]

THE SINGING DRUG-PUSHER (song) Looking back on last year, [1.56pm, 21st Dec 1980, San Leandro, Last Christmas Eve, California] I remember facing Mexico On a dark dusty street. Drugs again. Well, damn I wouldn’t ever tell the landlord The chicken wire towered over, Or the devil. What’s my latest plan? Over Christmas Eve, Who’s my latest girl? I remember watching prostitutes, Sell love on the cheap.

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‘Felix navidad’ boomed the guard, GREEN IS ME guarding Christmas Eve, 10pm, 27th Dec 1980, San Leandro, as I marched into Mexico California] to take a girl for sleep. Blue is the crudest form to take, ‘Twenty dollars’ she whispered, It streaks, it burns, its searing pain whispering Christmas Eve, In many forms – from steel to sea, as I left behind America From eyes to mind, blue’s not me. to fulfil my needs. Red is passion at its height, Looking back on last year, It floods, it bloods all love’s veins – Last Christmas Eve, Romantic Latin's, Commies, rebels; I left behind Jesus, From peace to war – red proves fatal. To sow wild Christmas seed. Green is the peasant’s hue, JACK LONDON’S TOWN It’s fields, it’s leaves, it’s cooling rain; [2.56pm, 24th Dec 1980, SanLeandro, Shades of fences, windows, doors, California] Green is me – nature’s core.

I drove past Jack London’s bar today, GOD IS AMERICA There were nine at least. [7.49pm, 29th Dec 1980, San Leandro, I almost pulled in at the Nanuk, California] But there was a heavy traffic squeeze. California – haze and onshore mist; Well, that’s Oakland for you folks – San Francisco Bay – from the bridge The Tribune and the Temple. America looks beautiful, rises tall The docks, the tracks, Piedmont Hill Over the world as a whole. Where your dollar bills won’t wrinkle. The Leninist from Kurdistan – I drove past Jack London’s bar again – He believes like the Afghan man It was ten o’clock at least. That Russia rules, that America bullies I almost killed a drunken honkey, The lesser nations in third world lands. One of a hundred on First Street. But today – let me tell you, So I took a right on a red, From the San Francisco Bay Bridge, And a right on 12th going east, America looks beautiful, rises tall Until I hit the Nimitz Freeway. To frighten and to awe. Goodbye Oakland! Jack London’s town. WALTER KRO NKITE Well, that’s Oakland for you folks – [10.16pm, 29th Dec 1980, San Leandro, The Tribune and the Temple. California] The docks, the tracks, Piedmont Hill Where your dollar bills won’t wrinkle. When Walter failed to show tonight,

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As gagging clay bound his morale, I saw no friend – The news from the desk in tote I saw no name Featured deadline dropping notes But hers. That dredged the depths, but stole the show. I TRIED TO PASS THE MESSAGE ON (song) ANOTHER DAY AS WORKING [14th Jan 1981, San Leandro, California] CLASS [11.30pm, 2nd Jan 1981, San Leandro, I tried to pass the message on California] Before you tried to cry. I thought it’d be an easy thing Another day as working class, Before I said goodbye. A common labour man – Sixteen tons and no reward I’ve got to move along Except another verbal beating The only road I know. From a fag - the boss You never got the best of times Who’s never shovelled shit That’s why I had to go. Except from his mouth Into my trench, this hell. As I travelled on that night The night I made you cry, Who cares for my soul I left our love a broken thing, As condemned working scum – A broken hearted sigh. A hundred dollars towards my debts, Fifty bucks to live on, The rain swept the lonely road To stave off crippled, tired bones, The road I’ve always known; Muscles bruised and torn – I’m back upon the endless track, Every year an older man The track I know as home. In a rented cold tap abode. PRAYER There is no priest to save me, [8.20pm, 14th Jan 1981, San Leandro, No art to free my heart, California] No love to grow and flourish, No secret, hidden spark Not another word will pass To fire my broken spirit, Beyond these silent lips – To flame my wildest aims – Not another phrase be heard I’m just a working navvie, That is not His. You’ll never know my name. THE TWO DOGS ROAD TO HEAVEN (song) [18th Jan 1981, San Leandro, California] [12th Jan 1981, San Leandro, California] Boris was a poor man’s dog, As I was walking the road to heaven And Bart a homeless hound, I saw the end – Whose wagging tongue belied his thirst, As I was walking the road to heaven His tail – his mellow mind.

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Though Bart, a simple wandering soul, Along the harbour lines. Suffered many moral blows, He never scorned a trusted friend; No shore men showed their faces For what was life alone? Beneath the shore land lights; No human form emerged ‘Tell me, tell me’ he seemed to yap To dim or shadow time. to Boris, young and dumb – a clumsy German Shepherd mutt, The watchman sipped his coffee his heart – his saving love. To pry his blackened eyes – He cursed his job in hardware, But Boris couldn’t bark to Bart, His second forty hours. He was barely nine months old – Instead he shook his sheepish head And forty times he nodded To answer yes or no. Between each hourly round – A guard in west dock Oakland, And thus the bosom buddies played Asleep each dock land night. With stick, or stone, or bone – They shared the pleasures given them THE DRUNK Along the doggie road. [14th Feb 1981, San Leandro, California]

THE WATER IN THE BAY (song) Yesterday is a lost day, [12.50am, 21st Jan 1981, San Leandro] The day before a blur – Three days ago forgotten, And the water on the bay lapped gently, And four a misty murk And the fog with the tide rolled in, No denser than the fifth day, And the boat on the waves sailed over The sixth completely blank – And under the last harbour bridge. In tote a week of nothing, A week of being drunk. And the bird in the sky soared higher And the land faded off from view – THE BO XER And I guess that’s the end of the story [14th Feb 1981, Joaquin Av, San Leandro] As the sun sank red, and evening grew. Another day, another dime, OAKLAND DOCKS Another ring, another night, [4.50pm, 28th Jan 1981, San Leandro] Another time, another life, Another thing, another fight. The evening – black and lonely The patroller walked his rounds; HILLBILLY LIVING He clocked the passing hours [8.05pm, 14th Feb 1981, San Leandro, And logged the boring night. California]

Dim lights glazed the darkness, Life on the hill, on a dead-end street, The waters slapped the docks, Ended a two month lull A labouring diesel shunted stock Of hill-billy living.

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Sleeping like dogs on a carpet, And in the falling darkness, Close to the earthquakes Suddenly, he was gone – And cosmic vibrations. With him went her spirit Her heart, her flesh, her blood. Who said that the free spirit died The day pot arrived And left behind was Laura – And God departed. A sad and cureless soul, Who let her good looks fade - The world careers on downhill – Who finally let life go. Saturn, then Luna Drive, And on into space. That’s what became of Laura – That’s what became of her. GYPSY LOVING LAURA Her beauty, her eyes of moonlight [10pm, St Valentine’s Day, San Leandro] Stolen by a gypsy boy.

What’s happened to Laura? OVERDOSED ROCKSTAR (song) What’s become for her? [9.15pm, 17th Feb 1981, San Leandro] Her beauty, her eyes of moonlight, Their silver beams of love? His career was almost over, So he took an overdose; He loved her softer than satin, They found him lying in his car He adored her sweeter than musk, In a comatose. He cared for her more than Jesus Cared for the creatures and birds. While the world played his records, He was buried ‘neath the news - He carried her bundles of flowers His girl found another, Through the corn and rains – As the faithless always do. He chased the rising lark skywards On the path to lover’s gate. His band went acoustic, And finally fell apart – She loved him like no other, The genius of his music She drained her heart for him, Joined forgotten art. She lay with him all summer, Fanned by the summer winds. THE WELDER’S TORCH [11.55pm, 20th Feb 1981, San Leandro] The gypsies warned of heartache By the fires of their circled nights; The welder’s torch lit the night They whispered of shooting horses And burnt a hue of steel, And of lovers taking flight. That flashed up on to the clouds As blue electric beams. And like the skylark soaring The tungsten power arced though In song and rising free, The workshop of the world – The singing ceased, and silence A lava burst of magma welds Followed in its lee. And a line of molten seams.

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FRESNO The spirit of a man, [7.40pm, 24th Feb 1981, Fresno, Calif.] Freed upon the thawing Of the High Sierra lands. Working thirteen hours without a break. Each day another. TO FIND HER ROBBIE, SO Awake. Work. Eat. Sleep. [9.50pm, 1st Mar 1981, Fresno, Calif.] Fresno, California. Who cares. What would Highland Mary say If she found her Robbie o, THE HIGH SIERRAS Dancing with the serving maid [7.30pm, 27th Feb 1981, Fresno, Calif.] In the parlour naked so?

Across the Central Valley Would she not cry aloud The High Sierras rose, For her wretched Robbie o, As the winter snow descended Drunken, footloose with the proud Half a mile or more Young Laura, white and virgin so? To cover every high ridge And Ponderosa pine, For would it not break her heart While every creek froze solid For to watch her Robbie o, Beneath the silver ice. Stroke the red hair in the dark Of lovely Laura laying so? Frostbitten in a hollow, A climber fought the night – And would she not finally die Delirious, and dying To hear her Robbie whisper o, He dreamt of city life That he loved without lie That spread across the valley Young Laura he had taken, so? Towards the golden coast Of towering palms and blondes – And would they not bury her, A world he knew, now lost. The wife of wretched Robbie o, If we could not stop the hurt, By morning all was pristine, To see the maid with Robbie, so? The High Sierras stood Breathtaking on the skyline MILLIO NAIRES IN DEBT (song) Beneath the heaven’s flood [5.50pm, 8th Mar 1981, San Leandro] That outlined every high ridge And Ponderosa pine They pay for their cars, As life began to trickle They pay for their yachts, Down the mountainside. They pay for their mansions, They pay for their jets, It would across the valley They pay for their art, Towards the golden shore, They pay for their friends, It entered rolling waters That’s six reasons why By palms and bathing blondes; There are millionaires in debt. It spread upon the ocean

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They spend on their business, How do I indent the paragraphs? They spend on their wives, How do I make a capital F? They spend on their drugs, And where do I find the number 1? And they spend all their life – What do I do when the bell has rung? Spend to stem boredom, And if I happen to make a mistake, Spend to hold back time, What corrections can I make?’ Spend until they die Without a single dime. Well, you can imagine the peace I got, And the strain on my temper the They buy for their comfort, questions They buy for their blondes, Brought every time that damn bell rang, They buy for the future, Every minute she continued to bang, And buy government bonds – And thump, and hammer my poor Buy social status, typewriter. Buy climbing stock, Who said ladies fingers were lighter? Buy cheap religion, I’ll tell you now, all poets and authors, And buy cheap gods. Playwrights and fellows of our professional collar – They sell all their faith, Never be so silly or so innocently nice They sell all their pride, To let your wife use your electric device. They sell all their morals For a million dollar ride; BALLAD O F THE BLACK ISLE They sell short their children, [10th-11th Mar 1981, San Leandro, Calif.] Sell short themselves, Sell short their riches When the plague broke out In millionaire style. On the southern seas, Of the ninety-two men, So there goes the money, They buried four a day. There goes the cash, And there goes the capital Their skins blistered yellow Before the final crash – Beneath the frying sun And there goes the mansion, As scurvy killed the crew, And there goes the jet, And the rats seaward plunged. And there go the friends Of a millionaire in debt. Then, on the port horizon, Land broke the voyage, MY WIFE AND MY TYPEWRITER A wisp of smoke escaping [9.25pm, 10th Mar 1981, San Leandro, From a black volcanic void. Calif.] While green threw the ocean When my wife began to type, she asked Upon its mangrove shore, ‘What do I do at the end of a line? Upon the island smouldering How do I get the margins straight? Beneath black lava rocks. Where do I put our address and the date?

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White horses dragged the shingle, Tossed thoughtlessly towards a lake Dark mermaids combed the sands, To watch the ripples turn to shore. Pink conches sounded over Pink coconutted palms. Far better that a flickering flame Burns with all its fire, Beige sky mirrored heaven Than have a man dowse its light In a wispy cirrus mime, Or sate its glowing ember pyre; Shrouding the volcano For like the rose that blooms a day, As the molten tempest climbed Love is sweet, should be admired.

And thundered out of Hades – Yet still my heart, my head deceives, Unleashed its storm, For you – my only girl! Burnt the steaming forest With whirling eyes and swirling smile, With its back ash rainfall. With crimson cheeks and hair a twirl, I could not think of anyone And soon the roaring magma To give me more of love’s sweet thrill. Ran to the sea – Till the island lay barren THE PAST STILL BURNS TOO Beneath black lava scree. STRONG [12.35am, 19th Mar 1981, San Leandro] As the crew watched in horror The destruction of the isle, Ne’er have the shores of England seemed The scurvied souls prepared so far. To spend their final hours. Ne’er have the pains of languor been so strong. And towards an end they headed Though oceans separate two nations and Beneath the southern stars, the past; Until the black isle faded Though people’s different ways keep each And the white seagulls cried. apart.

REAFFIRMATIO N O F LO VE Ne’er have the hills of England seems so [12.17am, 14th Mar 1981, San Leandro] lost. Ne’er have the thoughts of fiends been so When lazy words crossed my lips, dad. I meant no harm to you – Though language bonds two nations so Your simple love was all you gave, alike; All you wished was my love too; Though continents create such wide But all I had was cheap reply, divide. A thing I never meant to do. Ne’er have the rains of England seemed An offered pledge of servitude, to missed. Of death, if need be known, Ne’er have the aches of lovers been so Should not be treated with a laugh, stirred. Not treated lightly like a stone

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Though freedom grants the two with equal Progress speaks its own refrain rights; ‘Another day, another dollar - Though day shines there; while here is some get bigger, some get smaller’. night. Who really shares their wealth Ne’er has the lure of England seemed so With those who struggle on the street? true. With their raggy clothes, shoeless hobos Ne’er has the call of England been so Drunk and living with the trash clear. That represents our own foul waste – Though Liberty resounds with song so A downtown district, deserted, desolate, loud; Inhabited by bums and derelicts. Ne’er shall I turn again from England now. Give a man some wealth, he forgets his brother; EL SALVADO R IS NO T THE Give a man some pride, he rides another; PRO BLEM Give a man truth, he turns and shudders. [11.10pm, 22nd Mar 1981, San Leandro] Had you been born the son of a child While others bear the cross of Salvador, molester? Or decry the Polish labour crisis – Or the daughter of a cruel and twisted I gaze around me at the tramps and winos parent? Destitute upon the Bay city streets. Would you be a social dreg, a parasite, A twisted broken human fragment - Beneath the Stars and Stripes, Living by handouts and dying from Beneath the democratic lights, neglect. Beneath the granted rights, Beneath the surface of American life – A blindness to poverty exists – For the moon is made of cheese and Please don’t tell me about Calcutta, lemon fizz? I’ve seen the poverty for myself; How can anyone really believe in this? I’ve seen the bodies face down in the garbage; The President in a pathetic political fix, I’ve seen the flies, the fleas, the lice, Cites thirty-two pages of help-wanted ads. Eat the sores and take Indian life for His point? The nation has no desire to granted. work.

Such memories fade as time passes on – Winos and tramps all around us, They only come as demons in the night, And the plight of El Salvador scares the As mystic remains - horrors retreating youth. Into the subconscious of the mind. The mighty Republic of Fifty Unions, Frightened by the consequences of Now I spend my time in America, Salvador. Where dreams exist for all to grasp; Where bridges span the gap of class,

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Please don’t try to tell me about As a man beat his unfaithful lover, socialism, While a junkie fixed his last poisoned And how it will destroy the morals of the shoot. world. Look around you, friends, In all it was quite a summer’s evening, the person at your elbow – Nigh before the sunset finally came, And brought the streaming red of evening The answer is not the defence of the As blood filled very downtown drain. Panama Canal. The answer is not in total Cuban MARCH O F TIME withdrawal. [10.25pm, 29th Mar 1981, San Leandro, The answer is your own sweet American Calif.] self. And your own bitter American selfishness. Weary Time wobbled on along the cobbled way, WEST GRAND AND SAN PABLO Feeble hand on the shaft of his sickle [7.38pm, 24th Mar 1981, San Leandro] blade; White beard trampled by this trembling A black spare-changed upon the sidewalk, step, The streets the ladies strolled or lounged, He marched one step ahead of Death. Each lamppost offering refuge to someone Loud tolled the tintinnabulator Earth, In the dark ghetto district of downtown. Shaken by the weight of Time’s forced passing, The girls whistled out in hope of custom Pushed on by the lifeless breath, To the honkers idly waiting at the lights, Released from Death in fits of frothing. While around the corner in an alley, A mugger dragged a lady out of sight. Wretched wailing welled the ailing life, Death solved that which Time passed by; A baby screamed out form an attic Step for step they marched together, window Arresting not for man, nor child. As a hustler sold a kid a stolen watch, And from the noise of the wailing cop- APRIL IN CALIFO RNIA car, [2.30pm, 4th Apr 1981, San Leandro] Another grocer store had just been robbed. What could be better in April A young girl gave into a rapist Than to sit, watch the hummingbirds After pleading at the point of a gun – Dart beneath the blossom trees While a gang of high-school dropouts Ablaze with springtime colour. Set fire to a disused house for fun. Or listen to the tickling breeze A shoeless wino riffled in a trash can, Playing in the Chinese chimes, Just before another knifed him for his Blowing gently on the petals loot, Of the pansies and snapdragons.

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As I, sit by the lettuce patch BANKRUPT SWINDLER Whittling away the hours, [10.48pm, 11th Apr 1981, San Leandro] Under the shade of maple leaves And a towering eucalyptus. It started with a dodgy check, And wages docked for income tax – I study an ancient bonsai tree, And other little simple things Sheltered by a redwood giant, That didn’t seem to matter much. On such a sunny April’s day Under a Californian sky. The next he knew a letter came Calling for an unpaid debt, THE HIDDEN GLEN And then ten others on the mat, [10.50pm, 5th Apr 1981, San Leandro] Signalled that the rot had set.

What is real in Highland lands His creditors came to take their goods Of heathen fields and windswept While their lawyers sued for more – mountains, The sheriff locked the factory gates, Peopled by such hardy peasants, The workers sacked, went home. Driven on, and wind blast hardened, By the harshness of their future Some said he’d do five straight years, Dwelling in their wild domain – Some thought he’d go Scot-free – Made braw by the soaring heather But some saw a roaring jet Lashed and hewn by the rain. Carry him to sun and sea.

Craggy were the rocks and faces They were right, strange enough, Of that hidden Scottish glen – He went to hot Belize – Across the moors, beyond the loch side To swim in surf in coral bliss - Misted by the swirling wet, And laze ‘neath coco trees. Hazed and fogged a million mornings, Black and dead a million nights, WHERE GO I Never seen and never crossed, [8.10pm, 12th Apr 1981, San Leandro] by cottage light, nor crofter dykes. The question loomed out the sky Who passed such lonely hostile life Like a spate of rolling cloud Beneath that roof. Who dwelt there? Heading for the rain-thirst slopes, A question that gave no answer To rescue and revive – As the mist shroud-wound the air, Every small blade of grass And brought with it an evil shiver Sun-battered to the ground. That made me cower deep inside, To wrap my tweeds about my body Two eyes blazed upon my own And leave that haunted mountainside. Like a vision of a God Staring down in bloody want, In need of a sacrifice – As I counted out the cattle Grazing on the land.

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I cast my eyes to the hills Marching on to Moscow Like a wanderer on the move, To be scattered in burnt fields, Roaming endless distant ways You left behind a trail of blood, In search of paradise – The Russians at your heels – As every thought I ever had You left behind the one you loved Answered in reply. To die for your ideals.

The question faded from the sky, HE WO RKED TEN HO URS EVERY The burning died in his eyes DAY To whistle high above the rise [9.35pm, 21st Apr 1981, San Leandro, Of cattle grazing fields – Calif.] As I left the farmer there Asking where go I. He worked ten hours every day, And hour there, an hour back, NAPOLEON’S SOLDIER By bus he travelled in the morn, [10.50pm, 19th Apr 1981, San Leandro] By train he left to journey home.

Versed in wisdom, not in sense, His wife waited for her man, Immersed in knowledge but not its love, And kissed him warmly like she should, You travelled high the weathered trail His son asked if he could help Through thickets thronged and barbed – Fix his bicycle if he could. You carried countless inner doubts That set your jaw line hard. The clock ticked on in gentle sighs As he struggled with the bike – Hard against the cold wind, His hunger pains grew very loud Cruel upon the snow While his wife took a shower. That buffeted your great-coat As you struggled onwards home – While his hands were smeared in oil, Broken like the army His son sat and quietly read – The Emperor call his own. His wife clean, and prettied up, Felt tired, and went to bed. Marching on to Moscow And scattered in retreat, He laboured on with the bike, While all France trembled naked Instead of caring for himself, In the wake of raped defeat – And finally when he nodded off, Why did you leave bright Paris He hadn’t eaten, hadn’t showered. For Napoleon’s sad elite. Thus cheated of his leisure time, Why forsake your lover He worked his life for his wife To fight for glory’s sake, And his son - who hated him I’ll never understand the foils of war, For never spending time with them. It only leads to wakes – that women tend, and cry at For men’s proud mistakes.

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JAPANESE GARDEN There is no peace, no solitude, [9.27pm, 27th Apr 1981, San Leandro] No preparation of the end – It comes, the panic on its heels, The Japanese garden No prayers to let the dust descend. By the turtle lake Beneath the awning maple There is no hope of quelling grief And mugo pine – While fault and blame bloods all minds – There is no way of turning back The juniper arrows The clock before the fateful hour. Raining on azalea heads – There should be no flowers There is no more, no cold return In a proper bonsai bed. From tombstone etched in churchyard plot – CHINATOWN Greying, like those left to live, [10.05pm, 10th May 1981, San Leandro] To grieve the young so early lost.

Sitting by the gates of Chinatown Yet who knows why the grief is so? Having a burger and shake, Perhaps we know, but will not say – In a sardine-box type café Youth rushes at us all ablaze; Across from a sushi place – It comes, flames, and then it fades.

While the tourists click away merrily FREEWAY ACCIDENT The taxi’s roar through the gates, [12.25am, 29th May 1981, San Leandro] As the sightseers crowd the sidewalks In the shove for gifts and keepsakes He was only twenty seven, Manhood sparked in his eyes – That glitter in every store window He blazed a trail through dreamland The colour of emerald jade – Before being paralysed. Fans and frogs of fertility Sending flushes to every awed face – The wheels for legs slowly spin Along the corridors of white – Trapped by the paintings of tigers, Everything is flying castles, By cymbals and tinkling chimes, Pink butterflies and soaring kites. Climbing with the chittering chatter Into the lit lanterns of Chinatown. Before the star-bursts fade off, Become a grey lasting zone, DEATH O F A YO UTH Slowly darkening each last second [24th May 1981, San Leandro, Calif.] Until all light ups – is gone.

When life is taken from the young, O NLY THE BEST WILL DO It’s sadder than a man of age, [12.54am, 29th May 1981, San Leandro] Or graceful lady passing, Who had time to pick a plot. Soldiering on, Duke Wellington At the battle of Waterloo,

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Between a fit and a temper FAREWELL SWEET PO ETS Called his bugler to. (on completion of another notebook) [31st May 1981, San Leandro, Calif.] He said in an order of ‘Bugler! Be damned if you don’t play true. One year of poems fill this book, Signal the Royal Scot Greys on many thoughts and passing moods, To charge Napoleon’s Blues.’ Sketched by peaceful flowing brooks Or penned behind black masks and hoods. No sooner the order carried, The bugler bursting his gut – Yet, here we are, at the end For King! And Country! And Glory! And who shall say I did not try Made the Scots Grey horses charged. To capture dreams and real intent That time has gladly passed on by. They sliced through the terrified Frenchmen, For who can count the inspired hours Who fled from the hooves of the Greys, My pen has flashed across the page, Losing their coveted standard – Or dragged its ink in useless power That Ensign Ewart snatched away While inside my soul has raged.

And carried to cheers and rejoicing But now, my work is nigh complete, To the camp of the Iron Duke – The words alone now will speak, Who turned aside to his bugler I’ll leave this stage in slow retreat – With a satisfied military look. Farewell, sweet poets, farewell in peace.

JUNE MAY COME TOMORROW BEFO RE THE RAINBO W CO MES [5.35pm, 30th May 1981, San Leandro, [31st May 1981, San Leandro, Calif.] Calif.] America’s given me stage-life, This month a day but gone, Performing my work to crowds Pervades in sight of coming June, Who gather like rumbling clouds Rides out my cantering thoughts Before clapping with loud shouts Cantering over the urban gloom In a thunderous shower of applause. Of spending life in idle waste, Paying rent and sundry bills, HO T PRAIRIE SUMMER That neither rid, nor further help, [20th Jun 1981, San Leandro, Calif.] Not cure the soul, to leave it still. The chords of wood stood by the road, Will June be the answer then - By fields of corn hemmed in by woods. Straddling every broken fence A crane passed over in looping swoops. Hemming in the city ruins Of crumbling nerves and tired limbs, A sleep-eyed mouse shook the sheaves, Fettered to the urban tether? A cool draught seeped around its nest Thank God that May has almost gone – So steeped in heat, no breeze could Bring on the summer weather. dowse.

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THE VALLEY O F BIG SUR Dark closed the sur on the river streaked 10.47pm, 28th Jun 1981, San Leandro] with gold; Misty grew the pinnacle, the buttress and Sentinel stood the pinnacle, the buttress the peak. and the peak, Over all the forest – oak and giant MURDER O N THE CATHEDRAL redwood, STAIRS Shadowing the sur, the river gouged and [10.27pm, 29th Jun 1981, San Leandro] stripped, Leaving yellow gleaming pools with silver Hollow sounding steps rung the night – trout. A woman high-heeled, heavy thighed, Quickly passed beneath the courtyard Foreboding o’er the treetops, and eagle lights, swooped, Near which a shadow lurked, tense and Magnificent, majestic, across the valley quiet. floor, Chasing the wind sent up from the The mist of Montmartre swirled about, shoreline, Her low-hem dress, her naked ankles, The ocean flowered in polka-dotted white, blossoms. Frozen in a cold seat from sudden fear, As behind the lurking shadow – neared. Ruefully passed a miner, his donkey and his load, Hurriedly her footsteps clawed stone Along the eucalyptus, birch and aspen stairs. path – Too late! The shadow met her there! Following the lust the wilderness denied Too young, the fille de joie lay there – him Severed bowels, red against her ankles By washing the golden flakes beyond his bare. grasp. THE WAY WE INTEND Blinding sped the water, the cataracts and [11.37pm, 29th Jun 1981, San Leandro] falls, Surging off the basalt cliffs and canyon It’s crazy how these things begin, rocks, And how they never seem to end – Sweeping jewel-bright leaping trout into But go on – time on endless time, eddies Not the way we intend. On which the eagle swooped as the miner watched. PUTTING THE BO SS STRAIGHT [30th Jun ? 1981, San Leandro, Calif.] Sad he turned, to search another raging creek - Lazy, that’s how I feel today. Hazy fell the forest of oak and giant Digging holes ain’t my cup of tea. redwood; For you tell me, amigo, Have you spent the summer working

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And sweating without payment? On which all lies, are truths just the same?

Hell, no! You prissy little mother-fucker, If a poet always speaks for the people, I sure ain’t going to work for no bum! Is not his thought then enslaved? Work? Screw it, man! Love! Is not his ego locked in essence, Love is what I need, brother. On which all men are bound depraved?

You give me your money, If a poet always is and never was, And I’ll give you my love. He’s not the judge we see him as. Lazy, Christ no! He’s not the jury set to try us. I’m just smart to know Then that poet is the poet left in me. I ain’t working for fun. THE RAINBOW ROAD IN DEBT TO THE TUNE O F YO UR [10.55pm, 21st Jul 1981, San Leandro] LIFE [9.17pm, 11th Jul 1981, San Leandro] I once knew the world as a lonely place, A place where man took his own stand, I’ve tried to be tolerant of my debtors, A stand that separated him from others, Of creditors, I’ve rarely had one – So that everyone knew each, apart. And if I have somehow been negligent, It was accident, nt malicious intent. These were old times, young wandering days, It was because of my debtors lies, Days spend upon the carefree road, My debtors deceits and crimes. A road quiet, a way long - I have with all honesty, That stretched towards the rainbow’s Tired to pay my debts, at all times. glow.

I am angry with all my debtors, I suppose now, that I was blind then, I have my gun loaded and primed – Blind but young, and free and sold, While my creditors are looking for me, Sold to an idea of pots of gold I’m gonna mow my debtors down. At the end of the rainbow road.

THE PO ET LEFT IN ME HERO ES [10.15pm, 16th Jul 1981, San Leandro] [7.30pm, 26th Jul 1981, San Leandro]

If the poet always has his wealth in Heroes come in forms sublime, poverty, Divine, yet surely fragile seeds Is not his spirit then in debt? Bourn by the storms of war, Is not his hope a fragile longing Planted by the ploughs of peace. Of wasted words, idle talk, regret? Visions fall on those, so few If a poet always quotes the truth aloud, Selected from the seas of corn, Is not his voice then in chains? The grasses wild upon the plains, Is not his wisdom shackled by his honesty, The cradle of the voice unborn.

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Too soon the cause has risen clear, To trumpets ringing on the beat of drums, To run, to shun the final call – To pipers singing in the lift of London’s A hidden hand pushed forth, bells The hero stands, erect to all. That draw on people to hold their breath.

Stories told, in time unfold, Yet, within my soul burns freedoms fire! Of deeds, of inspiration cloned – As violence, riots, starvation are And statues tower in the parks, forgotten, Where victories raised, saw heroes fall. While Ulster sickness ravishes Liverpool and Leeds, JULY 29TH 1981 And Glasgow nears the edge of open (for Laura’s Thirtieth Birthday) revolution. [8.45pm, 28th Jul 1981, San Leandro] The storm looms imminent in fascist On a summer’s morn in English fashion, Britain, The grey dawn will be long in brightening While I imprisoned, interred on hunger – strike – Silent, yet waiting for the city sleep It started as a cause for equal rights, To turn the bells and drums which beat Not rebellion, as the law has called my To sound the coming of the carriages, crime. Carrying the Prince and his sweet Princess. Meanwhile my love is far across the hills, Across the wildest moors in hidden Irish Yet for Laura, in distant California, heaths; Such a morn of smoggy summer heat, Awakening to the whistle of a hopping Takes the tenderness caught in her room blackbird To mean that dawn has brought too soon On the garden fence, close by her window. The passing of youthful age – And the rising of a fuller shining moon. Grey clouds will rise from out the black North Sea, NEVER TO BE FO RGO TTEN As dawn presents her with a birthday gift- WILL CO ME MY SWEETHEART’S Her thirty years of life run ‘neath the DAY bridge [00.00am, 29th Jul 1981, San Leandro] On which I imprisoned, must let the water flow. Never to be forgotten will come my sweetheart’s day, The soldiers with their bullets, the police As dawn in England brings two million their shields, forth I alone, call and cry these words for her. To view and cheer for Charles, Prince of Our love as a thing – cannot be broken, Wales, Like the revolution that flowers and Surrendering sweet love to his royal bride. grows. Which corner of the earth will not take Never shall be forgotten my sweetheart’s note, day,

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I shall wait on God, to be set free – The fortune in your head. A thousand years of English class oppression, Who knows, perhaps tomorrow, Shall be appeased, the day my sweetheart Or the next at least, rejoins me. When you can’t make money What’s the point of losing sleep. SITTING AT A CAB STAND [3rd Aug 1981, 13th & Mission, Hayward] When the day goes too quickly And things are left undone – When you’re sitting at a cab stand What’s the use of being angry And waiting for a fare, In the glowing, setting sun? You watch all the action Outside the bars and transit bays – Who knows, perhaps tomorrow, The to and fro of people The anguish will not burn Beneath the falling night, As hot and deep and troubled The drunks, the late-tired shoppers, As today’s frustration churned. The aged, and wide-eyed types – The old, and not so healthy When the night fails to linger Who can’t afford to ride. And dawn begins to light, You may feel the spirit TURN O F FATE Rebirth in your life. [10pm, 4th Aug 1981, Hayward Bart] Who knows, perhaps by evening Its strange how life takes so many turns The dice will have rolled – That is somehow incongruent with fate. With your fortune ready made How many times have you barely And your world turned to gold. wondered That each step wasted could have been a THE WET GET-AWAY hundred. [10th Aug 1981, East Bay, Calif.]

SIMPLE LIFE On a rare cloudy night in California, [10.05pm, 4th Aug 1981, Hayward, Calif.] Near midnight on a chilly August evening, On the outskirts of a large spreading city, How others’ lives seem to simple; By the shores of San Francisco Bay – So full of dull, and weathered living; So bliss with boring, sameness days, A sleeping taxi-driver in a dream, The same old thing, day in day out. Set in a windswept Safeway parking lot, Was suddenly awakened by a shot. THE DICE PLAYER The 7-11 across the way was being [11.25pm, 10th Aug 1981, Hayward] robbed. A gunman sped away in an ‘80’s Chevy, When you can’t make money, Burning rubber like some high-school kid, Then you have to take a rest; In panic, doing wheelie's on the sidewalk, You might as well forget Leaving a hydrant gushing like a fountain.

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THE IRISH THE TRAVELLER [19th Aug 1981, Hayward, Calif.] [24th-26th Aug 1981, East Bay, Calif.]

Why does the Irish issue burn sweet I’ve spent a year in California, tongues But its not the only place I’ve been – With bitter words and stinging taste, I was twenty-one in India, With acrid fire and acid pain And travelled Europe at seventeen. While Irish palates stay unstained? I passed some time in Brazil, Where I came from midst the working And Kenya, not so long ago – class, I crossed the Andes to Bolivia, Irish men wore handkerchiefs for hats, To rock-n-roll on the radio. Irish eyes were blank, and cheeks bright red, Now I’m flying out for Bangkok, And alcohol reeked from their every And India a second time around – breath. Can’t say when I’ll be returning; Travelling is a fate blown life. That’s not to say they were low men, For ne’er was one to hold a grudge – LET SWEET PEACE ABIDE And ne’er was found a broken soul [1.47am, 27th Aug 1981, East Bay, Calif.] Who could not belly-ache a laugh. Its always nice to let things slide, Yet scourging every Irish tongue To let things blindly, smoothly ride – Were tales of legend and of myth, To lay all things off to the side, Mingled with a touch of truth, And amply let sweet peace abide. Stretched beyond all common sense. IN A FARAWAY LAND And who could doubt Irish love [2nd-3rd Sep 1981, Hayward-San L, Calif.] Woven from the fear of God – That honest women never gave Clear be the day and blue the dawn Till after wedding in a church. Before the gathering coming storm, The unleashing of child, still unborn, Yet, please believe, I have no beef, Coming, coming, until dawn’s long gone. I’ve shared sweet nights with Irish girls; I’ve drunk till dawn with Irish men Clammy the heat of the tropical noon And had no foes, but many friends. Before the thundering clamour rolls – The storm, storm imminent looms, VETERANS CAB Heralding, heralding a roaring typhoon. [8.13pm, 21st Aug 1981, East Bay, Calif.] Heavy the lashing and dark the simoon Another night on the road – Tearing palms from century old roots – Though rather different from the past; The rain, rain drumming tin roofs, Riding out in working life, Bringing, bringing the wet monsoons. Driving round for Veteran's Cab.

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Cool be the night and huge the moon For there I discovered silence Through the door of the lighted room – Skimming the black lake swell, Crying, crying, carries a voice, Gently cutting the white tops Born, brn from a native’s womb. While stars as raindrops fell.

Clear be the day and blue the dawn, Till I ground ashore on the agate The childbirth room beginning to warm – That clung to the Monolith Isle, The palms, palms whistling hum, I tied my skiff and unclothed - As gathering, gathering the storm it And ascended in primitive bounds comes. To a cave I know on the summit, PARADISE Where naked and utterly alone – [6pm, 7th Sep 1981, San Leandro, Calif.] I listened as the echoes recited The beat at my deep heart’s core. Other worlds wait far beyond the seas, Fired with long tanned, naked legs And curled like an unborn baby And breasts heaving in the waves – In the chill of the cavern womb, On a golden beach in Paradise. I grasped the lost millenniums And the cave as a sacred tomb. UNFULFILLED ATTAINMENT [6.02pm, San Leandro, Calif.] And still as I tramp the city I hear the inner, clear cries How many years must the spirit wait Of the spirits leashed in the darkness To catch the glory of the times; In the depths of the Monolith Isle. Why must the soul bend its knee To filter out the evil in the light? MY TWENTY-THREE FIRST- COUSINS No answer waits the unsure mind, [23rd Sept 1981, Hayward, Calif.] No treasure yields to the wanton heart; Blank is the empty demon’s love Of my twenty-three first-cousins, Allen’s Raging on, and on, through life. now in jail, Brian got released last week, certified sane – THE MO NO LITH ISLE And Cathy is a prostitute, barely in her [14th-15th Sept 1981, Hayward, Calif.] teens, And there’s cousin Ian Barrie who’s Every day I tire of city life confessed as being gay. I cry for the lost still hours, I spent by the healing black waters There’s George, a shipyard worker, always That circled the Monolith Isle. out of work, I long for the endless peace found And cousin Alec Hoban, who’s never Down by the pebbles and stone – heard the word, Circling the ghosts and the spirits And there’s little Annie Jean, now a Cast by the mist on that shore. convent nun,

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And her brother Jamie John, a lying, ‘I guess I’ll be looking for somewhere cheating bum. warm to hole up before long’. There’s Marjory, a spinster, with a colic rubber heart, And he was right as the leaves fell And Margaret, a singer in the Sunday And bare the skyline stood – Mass church choir – As rain dropped, and wind blew And Hughie lost to reason, wandering the In every neighbourhood. world, And cousin Robert Aitken who grows his And the floods came, and deluge followed, own pot. And homeless fled the rising tide – While on the higher land, water carried There’s Carol born at Christmas, angelic, The soil off in endless mudslides – pure and dumb, There’s Davie, a gambler, a rogue,a thief, That never lent not let hinder a pimp – The never stopping rain that came – And lovely sweet young Gillian who drops Dropping like pennies falling them all the time, From a Las Vegas slot machine. And her sister Esther Bauld whose love produced a child. Soon stripped, the covers of the sky Lay bare the naked stars in bed – There’s Joan, a factory seamstress that And instantly the waters fell suicide almost claimed, As rising dawn like cockerel broke And cousin Jimmy Moffat that religion has reprieved; The tramp awake from his sound sleep; And Hilary, the rebel, spouting high on Oblivious to the passing flood – LSD, In idleness of yawning breath, And Laura, slimming down on purple pills He arose from the sea of mud. and cheese. THE TWENTY TWO TRIALS O F A There’s Robin, fallen woman who’s been TRAVELLER married seven times, [29th Sept- 6th Oct 1981, San L – And there’s cousin Isabel, an old Hayward, Calif.] fashioned girl, And finally, there’s Albert, who just this He has lived the life of a wanderer, week was born – and much has he conquered and bourne, I guess when added up, that’s twenty-three he's lived with the twenty-two troubles in all. in order to learn and to know

24TH SEPTEMBER That though weakened & ravished by [24th Sept 1981, Hayward, Calif.] hunger and covered in rivers of veins, he'd take only his rationed measure On the 24th September, the rain began – and wander on cheerful and sane - ‘Earlier than usual’ said the tramp.

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And refrain from drinking cold water Thus houseless and poor, the wanderer though gagged by tropical thirst, from town to village did roam, restrained - by shame and aversion Passionless, perfect, and sinless, to discover the happiness sought. he'd wander on tireless, alone.

Avowed, austere, and ascetic, And if a layman somehow abused him, occasionally plundered by cold, he'd grow neither angry, nor cruel, he'd never walk without reason he'd take torment with silence beyond what the scriptures controlled. and keep his soul a jewel.

He'd suffer from heat on his body, And when beaten, he was not angry, he'd suffer from summer's hot winds, he'd vent no vengeful thoughts, but he'd never lament discomfort with calm resign and patience, nor wipe the sweat from his limbs. he'd revise what wisdom taught.

And suffering from insects and gad-flies, And in the quandary for perfection, he'd not chase the creature flood, he'd debate to beg, or starve, he'd tolerate all living beings for all, or some, or nothing, though they fed on his flesh and blood. he'd hold out his bowl and ask.

With his clothes torn, he'd go naked, And when denial produced hunger, it mattered not to him .... in the grip of deep desire, complaint was for poor weaklings in the wake of gathering sadness, whose robes were spun from whims. he'd still produce a laugh.

And born a man of our essence, And when ill, he'd take no treatment, with women a natural desire, he'd sojourn on alone .... he'd prefer to perform his duties to find the firm and fast, than search for the ego in I. and the future for his soul.

Thus different from those about him And naked, rough, and sun-burnt he'd acquire no chattels nor goods, hurt by grass, by wind .... unattached to house or house-holders, he would not search for new clothes he'd sleep wherever he could. to cloak his dust-stained skin.

In a burial place or roofless house For to carry such filth on his body or below a tree he would sit, until expiration on death, alone, without moving, and fearless, while not lamenting discomfort, he would study encircled by birds. was noble and true to the path.

And having found good lodgings, Which led him to harbour no cravings, he would never tarry long, nor have resent for pleasant things, the nature of penance and inner-self for not being dainty and sorry, would make him travel on. he took what life might bring.

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And such remembered past actions, IN GEORGE’S NAME as a product of ignorance and youth, [14th Oct 1981, East Bay, Calif.] To understand was the answer - the way of reaching the truth. If only George had known That his face would fly above Turned from the lust of the senses, The aspirational wanting he lived re-strain-ed-ly, Of a nation on the burn – he practiced religious austerities That everything he stood for until his path was clear. Would be written on the back, In green, and blessed by God, He thought of the future coming, And signed as ONE. the exulted state received, he journeyed from village to village And in the city of his name, until this was achieved. Huddle fascist heads – Scheming arbitration And this is the life of the wanderer! With Egyptians and the Lebs; The ascetic who travels alone! As greenbacks reach the ceiling Who bears the twenty-two trials Of the U.S. Fed Reserve, the length of the heavenly road! Stamped – DESTINATION BEIRUT, SPEND ON ARMS AND LEAD. IN THE MENDICINO MO UNTAINS [13th-14th Oct 1981, Hayward, Calif.] And above Jerusalem’s wailing From the tallest minaret, In a smoky little cabin in the mountains The muezzin’s cries befalling Where the girl of my dreams had taken On subdued Arab heads – me – Suppressed and bent to order I discovered while watching leaves fall, While planning sweet revenge, The love that was blind to me. On walls daubed with slogans And machine-gun epithets. To doubts I’d had about the word forever, To which my lover whispered answers And no wonder George is angry – with her touch; He’s being used to kill, In the dark as naked flames danced to All PLO fanatics music, And to pay for Muslim girls, I clearly saw life, and death, and love. Bought by Yiddish soldiers Occupying the Strip – In reflection, in that solitude and To the clapping of the world calmness, And a blitz of dollar bills. True love showered and showed itself to me; In the silence between the drumming raindrops – Eternity bound my true love to me.

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IF JOHN LENNON HAD BEEN A THE CO NTINUATIO N WOMAN [11.40pm, 20th Oct 1981, East Bay] [16th Oct 1981, East Bay, Calif.] And hot the brown heath rose in flames If John Lennon Had been a woman Around the dying sunflower stem, Where would she be now, And hot the fire-dust stung the eyes And if he had been a woman, As weeping screamed the flower near Would Sadat have been shot down? death – As black wings beat the blackened air And what about Abe Lincoln, As war the country swept. Pursuer of equal rights – And poor Mahatma Gandhi, And after, when the war was dead A spirit in the night. And skeletons silhouetted every field – Cool the rain wet the earth They could have all been women And swollen soil hid the unmarked graves; With love in their souls, As steamy dew turned to misty haze To guide with mother kindness And life emerged as a sunflower’s face. Till all were aged and old. EARLY MO RNING IN EAST BAY Yet if only sad John Lennon [1.35am, 21st Oct 1981, East Bay, Calif.] Had been less dreamer like, And Anwar Sadat hadn’t let Cloudy fog and dampened streets, Bodies float on down the Nile; Trundling freight and rolling stock – Deserted cafes and sidewalks. And if Lincoln hadn’t sent A nation into war – Glaring lights and hanging palms, And Gandhi hadn’t put Lifeless cars and smile less tramps, The Muslims to the wall. Traffic signs and billboards.

If only they’d been women! Stop lines and cop sounds, With gentle, subtle minds, Long waits and bus brakes, To rule with love and conscience, High-heels and gays. In peace with all mankind Radio waves and darkened stairs, If only man were woman …. Mean towers and lofty stars, And woman, only love. All through the night.

BETWEEN THE SHEETS DRIVEN TO MAKING EXCUSES [11am, 17th Oct 1981, San Leandro] [1am, 27th Nov 1981, East Bay, Calif.]

White in spring, Mr C.H.P man – Brown in summer, Why 're you giving me a ticket? Golden in autumn, I was only doing ninety Me and my lover. Like a million other idiots.

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Mr. County Sheriff – I ain’t been heavy drinkin, I only had twelve beers And your talking prison!

Mr. City Cop – I never ran that red, You blinked and missed the amber, I ran through pink instead.

Mr. District Judge – I’m telling you the truth, That for every bad offence I’ve a plausible excuse.

DOWN BY THE BAY [27th Nov 1981, East Bay, Calif.]

Around the Bay today There’s too many towns to name; Five million people living Life crazy, and insane.

There’s Berkeley – looney haven For the brilliant and the dregs; Full of cosmic happenings On the street and inside heads.

There’s phony Palo Alto And its love of social class While the leaves on the street Are as thick as piles of trash.

There’s lovely west-side Oakland Next to Alameda borough, Where the Fleet dries its ships By the quaint wooden houses.

There’s geriatric San Leandro Where the whites are full of fight; The cops return the black folks To Oakland every night.

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PARADISE AND HELL

HONG KONG BANGKOK [1.50pm, 18th Dec 1981, Hong Kong] [22nd Dec 1981, Bangkok, Thailand]

The visitor to Hong Kong notices Sampans and coco-palms, That the air smells like day-old egg Bamboo and banana fronds – sandwiches. All along the waterfront It is a combination of motor vehicles, Of the Bangkok canals …. Frying rice and piles of garbage Spiced by the oil-streaked harbour CHRISTMAS DAY IN THAILAND Carried by the sea-breezes. [Christmas Day 1981, Sukothai, Thail’d]

A journey by cable-car to the top Christmas Day in Sukothai – Of Victoria Peak is only a respite Wats and ancient stupas, From the choking atmosphere, Buddhas reaching for the sky, That makes the head reel, the stomach Their heads like rising steeples. wretch, The legs wobble as if coping with the Casting needle shadows down tremor Upon the pink pond-lilies – Of an endless earthquake. Sailing in a pool of green Of calm, serene, sweet beauty. But better to suffer the streets Than the warren, crowded tenements Blocking out all Christian thought With their voidance of daylight Of Saint Nicolas and Jesus – In box-size rooms serving whole families, Jingling bells and powder-snow, The rationing of water between set hours Parcelled gifts, and candy. Making most human functions a chore. All so far away and lost, These inconveniences do not make living Neither missed nor wanted – inexpensive in a city where a hotel room Christmas just another day costs fifteen dollars a night - Where Buddhas brood, undaunted. A meal in a crummy dive more than A spotless restaurant in San Francisco. HEAD IN THE CLOUDS [1st Jan 1982, Bangkok, Thailand] Hong Kong is riding on a wave of prosperity Anyone who’s been to Hong Kong or That almost makes the cost of living Bangkok bearable, Will know what I’m talking about – The overcrowding acceptable, and the They’re gas chambers of smog and smell pollution Of day-old egg sandwiches almost That strangle and choke, day and night. unnoticeable.

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It’s no surprise the eyes start weeping Threw the moon into a splintered mirror And the nostril cake opium black – of light. And the throat begins to rasp like a file Grinding down a laryngitis attack. And in the small hours of the dawn, The sacred Ganges waters merged; It’s wise to get out of such cities Swelled by tears that pilgrims wept – And give your lungs a rest – The rivers joined, and onwards swept Clear the throat with a whiskey As the monsoon storms blew in On a flight to somewhere else. To cloud the distant delta flow – The Brahmaputra, once so proud, SONG FOR BANGLADESH (song) Gave out beyond the Bengal shore. [3rd Jan 1982, Dacca, Bangladesh] MONASTERY OF GHOOM Did George ever really come here? [Jan 1982, Darjeeling, India] Did Mr.Raman really lead the crowds? Between the floods and the famine – Sweet mountain rising over all, Oh Bangladesh. Oh, my! Cypress wound, the mist it falls As cloud upon the foothill ridge Bangladesh, ah yes! Where perched - the tribal flags Bangladesh, aa chaa! Unfurled, meet the creeping wall of fog Bangladesh, oh man! That falls on the monastery at Ghoom. Bangladesh, oh my! IN THE GUTTER IN CALCUTTA BRAHMAPUTRA [Late Jan–17th Feb 1982, Calcutta & [10th Jan 1982, Sylhet, Bangladesh] Madras, India]

The Himalayan snows lay faraway Down in the gutter in Calcutta Beyond the shimmering solitude. With the waste, the sewage, and trash, From hence the Brahmaputra rose, I am smoking a chillum, and watching A thousand miles it washed lost Tibet. From behind my opium haze - Until, it turned and rained Assam The commotion of rickshaws and taxis, Of all its rain that ran like blood, Trams and buses jam packed – Red with silt, and weighed with mud, While sitting on a bench in a chai shop All carried westwards, high in flood. And throwing piase in a beggar’s plate.

And when it reached the Bengal plain It’s a long way down, a Calcutta gutter – And broke its banks while turning south, I’ve fallen in with ruin, and drugs; The waters spread, carried miles I can count three lepers as comrades To form a hundred rivers and a thousand And two French dopers as chums; isles. There’s a girl I’ve declared my love to, While joyous farmers, hungry from the Who refuses to listen to me – drought, She scorns, and curses my position Cried and sung their joy into the night; At the bottom of the social tree. The Brahmaputra, smooth like glass,

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My enemies seem like the whole world, Turns he then to larger game; Guilty and pitiless free – Likewise the fishermen were forced A seething mass of faceless souls To bring their turtle back to shore. Afloat in a shipwrecked sea, Filled with waste, and with garbage To the fisher of the Eastern seas, And the vomit of a thousand years – The turtle is not sacred, not returned - I’m just an opium addict … And there, upon the golden sands, Drowning in opium tears. Amidst wives and naked children, They let the turtle’s red-blood flow MALARIA And trickle down into the waves, [31st Jan 1982, Puri, Orissa, India] As the sky became a crimson glow, And evening fell upon the shore. Mosquitos of India! Killing me with stinging, gnawing bites. The turtle filled a score of hands, In fever I am hemp-roped in bed That dripped their way to each dark hut, For four days, three nights? Lit only by quiet, naked flames As through the night as hunger died, I am delirious … the shutters are closed, The dogs licked out the turtle shell. The punkah looms still. The waves are pounding on the shoreline, Three days later, bleached and wormed, A black crow sings – Two girls scrapped the shell with bone, Ocean washed it – then carried home Oh the wonder of the sunrise! Their trophy as a baby-cot, or bowl – Carried to the Indian Ocean - As the hunters, with nets untangled and bathed in the brine waters. for the depths set their sails - The fever left my body. I cried. Flexed sore muscles, torn by toil, Burnt-backed, hungry, left the shore. HUNTERS O F THE SEA [7th Feb 1982, Puri, Orissa, India] DEEP IN THE TRO PICS [9th Feb 1982, Puri, Orissa, India] Out beyond the warm, shore sands - Where sit the village wives and mothers, Laziness is conducive on a sunny day As hungry as the burnt-back men - As the white sands stretch, The hunters of the deep blue waters And the palms hang limp in the heat. Thrash out against the sharks Whilst reaping in their caste nets – Idleness is not a foolish dally A basketful of bone-backed fish Among the white, cool waves, And a turtle, to sustain their faith. Or beneath the cloudless sky.

No man lets his children starve, Laughing is not a rich man’s domain If out beyond the the shore he knows, Under the leaning shade, Swims a beast his neighbour craves, And a spreading banyan. And eats because there are no fish; For like the hunter who finds no fowl, Leisure is not a noon-day sleep

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Upon a hemp-rope bed, A night of thinking little and little While a fan slowly turns. thinking, Letting the thoughts slither and ideas Inactivity is a way of life, slide, Lethargy is human nature As the candle dims and the shadows claim In the tropical south. The world on either side.

SHORES OF ORISSA THE LAND OF OM-NA-ONG [12th Feb 1982, Puri, Orissa, India] [13th Feb 1982, Puri, India]

Quietly come the shadows of evening Sitting under the mango tree On the wake of the day. Awaiting the fruit to fall – As the fishing boats beached in the sand. Is how the fairies collect their wealth Ashore went the warriors and heroes In the woods of Om-Na-Ong. To the fires of the night, Soon ablaze with the catch. OLD MADRAS [17th Feb 1982, Madras, India] Asleep fell the feasters and drinkers Close to the break of the tide. Mobs of bare-footed beggars The lapping counted out time Littering the cow-dung streets, As full, rose the moon in blister Crowded with vendors and merchants To hush the night murmurs Talking business over tea and sweets. Before the rebirth of day. Discussing the latest in shipping, Ferociously the dawn woke crimson The price of tobacco or wheat, To colour the fishermen’s limbs The state of the country in general, Fighting the in-bound surf – The abuse of government seats. And soon, mere dots on the skyline, Tiny specks of brown sail, The excessive lining of pockets, The fishermen laboured till night. Leaving the poor little to eat, But little morsels of gossip, IDLE EVENING Trampled under uncaring feet. [10.35pm, 13th Feb 1982, Puri, Orissa, India] A community striving for progress In a rumble and tropical beat, And evening of little doing and doing Kept alive by the suckling of babies little, On milk from naked teats – Letting the seconds trickle and the hours whittle, Once fired by the hands of lovers, As the days tumble and the months Faithless and ready to cheat, rumble, Or abandon their armies of children And the years slip by in tens. Thrown out to compete –

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For food and worldly attention, And thus having emptied my cravings Who as beggars, learn to greet For the endless dishes I’ve devoured; Life with a shrug of acceptance I shall rise from my idle longing And hello as meaning baksheesh. And prepare for my daily show At the Shree Krisna Lunch Home - Home as a roadside mattress The café in Madras that I know. A couple of cardboard sheets, In the open, or under a tree A LO T O F EFFING NO THING On one of a hundred streets. [5.10pm, 20th Feb 1982, Madras, India]

THE MADRAS CAFÉ Free flowing thought flying fugitively [4.50pm, 20th Feb 1982, Madras, India] With foreign fancies and familiar feelings. Fighting furiously to flourish forth In a city famed for its cuisine, And fill fresh fantasies of fame, And noted for dossa and bakala; Fortune and future, in finely Between the savouries and sweet things, Fixed, formulated fiction flying The bajis and gulabjamons – Fatalistically from fact to false There is pongle, poori and semia, Fits of frustration, faulting few, Noodles in a variety of sauce – Yet fatiguingly forcing flimsy faith And the famous massala dossa, In fate to the fore. Madras’s own special love. ARJUNA’S PENANCE At the heart of the culinary wonders, [11.20pm, 24th Feb 1982, Is Shree Krisna’s enormous Lunch Home Mahabalipuram, India] – Where an order of oothappam Arjuna was a warrior prince Is like ordering spaghetti in Rome; Who summoned Lord Siva to grant him a Where coffee’s the price of a phone call, wish - And as good as you get in Rio; That his foes be destroyed, Where the service is swift and pleasant, And he released from his penance. And the bill a few rupees all told. THE ASO KA (THE PARK) I doubt they know what they’re missing [25th-26th Feb 1982, Mamallapuram, TN, In the cafes of Paris and Rome, India] In London, or New York, or Moscow, Or Berlin, Buenos Aires, and Tokyo. The jasmine blossom open there For Shree Krisna’s, the venerable Lunch Incensed with love, the night-air stirred, Home Rippled by the sea-wave pound, Is above, and beyond their know – Mumbled on by drunken mirth, Oh hail, Shree Krisna’s Lunch Home! As stars broke bright and hazy through I café in Madras where I go. The cypress standing by the palm – What better arbour was there made And thus, having lavished my praises For lovers and the bliss of kiss. On this oasis of gastronomical power,

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The stories of a universe – With the reward of a shimmering evening, Sands as endless as all life, And a breeze of refreshing delight. Sprung to form, fired the night Like flaming parakeets in flight; But how does one know heaven As falling stars streamed the dark In the middle of paradise – To carry jungle callings far – How can the blue of the night sky Far into the longing hearts Be anything but an illusionary sight. Of dreamers caught in want of love. How can this circle of palm trees And deep within the floral park, Be but the fringe of twilight – The scents of content, issued forth Or more than a perimeter of blackness To grant a heavenly grove of jewels, Close to the edge of the night. A paradise of isolated mood – A place where lovers’ only food, MATTER O F O PINIO N Was love, and love a constant woo – [13th Mar 1982, Tiruchirappalli, TN] Where jasmine blossom wildly grew, And love was all that lovers knew. Some people say I have the Devil in me, And others that I am God himself – SAGUNTHALA I think the latter are righteous, [11.20pm, 7th Mar 1982, Pondicherry, And the former don’t see themselves. India] Who can dispute the difference The Lady of the Forest one day appeared Or the shade of the character unseen, To the hunter lost in fear; When working on being mischievous Gripping tight his unslung bow, Or preaching religious belief. He could not let an arrow go – Such beauty, he had never seen; For some say I am a villain, She stood erect – a queen. And others, I am a perfect saint; So take it from me when I say – THANDUVAM (NATARAJA) I can’t always be what you paint. [11pm, 12th Mar 1982, Chidambaram, TN, India] FINE MANGO TREES [8.30pm, 17th Mar 1982, Courtallam, Bharata Natyam, thus is called - TN] Lord Shiva, poised in awesome sight, The Cosmic Dance to destruct all, I’ll tell you of a very fine town With Nataraja posed in flight. With healing falls and spectacular views, With bands of thieving monkeys EDGE O F NIGHT Living in the fine mango trees. [5.45pm, 13th Mar 1982, Tiruchirappalli, TN, India] It is land which is rich in honey And flowing with sweet, nectar juice, Here I am at the end of the day And spiced with fennel and nutmeg, Far in the Indian south – And the oils of essence and wood.

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And where, tell me, is this haven THE NAGERCO IL TWIT Of radiant green and flowering forest; [9.55, 24th Mar 1982, Allepey, Kerela, In what such a land do monkeys live India] High in the fine mango trees? Every beggar is a human performance And why no talk of shady dark things, Of mime and theatrical tricks, Can there be such a perfect land Laced with a touch of mockery, Of sylvan walks, and ripening fruits Sarcasm, and biting hard wit. Rarely visited by outside man? But none was the equal of Natty, Well, I’m not about to tell you The half-cocked Nagercoil twit, And risk spoiling such a perfect place; Who could drool at the hint of a penny The town where all can plainly see Or break into a hysterical fit – The monkeys in the fine mango trees. That broke the bounds of convention FATE IN PARDISE And drew spittings and shrieking disgust [9.05pm, 22nd Mar 1982 Kanniyakumari] That once made a lady from Delhi Vomit on him from a bus. One person’s paradise is another man’s home Which somehow improved his Across the globe’s oceans and shores, appearance, Coloured by the spectrum ever spinning, Made him overjoyed with his filth Rolling out sand-dust or gold. As he danced like a raving madman, And clung to the legs of the rich. While ours foul or sell their bodies, We lie in the naked sun parade – Yes! Natty was hero of some kind, Fanning the breeze of sweet desire, In the swamps of the non-descript, Squeezing out diamonds from rain. He drew stares for his pathetic condition And more than the occasional kick – While others shout out for peace and freedom, That sent him into the gutter, Or sap growing power into strength; Where he rolled and laughed in the stink – One man’s universe is another’s prison, For even hell was a heaven And paradise a vision dreamt. To Natty, the Nagercoil twit.

For all that is born and passes AS THE LIGHT CO NTINUED TO Under the blaze of the galaxy stars – BURN One is created, and one is expended, [3.05pm, 2nd Apr 1982, Mysore, India] And we, willing or not, take part. How bright the light shone in the window! Where would we be without paradise And how the eye carried over miles. In the worlds of a thousand myths; Yet dark within were the words expounded One man’s fate is another’s faith, And whispered to unravel time. And fate in paradise a gift.

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And like gold, the palace reflected, Life in the colony was endlessly And crimson the mimosa tree flowered. changeless, Yet sad were the thoughts interrupted Where everything new became repeatedly And ceded to the piercing sunlight. old, Where the sun in the east rose out of And how the jade hills beckoned, jungle And the sky enveloped the world. That only the towers of the churches And how the dark of the skyline room broke. Absorbed the heat of the afternoon. Then one day in-marched the invaders, And sweet blew the breeze to embellish, Proclaiming the colony under a new flag, The air afire with temple-scent woods. And the men in white shirts and ladies in Yet unmellow the whispers continued blouses, To unruffled the infinite smooth. Bent to the force of the invader’s new laws. Till a hawk in sky hovering higher, Ended time in a downward plunge. Till no-one remembered the names of old And the talk in the dark subsided rulers, As the candle continued to burn. And the poor tired workers headed for home, THE COLONY And the clouds above, shifting and [9th – 10th Apr 1982, Goa, India] passing, Where everything new became repeatedly Fishing boats raced to be first on the old. ocean, And sparrows hopped the roofs of red- ARABIAN SEA tile, [11th Apr 1982, Arabian Sea, Daman,] And men in white shirts and ladies in blouses, The aquamarine hue of the tortoise-shell Bused and walked the streets of the town. water, Broke from the bow in a stream of white Clouds that were grey shifted and slake, lightened, As a black-headed gull trailing the stern And the breeze in hints unfurled the flags, wake, And children in temper would settle for Befriended a tanker till the land ices, disappeared. As friendly policemen joked loudly and laughed. The sky above was a picturesque brightness White limousines sped to rich Of milky-cream beauty tossed on the destinations, breeze – And poor tired workers headed for home, The world – a saucer of endless ocean, And the sun in the west set on the ocean, And the name of that water – the Arabian As the restaurants threw open their doors. Sea.

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BOMBAY Where money rules, and killing comes [14th-15th Apr 1982, Bombay, India] easy –

There is nothing much to speak of Where crime employs a tenth of the But vendors and rinky-dink stalls, people, Obscured by the rude general public And pigeon shit is an unavoidable evil, Viewing the overcrowded sidewalks - That adheres to walls, statues and vehicles, Hugging the wide central roadways – And drops like rain in the monsoon The choked arteries of the city’s guts, season. Kept blocked by red twin-decker buses, And by yellow-topped taxi cars. A man without shit is a man without reason As the trains in the station depart, To complain about Bombay's indifferent Or screechingly halt, and unload treatment A seething mass of pain-faced foes, Of stranger, of friend, of tourist or fool, Rushing to join the jostling hordes. Trapped in the melee of the city’s dark mood. Like all of Bombay’s ten million souls Careering on their personal courses, KATMANDU Up the steps of the Post Office stairs, [10pm, 24th Mar 1982, Katmandu, Nepal] All arms and legs in a beaded-brow pant. The so and so birds, in the such and such Or along the road past the Indian Times, trees, Where the chatter of presses drown the Swaying with the blossom, carried by the chants breeze, Of mourners, bearing a a fallen-one’s pall Caught in the short grass, covering the Through the streets till the procession is fields, lost – Stretching like patchwork.

In the snarls of temper, the whiplash of LORD FARTINGSON steel, [25th Apr 1982, Katmandu, Nepal] Of human reactions to the machines on wheels, Lord Fartingson was a bully, and a rogue Vehicles reeking of cheap gasoline fumes, Who captained the house team-side – The pollution as thick as whipped double- While ruling with a cane on the inside, cream. He whipped and stung the boys to the quick. The cream as sour as the government’s schemes, THE SYMBO LS O F KATMANDU The city as decadent as a westerner’s [27th Apr – 4th May 1982, Katmand] dream – Of drugs, sex, where everything is legal, Snow buddhas lined the high ridge path, Descending at a waterfall,

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Towards the ancient city walls, In search of the honey-milk pond, Twelve hundred years evolved A drop of sap, manifest as amber From even older truths and vedas – In the palm of the hand. The Symbols of the North. 6 1 The Banner portrays the Power of The Conch Shell symbolises Victory Knowledge Sounding o’er the land - Held over all - Returning armies spoiled by war, Waved at the fore of all confrontation, Courageous battles fought, and won, Or flying as prayers, written as vows, Never lost, and ne'er forgotten Or transcribed as tantras telling of When even playfully blown. mantras; The secret of learning to be found. 2 A Vessel denotes Mental Purity 7 In an abstract form - The Wheel is the wheel of Dharma, A vase containing crystal clear water, Truth never ending - Or a pitcher, the sweetest oils; The soul reborn in continuous life, So thus the mind in perfect solution Bound by the codes of ancient time; Fixes on absolute thought. Rewarded are those of chivalrous fame, Released from the cycle of rebirth’s pain. 3 The Endless Knot symbolises Long Life, 8 Like the boughs of an oak - Two alike Fish is Spiritual Wealth, The intertwined vine growing profusely A banquet of plenty - Upon the ancient and crumbling past, The spirit kept in supply of substance, Woven and strengthened, ever Without the cravings of hunger and greed lengthening, That lie beyond the mind, embedded Never unravelled, nor snapped. And rooted in every-day deed.

4 The Umbrella denotes Spiritual Even now, on the high ridge paths, Supremacy, The snow buddhas melt – Aloofness from life - And though the crumbling city walls Celestial aspects and knowledgeable decay, insight, And time runs through the cracks, Patronised protection of truth and ideals; The Symbols of the North prevail Enlightened are those by history made, As the future, as read in the past. Canopied beneath the umbrella’s shade. YAB YUM 5 [4th May 1982, Katmandu, Nepal] The Lotus weeps Spiritual Purity, The essence of beauty - This peculiar little delight, Accepted by all who are cosmically gifted, Once popular in Tibet,

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Practised by sexual union, Our culture may turn their very stomachs, Sets the soul alight. While our dominance smashes their very ego; CONDEMNED ON A FOREIGN We may be condemned on a foreign wall, WALL But we are we, and the walls our people. [6th May 1982, Katmandu, Nepal] TEN THOUSAND DAYS We may be condemned on a foreign wall, [9.30pm, 8th May 1982, Katmandu, Hated by one and all, and spat upon. Nepal] Our ideals may be treated with loathing, Despised and trampled supremely on, Another day older, one of ten thousand But never is a head raised, face to face That have passed on like clouds in the To tell us of those things, rightly wrong. sky; They seem short, can’t all be Ireland on a foreign wall is tyranny, remembered, Oppression, human rights, blood and And have gone before the future arrives. bigotry, Civil war, occupation, and fascism, LEADING THE WAY Colonialism, Maze Prison and anti- [9.50pm, 8th May 1982, Katmandu, Popery, Nepal] But never will a foreign clenched fist outstretched Pushing on, trying to reach somewhere, Refuse a cheque for aid with scorn. somehow; Pulling along somebody who doesn’t We may be condemned for Argentina, know how; Hated by one and all, and spat upon, Leading the way like a goat up a Our principles may be rooted in the past, mountain; With the dogs now barking at our doors, Tight-roping the cliffs like a clown on a But to lay down our arms, and all that? wire. Such living in the past won’t bring it back. SUPPLYING A FATHER’S WANTS We know our enemies on the foreign [10.05pm, 8th May 1982, Katmandu, walls, Nepal] The fronts of their houses are daubed with us, ‘Give me more pot’ cried the father Our actions may fill them with loathing, as the boy quivered and filled the bowl – Yet our armies still make them cower in ‘Hurry up, boy, or I’ll give you the fear; slipper, But what use are foreign wall slogans, you sad wretched, rag of a child! In places where the people cannot read. One more moment of wasted pleasure, I can’t stand it. Get on the go! We may be condemned, but still unbeaten, Hurry up, child, fire the mixture, Hated by all foreigners, but never Your father’s waiting, fill that bowl’. defeated,

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PLAYTIME Bills to a wind carrying wild seed; [14th May 1982, Katmandu, Nepal] Getting old just like the city – Soon a place of grasses and weed. The thunder storm was over And the birds were singing loud, And still they sat there in the high trees, The sun was shining though For where else were they likely to go? The floating pillow clouds – Until the city was a desolate wasteland, And the children were playing The dust a scattering of powdered bone. In the school playground, And little pools and puddles PARADISE AND HELL Were being splashed about. [31st May 1982, somewhere over Turkey]

Then unexpectedly, the bully Paradise may be found at a rainbow’s end; Splashed a girl, got her wet, After being to the ends of the earth, And ne’er was there such fury Such a paradise is also a hell – As she wrung his sorry neck – An experience never to talk of. And the thunder storm came back As the bell for classes went, But having been through pleasure and The bully lay in a puddle pain, As the first raindrops fell. Prying open oysters in search of pearls, Seeking life’s truths seeping from wells VULTURES Springing from wealth that nobody sells - [19th May 1982, Katmandu, Nepal] We emerge at last into the light In the high trees, caught in the breeze, To continue the quest that began long ago The vultures sat with their fearsome – faces, With a crescendo of ringing, peeling of Hooked to the wind carrying wild seed, bells, Widely sown against walls, in quiet places. Slowing towards the last final knell.

Clover thrived in fields of cow pasture There we shall leave it measuring time, Ringing the city in an emerald glow, Like an old clock spring winding down – While the vultures, black upon the May tall trees fall but never be felled horizon, As we pass through paradise and hell. Sat in the trees as the darkest of foes.

The breeze continued to blow on the city, Wild grass sprouting from the cement in the walls. The vultures remained sitting in the branches, Watching the crumbling city walls fall.

They sat there, up in the high trees,

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THE NORTH COUNTRY

THE SURRENDER O F PO RT Instead of putting on a tie for job STANLEY interview – [14th Jun 1982, Newcastle, England] This same guy with his jeans worn through, We have just heard on the radio, Now looks like the rest of the middle-age the Prime Minster’s confident voice crew that the Argentineans have surrendered, ‘Hell, if you can’t beat them, join them!’ to the British forces on the Falklands. Hippies are now off drugs, and well into Everyone in our house gave a great cheer. booze.

WHAT HAPPENED TO HIPPIES THE FALL O F SIR CRESTWELL [27th Jun – 2nd Jul 1982, 259 Shields Rd, [10.15pm, 20th Jul 1982, Newcastle] Newcastle] After that fella broke into the palace, It used to be drugs, now its booze, It was scapegoats and hangings they What happened to the hash and the acid? wanted; That went with the clothes, like fashion – Nothing to do with Her Majesty at all, Blue jeans with holes and arse hanging It was her bodyguard Sir Crestwell they out, haunted Hair the length of a floor mop – and a crotch For nine years Sir Crestwell had guarded That never got washed night to night. the Queen, No one really cared about V.D, I wouldn’t want the job for a million It was something of which to be proud. pounds – And after nine years they made him Those dark lines from tripping till dawn, resign, The tiny crow’s feet, wrinkled and formed After telling the world he was queer. From keeping the dope smoke out of the eyes; Everyone knows he wasn’t disgraced by Or the blindness caused by dance hall the break-in, strobe lights, Or his prostitute friend’s threats of Beating the life out of rock-an-roll tunes, blackmail – Blasting the ear-drums in a dance frenzied It was the fact he was plainly homosexual, room – A cruel admission that ended his career. A sea of hair, and ocean of bare feet, Getting their rocks off as best they could. The country feels pity for mistreated Sir Crestwell, Now that same guy who wouldn’t work, Denounced in the Commons, stripped of Who collected his S,S for something to his ‘hood – do, It stinks of creeping conservative That same guy who used to say ‘Shove morality, it!’

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Shall we call it - the castrated Eighties One hour we’re laughing, next crying decade? Over things of various kinds.

I’m sorry Sir Crestwell, and for all who I try to forget about EGO, are gay, Lurking and weaving about, I hate the way this government disgraced But time after time he saves me you – From lingering boredom and doubt. It will be sometime before the country forgets, EGO has rights like I have, That honour bestowed, can be taken I cannot command his power. away. We are like a rainy day – I am the cloud, EGO the shower. THE NEIGHBOURS [20thst Jul 1982, Newcastle] Sometimes I tend to hate EGO, Others, he’s the best friend I have. Receding wanes the whining car engine, So, I kind of live with EGO, Out in the lane, an hour past twelve. And EGO lives with me, and that’s that. What would prompt a good living citizen To be abroad and about at this time? BARBARIANS OF THE WEST [12pm, 19th Aug 1982, Newcastle] Just five minutes back, I heard a loud crack The arose from the mists mounted on That reminded me of a starter’s track- horses, gun, And armed with weapons dripping in And almost inaudible, I could be mistaken, blood – I heard a scream, and a mention of God. They crossed the wastes and desolate places I also recall a clatter of footsteps, To arrive like the anger of a terrible In haste, and running along the sidewalk – storm. A car-door opening, and closed in a hurry, An engine started in a deafening roar. Savage in battle, they ravaged the rich lands, Who would disturb the peace of the night Their brown eyes burning all that they hours, saw; All good neighbours were meant to be Felling all order with axes and terror – home? Spears and swords their dispensers of law. Only prowlers and miscreant persons Would venture out so late on the road. All before them toppled and crumbled, The night skies blazed as the cities burnt; EGO GOES WHERE I GOES Corpses lay slain and quartered [20.05pm, 11th Aug 1982, Newcastle] As the fleeing fled the slaughtering hunt.

Everywhere I go, EGO goes too, No man survived the merciless carnage Talking and changing my mind. That barbarians finally invoked –

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Who taking their dead over their horses, Without first feeling the stones and the Cleansed their weapons and turned cold towards home. Of physical pain endured to survive, The hunger of begging, the racking of And into the mist that unveiled their want. existence, They faded like ghosts from a terrible Yet I cannot believe that material wealth sleep, Is the be-all end-all of knowledge itself; Blown by the wind to far away places, For the wisest are those with nothing at Chased by tales of their heinous deeds. all To hinder their thought or enslave their LIVING WITH CHANGE souls, [9.39pm, 25th Aug 1982, Newcastle] For the man with money buys and keeps, While the man with nothing shares what Autumn began with showers and wind, he seeks, Caught the folk in shirt sleeves and Which is usually no more than a happy blouses, mind. Over-night, milk suddenly stopped As far as I’m concerned that’s all he turning, needs. Everyone at once had a sudden yearning To stop time dead with the wave of a For what use are paintings, and fancy hand, goods For Summer had gone, and leaves were When a man talks to man about love or falling. looks That can never be bought or exchanged in It wasn’t as bad as it was made out to be, barter – Not as terrible as some would make For looks they say form half the believe, character, For even if life could be one eternal And once formed, what does wealth summer, matter, There would still be complaints about the The other half of man is his accrued weather; knowledge Autumn or Winter, of Spring for that Used to benefit the world, and thereafter matter, Used solely to spread humour and There wouldn’t be one without the other. laughter.

TO HELL WITH WEALTH It’s a sad world without a smile a day, [10pm, 3rd Sept 1982, Newcastle] When many people die of broken hearts and neglect Poverty of mind is a less obvious evil It’s silly to think that money’s the Than running around shoeless and naked, answer; For who’s to know the desert of Yes, more people croak crying in bed knowledge Than in wars, on roads, from drugs, or crime

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And all other kinds of dangerous stuff – The water was polished and reflective of I don’t care what the history books say, nature, Historians die in their beds just the same. Nature was changing every ripple of time, Time was passing over the weir stone, They want us to believe everything is Falling away in a blinding of white. different, That heroes die with pain on their faces, The arch of the bridge spanned the That the poor and hungry know no happy horizon, days, The horizon was filled with cedar and While in fact the poor laugh all the time. pine, The wealthy and learned are famous The pines were dropping cones in the indeed water, For their lengthy scowls and troublesome The ripples were breaking on the bank- looks sides. Of frowning discomfort and unhappy moods – The reeds were catching the debris of The wisdom that knowledge begins with autumn, laughter, Autumn was sweeping down from above, Passes them by like a tramp with a Above was no longer cloudless and sunny, blanket. Filled with magpies, swallows and doves.

BOREDOM The water was grey and dark to the [10.45pm, 3rd Sept 1982, Newcastle] bottom, The bottom was lost as night drew nigh, Boredom comes from within, not without, The night forgiven for stealing the magic So don’t blame your companions. Of a moment on the Bridge of Sighs. Boredom is a disease, like mumps or measles, THE POOR PROVIDER It spreads like molten lead, [9.22am, 8th Sept 1982, Newcastle] And poisons every single thought That may lead to an interesting end. Ever tried to feed the dog when you’re broke, CO FFEE Never mind the wife, the son, the [11pm, 3rd Sept 1982, Newcastle] daughter, The lodger, the mother, grandfather, and I drink it like a kid eats candy, great grandmother Or like a dog attacks a bone – When they all sit there at the dinner table And like a desert in a rainstorm, With big eyes and enormous appetites, I’m parched again once it’s gone. And thoughts of how things could be better, THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS If, as provider, I went out and found a [6.30pm, 5th Sept 1982, Newcastle] better job. It’s other peoples’ ambition that drives a man on.

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ADDRESS TO THE MARRIED Where rain sweeps in along the Solway, For Robert Langdon and Amanda Nork Trees as scarce as scattering leaves. [16.15pm, 13th Sept 1982, Newcastle] The anvils ring and the horses clatter Oh who has not heard of young Over the cobbles of the many inn-yards, Lochinvar, Their windows filled with elopers and So wrapped in love, he took on the world, couples, And stole a bride from the groom at the Huddled together, every moment their altar, last. To gallop into the mists of the moors. Blackbirds sing, enliven the hedgerows, Will such spirit ever be forgotten And runaways come, and the married go – By all lovers caught by such fire – Back to the cities, or onwards to new lives Where death together is finer than Made in homes far from the old. parting, And parting as thoughtless as quarrelling The grey clouds roll and darken the words. moorland, The lapwings soar or cry from the ferns, What of fathers, and mothers, and Across the marsh are grey-stone houses, kinsmen, Dry-stone walls that never quite end. Companions and friends, each with their part The quiet road in, leads quietly out, In keeping quiet council, and not dividing The border a mile for those with a mind Something love made forever to last. To flee from parents, or the laws of religion, Romance is like gold, and love a magic To be united o’er the anvil at night. Not conjured, but allowed to blossom and grow, So hasten you lovers, take to the dark, Marriage not sacred, but an incredible Run to the frontiers of love and be seen journey Kissing and hugging by the fires of Along the length of the rainbow road. romance, In the windows of inns in Gretna Green. So here’s to the bride! Here’s to the groom! A SILLY ENGLISHMAN Here’s to the bridesmaids, ushers and all! [1.25pm, 22nd Sept 1982, Newcastle] The fathers, the mothers, kinsmen and friends. To think like an Englishman, God bless this couple. God bless us all. Is to think of one’s own superiority. Superiority leads to an inferiority of GRETNA GREEN attitude [13.05pm, 22nd Sept 1982, Newcastle] That reveals the silly man.

Gretna Green is a haven for lovers, Close to the Wall, by the Western Sea,

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SO CIAL SECURITY To forget their thoughts about getting [28th Sept 1982, Newcastle] old.

We had a visit from the Social Security, SELF-PLAYING CHESS SET A review of our circumstances – [15th Oct – 6th Nov 1982, Newcastle] The officer was pleasant and reasonable, Not a prying low beast so often found The Pawns to the fore of the battle front, In that profession. Rolled along on wheels of steel, He had a sense of humour – Driven by a will to breach all defences, And once his questions were answered They ploughed away with mercenary zeal, He said it would be our last home visit Advanced to challenge the threatening for three years.That’s a a long time – noise But with today’s unemployment, Of an army equally ready for war. Social Security officers are very busy men. With scythes and bludgeons, the Knights GYPSY HILL attacked [Sept-23rd Oct 1982, Byker, Newcastle] And hacked a sway with irresistible force, That drenched the air with springs and The grey slate tops to the red brick pistons, houses, Rivets and axles, and shafts of iron, Ran like stripes to the valley floor; Sickening all hearts with fear and terror, The drabness dressed with smears of All valour and honour lost in the oil. parkland, Dipped and clung to the sagging, steep When into their midst whirled the slopes Bishops, Traversed by lines of cobble-stone roads, Upholding and backed by the power of Hazed in a canopy of choking coal God; smoke. Guided by faith, they rushed into slaughter, Off in the distance the Civic Hall shone, Slicing apart the massacring flood – The Cathedral spire circles by cloud, With scriptures and mantras, holy and The iron-swing bridge spanning the river, tantric, Creaked and opened like a rusty They sacrificed all in the name of their mousetrap Lord. Set to catch the industrial output Of machinery and steel leaving the town. Never was life so quickly extinguished, As on the blades of the pole-axing Rooks, But Gypsy Hill was a place for horses, Splattered red in the front line carnage, Broken pit-ponies tethered on ropes, They relentlessly carved till entrails Where kids with faces as red as melons, steamed, Played hooky, and choked on roll-your- And bowels and heads lay like flowers owns; From horizon to horizon on the Where men on the dole took long strolls battlefield.

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Headlong forth the Queens careered, He sat with a face of serious expression, Storming and crushing the screaming Lost in the flames of imaginary thought, hosts; Drowning in memories of previous Compelled by nature and self- evenings preservation, Covered by layers of snow and frost. They exacted a result with such heavy toll, The windows shook and the cold edged in That mounds of dead rose like mountains, On the world’s sides; brittle like glass, And opposition fell like harvested corn. And glazed in hoar, the night wind murmured The Kings stepped back, clumsy, On the door and farmer’s back. ungainly, Like creaking monsters of dinosaur gait, Black were the scars he mentally ploughed To await defeat or take the surrender Through the horrors of harrowed ground; On the final mating of the hated foe – Fallow the pastures newly unearthed, Victory brandished as the ultimate glory The seed of rebirth, and the sepulchred. To end the self-playing chess set show. Memories cascading like waterfalls MY LO VER’S LIPS remained [7th Nov 1982, Newcastle] Like the berries on holly or thorn, While all else shrivels, something exists My lover’s lips were icy cold, In the immediate snow, the lingering mist. She had no heat to give – Her passion once so hotly kept Something survives beyond the grey dawn, Was now hazy mist. Something is born during the black night: Creation plummets like a hungry hawk, TIME HAS A WAY Also glides like a graceful swan. [7th Nov 1982, Newcastle] As windows rattle, and doors knock, Time has a way of taking Strangers warm pasts by friendly fires: Everything that once was plain – Winter comes as a seasonal trial Simple times and simple minds Of judgement passed on mental thought. Once had a part to play: The sunset of another day, Likewise, the farmer retread his own past, The past, the past must stay. Hunchbacked upon his backless chair – Even for him it was logic to rest WINTER FARM While the winds of winter disinvested – [2nd – 7th Dec 1982, Newcastle] And wasted the land, mastered the sky, Took command of the near-distant sea, The winter fire warmed the iced hands As the glowing fire warmed the hands Of a farmer hunched on a backless chair, Of the farmer hunched in his backless Huddled in blankets of coats and garments chair. Once the better of wear and tear.

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IGNO BLE BEASTS ON RISING TOO EARLY [14th – 16th Dec 1982, Newcastle] [18th Dec 1982, Newcastle]

Ignoble beasts that turn about and The first snows fell just yesterday stampede While I was still in bed. At the sound of distant war. The silent nature of its first descent, What dismay and panic their actions Left white images as I dreamt dispel Of past winters spent in hammock huts As the rumbling grows louder. With girls in passing idleness.

Beasts that bow and shield their ears All those thoughts receded, went At the whine of crashing shells. As I drew back the drapes – How subdued and tame their slavery The silken blanket of the virgin cold, As the sibilant echoes pound. Unlocked the child within, As the jack-frost friends of old Beasts that cower from the flames Re-emerged to play in the snow. At the sight of consuming fire. What disgust and scorn their behaviour Stark, yet pretty, the trees stood bare entreats As I turned from the window. As the vanquishing army arrives. The chill of winter had frozen my breath: Rekindling the fire, Beast that hide themselves in their lairs I went to the mirror in a dreamer’s daze At the sound of marching footsteps. As the sunshine outside blazed. What shame and fear they take from life As the trembling earth resounds. What true secrets the looking glass told As I stroked my thoughts: Beast that wet themselves in their terror The sullen sag of saddened eyes At the silence of halted footsteps. Searching for a glimmer of hope, What rape and death their cowardice As I returned again to the falling snow, brings And to bed to escape the cold. As the lasting screams fade out. LO NGEST NIGHT Beast that give themselves to their foes [22nd Dec 1982, Newcastle] At the command of foreign officers. What pity and hatred their meekness It was never ending like the path evokes Trodden by those who travel in circles. As the marching fire-squad comes. The longest night.

Beasts that go blindfold to their fate The darkness was its clinging virtue, At the utterance of final prayers. Preserved by the starts and moon dancing. How quick and easy their cowardice ends The longest night. As the quavering gunshots kill.

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The soul was immersed in mystery They launched themselves on the ocean Unearthed by the planets shining down. As lifeboats attacking the sea. The longest night. Never ending the road wound out The silence was its keenest weapon, Like a snake uncoiling to wake. Cutting through the briar of entangled Rippled and black to smoky towns, life. It returned the ants to their hills The longest night. At their end of the day at the sea.

The stillness gripped the solid ice, GRAVEYARDS Cracking on unrest and growing louder. [2.20pm, 13th Jan 1983, Newcastle] The longest night. Graveyards are meant for the dead and The tree owls preyed upon the black mourning, Bats flaying through the snares of Tall, long fir, and weeping pine, woodland. Yews that cry with a soft wind blowing, The longest night. And willows drooping with the weight of time. Hook-beaked crows rose like coal-smoke Blown before the south-west gales. Graveyards are not for the young and The longest night. living, Morning roses, bled in their prime, The morning broke in lingering darkness For briar and bramble, encroaching and Lengthened by the shadows in the vales. thriving, Greeting the shortest day. Meet hemlock bearing in from the sides.

THE BANK HO LIDAY Monuments shall rise, and headstones [6.09pm, 29th Dec 1982, Newcastle] shall stay, Graveyards are there, for always. Never ending the road wound on The high walls exclude the trials of life, Like a serpent coiling to bask. The creeping motion of passing age. Sleek and shinny like polished shield, It ran before the wheeled mania The high walls enclose the future to Of the lemmings racing to the sea. come, Cypress and holly forever leaved. They had sprung from the lairs Graveyards appeal to the tired and lonely, Like courting mad-march hares. And those of us who are not afraid. Grey and oily like the beach sands, They viewed across the promenade, Graveyards are meant for the dead and Just like seamen fevered by the sea. mourning, Tall, long fir, and weeping pine, They wrestled before their castles Yews that cry with a soft wind blowing, Like wild beasts of distant jungles. And willows drooping with the weight of Snorting and charging like mad rhinos, time.

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DRY STONE DYKER What is company without conversation? [3.45pm, 13th Jan 1985, Newcastle] Of which there was none … Not even the motion of nervous chatter, Stones or rocks like pebbles lie Not even the evolution of frivolous In the hands of the dry stone dyker. laughter Turned aside by the plough in the fields, That accompanies all heart-to-heart They lie piled like mountains to the sky. matters.

The dyker, steady, tapping, tapping, It was a though evening had come, Echoing across the grey whin sill. And brought nought by darkness, and The wind against the crags, and howling, sadness, Carries the tapping o’er the wild When moonbeams should have outlined moordale. shadows, Out shone misery. His lonely company kept with songs, Joins the curlew’s whistling tune. Even loneliness may show its light side Love ballads penned for old and parted, Beyond the parameters of self- Chase the bloom across the scree. investigation, As my other self sat there beside me. Ancient poems washed from memory, I blinked not, tried not, then barely Sweep the fern and heather slopes. nodded, Tall standing stones by Celtic circles, And my shadow comprehended, Tell lichen tales of spells and druids. responded, nodded, Which was something after all. All the time, tapping, tapping, Each day goes, another looms. THE CANDIDE OF A YOUNG Years of passing like the gurgling waters, SCOTSMAN IN ENGLAND Trickling from a vale-side coomb. [19th Feb - 24th Sept 1983, Sandyford, Newcastle] Now like snakes across the hills, The miles pass from lake to peak. Where do I begin my story. The fells split into walled domains, I'm a Scotsman, but mind you now .... The dyker lies in his tomb. My language may leave you hanging, Though I'll try the best I can AS MY SHADOW SAT BESIDE ME To make my statements plain [10.26p, 1st Feb 1983, Newcastle] So that Geordie, Scouse, or Brum May heed my every word. Never ending like all stars stretching, Beyond my eyes belief and Now, when I left Scotland comprehension, I was eighteen, and from Glasgow, The fateful moment came and sat beside And though that sounds bad me, That I came from 'Glesca', And I flinched not, dared not. As the largest sprawl in Scotland At least you've heard of it.

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Because if I'd been from Tignabruich, I've come to Newcastle to find my Uncle Or Auchenshuggle, or Auchtermuckty Jock, Or some Highland village in the wilds, To stay with him until I find some work.' Instead of talking Glaswegian, I'd be speaking Gaelic and swinging a kilt. She kind of shook her head and said 'Well, I hope you have some luck. But instead of eating bens of porridge, 'Its kinda hard round here r'eet noo', Or Cairngorms of haggis, Ma husbands oot of wurk himself'. Or drinking lochs of whiskey, He's a shipbuilder, a Walker lad, And dreaming Rabbie Burns .... But since the cuts, the strike, the dole, I settled on being a typical Scotsman The only thing afloat on the Tyne is And went to England to find work. ducks. But maybe ye'll have an easier time Nothing wrong with that is there? Being young, an' having yer Uncle Jock.' In Scotland, England is a dirty word, Its only redeeming factor is ... Uncle Jock was my mother's brother, An easy living and a fast buck. And about ten years younger. I fished a piece of paper from my pocket So leaving Scotland by its only decent And showed it to the little woman. thing, 'Jesmond?' she said in great surprise I crossed the border by National Bus, 'He's a stoo'dent then?' she asked And I heard the bagpipes droning I answered that I didn't know As I left behind my homeland mists. But that I thought he was about thirty- five. Of course, when I got off the bus 'Then more than likely' she said I was typically tartan-pissed, 'Jesmond people are students until they But still wide-eyed and hungry die!' I stopped a man 'Heh, Jimmy!' But he turned and fled. She put me on the right bus, That went past the University and Poly, Some welcome I thought. The school of Arts and Technology, I looked around the bus station in no time, the bus was full of students and said 'So this is England! Reading books and making paper aero And Newcastle? This is it!' planes, I'd seen more life in a Glasgow midden, Re-enacting primal scream and no kidding, it made me sick. Shakespeare, All bubblegum fanatics and graffiti But a wee women passing by scribblers, Gazed at me and asked Could tell that from what they were 'Are ye lost, pet? Can 'a help yee? driveling. 'I can tell yee'r nae a Geordie lad.' And I surprised took a step back, 'You know, Daphne' one tulip was Then grinned and blurted out to her whispering,

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'Your eyes are 100 watt light-bulbs against 'I suppose it came as a shock' I said the moon.' And she answered 'No, he was kind of 'Oh yeah, Steve, and you can forget weird.' tonight' And I asked 'Did he ever get to India?' 'A 9 volt battery would make you drool.' And she said 'No. He got scared' 'He got as far as Acorn Road Post Office' I turned & looked at Daphne and Steve 'To ask for a passport form. And saw a pampas of orange hair. And now he lives across the street 'A pair of hairies' I said to myself 'Smoking up a hashish storm.' As Daphne burnt me with her 200 watt stares. This was the first time I'd heard that word Used in public and branded aloud. 'Acorn Road!' the driver shouted I looked about, but nobody was listening Flicking the lever of the bus-door They were all in their own hashish cloud. WHOOOSH! Flushing every student on to the 'You looking for somewhere to stay, luv? pavement ... I've plenty of space at my place, if you like?' And carried along in the panic and rush She looked into my eyes, red and blazing I took refuge behind a lamppost, And I saw great fires of lust, And remained there staring at the posh But I panicked and burst into a blush - surroundings 'No thanks, I've an Uncle I have to look As the students disappeared into their up!' flats Or bedsits, or to the place at the end of She seemed disappointed, yet took it well, the street I had my coffee, and a crumpet with jam Which overhead read Willow Teas, And she pointed with a wave of her hand Which being a place for students 'You'll find your uncle's street across the Meant I could only buy coffee. tracks.' I took that as a sign ...... 'Where are you from, luv? ...... ' That I wouldn't have to walk very far. The girl behind the counter smiled. I told her, and immediately she frowned How wrong I was, I got lost! And began to tell me a very long story I walked in circles until darkness fell, About a bloke from Glasgow she knew Till the smell of fish and chips drove me Who once she'd fallen madly for. wild. I scoffed a supper, and threw the bag to a 'I'd let him move into my place, dog And after six months of feeding him, Which whimpered when it found the He turned round one day with a smile on paper empty, his face But it being such a nice English dog, And declared he was off to India or It didn't even give me a parting growl. someplace!' I was tempted to take him home with me, But I didn't have a home myself.

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At last I found Uncle Jock's house, I was out my head ..... I knocked on the door, it sounded so loud, But still wide awake to see the dawn. The echo vibrated down the whole street - All red brick, and green doors Youth rushes at us all ablaze, And white lace, and curtains The experience of LSD can make anyone That moved, and threw bolts of light at strange. me. But I'm not going to dwell on this. It was like being suspected of murder, Who has time anyway? But it was only students watching for the police. Uncle Jock saw me alright, He apologised for what he'd done to me. The door creaked open, a figure appeared 'If I'd known you were so naive And slowly came forward into the light. I'd have kept you strictly on beer.' I smiled and spoke 'Hello, Uncle Jock'. But I shrugged my shoulders and said I wrote, I hope you got my letter alright.' 'I have a friend who's into solvents 'Robbie-boy!' he gasped in great delight And another really into speed. 'The devil has brought you into my grasp. Finding something bad like acid Come-in, come-in, I've got friends over. Is just the thing I need. Bill, Tom, Pete and lovely Frances.' 'Don't worry, uncle ...... Just give me more of this LSD And straightway from the company I got the idea Time passed quickly at my uncle's place My Uncle Jock was no nancy-dandy, Until I did a thing with Frances. All his friends were weirdoes, It was all so innocent, I mean, Painters, poets, bums and dancers. Well, I suppose it was a mistake! Frances was the local queen of aerobics Uncle Jock was more than furious, And Uncle Jock was her fancy man and And Frances was incredibly red-faced, lover. I was given two days to pack And forced to find another place. That night the world exploded. Frances told me 'I love you' Frances made me take off all my clothes, But stayed on with Jock just the same. Then Uncle Jock said 'Here, take these. Two little bluies. You'll never be the Uncle Jock buttered all her bread same.' And in all the right sort of ways. He told me that it was LSD, Frances was strung out on Jock, But I thought nothing of it at the time, And Jock summed it up by saying I was enjoying the hash-pipe going around 'You're very young, Robbie-boy, When the tingling started in my brain - And I wonder what your Mum would think Flashing lights and cosmic oscillations. If she found out you were cheating, 'Waves, man!' was the phrase Tom Playing around with her brother's chick.' named. He was right, I felt a heel, I drifted off to Lally Land, But he wouldn't give me a second chance, Bill said I was on 'Overload'. So I went back to Willow Teas

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And double-talked the girl I first met. ‘I passed my life in blindness, 'Yeah, my uncle's moving away from here and let my words fall on deaf ears’. I've got to move in somewhere-else.' And would you know it, she said MORE DEAD WORDS THAN STARS 'You better move into my place, then.' [6th Mar 1983, Newcastle]

Her name was Sandra, and kind of cute, Between the stars that fade, I moved in that night, and kissed her Little will be remembered. good. And so written words Well, at least I think I did, Become like well played records, She smiled too sweet to lie ...... Old and scratched, then dated. But my experience of women then I could count on either hand. Yellow pages, and yellowed memories, Distorted and rejected, discarded and And soon we were making plans. neglected, She talked of sunny Spain, And fast forgotten. I dreamt of far Japan. Eventually we made a ferry trip All newer work is likewise destined To exotic Rotterdam. To a similar fate of mildew sentiment On the toppling stack of nostalgia. Don't ask me what we did in Holland, Except I can tell I enjoyed myself; Many words are written, I've told you of my first time in England, But few are worth recalling. The second time's a tale in itself. Add this poem to the pile.

CO NVERSATIO N WITH A STATUE SADDEST CLOWN IN THE WORLD [23rd Feb 1983, Newcastle] [6th Mar 1983, Newcastle]

I had a conversation in a park I had a friend who was a clown, With the statue of a great philosopher And he worked in a circus, The other day. Making the audience joyous, ‘Nice day’ I said, and a leaf fell But what a sad man he was. off a tree and skidded off his head. His wife left him for a strongman; ‘You must have been a great thinker She had been his pride and joy, before they moved you to this place’. High on a trapeze like a graceful bird. His grey eyes stared motionless, One day she had flown out of the ring His hand resting upon his lapel. And to Paris with her muscleman, winged. ‘Aren’t you going to answer me?’ I pleaded, humbled myself at the He was heart-broken, distressed. Thinker’s feet. Have you ever seen the tears of a clown? He flooded the tent, a customer And lo, he answered … complained For there read his epitaph – That he had come to laugh, not drown.

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The ringmaster tried to explain TREASO N That even clowns have their bad days. [22nd Mar 1983, Newcastle] The audience were sympathetic, They tried to cheer the clown’s blues, Treason seeps from pressed mouths, Until they were red in the face – Contorted and cruelly twisted. But his blues remained. Going over to the other side Is like buttering bread both sides. He fell into depression. Once you’ve spread it, Soon people came to make him laugh, You have trouble taking a bite. The y came from Europe, America, Japan. Sticky fingers and spying, His sadness spread far abroad – They go hand in hand alright. The ringmaster introduced him as Treason is for the hungry – The Saddest Clown in the World. The hungry men of power.

Overnight he was famous, TWENTY NINTH BIRTHDAY Success had found him at his lowest ebb, [3.45pm, 25th Mar 1983, Newcastle] New wealth outweighed everything But the sadness of his plight. Just a day older than twenty-eight. It was hard enough accepting twenty. Then one day, his loved one returned, Now at twenty-nine, it seems crazy Bruised from the beatings of her That I doubted I’d survive strongman’s love. Nine more years. She begged to be forgiven – She had seen the folly of her ways. It used to be hard believing in tomorrow. She cried, and he forgave her, Winter mornings and tropical dawns, Happiness welled where sadness lodged. Ten thousand gone. She went back to the trapeze, Now, tomorrow comes, and likely And once more flew like a bird. fifteen thousand more. He stopped being the Saddest Clown in the World. Age strikes a man like waves Upon a rocky shore. SPRING EQUINOX It beats all roughness from him, [22nd Mar 1983, Newcastle] It drains him, tames him. Age is the only gain. The Spring equinox brought new snows On old experiences. Twenty nine? There is still Winter having been forgotten, A long way to the crest of the hill, White crocus hid in the flurried fall. The roller coaster ride, The sun did not rise, That slides out of the clouds, Slept the whole day, Down to the basking sunshine. And so did I.

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BLANKS Upon the mountains of faith – [25th Mar 1983, Newcastle] The child covered in mud, dragged through the rains. More and more I leave blanks – Then after all, blanks fill space. This is the beauty of fate paraded Space after all is the fifth dimension That the elements, weather and fade. Where time knows no bounds. The men, once strongly broad With their pasts still to face. MISSIONARY HERO The human clock counting [7th Apr 1983, Newcastle] Till mortal heartbeats fail – The gathering of the mists I had a namesake, a relative, To shroud the frail. No, an ancestor let’s say – He went from Scotland The quest for immortality With God on his lips That God-like creatures fake. And arrived in Africa. Yet, this is it, they cannot stop The passing of the fates. Robert Moffat, yeah, That was his name. OLD HAT The missionary hero of Kuraman. [12th May 1983, Newcastle] Kuraman? Hell, where is that place? Instead of mouthing like a politician, Or sprouting like a jacked-up puppet, PO ETICAL PO VERTY I think I’ll turn the TV off, For Michael Hamburger The stereo up, smoke a joint, [3rd May 1983, Newcastle] Get down to making love With the same old girl. Poets are renowned for being poor, Poor in wealth, It might be old hat, Usually poor in health from drinking. Better a hat than no hat, Too many bars, Unless it’s the Tory party Too many late nights, Who’ve left four million dying, Not enough sunshine, Starved for want of work. Not enough money. Poets are ill-fated alright. Better a hat than no hat – I’d rather see Cruises going up, PASSING OF FATES Than Pershings raining down, X’s aimed at my behind, [3rd May 1983, Newcastle] My trousers round my ankles. Only with my wife. Easy words to not give easy meanings To hard expressions of fate – The diamond cut to dazzle, The hapless believers in fame – The illusion that lingers like snow

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IDLENESS The people of this servile town. [4.05pm, 24th May 1983, Newcastle] The South has sold you out.

Idleness is once more my preoccupation, Now I better hasten What better than relaxation; Away from this room – What better than no mental stimulation; The whispering words echo None better than laziness, ‘Commie! Nigger! Jew!’ None better than forgetfulness, I see four men pushing through. None better than laziness. They may stifle our voices Idleness suits me. But never squelch our views. Idleness is the only decent life. MO VING HO ME AFTER THE ELECTIO N [16th Jul 1983, Helmsley Rd, Newcastle] [10th Jun 1983, Newcastle] Gone - the chimneys and red brick houses, On our side of town, The roads running to the valley floor We voted in Nick Brown. Substituted now are gardens of roses, ‘Labour! Labour!’ was the chant. Drifting voices in well-to-do tones. The Conservatives got shouted down. The S.D.P got their asses kicked. Lace curtains conceal hidden mementos, The fascists live where jobs are sold Gathered and stored, but never shown – And socialism dies. Eyes alert, dart at the windows, Curiosity dies, as the gossip grows. Socialism weeps tonight, Red the eyes with fear. Neighbours all smiles are shadows at ‘Keir Hardie!’ they shout in the street, home, while behind closed doors, Tories sit Flirting about in dim yellow rooms – with sneers from ear to ear. The cars in the street are big metal cans, The clicking heels are stomping o’er Ketchup coloured, and mustard green. MacDonald’s grave tonight. Here, pet dogs, respectable and clean, On our side of town, Bark, are kept to back-lane yards, We’re neither adverbed or nouned. Doves, though many, are rarely menaced, ‘Fuck! Fuck!’ was the chant. Cats well-fed, are content to stare. Five more years of rats and slugs And Thatcher’s Gorgon smile. Shop-keeper service panders to station, The secret police are watching us Snobbery is part of community pride, From within our very midst. Avocado, guava, chilli, and pasta – Forget about finding any white bread. On our side of town, We voted Labour, not for bombs, I miss the chimneys and red-brick houses, Not for money, not for jobs, The roads running to the valley floor, But for health, and welfare, The views I exchanged for cultural status, Equalities, minorities and poverty. Now are nothing to write about home.

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HEIGHT OF BORDER SUMMER Down to the edge of the round pebbled [10th Aug 1983, Ferniehurst Castle, river Jedburgh] Crossed by a bridge looped like a serpent.

The barley grew high in the midsummer Roads wound and uncoiled over the shiel heat wave, lands, Neat rows of soldiers, heads to the sky, Paths wandered through pasture where Hawks, their plumage ruffled and tracks moulting, Lined for breaks in walls, skirted Deposited feathers on thistle-down fields, mountains, Edged in wild grass, cross-seeded and tall, Fringed cliffs to criss-cross on hilltops, Flattened not crushed by the harvester’s Where once had stood iron-age forts, cull. Where ancients watched the northern sky glow. The barbed-wire fences covered in bramble, ON THE MOORS Staggered, fragile and rusted, ready to [12th Aug 1983, Broadmeadows, Selkirk] crumble Upon poppies, campanula, thriving midst Moor walking leaves the city behind, nettles, Forgotten, the troubles of the structured, While out of a beech copse, a wood Responsibility, society, fame and bright pigeon re-entered, lights, And between the corn stalks, a beetle None of that is worth the time it devours. hunted Through the dust of soil turned to powder. Alcohol, hashish, coffee, bills, Headaches, pains, tiredness, boredom, Firm round breast of hillocks, yellow and Work, commuting, pollution, money. ochre; Death! Death! While nature thrives. Pastures falling sweetly to shallow fords; Heat and sunlight like never imagined, Fresh air, flowers, scenery, peace, Cared the cares of the world to the Tall trees, sun, mountains, fields, skyline, Streams, clouds, insects, grass. The summer heat wave in the open fields, Life! Life! While the city dies. Haystacks as beds and stars as good omen. Telephones, buses, cars, roads, THE BO RDERS Television, radios, stereos, [11th Aug 1983, Snoot, Hawick] Buy, sell, hustle, kill. Death! Death! The city rings. Horses, docile and playful as children, Ran to the fences in want of petting, Sheep, cows, rabbits, deer, While sheep taking shade by oak fringed Cliffs, gorges, moors, dales, hedges, Hawks, crows, finches, wrens. Looked up with black faces before bolting Life! Life! While nature flies.

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Downers, scroungers, clingers, nuts, So let us bless this blushing couple, Doubters, beaters, battered, scarred, And strive to help them on their way, Suiciders, homiciders, drunks, OD’ers. As duty bound and honour tokened, Death! Death! The city brings. Twinned together like earth and moon, To glide in love through the cosmos, Health, loose, unbonded, free, Long live the bride and groom! Yet still the city weighs on me. Time drags the weary miles along, AUTUMN IN SANDYFORD Beyond each hill, a city runs. [15th September 1983, Helmsley Rd, Newcastle] USHERS ADDRESS For Frank Parris & Carol Aitken And autumn was upon us without warning. [2nd Sept 1983, Newcastle] Grey pillow skies that changed and ran by; Gusty brown-tipped leaf carried Who can remember a summer this hot, afternoons; The grass as high as savannah corn, Dark shadow shifting laundry days; The fireweed flaming the glens and braes, Mild back-door ajar boiled potato The burns dry, the earth parched dunes. evenings; Let us drench our own slaked thirst, Nigh before the cold breath of winter And toast the bride and groom. Descended on the grey-slate streets.

And even when this winter comes, FO REST IN MY BEDRO O M And hard packed snow hems us in, [18th Sept 1983, Newcastle] And driving rain frays our thought, And icy winds flay the gloom, I wake up every morning, Let us wet our own chaffed lips, With daylight in my eyes, To the lovely bride and groom. We never draw the curtains, We have too many plants. And when the summer months return, And people hark on last year’s blaze, It all began in March, And think upon such rainless days, When we seeded in a tray; And we upon this afternoon. By April we need a ready score Let us stand and raise a glass, Of plants in pots, on tables. And praise the bride and groom. By May, they’d grown so much, And when love is on our very tongues, We put them on the floor. And happiness our only thought Bigger pots … more space, To find such bliss outside ourselves, And the net curtains lowered. We need not search beyond this room, Just look upon this cherished union! By June, they were three feet. This charming bride! This handsome By July, four …. groom! By August, they were so big They could be seen across the road.

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We raised the net curtain, The pibroch strains aye-ever skirl And they grew even more. Me swirling to the eils, August went, September came The invers stride the allts and streams Before the flowers showed. Of sleet seeped basalt cairns.

Now the things are six feet tall, The clachans reek the silver birch Four feet wide, three plants deep. Me mind the kil and dun, If you walk past our house, The clash of clans and kilted sons, You can smell them in the street. The brackened wild grass hums.

My friends are understanding – The brochs upon the ruhbas stand, They’re all doing the same. Me lashed to ard by seas, Backyards, rooftops, window sills. The gales beat the crag and scree, Home grown’s the game. The butt-ben lichened shiels.

Grass … pot … marijuana The levens shade the heather leas, Ganja … bud … and weed. Me rest to linn and burn; I wake up every morning The pens and fells to sands aye-run With it towering over me. By granite-stane dyked walls.

It’s worth the paranoia, The Highlands will forever call It’s a fine illegal sight! Me heart to ken its shires, Nature in its finest bloom The dirging pipes in lament fire, Amidst the urban blight. Aye drone to soul me back.

Yes, I wake up every morning ITS SUCH A LOVELY MORNING With daylight in my eyes. For Brian, Jack and Jeffrey The forest needs the sunshine, [23rd – 24th Sept 1983, Newcastle] In turn it gets me high. Brain, Jack and Jeffrey, For that’s the plan. Me mates from Villa Four, It was such a lovely morning, BALLAD O F THE CELTIC SO UL We went collecting harvest store. [21st – 22nd Sept 1983, Newcastle] Jack was in a wheelchair, The Highlands will forever call And Jeffrey in one too – Me back to glen-braed bens. And Brian filled the plastic bag The gloaming roams on peat and fern, With ferns, grass, and thorns. The heathered straths, and birks. Jack was kind of silent, The cnocs and stak column tower And Jeffrey laughed a lot, Me whole to lochan strands, Brian did all the work Beneath the dhu dark watered band, Though he thought work a bore. The deepest legends lie.

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They each ate a bramble, PO ETS ARE NO DIFFERENT Though Jeffrey made a face, [8th Oct 1983, Newcastle] Jack quietly savoured his While Brian searched for more. Poets are no different from workers, Shirkers, tramps and drifters, We collected leaves and hogweed, Lawyers, statesmen, salesmen, And elderberry spreads, Painters. Though Brian thought it shameful To pick the flower heads. Poets are as base as winos, Pimps, war-dogs, crooks, liars, Jeffrey, sweet cute Jeffrey, Brokers, killers, cops, Rolled his head and smiled, Scientists. While Jack heard the birds sing And felt the warm sunshine. Poets are for truth and justice, Avarice, hate, imperial causes, Brian trailed behind us Racist, right-wing, left-wing, With the bag of leaves and grass, Rubbish. And we stopped to pick willowherb, And other withered plants. Poets are, and poets die, Cry, laugh, frown, fart, It was such a lovely morning, Piss, wank, come, And we raced Jeff and Jack, Crap. Their wheels spinning madly Across the grassland park. Poets are like you, or him, Her, it, men, women, We waited up for Brian, Those, these, them, Puffed to catch with us, And more. His blue eyes were sparkling And we all had a laugh. FROST CRACKED & BROKEN [9pm, 10th Nov 1983, Newcastle] And as we slowly ambled Back towards the home, Life passes too quickly, A pair of large magpies, Like the wind, a rushing, Flew before us, then were gone. A hushing black storm clouds, Clouds heavy with mourning, It was such a lovely morning, Tears black and rolling. For Brian, Jeffrey, Jack, Who collected in the harvest The day goes too swiftly, In a black plastic bag, Like a stream, a torrent, A raging white flood tide, We left them at the villa, Tide bound with wooing, In time to have their lunch. Eyes downcast and flowing. It was such a lovely morning, They were such a lovely bunch.

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The night is not fleeting, Like fire’s flames, a licking, A consuming blue lightning, Thundering with cymbals, Sight ashen and waning.

Death comes on unseeing, Like the land, a frozen, A frost-cracked and broken, Split-lipped with ploughing, Vision doubled and going.

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THE UNDERGRADUATE - 1st YEAR

TERM 1 Secure the knowledge the honest palm [16th Oct–17th Dec 1983, Helmsley Rd, offers – Newcastle] Capitalise on education’s rich coffers, WEEK 1 Look not back - Ego warned I. FRESHERS While God damns us, but helps us – I got to meet many girls, and guys and The world despises students – tutors. the unemployed hate us – the elite, the sleek, the young and beautiful; The timetable ran like a Sunday school outing The slender, the tender, the gentle, the And laughs peeled louder than distant virgin thunder. who know not life as twisting and hurtful, Belts and canes and classroom blues painful and hollow, empty and shallow, Melted like troubles on hot buttered wanton and glutted, cruel and o’er scones. shadowed.

Who could have dreamed of such ivory The shimmering today, the shattered towers tomorrow, Hidden in brick-block and concrete The cream of our children taken and seclusion? eaten, Who would have reckoned to pillars of Devoured by ambition, need and greed. salt The rungs of the ladder swing in the Surrounded by treasures of wisdom and breeze. learning? Grasp hold, guide our tutors with smiles, The knowledge there stood, steady and The road to perfection before you lies. daunting Here is a list of the books for the journey, While above grey clouds crossed like A ninety week travel of history and lighting, prose. So swift that time had passed without warning. Beware ye of Marlowe, Jonson and A week of one’s life gone forever, Shakespeare, And Bede, and Caedmon, and Geoffrey of Experiences new upon pathways now Monmouth, stretching. Malory, Chaucer, Langland and Dunbar; Conquer before you, and burn all the Better to know not, than try to know all. bridges, Scan the horizon for the dawn of ripe For some rush to split the atom openings, Before the apple falls.

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WEEK 2 You can’t tell me that tutors are cold THE APPLE IS BITTEN And students unaroused by the bawd of the stage? And the next week on, the apple is bitten, Decadence starts in English departments Teeth-marks scar the delicate skin … And ends in students getting laid – But penetrate not to the core of fruition. The pip is not ready to seed. Most because they like the nightlife, Others with tutors to raise their grades. Volpone and Faustus, and Utopia mellow, And Wyatt and Sidney speak from the And what of the virgins, the guys and grave. dolls, Ralegh looms like a grey apparition The eighteen year olds, shy and naïve? While Erasmus coughs every turn of a Will their time come during the first page. term? Or after completion of their final year? Who would have thought that medieval poets And what of the ones who lost it at And thinkers thought of nature as base; fourteen? Beneath the cobwebs of books they Or the ones with lovers waiting at home? consulted, Or the ones hung up because they are Spoke Cicero, Horace, Ovid and Plato. frigid, Ugly, impotent, frightened or alone? Original thought was a mighty wet blanket Covering sex and sinning prelates – The icy cold wind of a winter’s study Bestial conduct and fornicating standards, Can destroy the will of the freest soul. Their course didactic, coital love-plays. The towers of learning may stand like castles Which student of English, newly left Or prisons where hearts are vamped to home stone. Does not blush on discussing such things? Sex is not the possession of ages Or where hermits dwell in their library Read while thumbing history’s frayed cells, pages. Windowless jails where no sun shines – Where year by year mothball fumes Nubile young bodies squirm in hard chairs, Yellow the treasures of human kind. Pulses quicken, engorging occurs. The edited texts of high school days For time is the only human dwelling Are not to be found in varsity texts. Where we can abide to count the chimes.

Screwing and balling, lewd and telling, WEEK 3 Form the basis of submitted essays – DARK ARTS Bartholomew Fair is literature’s answer To the porn books of illiterate taste. Suddenly dark shadows enter in study, The Changling flirts across the page.

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Beatrice dies with tragic De Flores, Each caught in the middle and a little A Lady MacBeth transplanted in Spain – unsure, whether up is the way, or down the truth Her deflowerer like he of Montmartre – fame, Her father a tyrant in everything but The dichotomy of bourgeois-socialist name. views, And in a whiff! They are gone – Is certainly clear for all to see; And Marlowe rears with a breath if fired Each individual is a burning sphere air. As the world around them totters to war.

‘Faustus! Faustus! How vice has ruined For only two days have passed since you! Grenada The powers of darkness ruled your soul. Was invaded by droves of American Your humanist learning gave out to marines – yearning And barely five days since the Americans For knowledge beyond the infinite lost known.’ Two hundred and twenty with a Lebanese bomb. Such are my thoughts on Doctor Faustus, A set essay piece for my drama course; The world at present is a fast changing But drama is only part of the substance nightmare That embodies the spirit of literature’s Where ‘nuclear’ is the word on bones. everyone’s lips – And even the bomb proof burrows of At the heart lies the poetry – wisdom Of Sidney, of Ralegh, of Spencer and Can not be pristine at the end of all this. Pope, And Wyatt ‘we did’ in a half-hour lecture, WEEK 4 His expressiveness singularly worthy of THEORY note. The fourth week has gone, gone and gone. But I must a way from all this claptrap And weekend of drugs has erased much. To talk of people instead of books – Plato’s attack on the essence of poetry About Sarah and Andy, Ellen and Steven, Bores to the heart of dramatic illusion. Diana and Margaux, Ken and Jean. The mimesis of form, reality, imitation – The world of students, teachers and The grandchild of God – the epic deludes; colleagues, Where truth is the light, the finest Friends, peers, competitors and sloggers, creation Wrestling to fit into the mix – Without being a mirror reflection of life. Of working class values and upper class maxims. Not Jack went up the hill with Jill; Not Jack fell down and broke his crown –

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But more a clarity of truth … For ten lives now I’ve shrivelled and died. That even simple thinks may have a root. For ten more eons I’ll rot in this dungeon, Yet let us turn from such serious thought, But ne’er will a shed a tear for my crime. And travel the realms of lyrics and ballads; The war has killed my mother and father; For even Plato said it was fair The struggle has taken my sister too. For poetry to return from exile as song. My brothers are dead, slaughtered and butchered, So what of these ballads that canters and And freedom a word they never heard rides used. Through the gloom and terrible sleep – Of lovers caught by cruel circumstance Oh would such laments fire the hillsides! And warriors lost so that mothers weep? Oh would such grief whip up the sea! Oh would such loss destroy the heavens – Oh would such laments fire the hillsides? The stars, the planets, so far from me. Oh would such grief whip up the sea? Oh would such loss destroy the heavens, WEEK 5 The stars, the planets far from me? READING WEEK

Come listen, come sit, and hear my words How different each week is from the last While the wind howls over crooked bent – trees; Each day a moment never to be, For ten long years the rain has fallen, As back to the grind the world shudders, For ten cowed years I’ve been on my Or forward by fate it slides ill at ease. knees. Forward through theories in open Oh mother! Oh father! How could you throttle, leave me! Down poetry lane towards Aristotle – Oh brothers,, and sisters, why are you With even some time to brush up on gone? Horace. If I had known such disaster would take you, Ne’er was the luck of those caught in If I had known I’d be left so alone! limbo Thrown away like an empty milk-bottle; The price I have paid to be a traitor – Or blown away like dandelion or thistle, The reward I’ve received for my cowardly To seed away in a broken egg-carton. work; Is to be left so broken, lonely, and hated, What better shelter in a wild world, And hunted, and haunted by those I once Than faculty halls on a wet day – loved. Each student a foetus unhatched and dormant For ten years now I’ve languished in Packed in a box, and stored away. prison;

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Fed on Miller, Lewis and Spenser, I was into drugs and druggies, Regurgitating essays without a break – While others were into bikes and sleaze; Yet one canto of Dante …one phrase of I got into sun and travelling – Houseman, While Bowie sang his brand of blues. Can ease the troubles of a murky noon; Sweating and turning, frigid and daunting I was smoking hashish in India Facing the circle of tutorial groups. When the Vietnam War came to an end; I was flat on my back in Kenya One dash of Green Knight … At the ripe old age of twenty two. a wave of the Fair Queen … beats a room of dirty knaves – I went savouring the delights of Rio, prancing across a Jacobean stage! Rather than sit watching the tube. I went to west coast America Drama, they say, is here to stay; Three days before Thatcher took rule. But give me good poetry … And a dictionary to paw it … I witnessed the waste in Managua city And I’m as good as sold for the day. Just after the Sandanistas took over; I was in the plain of Katmandu And having had a week off classes, When the Falkland War broke out. Reading Week, yeah, to stay home and I’ve been to Argentina … swot – I can see both sides. I feel as though I’ve been up every evening You would think I’ve had an education Reading the lines between the blue dots. But here I am back at school – Five laps gone in a ninety lap course, The invisible markings, the allegorical And it’s getting cool in the pool. meanings, The knowledge lost that I haven’t got. WEEK 6 Have you ever felt sick because you’re SAXON TALES missing What you think everyone else wants a Winter’s coming on and fast – lot? The light fades off at four o’clock. Grey days and black, dark nights; Like dancing, and singing, rocking and Sweater weather and overcoat times. swinging, Boogie, and jive, and reggae – I sit through the chilly hours Punk, New Wave, Romantic and Classic – Huddled over Saxon tales – Bright yellow ties and shocks of blue hair. I drift with the rising moon Lifting o’er the terraced roofs. I was never into boots, muffs and bovver, Crombies, braces, and very close shaves – Then back to study’s earnest pages, I was far-out geezer with dreadlocks, Syntactic structured simple phrases – And jeans ripped at the knees. Soon tired and bleary of all learning, My poet’s heart craves for peace.

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But my mind will not slumber Coffee stains ring the table; Upon the thoughts of daily need ; Bong-smoke clings to the shade; My mind will not quietly rest The light bulb yellow, dim and glaring Upon the deeds of past and present. Down upon a threadbare room.

I seek to fly on the air-waves Armchair broken, ashtray chipped; Of the buzzing wireless lines. Fireplace tiles cracked and scored; My secret thoughts of incarnation Floorboards warped and always Burning on the private kind. creaking; A door ajar that never latches. My drifting notions caught and strangled By the notes of draining life – Ceiling bowed and ever peeling; Incognito pass the strangers Walls gouged and brick-work holed; Filing on through out the night. Mirror flaked, and hanging crooked Reflects the student’s poor abode. Until my little duck comes waddling, From her pond filmed in oil – I turn to – Tennessee Williams, Comes to have her feathers smoothed, And sink to the depths of New Orleans, Comes to have her body warmed. Back to the Quarter and the Mississippi – Down south where I have been. For such is love and lust together, Locked and roped, and inter-twined; Back to the world of sad Hart Crane; Passions risen once in anger, Down to the pit of ghetto towns; Pass, and give to lover’s murmurs. I haven’t seen anything of Orleans proper That I didn’t think was a crying shame. Subdued talk of future longings, Present times and lasting chimes; When I was there, broke and hungry, The church bells ring and count the years- I didn’t see the streetcar called Desire; CHIME! In endless chime they rhyme. I was just a travelling nobody – Who saw nothing, met no one, and Atomic clocks TICK TOCK the hours, starved. Each second like cold corn seed Dropped into a miller’s quern – New Orleans is a very cruel city, Ground and powdered into flour. And this is no story just for laughs; I know the world of Stella and Stanley, Time passes all too soon, And I’ve met girls like Blanche de Bois. White-washed moments caked to you – A swimming swill of overdue's, So getting myself back to England – Forgotten pains and mellow tunes. And my boring, little Newcastle flat; Six weeks have gone at university, A juke-box full old dead songwriters; And that’s where I’m at. A bookshelf sagging drab, crap titles; A string of photographic snap-shots, Pinned on the wall with thumb tacks.

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WEEK 7 Sat still, I stay before the fire - STUDENT SO LITUDE My strength gone like my summer days.

Its not often time o come to this I hear the knocking stick of sadness Midst earnest thoughts of intellect – Chattering during these twilight hours. But come I have to lay my mind I feel the pulse of growing madness Upon the white of vacant page; Feeding on the grey outside.

And having started, must now contend And yet, I sit in mute repose To dwell upon some fancy terms. To think upon old English poems – Yet, dark outside the night may howl, Has college life ruined desire I know not what I must attack. For women, sex and carnal knowledge?

The city sleeps or slumbers down, Am I a boring fart or dolt? As ice about its houses dwell. A bumbling, slumbering sort of fool? For now the frozen heavens reveal To pass a chance to taste free love The coldest face of winter’s hell. When offered by a loving girl?

And as I sit before the fire, Would I be right to turn my eyes Cutting deep my unformed thoughts – To gaze upon a Saxon tale, Silence drops into the still – When challenged by a nubile woman Soundless lulls moving through Of weaving thought and coy intention? the eddy of the solitude … All smiles, cute, and passing - Dropping. Ready to flash, and ready to mate; Dropping. Age doesn’t halt lust’s fire, And desire doesn’t disappear with age. Then caught, and suddenly renewed, A car whines into the night; You only want more of everything, The light bulb hums a merry tune, And everything gets further away – My breathing beats a fresh simoon. This is what seven weeks of college Does to a once plain brain. Footsteps break upon the street To wash along the terraced waste – WEEK 8 Dark, and misty, with no end BORING BORING BORING Winter’s grasp grips the night. Rosencranz and Guilderstein died last Chilly thoughts and cold ambition. week – Driving on my walk through wisdom, Stoppard bored right into me. The rain, a hazy whizzing drizzle, Boring, boring, and boring more – Seeking, soaking, permeating – More boring than henna’d hashish.

Better dry and wrapped in weakness, And worse than the phonology test Than wet, and dead because of greatness; That is still burning in my ears -

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The homily half of the salty Seafarer The printing presses churn all night, Spewed up crap of a superior kind. Critiques, reviews, graces, praise!

Listen, if you ever get the chance to read Till library shelves sag and groan More than nursery rhymes, Beneath the author’s awesome fame. Don’t spend your time on modern plays, A work once a hundred pages, They’re as bad as Victorian jokes. To one hundred thousand grows.

Maybe you’ve never heard a Victorian A simple fable simply told, limerick, Into ten volumes quickly rages – But they’re worse than Irish anecdotes – A small idea plainly written, Four lines of A – B poetry … Into a great ideal is driven. And one line of punchy sniggers. A few wet verses badly hacked, Not one word of honest truth – Soon flourish into major tracts. All Polacks, Chinks, and Negroes; And without a whimper, nor a word, The worst of taste at every turn, The author reaps his sick reward. The work of senseless authors. His name is like a billboard sticker, Forget the written lines of playwrights – Stuck and left to fade forever. Turn you to the poets! While all the time his own esteem Is but a broken might have been. You see, how I’ve primed myself, And wet my pen to the task; The booze and drugs killing him – Eight weeks have passed of college life, Patrimony, alimony, screwing him – And like a surgeon I prepare - Bad breath, bad health, ruining him – Poets like me, abusing him. My thoughts upon some idle thread, Of mocking jibe? Yes, I’m not content No man is perfect like the God To let days pass in mute grievance, We’re all supposed to be part of. Or let time slip in cool abeyance. Human failing oversees – Pathetic weakness shows in deeds. I see each hour gain with me Some weighty wealth of judgement Written words twist like snakes – Made upon the works of living men – Spoken words straightaways hurt – Here, dead men are not my victims. Wisdom splattered on a page, On the tongue is aptly just. The living spread their own fine lies As truth to cloak their own sharp plans Book language smooth and styled enough Masked behind a rising fame – From the lips may sound corrupt – Until accolade makes their name. Yet still the academics turn To pick the flesh of fiction’s corpse. And soon, that name is on the lips Of critics, laymen, academics -

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And we the students of their thought, Out of breath, and short of time, Dissect the body, cheek by jowl. No pause, no rest, no second life – Bowels, innards, organs, blood – No second sight to right first done, An author’s merit, metre, mode – No second chance to fix first wrongs.

With much dissection, dissertation, And so we students waste our chance Discussion, and interpretation; To grasp the universe we guess We help dismiss, junk and trash it - That hides between the yellowed sheets It is an English major’s modest moral We never quite find the time to read. goal. Youth comes upon us all ablaze, WEEK 9 Its fire a burning inner rage … LOST IN BOOKS In search of free-thinking angles, Away from what childhood’s taught. Last week a foggy past transcends The inner waves of difficulty. Perhaps we came here for the beer? Syntax lines of useless form Perhaps the beer’s the best thing here? Is function into anonymity. But yet, such shallow depths lead on To fails, re-sits, and change of course. Johnson’s coined sarcastic wit Eats away Tom Cane’s heart – The drop-out quota must be filled – God is always on his lips Thirteen percent must find the door. As Johnson joins what others part. Now at the end of the ninth week, We are well on down that road. While students lounge in Union bars And lecture time is quietly spent WEEK TEN Beneath the sheets on chilly morns; MARTYRS The weight of literature descends – Someone committed suicide last week, Like snow upon the sleeping earth But nobody knows her name. To blanket white the naked truth, The rumours fly around like moths Wrapped incognito, bound in books In flight around a naked flame. For eager critics to peruse. No one denies the event, And we poor students, lost, confused, But no one knows when or where. Struggle to withstand the bruising – The Registrar in muted nothing, The knocks they come like hammer Says nothing to avoid a scare. blows Upon our panel work of ego. There’s always been suicide’s at college, And the future will hold the same; Pounding like the autumn tides, But it seems like a terrible waste Arriving warm, then bitter leaving; For life to end this way. Daily tussle these titanic forces – haunting us with our own moaning.

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Youth in a blaze and a flourish Like a procession of princes, Becomes bone in a musty grave. They parade before me like shadows; Better to let youth wrinkle Men caught in limbo … Than let youth pass into decay. Knowing no rest, no arrival.

Young lives should pass happily From the human to the immortal – Into old lives of contentment; Caught, they live perpetual; Old lives should think back Going round in circles … On young lives looking ahead. They reach central and provincial.

The young should outlive the old, Every college, school and infant – The old should outlive young thought. Their influence being infinite … The young as bright and bold, Their works collected, words recited; The old as wise and mellow. There are no living poets - mightier!

The young should have their praises sung, No playwrights thought of so highly The old their tales have told - That critics turn to praise their work; Let’s pray our dead martyr has gone These great men of testament – To the land of Tir na Nog. Lets preserve them as they are dead!

Do I see the cape of hero Cuchulain, And if you doubt my token homage, The mightiest of Ireland’s warrior gods? Go you to Westminster, now; Feel I the sword of Bran, son of Lir? Stand before St. Peter's church – Or beneath his Isle, the cauldron of Man? Pass through the great arched doors.

Man – that jewel in the Celtic Sea, And once your eyes have scaled the Lapis lazuli, ribboned in gold .. heights Sand broken horses, white and rippling And wondered at the work of men; On the shores of our islands. Turn you to the eastern aisle And gently pass before the marble shrines Three kingdoms united, one divided, – And a republic, presently stand. Yet forgive me for dwelling on myth, Statesmen, warriors, and knights; ‘tis only the pride of a Celtic man. Until you leave all those behind And pay your debt to travel on For the Celtic world is one of riches Beyond the gateway that permits - Buried beneath the English view - That Angle came, and Saxon conquered, Entry to the resting place of kings. And Norman did what Dane couldn’t do. There, close by the poets lie, The men whose words outlived kings, But this is avoiding our academic studies, Though wretched may their lives have The travels of Spenser, and Marvell, been. The works of Shakespeare and Marlowe, Middleton, Webster and Dryden.

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How splendid have their names survived, Now I have the chance to rest – Etched upon polished stone … I’ll lay my pen aside; This corner of England theirs, alone. Await the coming of New Year Martyrs for our studies. As Eight Three departs.

And thus ten weeks have passed; So till you hear from me again – Ceased. Lost, forever gone. Goodbye and all my love. And all I leave are thoughts, Student work’s a better job Thoughts we all must have. Than working for a boss.

The Hippies said share your love TERM 1 VACATIO N And God will love you back. I’d rather dwell on that – THE DWELLING O F KNO WLEDGE Than put the writing on the wall. [10.30pm, 26th Nov 1983, Helmsley Rd, Newcastle] So whoever you be, reading this, Recall that I am mortal – Enter the dwelling of knowledge, Ninety weeks at university Grasp hold of wisdom, Is not long at all. Release the blanket of ignorance Out to smother all memory. End of term has caught me up, Learning must progress through death, I stand to catch the wind; Life must pass by steps, The ivory towers at my back, Time must be the key The artist in me quicks. To the knowledge quest.

The winter evenings fast draw in, Enter the house of learning Each morning darker slides – And reside in the cycle of time, But now vacation time is here Study the order of being - I’ll sleep till noon time bides. The duration and length of life. The eternal circle of wisdom Wash fatigue from tired eyes, Along the infinite line, Late study hours have strained – Symbolic signs of learning - One term has gone, eight remain, Paths forgotten and found. The ice-berg submerged lies. Lost wisdom on fresh knowledge Nine lives, a cat lives out; Await the questing mind - Nine terms a student strives, Enter the dwelling of knowledge Cloud nine the first term passes by And reside in the cycle of life. Across a becalmed sky. CHRISTMAS EVE A magic carpet ride of joy, [9pm, 24th Dec1983, Helmsley Rd, Newc] A free-load trip of fun; From here on in, the path descends Drinking port, and fingering - The road of graft and slog. Girls are all the same

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Dressed up without knickers BIG DICK AND LITTLE WILLY (song) Their scent lingering. [22nd January 1984, Helmsley Rd, Newcastle] Swilling burgundy, and kissing - Sex inside is swelling Big Dick and Little Willy Pumped and willing Were shipyard sort of blokes, Girls are swooning. They both lived down the Scrogg Road, Their barns were schooled at Walker Road On the sherry, and reeling - - Held up by women Both their wives had varicose veins Getting in on the killing From the weight of Worry’s load. Christmas Eve is kissing. Dick’s whole life was work and club, ENGLISH BOXING DAY Played football for the local pub, [26th December 1983, Helmsley Rd, New] Played the darts and fruit machines, He loved his wife - a pretty thing - Natives tell me the thing to do - But she could not stand being broke Pass around drinking spirits, And married to a doled shipyard bloke. Fall about in swooning stupor After Xmas cheese and chocolate. Little Willy’s life was balding - Pension schemes had long been growing, Friends say ‘Don’t feel guilty, His canny wife seven grand kids weaned, Work has stopped till after New Year” Threw up her arms and justly screamed - And I think ‘Maybe I’m foreign “For every job the bastards squeeze, And all that they tell me is true’. Three generations of Tyneside heaves”.

Putting that aside, such idleness In any other time but now Becomes a way of life too soon - The shipyard work has stood them proud Yet locals say “On Boxing Day - You must start the New Year way”. Tales of Big Dick and Little Willy Would leave you laughing in the aisles, Somehow this English train of thought But this is not a happy tale Panders to a life of ease - As the shipyards on the Tyne decay. But who I am, cointreau in hand - To be displeased. So think you long on what I say - Every human has his day. THE DAY AFTER BO XING DAY Today the Tory flag is raised [27th Dec 1983, Helmsley Rd, Newcastle] Above the workers in cold hate; Shipyard work is a dying joke Easy flowing words And Tyneside an unemployment sore. Wind effortlessly from my pen - Such delight in simple phrases They were shipyard sort of blokes - Is what makes men act Big Dick and Little Willy. As though God has done them favours.

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TERM 2 Some people stoop while others know no limit PILLARS O F WISDO M To it all. [22nd Jan – 27th Mar 1983, Newcastle mainly] Where are the joggers now that blizzards run? Week 11 Where do gardeners dig now the soil is CHAUCER frozen? Where do fishermen sleep while the Of Chaucer’s verse, we must foremost storm’s blowing? review And which mad roofer fixes drainpipes in And scan the inner meaning so employed. a freeze? Yet what is this to me? And more to you? Pristine overhead snow overhangs the Now that winter snows fluff down anon. window, Term time’s here, and we once more Glacial from eaves iced with stalagmites – enjoin Fine slender crystal javelins droop street To our studies, to trap and chain our wards minds. As hard as dolomite. The punishment of privilege is enslavement; And so I wander off my scholar’s toils, It is a defeat of a kind. Away from the studies that before me lie; The distractions in the background fade Yet in truth, outside hailstones fall like Till only my eyes sense the words before pebbles me. Upon a large snare drum – deep the echo Order and structure, what of it? Pounds into the soul until inaudible; Chaos in beauty is there outside my The vibrations modulate until the spirit’s window; numb. Known forms transformed in an eon White, and right out of the sky it comes That decays concrete. To fall and lie and settle close to walls, To top high layered drifts, to blanket all This simple logic, to the academic This winter. Has no literary value, none attached; So far I haven’t mentioned anything sick But let me drop this scant news of or comic weather And it line forty four of my attack. And move to mention other more real I am forestalling without much tact? things Its time to tell tales about students balling; Like sex, and drugs, and fellow sin bed The more serious of you might think leather; That’s just appalling. The latest in mid-Nineteen-Eighties kink. Nudity, free love, abortion, clone tubing, So the new term’s begun with Chaucer, Mastectomy, hysterectomy, and you Syntax, Hobbes, and Rochester the name it clinics; Rotter. As simple as saying ‘cup and saucer’?

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Linguists and grammarians always stutter Petrarchan conceit, irony and pun, Over the diphthongs in words like ‘butter’ Classical epithet and moral exemplum; Over the spelling of textual vowel sounds; Paradox, metaphor and personification. That in Chaucer are flat, and in Shakespeare round. Devices and styles through millenniums Oh what a bother! run, The bards are immortal, but rhythms In other rooms and other theatres, pound on. Criticism is expounded on strained ears; Assonance, consonance - internal, Richards, Leavis, and fifty other theories imperfect, Bring on a puzzlement of sighs and Verses rhyme on in free stanza resonance, groans. Through Middle-Age humour, Humanist Oh the price of textbooks for the year! pre-reason, Knowledge, like they say, is not cheap. Neo-classical correctness, and restoration Like farming land, the sowing is costly lewdness; Before you reap. Romantic feeling and Victorian ethics – All find voice in poetic metrical. Here I end this short tribute to Geoffrey Decorum of genre, colic and sanguine, And close with barely a mention of his Phlegmatic, melancholy to fit name; temperament; I will finish this weeks ramble Mimetic, pragmatic, myth and legend. With a reminder that the studies remain. The R.S.C are coming in five weeks, Thus bile, blood, phlegm, and puke We must prepare and read our contrast Shakespeare With ode, elegy, and lyric chant – Into the dead of night - all is white, Burlesque, and mock heroic puncture, And snow is everywhere. Baroque, and Manneristic banter. Sceptic, stoic, or epicurean; WEEK 12 Roman catholic, deist and Puritan; THE PO ET’S TOO LS Tribe of Ben, Metaphysical and Cavalier, Gothic, Graveyard and modern surreal. Prose is the medium of playwrights and Theory rules in poetry schools, authors Stress and foot the poet’s tools – Of fiction – creative, historic, biographic. Metre the crown, and words the jewels. But poetry is the pulse and heartbreak of lovers, Now armed, the poet can talk of love The accent and stress of all things As couples entwine in the darkness of romantic. night; The ecstasy, the weeping, the relic of Exchanging soft glances in light finger worship, dancing The epic, the ballad, the quatrain, the Waltzing the length of naked delight. couplet; White as the skin of an English virgin, Hyperbole, allegory, symbol and fable, The land lies bare in winter ice. Fallacy, emblem and paradox statement.

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Red as the lips of a North Country As lover waves to lover going maiden, Deep into the void of night … The berries of hawthorn and rowan stand We must return to other subjects out. Touching on the poetry kind. Nowhere yet is crocus shooting – But if you want to dwell on lovers Nowhere yet is snowdrop protruding – Turn you now to John Donne’s verse – Nowhere yet is daffodil blooming. Locked within his sunk devotion Lingers love for womankind. Beds are warm and loving nightly, Not in Donne is emotion sated – Daily, hourly through the chill; Not in Donne is passion bloated – The sun comes up and yellow flushes Not in Donne is love outmoded. Lovers lost in willing worlds. Gutters drip and drainpipes gurgle, This I shall no longer labour, Music lifts the blackbird’s song; Another week has gone for good. Rooftops shake with sliding shudder The academic life, a privileged calling, As thawing slush turns to flood. Love on a grant - a simple woo. Nowhere yet are starlings rushing – A Country Wife a play to read, Nowhere yet are swallows darting – And Custom of the Country too; Nowhere yet are insects swarming. The Winter’s Tale the Willie text, and now we’ve moved on to The Tempest. As lovers laze and grace the daylight, Not in memory does knowledge lie – Coyly reaching out to share Not in wisdom is truth implied – A passion hot, with fleeting like-minds Not in love does life survive. They feel, to lay their secrets bare. Mirrors strung about their love rooms WEEK 13 Steal the real, and show the new – RELAX Reflections cast return as shadows As fleet foot nymphs aid their play. Relax! Take it easy Nowhere yet is light rain falling – Put your troubles on the table – Nowhere yet is mild wind blowing – Smoke some marijuana Nowhere yet is snow short going. Have a beer!

As lovers rise and greet the sunset, Life isn’t worth a penny To kiss and dress, and sadly part; When the worries are too many Like pupae in the act of shedding, And you can’t enjoy a bevy They leave a skin of bed-clothes wry. Or a bleeze! Daylight fades and evening enters The solitude that darkness fills; Feelings held in ready, As lovers hold each other hard, Stored up in swelling plenty – And then release with a kiss. Let them go with a renting, Nowhere yet are night fires burning – Let them free! Nowhere yet are couples warring – Nowhere yet are friendships waning. The mind may be counting Doubts, rushing from a fountain,

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But let hem drown a mountain, For open thought and open mind Let them be! Stretches back to first mankind, Whizzing on to future time – Moments come and go, Let it amble! Sometimes quick, sometimes slow – Each second as it comes, While the storms tirade, Let it flow! While the icy gales ferment, While the Arctic waste descends Anxiety is a waste From frozen tundra! In this double-sided place – For life can be two-faced, Stand a wake on such days, Don’t we know! So its said people say, Even when off on holiday – While across the western race It’s little wonder! Where technology’s a blaze – Where edifices are raised; While the ships ocean toss, Let them fall! While the waves oil rigs rock – While atomic subs dry dock – While the astronauts count stars, Let it sunder! Where Jupiter conjuncts Mars, Beyond galactic parts – Let those tempests pass, Let them wander! Drink a beer let time part, Take some drugs with your pals While the communists yield, Till doped under! When the socialists squeal, As the capitalists do a deal – Relax, take it easy, Let things pass! Put your feet on the table, And tune into the radio – While the workers scream Let it blast! At having their wages creamed, And the bosses buy their dreams – WEEK 14 Let it go! TRAPPED IN NEWCASTLE

As the short days lengthen The Smoke That Thunders Towards that place in heaven Tumbles the Zambezi. That the believers crave for – The sands of Giza Let it come! grate past Cheop’s; while I dwell in Newcastle For when belief is weak, In the One-Nine-Eighties. Remember faith is failing, And is a type of jailing – Tai Shan that towers, To bar against! keeps a dragon sleeping. The burnt soil of Crete labyrinths a creature;

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while icy fogs descend WEEK 15 On me in England. LIVING HERE UNDER HEAVEN

The white that shimmers, Behind the times, we all lag on – mirrors shrined Kailasa. we marathon to the Olympic slopes, The hissing of Iguazu faster than slaloms swishing with fliers, assimilates Parana; we career through bronzes, silvers, gold while the clouds beyond in ice rinks – where a matador’s lips Durham top-cut winter. take the surrender of an ice queen’s lips.

The purple plained Karoo Faster than sleighs tunnelling burrows splits the Orange State. in roller coaster corkscrews – The marshland of the Sudd across Yugoslavia in a sightseeing tour. silts the Nile spate; Dubrovnik or Beograd, while the viscous Tyne Sarajevo and Zagreb – slakes my campus days. we see everything on TV.

The whale that spouts Serb and Croat, little known Kosovos, gushes green Kauai. I’ve been to that land five times or more; The beast that howls five times is enough for the well travelled haunts Alaska’s wilds; man while gales gut Tyneside, for it’s a rough country to bear – swamp my mind. who will believe me, not having suffered the memories of the Albanian front. The Angel that falls silvers dense Guyana. It brings on the trembles, The monkey that flies the bad nerves, the soaked temples hovers o’er Sri Lanka; dripping sweat, measured in litres, while North Sea winds dripping to quench the parched ground; slash-in on me from Russia. the thirst of the farmer the dust of the pasture The volcanoes that glow the brown walls of the churchyards blow in Nicaragua. the dry walls of the chapels The tremors of fear, the arid-eyed statues shake up California; Madonna and Peter while Jurassic Northumberland Paul, Andrew and Stephen crumbles coal into the sea. surrounded by weepers and the baked tongues of preachers The giants that slumber holding aloft gold casketed relics guard Easter Isle, poor mummified creatures As the university of Newcastle wizened and shrivelled keeps me study bound. decaying pitted-features Yet, I know that someday yellow glazed bone I’ll leave this town behind. skin like old leather

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shiny in parts where pilgrims fingers Lady Bracknell, and ‘jest’. have touched, for good omen - A look at a poem over tea. for an old saint’s blessing for a martyr’s dead message Wednesday. Too late – of sainthood, of spirit For the Diachronic lecture hallowed by time On history in speech. by the passing of ages. So I had a quick read Of Herrick, and felt better. Only through living memory does reverence pass on Lunchtime. Common room meeting down the generations; About a barn dance evening. thru wide gateways of veneration Our Lit Soc’s a ramble – thru broad doorways to the universal Our Lang Soc’s a shambles – thru expansive openings to the eternal But students are honest, not thieving. to stop in matter, to exist in the nebulae, beyond the celestial; At Two. The Gulbenkian – to a ruined world And Ruskin’s Space Invaders. a globe burnt out Weird play on the future, a corpse upon the ride of night By the RSC’s fringe tour whilst we the mortals, back on earth Of actors and players. living here under heaven – we so not like Andromeda, chained to sub Seven Thirty. Lopez de Vega, astral diversion; And his old Spanish play – we are tellurian and terrestrial … Lost in a Mirror – we are mortal and perishable. I doubt it’s a winner. A rewrites in order , I say. WEEK 16 IS SPRING HERE? Thursday. Pissing ol’ Gissing And his Victorian dribbling. Monday. The Wakefield Cycle, A discussion on Rudkin Noah’s flood washed over me. In a tutorial mud rubbing The sheep in the cradle, Where we gave his play a ribbing. Cain crippling Abel, And the good shepherds three. Friday. It must be Shakespeare – As you Like It, an’ Twelve Night. Also, the Cavalier poets – Viola and Rosalind, and most Carew, Suckling, Waller. Of the talk in reverence Lovelace and King Charles, For the two women’s rights. the best of Court pals, Before all that Civil War bother. Evening. Edward Bond – Red, Black and Ignorant. Tuesday. A long lie – A play with little movement, Then syntax and Oscar, About a nuclear charred monster, With some thought on Earnest, Acted with some brilliance.

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The Weekend. No rest – Language has its borders, For the serious student. Words have their order; The ardent academic, Sentences have a structure, Conscious and polemic, So meaning may puncture So proper and prudent. Our reading governed by rules. Chomsky was no fool! Sunday. This poetry – Reflects the week’s parting, You have been reading Post dates a week going. Your Shakespeare on evenings? And in one final partake – Most certainly fulfilling, There’s another week starting. The hectic text billing! A Comedy of Errors – borrowed WEEK 17 from Menaechmi and Alcestis. TUTORIAL A Midsummer’s Night Dream And its Sylvan moonbeams. What have you learned, my son, In this week’s study? And twentieth century drama? I have learned may things Are you maintaining your stamina? Of interest and wonder! Most certainly engaging Of tragic Lady Astolat In these theatrical playthings. Floating down to Camelot – Yeats on Baile Strand – Of salivating Major Barbara Cathleen Count and ni Houlihan. Undershafted. Chekov’s The Seagull And his Cherry Orchard mull. And have you come to terms With idealism in texts? And what do you think now I have read my Roland Barthes, that seventeen weeks have passed? And on Sontag made a start. I believe life is worth living - I’ve been lectured on Cullers Though poverty’s a misgiving And a number of others. That a student takes as payment I think I know my Richards, For the wealth of mental slaving. My Olsen, and my Leavis. My brain may be splitting But my hands are soft and clean. This may be so, But what do you know??? WEEK 18 I admit I feel uneasy ABANDO NMENT About Whimsatt and Beardsley. Intention of expression – All week long I have abandoned my Invention or impression. studies The fallacy’s inherent. And turned to typing my latest stage play. Or no? Instead of in-going, my thoughts have been flowing No one knows for sure. Through my fingers. Oh, you may think But what about Saussure? Such trivial information should slide

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Into the trash can of my past – but It is the better part to know one’s self; Half a student’s life is lived in order that Also knowing that wee hour writing is He may somehow learn to record his past. As productive as stirring ice with a hot knife – Such trite belief may be for the ignorant, Lots of steaming and hissing … Such sentiment be an elitist precept, but But in the end nothing left of the ice. I would rather see my world in flames Than see my time not tethered in this If only I could practice what I expound? way. Wisdom is never heeded by those in For one day, the student will be a man, whom And face men as a man not a boy – it abides. The smart fool is the one who Though, I de-mobbed to the rank of admits to this masque of pride. Blinded student by self deceit and personal esteem, I’m seeking benefit from such a fall. the complete fool will miss this advice.

By rising to it all, I know better – Remember … I am here to amuse myself Or perhaps I can really only guess As well as to hand out woeful rhetoric; That first class degrees are won by The governing laws that make the rules courage, May be broken, but it’s not important. Risk, and spins of bare-faced gall – Likewise I may deviate from my studies provided And ramble on into the night. You bandage your neck begging for the chop. Eighteen weeks gone - it seems so long a One bright idea too many, one smart time. remark, First class honours hinge on more than WEEK 19 neat THE Q UIET UNIO NIST Typed essays and good tutor grades. Here lies Old Robbie, sex has wet his lips; And hence – my plays, my stories, my And hear, m’lad, she laid him for a quid. Armfuls of novels, poems and songs – These are my profession, my kind of Milton wouldn’t have spent his time trade watching television, Of which study is half, or two thirds, and He would have been dreaming somewhere Writing practice stems from reading – between hell and heaven. Not from scribbling merrily on to sunrise. But I haven’t time to dwell on poetic paradise – A word of advice to all would be writers – My debts are mounting as my cash flow Never drain the lamp while it’s burning. dies. Sunrises come, it’s the sunsets we count; The government is draining every drop of The flame may flicker in the light bulb, liquid But it’s the sun that blinds. Cash out’a poor folks’ pockets. I feel the torture in my guts, Man is out to destroy himself – The knots tied by the passing of new laws;

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The wrenching sickening way each one Despite the pipes of peace that many gnaws wind On socialism. With songs and demonstrations against The ministers of out noble state – nuclear bins Two in very three should be held in public And silos buried deep in mother England. probate For this kingdom’s raped a world of lands For leading our nation to war for profit; To rise upon the backs of blacks and the For abusing state powers to line their under privileged pockets, Fathered by cheap seduction. While poor men starve and ill me die, And still we pillage – And the children of our morrow, have Petty puppet states and psuedo education denied democratic nations; For no reason. Tomorrow’s despots and tyrants we It is slavery were given – instruct in education, The chains of class are not made in We teach dictators politics and diplomatic heaven; code; They are forged on earth at Cabinet carve Indoctrinate the overseas elite in current ups, mode Where Defence eats the breast, and And technique as how best to divide and Industry sups rule On the beads of sweat rung from the And institutionalise subversion. brows of labour. We are fools – What better fare may a fascist Not blind, but open-eyed imperialistic government savour conquerors. Than inequality. Our army stands in readiness to under We face again dark feudal days – shaft order; Four classes of men – master, merchant, Our government stands prepared to beggar, slave, remedy disorder. Where even a begging bowl is preferable We are neither weak not ineffectual in to bonded wages; world affairs; Where merchant supports master in We do not grow bananas, we produce return for favours atomic ware; Granted in a trade off o’wealth, property, We rank third in a list of two hundred and power ethnic nations; That permits the merchant class to sow In order to maintain – we crate negation and flower By propagating destruction. And t’send their fragile seed to public We are Britons – school Most nights I try to disentangle the truth And long vac’ escapes that flout the rules on television; Of common brotherhood. But to no avail, we lie to one another Let us not forget without blushing; That woman is not sister to herself as yet We are no better than the Cubans or the – Russians,;

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In truth we may actually be a whole lot Unemphatic worse. Hours spent in idle laze or fancy I’m sure there are many Britons who’d In squeaking chairs or moaning couches. shoot me first And ask their questions later. No amount of movement levers action Unintentional WEEK 20 Silence settles on receptive hearers VACATION LOOMS Waiting for the echo and crescendo.

Silence is most times better than loud End of term brings on a tiredness words Uninvited Together The weeks have passed all too quickly Between the pauses, we listen coldly Vacation is a gift so quietly granted. As the March rains fall. TERM 2 VACATIO N Still, motionless, to quiver in the lee United THE EXPERIMENTALIST The quietness presses on laden movement [10.55am, 28th Mar 1984, Lumb Bank, Stirred by Spring’s forced marching. Heptonstall, Yorkshire]

Students read in nooks and culverts Mistakes are gross distortions Undecided Authors twist to reach for the real, The numbness eases in on outer nothing Delusion in a letter form Mulled westward by the east wind rising. Show the lies as barely fact. Yet others take inhuman face, Old men hover round and round in mute Class division - serf and lord, obedience Worlds turned on worker / master Hunchbacked Is the novel’s pride of place. Flagstones smart with flaying canes Skating on the frost of damp cast alleys. States of mind … warped or strange, Insight into the mental bent; Tempers parade into the morning skyline Voices silent, loudly blatant Unprotected Typed upon a rambling page - Thoughts formed unhindered, fade Martian culture, ultra context, unvoiced Islands in a swimming world; Unuttered sweetness left bitter on the Things fore granted shift like sand tongue. When held in focus to the norm.

Speechless lulls cross awkward voids Plots abound to hack around Unguarded Fairy tales and common myth - Moments career along at reckless canter Everything is cop and robber. Unobserved, out of wind, gone in silence. Steal? Authors deny this word. Notebooks full of jotted insight, Unstressed points made in muttered words Lines of quotes and plagiarism -

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Extracts thinly veiled to hide And run to the joyous ocean The source from which they’re taken. To escape work.

Sentence structure played upon, They return wafting wood smoke Tense in past or present form; And joke about home made wine Questions asked in unsolved rhetoric; And dead seagulls. Sky’s the limit so they say. All these things a writer juggles They leave trails of beach sand Well before he starts to write - Before hanging heads in worried thoughts Experimental prose is open About tomorrow. Is never fixed, and lives to die. Their fortunes wave A NIGHT WITHO UT LIGHT Keyed upon unfound aims [27th March 1984, Lumb Bank, And unmade laughter like the sea. Heptonstall, Yorkshire] (ii) BEFO RE CLO SING TIME It was one of those nights, when one Could spend an hour describing the While beyond my walls - weather. Neighbours play the music of our times The city clocks unsynchronised spanned And clink their glasses – I must dwell Five tolling minutes to announce On the works of Miller, Pinter, The hour before midnight. Becket, Taylor … while friends enjoy The fruits of their labour, I labour on, The grey sandstone walls of the cemetery Imbue myself in emblematic code Stifled the mumbling traffic; the yellow That leaves me drained and sober. Street lights hazed and numbed the shadows; While out in the lane – The silhouetted cypress touched branches Dogs bark loudly at the moon With the weeping willow. As overhead a Boeing rumbles southwards To who knows where – somewhere far John the farm worker lay stretched out From here, somewhere warm, On a grave. Overhead a Celtic cross Yet cool beneath a palm – where tattooed the darkness. Memories linger on across the calm. What life there was he had crushed underfoot. Poor snowdrop, cut crocus, It makes me think of Rio, greenhouse daffodil. Where the sun is white And the music hot. TERM 3 [6th May – 15th July 1984, Newcastle] I return to my senses – The open text books, the unfilled essay WEEK 21 Pages – on Miller, Pinter, Becket, (i) THEY RUN TO THE O CEAN Taylor – before turning off to dream, And thinking … Some folks have all the fun

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Milton wouldn’t have spent his time Of the harbour. watching television, He would have been dreaming somewhere Death between hell and heaven. Enters and exits, And exits and enters I wish that tomorrow was today, Death And yesterday a day to be relived From the taverna. As my thoughts drift to real-ale revels, And bar-room afternoons when a pint of Through the mariposas beer A sad girl walks … and a bag of crisps was better than a Tierra de luz frozen Cielo de tierra. dinner from the fridge. Through a field of olives Still the work remains undone – A white snake slides … As my memory turns, churns and burns Tierra de luz As summer rushes in first flush Cielo de tierra. In May; and I think of days when Blackbirds drown the party song The children look to Of revelers going strong at dawn. The far away mountains … Tierra de luz I can’t continue – Cielo de tierra. A thirst has gripped my throat, Its time to stop, grab my coat Beneath the orange trees And make a dash along the road – Lies Lola with me … The local pub is paradise for those Ay, amor,bajo Who haven’t time to waste the night El naranjo en flor. By driveling on past closing time. Her big green eyes WEEK 22 And her voileta voice … DEATH ENTERS AND EXITS Ay, amor, bajo El naranjo en flor. Death Enters and exits Her slender brown arms From the taverna. And her slim bare legs … Ay, amor, bajo Pass black horses El naranjo en flor. And hooded people On the profound highway The music of the birds Of the guitarra. Swimming in our heads … Ay, amor, bajo There’s an odour of salt El naranjo en flor. And of female blood In the balsam fevers The wind blows the dust

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Yellow from the fields … WEEK 23 El viento con el polvo Each play is not as it seems – when Hace proras de plata. you catch a glimpse behind the scenes.

The fields are deserts THE AUDITIO N And the orange groves dunes … El viento con el polvo How can I do what you ask? Hace proras de plata. Bend over twice, two pats on the ass, Three kisses a scene, Lost in our love And stark bare in the first act??? in the green kiss of moon … El viento con el polvo It’s easy, luv, just give a smile, Hace proras de plata. A wave will have them beguiled. It’s a hard part to play – but The constellation candles You’re a winner all the way! In the arch of a swoon … El viento con el polvo I’m not so sure this plot’s any good. Hace proras de plata. Three rape scenes, sodomy, and gays Running about like little boy blues! Death by the taverna I’m like Snow White in a den of wolves? Beginning and end … No me imparta nada You’re tense, it’s the weather, or Mas que tu querer. something. Have you eaten today? Amongst the mariposa I’ve known actresses survive a week A sad girl walks … On cheese, and sex, and speed. No me imparta nada Mas que tu querer. I’m not into downers or that sort of thing! Beneath the orange trees I like Cola, coffee and alko-fizzed drinks. Lies Lola with me … I’m not into side-lines and fixes. No me imparta nada I’m not hooked or ready to sink. Mas que tu querer. Never suggested you’d have a price. The wind blows the dust Nice girls come, but real pro’s survive. Yellow from the fields … If you’re going to take the part – No me imparta nada When do you think you could start? Mas que tu querer. I think we’d be best to forget it. In the singing wind Acting’s a profession, not a habit. Words are lingering … Sex on the stage is an amateur’s ploy Death To legitimise porn and finger the toys. Exits and enters the taverna.

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Darling, how can you say this??? Down some profound dark tunnel I This playwright has had ten West End followed, hits! A voice in me said ‘If you were in love You can’t believe his work is porn? You’d whisper three words on her He’s a dignified man, rich and respected. withering, Before the flowers fade and sorrow Money gets soiled on the merry-go-round yields.’ – It picks up dirt wherever it’s found. As the neighbour’s dog barked in it’s Writers can be the dirtiest of fellows, sleep, And most of them are incredibly shallow! She looked like coral hacked from a reef – Every wound having cut her sharply, What utter rot! You silly little bitch! I owed her no net to catch her fall. Get off my stage, I’ll black you for this. This author’s been with us for twenty She cried like the wind in the maple trees years. ‘If this is us, then who is against us!’ It’s me! I’ve had enough of your sneers! She’d reached the verge of the knife-edge ledge The rudest of natures always comes out That love had brought her blindfolded to. In hacks who know nothing, and shout. Good riddance, I say, to your poxy stage! Affairs like seed blow in the wind, Find another whore for your play! She ran from the battle defeated and worn, WEEK 24 And into the storm of the day she THE Q UARREL departed, As I sat and watched the thunder roll. She had come to me almost breakfastless, Eyeless and draped at the breasts in silk, WEEK 25 The leaves of the world like darkness to (i) AMBIGUITY me, The dawn like a storm out of China. Ambiguity of the first type – Atmosphere and style. I was neither a king nor a fool Pure sound and Empson As she sat thin faced with vacant stare, Sounds like such a lot of hype. She the fruit of the forbidden tree, Wild times and valley streams rushing (ii) DREAMS OF SPAIN still. Sunny Spain seems so succinctly sweet, She watched the clock tick minute by I’ll trade these days of drizzle hour, For a Malaga beach. Foul, then fair as she sat and dreamed, The caverns through which she deeply And still the evening rain descends passed, To dampen droll belief Carried me down to a sunless sea. Of paradise in England.

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June’s juices dribble from scented roses, As the rain hurls in heaving hurry, Chestnut blossom black-flied falling Spain retreats … darkness starts On empty beaches. In on tomorrow.

No one goes trimming garden hedgerows, WEEK 26 Mowing lawns, clipping verges STUDENT PARTY In the rain. (i) Bluebells bend backwards ‘neath birches, I went to a party this week – Broken barked and birked It was a pale shade of Oscar Wilde. By rows of beeches. I missed the cucumber sandwiches, But the cream cake was nice. Avoiding gurgling gargling gutter pipes, Pedestrians push past puddles (ii) On into the night. I sometimes wonder where everything leads; Spain looms large … then fades We starve to eat cake, while others feast; As minutes master moments made We may get a nibble at the occasional do, In idle image. But a few crumbs of gateau washed with tea Illusion inconsistent with intended ideal, Are customary habits few of us chew. Forces false impressions to the fore Of infirm logic. Once, grapes were the passion of fashion – Fair misty the fine rain falls Succulently dangled in erotic rations. To polka-dot and rivulet We may get a neck at a student party; The chip-shop window - A quick pop of juice on top of brown ale Can make any wimp ballsy and happy. Where the punters round the block in line To murder ninety-pence newspaper nosh Poor sods, that’s all I can say, Of half-cod slices. Waiting all year for one of those days. So much for caviar and oyster dishes; I float to Spain … to costa Champagne may was well be a place in Casual days of Coppertone carousing Spain ‘Neath the acacias - When nursed with cocoa and McVities dip. As evening empties out to twilight, Catching shadows criss-crossed by The English way is a packet of crisps, streetlights A skinful of bitter, a bag of chips, Ochre-orange. Fags for the party, a couple of cans, A toke of hash, a bop and a dance, Little wonder workers strike in summer, A quick bit of natter, and it off in a van. Power to them … they are my brothers And my sisters.

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WEEK 27 Or … that must be the life Some weeks are better than some days, Or … God I’d never go to Spain Some wines aren’t as good as some years. In June when the flies are outnumbered By English tourists! I DON’T GIVE A DAMN (song) Of course – you’d be right … Oh, I don’t care for nothing, But at least … the sun shines I don’t care a toss – And the beer is cheap … the chicken The rain may fall in dull Whitehall And chips a hundred times superior While it blazes in quiet Kos. To Colonel Sanders.

The girls may bare their breasts a lot, Yet, is that enough to warrant I wouldn’t turn a hair – A two week exile in a pale shade I’ve seen the nicest fellow drown Of paradise? Because he turned and stared. I do not know as I watch I’ve had my lack of interest The pequeno fishing boats beached Keeping me well dowsed – on the shore, and a tall master God knows what would happen Racer … flying the tricolour If my interest was aroused. Bobbing in the cove.

I thrive on doing shit-all, I sit beneath the olive tree It gives an easy life – As the breeze gently blows … and An easy life’s twice as nice ants climb the gnarled trunk As one that’s rich in strife. in hunt … as the lapping waters to and fro. Maybe I care too much about Not caring very much – The midday sun hovers close But too much care so they say Overhead … as the jubilant cries Is much too care as such. Of bathers awake the sleeping Slavers … tattooing themselves WEEK 28 On sun beds. The beaches of Spain are like Glasgow gardens. Two players join me beneath The olive tree … strut to and fro COSTA DEL SOL Quoting lengthy lines of Lorca – ‘Amigos, que peza de teatro Exams over, results still to come, haceres ahorita?’ I sit beneath an olive tree Thinking … and wondering … and I shouldn’t have disturbed them - Watching the off-blue Med lap They are artists … working The toes of topless bathers. Whilst I am here composing poetry … And then I hear, and understand And you may think, lucky sod They are English.

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I find that boring. And two In the ancient city Days later, here I am poorer by several Where the Alhambra towers, Thousand pesos … but healthier The geraniums flower, Than yesterday … something after all And beer washes down The studying of late. The calor of the hour.

The playa is the place where The Arab quarter hums, Students should vacate their brains – Not with drums A little bit of salt on the mind As in Africa they might, Washes things that beer and drugs But who is to say Can’t erase. That trumpets are normal.

A bit of skiing … a bit of sailing – The traffic tails back Surfing, dipping, bathing … Through the old parts Takes the mind from thoughts that Of the town in the dark Otherwise over dwell That is dropping fast On studying. On the swooping bats.

For the pale and pasty pigment of Windows gape open, Civilisation is stigmatic in all People are moaning, Urban populations … hidden by slick Talking and groaning, City clothes … it becomes public Laughing and crowing – On the open beaches. The vino is flowing.

While only the mind goes nude at The bums sit about, university – Well down and out, And only exams bring good the teaching. Smoking their dowts – Shouting about how WEEK 29 ‘Yo tengo hambre’. Still in Spain and it hasn’t rained. The chalk figure drawings, GRANADA Paintings on awnings, Flower sellers yawning, The beaches have gone, Street vendors lolling, I’m in the Sierras, Helados men calling. There’s snow on the tops, But man! It is hot Granada at sunset – In the streets of Granada. No one in bed, Well, no adults as yet, Music is played The night young ahead. In every third calle; This city’s not dead. The water flows From each public fountain Straight out of the mountains.

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WEEK 30 Armed with monster wave machines Days pass quicker than rush hour traffic, To fill the gaps in teenage dreams. Nights come on with little thought given. I’d rather shoot the bull with them END O F FIRST YEAR Than cut the crap with black-tied men; (i) The machine-gun rat-tat can be heard afar War is a trauma most survive I’d rather hear the rasp of an electric But which few return from innocent. guitar. But how would I know, I’ve not been given front-line death as medicine. (iii) Thus a student mind preambles The only gore and guts I’ve eaten Through the world that I inhabit; Are tabloid leads and lies; Far beyond the scholar’s scope - Glib-lipped words dripping blood Each day I’m here, quickly goes. That the boys of Fleet Street sugar. Wars may come, and slowly pass, While in some far off foreign field Friends quick made, soon grow apart; A headless corpse hosts black fly; What remains is very brief, The Stock Exchange counts the points Time can be the fleetest thief. Of the profit war and index yield. But this aside, life goes on, In some ditch the maggots crawl Dust collects where timidness hides; And feed upon rotten flesh – The warm long summer months await Mass graves are being dug To get into vacation’s slide … And bodies mount like Berlin Walls. Of lazy days and afternoons - In some English garden sits Through July till harvest looms, A magnate shooting thieving crows; And grey October days recall For death is all the magnate thinks - Us students to the marbled halls – Between cigars, the world smokes. Where once again the hollow ring (ii) Shall chain us the learned texts; The music plays on into the stars, And we shall dream upon such days The rock-a-billy boys are rocking out, When childhood went, and summer fled. Blues are humming the old to sleep; The slums are awake to the reggae beat. YEAR 1 SUMMER VACATIO N

Down ion the clubs the New Wave sound IN THE BARRIO Quavers and totters the underground – [30th June 1984, Nerja, Andalusia] As the new romantics flower the street And die hard punks freak to meet. In the barrio, women’s chatter Rattles the red tile rooftops There they crow all peacock combed, Which divide the mortal world These rainbow-stopping Eighties clones – From the clear blue sky.

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In the Calles, children hide Crumbles as the hombre watches. And seek between the narrow alleys That cut the whitewash houses The central span collapses And lead to the azul sea. The sky blue river Washes over the ancient arches. In the cafes, men’s laughter Shakes the taverna olive trees Now, somewhere in Andalusia Where shadows split the day A dark red river Into the orange baked ground. Passes over a ruined bridge.

In the casas, families gather While by the river’s edge To talk in wide doorways A sombrero’d hombre Where friends tease companions Sits under a tall Spanish pine. Who come and go, or stay. LA SIESTA EN LO CAMPO EL PUNTE (THE BRIDGE) [2nd July 1984, Nerja, Andalusia] [1st July 1984, Nerja, Andalusia] I had four hours to kill before Somewhere in Andalusia My bus arrived, took me off A sky blue river Up the high Sierra roads Passes beneath an ancient bridge. Away from the hot Malaga coast.

By the river’s edge The torrid sun of the Nerja noon A sombrero’d hombre Boiled my blood, and all too soon Sits under a tall Spanish pine. The beer drunk to quench my thirst Made my eyes heavy, my spirits droop. He contemplates his future As the river flows I left the bar, settled down Underneath the arches of the bridge. Beneath a peach tree at the edge of town Where peasants tilled the fields - The pine needles fall Dropped off, slumbered. And a small chaffinch Sings to dance his dreams along. I awoke to birds singing, Flies humming and butterflies soaring; Then the chanson ceases! Time had flown, I’d missed my bus The burnt red earth And a cock was crowing. Trembles as the pine needles drop. BLUE SKIES IN MALAGA The old bridge shakes [4th July 1984, Malaga, Andalusia] The sombrero’d hombre Awakes as the earth rumbles. Under the palm trees of southern Spain, On a park bench in the cooling shade, The town bells ring Thinking of nothing but the passing day. As the ancient bridge Oh what joy to pass life this way.

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Through the frond the sunlight falls, Scaled by the ladies in their scant summer Catching the scales of the carp in a pool; clothes, The hibiscus in flower, star grass in seed - Thereafter, the company scattered like Oh what more could a poet seek. wildfire As wander lust spread in from the moors - Breeze in the branches of the sycamore trees; Until in all directions the high fern Sparrows on the boughs of the orange and swallowed peach; Or the thick woods ate the lovers of Doves in the braid of the oak and palm nature leaves - Off in search of a small nook or hollow Oh truly, what more do I need. Where happiness begins and time stands still. NORTHUMBERLAND PICNIC [29th July 1984, Helmsley Road, As the artist rested and played with the Newcastle] children, The poet emerged from the faraway trees, With armfuls of wine and cucumber Stalking a fox, sallying over hillsides, sandwiches He encountered a lady in search of the They swept through the bracken and fern lake. waist high, The poet with pen, the artist with paper While picnickers played ball or picked the Led the birthday party to the top of the flowers crags - Or cracked boiled eggs on old weathered stone, Where beneath the thorn trees they threw While they leap-frogged the crags or their blankets climbed the trees And sprawled or lay on the sheep cropped Or raced through the bracken or prickly grass, thorn - With eyes to the sky or vast horizon The sound of the corks broke the curlew’s The poet and lady conquered three field cry. gates, Two stone walls and the ruins of a fort, Beer bottles popped, and lemonade And descended the hill in a rush and a fizzled, hurry Indian dish savouries lay with fresh fruit, To come to the banks of the reedy lake The artist sketched the sun-weathered pool - beauty As the poet searched for his words in the Where they dived from the bough of a wood. willow And stole a single flower from a lily ring, The gents idly cricketed by the castle Letting it drift as they raced then floated folly Back to the shade of the willow hung bank -

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And arrange to do things, Where they soaked up the sun as the And do things very well insects hummed Because I am lonely. And drove them uphill to a weathered outcrop - Other times I am very sad, Where they dressed and gathered an And do nothing with my days, abundance of flowers And do nothing with my nights, As they returned by the moors to the And do nothing with myself picnic spot - Because I miss you.

Where first goodbyes were just being said Other times I look for someone else, With the shaking of blankets and And I find no one suitable, gathering of things, And I kiss no one special, The wine long gone and the food all And I love no one at all consumed Because I love you. And the artist all done drawing the kids.

With an armful of memories, carrying the empties They started down the rocks without looking back, Till the knee-high fern swallowed the party And the day of their picnic on the Rothbury Crags.

BECAUSE I LOVE YOU [A commission, 29th July 1984, Helmsley Rd, Newcastle]

Sometimes I sit and wonder, And stare out the window, And think about the past, And reflect upon our times together Before we parted.

Sometimes I lie and worry, And dream about the future, And cry out in my sleep, And wring my hands in horror Because I am lonely.

Other times I laugh and smile, And plan my whole life,

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THE UNDERGRADUATE - 2nd YEAR

TERM 4 We struggle on in ecstasy [7th Oct – 21st Dec 1984, mainly Newc.] While we strive to pay; We see, but we have not seen: SECOND YEAR We hear of wondrous riches, REGISTRATION WEEK We touch the glittering wishes Grey October days and money. Of those we once believed – Dry winds and scurvy faces. Our overlords.

(i) THE END O F VACATIO N Our fathers who give ear to slaving; Our fathers who are not sharing. Living on the fringe … is No way to make a living; We owe them thanks No way, but others’ way: For what they’ve done. No way of saying things For what they did With a hope of being listened to They owe us nothing, Without first listening to They own us, our lives The establishment. Our future freedom. Our tomorrow. Our fathers who are not in tune; Our fathers who bend the rules. Our fathers who are not saviours; Our fathers who are dictators. We are not consulted, Yet we are next to guide They leave us on the fringe, Or lead the unestablished: To the left, and cold, We are not here nor there, Off-centre and forgotten: Yet we are called upon We are afloat, adrift, To take up the running And must not rock the boat To follow. Or o’er we go pushed by Our captains. Our fathers who are not honest; Our fathers who shit upon us. Our fathers who are vile fascists; Our fathers who are our masters. My time should not be spent, Nor passed in unwell words, As October days turn to black, Nor in waste; yet always There’s nowhere now to hide one’s back. Our eyes are met upon By looks of propagation, (ii) RETURN TO THE HALLS The flying imagination of Our elders. As virtuous men pass mildly away, The marbled walls of university remain. Our fathers who are not giving; Our fathers who are not loving. Newly painted halls, footstep echo now

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With a fresh smell hanging on the First Year’s come here for the beer, familiar. Second Year’s the two grand a year.

New faces glide past almost unnoticed, As in the bars, these students ponder Some old faces noticeably gone forever. How long will such money last?

Renewed customs quickly become old (iv) BACK TO THE BOOKS habits, Cast-off habits become the fad of others. So once again we tread the trail, Down the course of this poetry road. Three cups of coffee slake every hour, To stop at the wayside, to take respite, Everyone’s so serious over pompous Is now a no-no, we’re in our stride. trivia. So bear with me another year, For students are such gibbering wrecks, And hear the tales that will befall me, It takes ten tabs to brave a lecture. And remember, sometimes I overtly lie To protect myself and shield my friends. Many are untruthful, a few deceitful, But most are spaced on flipped out egos. For my foes, I will not blunt the truth, Nor numb the pain that seers my morals. No one reads books, unless caught So on with the prose down the poetry pretending road; While taking a crap in the toilet. Let’s hope you’re along for the ride.

Others are bored, most are bored, WEEK 31 And a lot go around boring themselves. Illness makes no distinction. It knobbles everyone. Some are rich, and many well-of, But most are as skint as a rugby man’s MEASLES knees. Laid up in bed with measles, The student life – quiet hashish smoking, Windows rattling in the autumn rain. Seedy beer parties, and little book work. Banned from classes – The gold chestnut leaves Another year started, and one more after, Cover the damp grass parkland The academic life is geared for nerds. Of walking thought; - my dreams tread paths (iii) GRANT TIME that lead to mountain treks and pilgrimages to India. Grey October days bring us our grants, Money is a student’s favourite I re-cross deserts haunted conversation. By symphonies of German masters.

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I cradle in shady hollows Or woven into masterpieces Where men once dwelt alone Of craft and exhibition. To rediscover laughter. I am silent, uncommitted, While you, or are you, we Unopposed to mass opinion. Must take the day apart I am free in the morning, And leave it bare; But chained by evening – Each breathe of conversation, Unbroken, yet bound. Brick by brick constructing The prisons of our own ideas. In terror, dissolute, dismayed, I smile on misfortune I fight alone with myself Brought about by misadventure; And turn the battles back Too many travels teach the traveller To replay, and rehearse misdeeds To accept all things. Undone, but done without recourse To painful memories. For fate fades with fortune; Found in fragmentation, I stand upon a cliff Ideals formed in theory Conversing with my only friends – Seldom fuel the fires of fashion, White gleeful gulls, Or flush the face of reason. Descending, skeeting on the waves With reckless cries. Illness makes no distinction – It eats us all. Where ploughs the crofter? I have asked this before, but WEEK 32 No one answers but the wind Art is for philistines. That whispers in my cerebral Oh poor miserable beings! ‘You have been chosen’. (i) LO VE HAS FLED I never cry for freedom, It is none other’s gift to give, You hate yourself, love has fled, Not take in token – Your friends have gone. United o’er the It is stored safely anvil In my breast. The hammer now falls. You are no more, Your words are hollow, harsh, and We have thought to lose that ineffective. Which we have not gained By crook or prostitution; You are my enemy, slashed and bleeding, We are one, and I am You barely stumble on. Dreams pour out, A liquid without solution. Illusions cruelly blind. You are a mirage, Your gaze is sunken, blank, and mindless. Too soon external forces pull The wool, and censor manifestos You are pathetic, lost, and helpless, To the shear, before they’re knit Pitied, void of aid. Found in light,

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Drowned in misery, you are forgotten, You are rejected, now, and always. And I, or you … must we wait, And wither in the wind, or storm? (ii) WAR IS FOR TROJANS Unprotected, We bend to fate, as the deluge waters fail The grey October days turn black again; To drown our hopes, just our aspirations. The heavens - dark oils stains, splutter, Bubble, burst. The thunder deafens, War is for Trojans. And the debris of the cosmos, rains on Oh poor miserable losers! earth. WEEK 33 Awash, vain little islands float A toast revives the secret drinker Miraculously mid the storm. People From the slumber of his thirst. drown, Swept overboard, till only politicians (i) BARE FOOT INTO DAWN survive And fight to take command of the oars. Dry lips make no noise Against the chaffed voice of winter. Debates rage into open confrontation, Frost layers its crystallite sparkle Quarrels with smaller islands. Boarding In the silence as dead leaves drop parties On hoared slate pavements or tarmac Gather all gung-ho, and off the they go Worn and pot-holed by uneven To occupy a sinking piddled nowhere. expectation Passing rough-shod into night. Soon enough the water’s round their necks, Out into breath chilled hours sees glory sunk. Vain refloating File the natural order of things. Ne’er recovers the lost limbless sons Heavy laden the pristine cackle Of thankless mother island. Of the pyramidal monument arises On slick black highways or routes They are but heads, countless, distant Well trod by more frequent visitors Warrior cousins, dead. Marked by waves, Travelling bare-foot into dawn. Their tales are the gannet’s cry, Their spirits in the call of the whale. (ii) PO ETS IN THE GALLERY

When the deluge waters fall, subside, What of those poets in the gallery? And petty islands become large continents See they what we strain to see ourselves? Detached, divided. No woman sees herself, Ask not! Silly questions beg indifference. No man applauds another but himself. Ignorance, or dumbness, pleases pertinence. The music of the sea, so instrumental You may seek to find the moment in my On island thought, lulls. Isolationists mind, Revel, in false solitude, on blind reflection And fail. But despair not, good readers, In the mirrors of an untruthful past. I am not born alone, or merely once!

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I have, in confidence, an insight on From drowning in his lime tree bower, My brother poets … Milton, Marvell, where Unsightly Pope, stoic Wordsworth, Trapped he sees the universe unfold, Poor sickly Coleridge. As they weigh, before I wager, you ponder, hesitate to read on, The dark hand of childhood lays its hand To view their immortal lines running Upon his weak sloped shoulder. Round their verse like mad dogs Chasing one another. Some men are made for great achievement, Until the light shafts through the window, Warriors to the full, they march and the shapeless shadows take their regardless former selves, and the poetry speaks, Of the casualties. While other weaker and we see ourselves. men Are of stronger mind, they seldom (iii) MARVELL conquer More than their own walled castles. Marvell’s Coy Mistress rightly speaks of love, (vi) WORDSWORTH Of nature’s tempting nature, labours lost; Of sensuous fruits raped, and vivacious Wordsworth, floating, gone on cloud, thought; On far out wind, and back again Of youthful innocence unrobed, raptured To heath, and dell, and leafless walk hearts; Midst solitude, and social isolation - Of sunless pleasure’s burns, and fettered He knew not where he was, or how trap; He went upon the lay of words, as Of lust-spent ashes piled, till the world’s They gushed,flowed, then trickled slow, dust. To rest upon the bed of immortality.

(iv) POPE WEEK 34 A poem may revive the well-worn writer Pope, ailing, frail, yet indulgent of courtly From the tiredness of his poverty. pleasure, Never saw beauty more, nor prized it finer (i) CHILDHOOD Than those out to seduce his lady Belinda. With wit, and charm, he second guessed, I must confess, I never wander much those back to my childhood, to that innocence Who knew better – no names mentioned when mountains seemed escapably in the – heavens, and rivers seemed to flow on Those who bore the scandal, the intrigue, forever. And the infamy by which he grew famous. For were I to know that the muddy (v) CO LERIDGE streams that raged in winter, and stank in summer, met a mightier river which met a Coleridge drivels on, then saves himself wild sea, which met an endless ocean; my

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own large world would have crashed in on protruded, and bluebells hung, and purple me, and I would have floundered in the lined a moor land ripeness, soon violet knowledge that only time has now dark and lost beneath a cloak of first fall immersed me in. snow - preparing me for adolescence.

I still see the dip-boughed willows wash For if I can recall a past, a childhood full the floating reed dancing in the current, of happy memories, full of open hands the large sighing elms and brooding presenting me the world, then I am born chestnut standing watchful o’er the birch in favoured times beneath auspicious stars, and thorn where thrush and blackies wove bright and full, and ever burning till the their song of cheerful play, where owl end of human time, and far beyond into a filled the dark with steadfast wooing, space we ne’er perceive, nor ken exists. where berries hung in red array against the A world, a galaxy, a universe. white of morning, where brown autumnal leaves burst the still, punctured young (ii) MY OWN GODS illusions caught in eternal summer years of joy, of freedom. By now, the ardent scholar, may be flaying arms, dismayed at this verse, its But yet, there was a sense of foreboding simple turn away from classic mode, its sad decay, erosion of all that man vivid lack of underlying machinery, of achieved, or built to glorify all nature, as Gods, of Demons, and all that lies between the urban parks of beech wood grove and Heaven and Hell. cypress lane, stood bare as roofless columns to a temple art of salient culture There is no single Muse, no recurrent troves and gardens, cured, cared, preserved address, no plastic moments filled by in timeless order for those who braved the Jove’s blaspheming; there are no broad expanse of narrow path to Cynthias, Belindas, or Sylvias, no Colin penetrate nature’s bounded border, where Clouts, Don Juans, nor Saints, nor Heroes they sought questions, brought their to usurp the glory, of each page of verse. answers. Yet, there is a growing murmur, a Yet I little doubt grave thought or mood gathering call for order. Ancestral voices or such vexations taxed my youthful strain to be heard, while poetry lovers mind, as wing flew another year, and wait to catch a glimpse of the fictional ochre frosty hibernation, slumbered, deities, I, the idle vehicle of their genius, snored, awake in time for summer. resist to call upon the Gods in desperation of narrowed thought and emptiness. For life was long, and winter short, and spring first felt in February, with But inner pressure bears on me, to force snowdrops found beneath the apple trees, my will against the nature of the times, to and wild wall crocus waxed and white, long turn me retrogressively through history, before the daffodil split the earth to turn to copy, imitate, and unfold my universal the shady woods the colour of sunshine, concept in epic ode, or well tried octava health, and happiness; till green

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rima, or quatrain, in even meter, or some with going, coming, flowing, but never other well used mode, or style. stopping, halting, but never standing, never unknowing, never absolute, But I resist! Though it is fair to say that I complete, nor healing of the old sores, heave learned from the fathers of our cancers, and tuberous growths. language, from the masters of our bardic heritage – too few to forget, too many to Dead flesh to ashes, dust, wind, rain, and list – and that I am resolved to let the sun, all former forms vanish, to shape the Greek Gods slumber, to let Bacchus drug fresh new forms. those of Roman number, until the end of poetry. (iv) A PROFOUND DARK TUNNEL

For I have my own Gods, turning, Down some profound dark tunnel I led squabbling in my head, searching for the kings and fools, the caverns through exit from my chained imagination, out which we deeply passed, cut them sharply. into the realm 0f consciousness, out into the material of existence; Gods which are We came to a pool, and on the water nameless, Gods which I worship. lingered words, while beneath the surface swam the meanings. An old man hovered For had Wordsworth known how many round and round the pool in mute sister Moons Jupiter supported, or Milton obedience in the speechless lull that been shown the Devil in the atom bomb, crossed the awkward void. poetry’s machinations would now have turned upon the myths of outer space. He began to career along in reckless canter, making unstressed points, For out there are our future Gods, with muttering words from which no vowel past God names, and though I will never movement could lever action. live to stand upon these celestial heavens, I can dream of wars with Mars, and inter- The silence unsettled the receptive marriages with Venus, for out in the hearers waiting for the echo and furthest seas, Neptune swims, and Pluto crescendo, the quietness pressing on darkly moves through cloud storm and the laden antics of a man’s forced star shower; far beyond all vision, beyond marching, paraded into the cavern skyline all space, lies the void of all that’s now until his thoughts formed unhindered, beyond imagination. faded unvoiced, and he plunged into the pool. (iii) NO FALL FRO M PARADISE Up some steep channel to the light I led I see no end to man, no fall from the kings and fools, the desert where I left paradise, nor rise from hell. I see only them , hot and dry. flesh as atoms of a cosmic energy, changing, rearranged, or altered to fit within the vessel of time, a swirling abyss of solid void, ending with motion, slowing

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WEEK 35 in his lengthy Prelude to life and nature.

(i) O F THE Q UEER FO LK Other soft recalls – let off emotions supporting the touch of sixty women; I’d rather be British than just Scottish. tempestuous mauling of body and sheet, I’d rather be Scottish than just a man the wet warming place of Venus mount, from Glasgow. the naked extent of jungle and fruit, I’d rather be a Glaswegian than just from the open invite of pasture and field, Pollokshaws. sweet valley chaff, soft down still moist, I’d rather be o’ the Queer Folk than be a Vesuvius and Etna in heave and cough, London boy. Stromboli gushing fiery and hot.

(ii) SEX IS A WARRIOR Eliot didn’t put his finger on Prufrock, or succeed in stifling frustration with talk. Sometimes the wolf in me screams out into the realm of dark and sleepless night. Other forget tracts lead to motive spanning the interlude of sixty seconds; In the wild Alaskan fireweed, making out on a Mexican beach, he was plucking wild pansy the melon mouth lips of a Kenyan kiss, near her forget-me-knotted lair; the tender caress of a Transvaal girl, while she gathered berries by the Indian embrace of a giving French his bower of prayer. lass; deep rich delights, within, withal, Too late, too soon, the sun and moon, German or Thai, thawing or melting – the flaring northern light show looms, Everest stands solid and daunting. too soon, too soon, lovers mate In summer caves beyond logged rooms. Hughes or Heaney, Harrison or Hill, All are well over the race of the mill. On into the light dark shadows are modelled the lovers of the present. As the tone now alters, the romantic Returns to haunt hollow ringing Other wild memories seize the mind Of time marching by. Goodbye, humble containing the experience of sixty Friends, invisibly hidden ‘neath countries; Hedgerows and archways spanning tropical storms lashing beach palm, The space of the present, of past, or the dry desert waste of the Bolivian Flying on future time beyond now – mountains, Where foes are friends, where friends first the serene landscape of coral reef grotto, Last, where he-she knows no thirst. the open expanse of Chaco and pampas, Rift Valley haze, Pacific coast mist, Onwards to glory, obscurity, then dust – volcanic chains breasted in snow, fuelled by power, pride, penis and lust. Nicaraguan cauldrons, afire, aglow. Sex is a warrior, Wordsworth didn’t speak of such places Love is a spouse.

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(iii) HUMOUR IN POETRY chaffing the forehead on the way to the chip shop and back. Humour in poetry? Good poetry has none It’s the wet pants – of these long sickly lines that forever clinging around the ankles, run to the edge of the page, and die the legs rubbed spotty. in puns, or in crude breviter dicam It’s – everything, the dark – of the limerick kind, that punctures the studying till three chimes the verse, and deflates the stanza, or a bulb burns out. to flatten the whole, to metre It’s the sun that’s missed – the features with quips and asides loose slates, leaky roof, that most diligent readers can’t abide! plastic buckets filling. It’s the wet sleep – Byron hated, thus loved to jibe, till drip, drip, the echo thuds his satirical verse branded backsides. with a continuous ring. It’s all wet blankets – (iv) NO VEMBER STARS this wet November, this damp weather. Some he-she men eye only cars, It’s rain, so what? Yet half the makes are in the stars. In Kauai and Assam It rains forever. Taking me down to the nether glade grove, to room in hand with star and sky; (ii) SCRUPPLE, OATH and VOWS I see Orion in autumn hunt, and Cassiopeia waiting high – Milton numquam deos esse negare the sacred Twins going to bed, neque Crane qui deum esse negat. Taurus tossing Aries to the west – Pro habere superstituo mentes occupavit the Great Bear turning as the Pleiades posse quod di immortales omen avertant. trail their tresses across the Milky Way – Pro esse deos sancte, pie venerari Mercury cupped in the three quarter tentare rebus divinis interesse, moon near Canis at bay. et sperare templa deorum adire, et non aliquem in deorum numerum WEEK 36 referre, Melancholy has passed to apathy – so est imbuere pectora religione. who cares a toss! Audientum animos religione perfundere, Apathy breeds where melancholy swells. religionem ex animus extrahere, omnem religionem tollere, delere. (i) IT RAINS FO REVER (iii) MERCURY MAR AND VENUS It must be all this rain – DOVE It wets the soul. It’s the wet feet – Other times, simple ballads must return Wet socks drip before the fire to tell of men, and maids, and grief. forever all winter. It’s the lank wet hair – Out of the mist came young Mercury Mar

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Riding across the memories of love, (iv) CROOKED IN OUR CHAIRS Carried he forth to the boundaries of love And into the arms of sweet Venus Dove. Pitter, patter, matter, matted, moulted, bolted shut, and dead. Their passionate love was swift and discrete, Evening falls again, dross winter! Old Boy Jove ne'er knew of their bliss; It’s hard to catch the drift of sunlight Venus with Mar kissed every part, in this downcast season. The cold As the music played ever so sweet. obeys itself, we are its prey, the living against which it stunts its growth, and As quick as his name he whisked her on ours. wing To a heaven far beyond men; Yet, I may take such bare thought She loved her fleet foot Mercury Mar, comfort The lover who could make sing. From the numbness of growing idleness That inward-out progresses sloth-like But bad ass Jove wanted back his wife, indolent. The lion inside him growled out. Winter catches all of us out of breath, ‘Stand still, you bugger, I’ll darken your And leaves us slumped and crooked in our lights!’ chairs. But Mar sliced him up with a knife. The weeks they pass like games of chance- The couple then fled to starry lone haunts We never get to deal the cards. Where eagles hovered over their bower, Their music it faded far into the night, WEEK 37 Till the morning lit empty and gaunt. (i) THREE SO NNETS No one followed their endless cold flight Of Mercury Mar and sweet Venus Dove – Sometimes I feel the academic life But somewhere soon sweet Venus Dove Weighing like a ton of bricks upon my Lost Mercury Mar in a feckless fight. shoulders. It is not the books, the essay sets, And since that time Venus has cried, But rather something more akin to Making love to Adonis and others; loneliness. For mistress or mastered in connubial My peers, each in a world revolves, love, Till moods become obsessions to detest; Non equalled the music Mercury lyred. Yet, each dark moment wrought, oft’ Brings about a spark of genius to Remember the moral and what was done, remember. Lest you forget it came from my head, I know no way to battle with such ill, Love while you can, and recall Venus But isolation in my books and lecture Dove, notes, That if the music ends, the dance goes on. I sense that the days slip by, and

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Friends once firm become like seas in Sallow brow now wracked and creased by tempest, fever, Till, where one time I beheld an island, Hair once a fountain head of golden Slips past the wreck of some mere tresses acquaintance. To grey now turns in cull to northern winter, For while others inward gaze, I outward While hunch backed around me travel grin, strangers, And find small comfort humour set before As somewhere else goddesses join with me, princes. While others outward view the world about, (ii) A BRIEF ENCO UNTER I dream or meditate or shut things out. For Penny For what’s the point in being as my brother Never more ready than ever, When the sister in me doesn’t want to Never more willing than now. play, Or as the father of my dreams and Mischief … oh, oh, oh, aspirations, My penny drops and stolen The mother quells ambition when the Moments in the attic of night child strays. Lead to coitus. For like the eagle hovering over barren wild, Sweet, perfumed and giving Or mute white swan gliding down a Sighs heaved into the rafters stream, Where time settled quietly We cry when no one’s there to listen, On love-making. Or we never find a voice with which to speak; Company and comfort, For I weep when all the world is laughing, Our whispers broke the cobwebs, And I laugh when all about me weep. We laughed beneath the quilt, Kissing softly. Other times I laze and idly waste Precious moments not to be recovered or WEEK 38 relived. Actors are vain, poets are vague. The sun comes up, and all too soon has gone (i) WE FALTER To light some other part of Earth; while I In northern bitter cold, bear icy gales. Again, why must we falter. With my skin in shreds, my stature wan The voices in the basement carry and wry, up through feet to settle down The bronze of summer beach is a pale to murmurs. They are of little regress, consequence upon the creaking timbre The tone of mountain lake, a sag of flesh. that groans from age old winds Once clear eyes now are blue with chill, sweeping in like frantic genies,

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conjuring magic, invoke, and incantation In Brazil, the Selva disappears; for their supper. In the Sudan, the Sahel succeeds Where isolated forest once gave oasis; Yes, again, we falter. The voices in the basement now Or by the Brahmaputra, a country drowns; heavy footsteps trampling stairs Or by the Hudson, debris towers towards the light. They are largely Where habitation outstrips generation. discordant upon the quarry silence that grates like desert beings Such trite observation may be trivial, crossing naked waste and denudation But accusations fly about the subjective to reach oasis. Modernists preach as gospel.

Until, they arrive upon our falter. There are no prophets in the world, The voices in the basement, demons Only he-she-men with world visions with hoods and pitch black Of their own petard. about withal. They are greatly fearsome upon the earthly tremble We name them not, yet we know that quivers like jungle wild life, Their names, their thoughts, their views stalked, trapped, and beset On stars and turds. upon with clubs. We joke, we parody, and we steal They have fed upon our falter – Their visions for our own locked worlds We live now in the basement. Of fantasy and deception.

(ii) I PREFER MY DANCER They make us weak, make us happy, Make us cry in sheer frustration Talking heads said haven is a place At their rules of dogma. Where nothing ever happens. Yet, do or should we care I prefer my dancer to my singer, When time makes no thing new ‘cause I know all my singer’s songs – Between the moon and sun. and though my singer’s very pretty, I love my dancer’s moves, turns and all; Dawn, be it now or tomorrow, and though my singer’s breasts are Night, be it tonight or morrow, perfect, These are constant. ‘tis my dancer’s legs that lead me on; though I adore the lips of my songbird, But alas our prophets fade, I prefer the kiss of my graceful swan. Their light a tallow candle Dripping into fate. (iii) BEYOND MY OWN SMALL PRISON Till even Plato and Aristotle Have their sagest food devoured Beyond my own small prison, a world Off time’s plate. evolves.

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For it is the means of nature I’ll become unstable. Books give no To have a sapling flourish forth, solutions, Then age and wither. They pinpoint failings. Men of action Win women’s love. Men of isolation Visions are but bricks baked Lose love to others. My studies must To form the structure of thoughts subside, That perishes with nature. I have drowned existence. My illness must abate, There are no repairs to be made, I have fevered cold. My passion must Rejuvenation, imitation, repetition, return Establishes good resemblance. Or leave me barren. Love must reconquer Lust’s contempt abuse. Feelings must We, each are prophets, but replace Who shall say that we Uncaring thought. Softness must recline Shall be remembered. Harsh unkind statement. Changes must be endless, Beyond our own small prisons, If I’m to rescue, and salvage marriage A world evolves, metered, From the rocks of study. My love is Tempered by false prophets. boundless Within pride’s vessel. Down! Smash the WEEK 39 vial It is easy to forget loved-ones, That has poisoned me. I smell the scent When art is greater than mankind. Of fragrant frangipani. I remember courtship, (i) MY ONLY LOVER I remember love, I remember Laura – for Laura My wife, my friend, my only lover.

Being a student, I have neglected (ii) LAURA Everything but books. I love Chaucer, Shakespeare, Milton. I have forgotten Oh Laura, I am wan to let you go. The girl who cooks, who shares my bed, Nymph of nature, love untold; Who cries rejection. What lonely life I cry into the wind, but never hear I have given her – long, dark nights An echo turn my voice to song. Of silent company, my mind in Wilt is my soul, my own Persephone, Wordsworth, Lost to me forever – banished My eyes on Coleridge, my humour Pope, To far regions, where I cannot travel, My anger Eliot. I have no emotion Attended by the servants of despair. But my literature – long lines of words And poignant statement, my marriage It is I who drove you hence – dying, My fool-fold pride – my bow; Sacrificed for poetry. If this is fate, My sharp waste words – my arrows, Then I’m deceived. If this is truth, Transfixing every motion of your love. Then I’m misguided. Give me love, or ‘Tis I who iced the marriage bed I shall be bitter. Give me emotion, or with indifference and cold sleep.

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‘Tis I who froze your passion Clatter, Riesling, new Bordeaux – with numb vague dismissal. If there is more … Pour! Pour! Pour!

I am a fop, a recreant lover (ii) TYNESIDE WRITERS To whom romance is one with lust. WORKSHOP I’ve been blind to fin amour, I’ve been beyond the word forever. Last night I met with writers – I’ve been harsh like frost-cracked winter, Armstrong, Beadle, Astley, Cleary! I’ve been uncaring beyond remember. A lowly pub high-placed in town I’ve been worse than any tempest, Where sickly poets drown on pints. Or storm that beats all to submission. They chatted on with Northern airs I’ve been cruel and thoughtless, (half of them were from elsewhere) A thousand nights in two thousand days. Their weakly words weighed with beer, I’ve been moody and unsmiling, They huffed and puffed poetic smear. And disapproving in a million ways. I’ve been stupid to the point of hurt, Till brooding Armstrong, at the ear I’ve been selfish till the tears have flowed. Of gout-toed Beadle set to sneer, I’ve left you crying alone, unknowing, Said ‘ We’re the only poets here. While my joy has fountained on the We’ve no peers. Up yours! Cheers.’ world. Beadle crooked his neck and nodded, I’m ignorant, uncouth and detestable, His rimless glasses glazed and misted, It’s been your right to take revenge. And supping on a pint of Guinness, You’ve slipped from the shade of shadow, He spluttered out his views on nothing. And cast your beauty on my deformed mind. (One might think upon his genius, And like Persephone, pulled into the but one may dismiss such feelings, underworld, for poets who declare their brilliance, Whose matchless beauty was unmatched can not be viewed as being enlightened.) by lust, I pine for the loss of summer - Thus fat Beadle full of gibberish, And I repent all I did, and all I’ve done. Blurted on, and puffed, and railed, While Armstrong off in other regions, WEEK 40 Leaned across his girlfriend’s breast Drunk! I say, what? Never! Is this what makes students clever? And said aloud ‘This country’s full of Tory types, fascists, racists, sexist (i) PARTY TIME creeps! See them poets across the room - Party time – whoopee! End of term, They condone this country’s ruin.’ Wine the fountain of youth. Who cares about the weather, ‘Up the Miners!’ someone shouted, ‘cept the conscientious and the pooped. and up shot clenched fist salutes;

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startled, Astley’s mob looked up, Muslim, Buddhist, Taoist, Maoist, till up and up their noses flew. Marxist, Leninist, Hindu, Janist, Atheist or Nihilist. They sniffed the air for impoliteness, For even if you believe in nothing, Riff-raff, and all their noise, Our country is wealthy. To sniff for scent of Commie sweat We can pray for someone – from the COAL NOT DOLE pickets. And there’s nothing wrong with that, Though its money that’s needed. Too soon they lost this certain whiff, The thought must come first, Too soon they found their noses pinched, And once relief is given – And huddling together like little boys, Will the exploitation follow? They wittered on with quite a din. Let us pray our kindness Goes beyond our wealth. Till Cleary mentioned C.N.D, And Astley shouted out ‘Belfast, Ireland!’ (iv) END O F TERM FO UR For such trite slogans buy their pens - Arts Council money pays their rent. It is the end of term – I am worn out. These grants, that Astley, Cleary seek, Nine hundred lines of verse Weakens further, their meagre verse – Takes fair clout. What the hell, I don’t care … A student’s life is dull and grey, I was very briefly there. I am assured. A hundred books a term? I left slim Armstrong spouting on, A lie for sure. With Beadle drooling on his arm, Astley nibbling poetry crumbs, Meanwhile, I read mad John Clare, Cleary sniffing up his bum. I am impressed. I search through Percy Shelley – The sort of act that breeds disgust, What a quest! Yet minor poets thrive on such – Maybe I’ll get on to Swift For I have heard and seen enough Before Christmas. To know these poets and their works. Maybe I’ll just give up And take a rest. So take you heed, if you’re wary, Ne’er read Armstrong, Beadle, Astley, TERM FO UR VACATIO N Cleary. They’re but a bunch of bitching poets, THE DAY YOU LIED (song) The truth is out, now you know it. [12.26pm, 17th January 1985, Newcastle]

(iii) ETHIO PIA You know you love me So why do you lie? People are dying in Ethiopia For you now you love me, In drought season Tigre land. And you cried aloud. It is important if we are Christian,

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So why did you lie? And somewhere someone loves someone That was the day I died. right. But we’re too far gone, too far gone. Well, now I’m crying too, You shouldn’t have been so hard. TERM 5 You were once soft like butter [13th Jan - 30th Mar 1985] Until the day you lied. PROLOGUE So why did you lie, THE BAREFO O TED LO VER That was the day I died. Her foot scraped the riser TIME AND MONEY (song) As she trod her way upstairs, [12.30pm, 17th Jan 1985, Sandyford, She wound round the newel Newcastle] And strung the baluster rail.

Nothing changes … time nor money. She quarter-turned the landing We all need something, and it isn’t love. Towards the dog-leg steps Nothing changes, … place or people That led to the chamber We all want something, and it isn’t peace. Where her next lover slept. Nothing changes … war or science, We all have something, it isn’t good Her dress brushed the stringer times. And her hand the open wall Nothing changes … memory or mind, Which took her from the well We’ve got something, but it isn’t worth a and towards the chancelled hall. dime. Nothing changes time or money. She paused by the postern We all need something, and it isn’t love. She lingered by the thresh, Her hair about her shoulders I CAN TELL (song) And her hand upon her breast. [12.35pm, 17th Jan 1985, Sandyford, Newcastle] She bit her lip and tip-toed With a rustle of her dress, Somewhere someone asks for dance, She crossed the tiled chamber And somewhere someone takes someone And reached her quarry's bed. home. But we’re too far gone, too far gone. She shod her simple jewellery, She shod her tinsel dress, Somewhere someone takes someone out, And met her stirring lover, And somewhere someone kisses someone The chalice of her quest. all night. But we’re too far gone, too far gone. And when she had him sleeping, She quietly slipped away Somewhere someone makes someone On tip-toe very softly smile, Down the dog-leg stairs.

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Her hand wound round the newel And men retreating from your stark She grazed the final step, Wild killing blade of conquest dreams, She turned the big brass lock, Are poppies in a bower of park. Closed the door and left. For you, cruel Shivite, master mean WEEK 41 (Jan 14th -20th) Of all you sweep off to the West, THE STORM EAST WIND You triumph, ravish, switch, and glean.

O storm east wind from farthest Russia! You are the force to judge, to test, You, from distant Arctic, bring sleet to strip, and whip, all you see, snows You're rarely welcomed as a guest. And blizzards to the shores of Africa. O violent muse! we seek to flee Grey, and black, but quietly so, From your freezing storm behest. Death you bring, and white, and cold, The seas you whip, lash, and blow. Green spring we never seek from you, It's ice and snow you bring to us, Great ice tracts form up, and fold, Our skies pale blue, cold with dew. And in a rage you carry home The fiercest bite your anger holds. We often greet you with a curse, And vanish quickly to our tasks, You cut, and slice, into our bone, Thinking of no wind as worse. And take our warmth without care, You leave us wrack, torn, and lone. But, you are gilded with a mask You quietly smile, then vilely seize And on an eve when light is shadow, The smallest life in your grasp. You whisper in the trees and travel On to where no man might follow. And when you've blackened all the leaves, You moan in greed for further offerings, And in the summer months we revel Your wanting's like the cry of thieves. In the warm fan of your journey Waft and ripe through lands unlevelled. O waste wild wind! crave no following! We'd rather see you go than howling. Or on the beach in naked lay, We feel you on our skin, our foreheads Some morns you wake with bated breath, Set to sea, our thoughts astray. The sun aglow, and luke, and yellow, Its rays a boon shed on our health. We glint to see where gulls are led And left upon the crag cliff-tops, While ages pass, and cities go, Your mighty gusts rock-wave wed. Still you come, and on, an on, You sigh, you blow, warm, and cold. Round the citadels of Time, you hone And shape, and leave your biting mark, And time turns round towards new dawns, Until forums crumbling, raised, are gone You retreat, as the west wind speaks

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And winter sleeps, as spring-time yawns. On a pie straight out the fire!

And back across the sea you creak She was all Rrr-Pee and whispers, And groan, to where it always snows, Not weak, nor shy, nor coy. East, to a place of mountain peaks. Stella, the student of English, Have you ever met her, boys?. Where you come from no-one knows, We're never sad to see you go. (ii) BYRON

WEEK 42 (Jan 21-27th) Byron knew Italian, We students have got to stick together, Though he learnt his best verse Especially when we're screwing one From obscure British poets another. Like Trere and the rest.

(i) AN ENGLISH LANGUAGE GIRL His Beppo was successful, He then turned to sketch himself, Give me an' English language girl, Don Juan welled and flooded All Rrr-Pee an' fine tones. To wash poetry’s shelves. Give me an English literature girl To ponder over poetry and prose. But his headlong passions rushed To form no moral sense, Stella met me at the discotheque, For Byron was a cad, She was strong, tall, and blonde. Who loved to fuck and wench She whirled me round the dance-floor And tore off all my clothes. (iii) TELL ME AGAIN, JO NATHAN

She made me jive bare-footed Hoyle, And bump, and grind no hold. hibbily, She jigged me over broken glass, dribbilly, Bought beer till I was blown. plop! stinky-drip flow, She took me home in a taxi, jobby-pooh slop. She lay me on the floor, She rolled me two fat wackies, Hissy, And made me toke two more. wissy, piddilly, She roamed about my body, whoosh! Her hands like hot steam irons. willy-whack gush, She kissed me with a passion gargle-gaa tooosh! I thought I wouldn't survive. Slurp, I tried to drink my coffee, slithilly, But she had me in her arms, wibbilly, Her lust was like French mustard booh!

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johnny-joe grunt, Oh sad child of our time, gilly-gack wooh! Hear tell of what your grandsires did, There was an age of honest care, Ga-gaa, When your fathers were but young; goo-goo, droolly-da, There was a land of dream, ideal, waart! With greater men, and ample work; harry-haw coo, Idleness was a happy choice, pissy-pa gart. You choose to do for fun.

Hobbilly, O sad children, life is cruel, habbilly, Once our land an empire was - wickilly, Though with an empire gladly gone, wong! The wealth remained while we clung billy-bah dooh, davey-la bong! Tightly to our treasure troves, Of art, of business sense, and wit; (iv) THATCHER’S CHILDREN ‘Till Thatcher’s bulldogs gobbled up The riches two whole centuries worked. This is no age to be romantic, Into ideal, freedom, love; Perhaps we have no right to weep The high emotion born from ego For what our heroes wrongly stole, In the Sixties, now is done: Someday our foes shall take, return These treasures back across wild seas - Self-awareness, once a virtue, Now we find is bent to vice, Across far blues and universe, Our vision once towards the East, This is our final Diamond Age. Now is like a martyr burnt. Can you hear the beating drum? Our time of glory now is done. All we have is ash and char, Remains of faith and cosmic one, WEEK 43 - (28th Jan- 3rd Feb) We see no phoenix rise on wing, Go to bed, me darling, Star war cloud blots the sun. Tomorrow’s come, it’s late. I never thought we’d see it through, We mow the eco-system down, Me darling, go, it’s late. planted barely ten-years back, Air, once free of nuclear dust, (I) THE STUDENT’S CO MFO RTER Gathers grey, blacks our lungs. Love is the student’s redeemer Rivers clear, stocked with fish, From the death of study. Near fresh to drink years ago, It is common complaint that Foam and froth and radiate, English poetry dwells on death, As red to sea slaked they run. And after death. Yet sometimes love Creeps in between the sheets,

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But not that regularly, As winter turns to Spring, Not that seriously. Such love remains Forever in the wind. A student’s life is too ethereal, Full of bookish ideal (iii) THE O NE LEFT BEHIND When it comes to common sense Or matters of the flesh, We love not what we see, They flounder, or thrash themselves We love what we do not have; With Gothic novels. When we walk out on someone Beat themselves with Reader’s Digests; We lose all that is material. Exchange and Marts; It is the one left behind And pop like Frankie. Who must mend the ego.

For music heightens the emotions … (iv) LIVERPO O L The silence of the lecture halls, The muteness of tutorial conversation, This week I went to Liverpool. The droll of seminars … these drive I’ve been to Santiago, Students to the bars I’ve been Cairo, Dar, Joburg; To seek their comfort; Hong Kong, Bangkok, Delhi, Dacca; To look for friendship; Madras, Kabul, Tehran, Ankara; To rush sex first into things Athens, Rome, Paris, Tunis; To exchange names later. Port O Spain, Rio, Lima, Quito; Panama, Managua, City Mexico; If this seems how it is - LA, San Fran, Orleans, New York. Perhaps this is what it’s like. All those place far away - (ii) SEPARATED I travel with more purpose now, I’m not the crazy hobo that I was. When you’ve loved someone Besides, ‘Pool’s not that bad, Like you’ve never loved anyone, I just never thought to visit it It’s hard to say goodbye. Though it’s well marked on the map.

When you see them again, (e) O DE TO KEATS And can’t find conversation, You remember the good times. Elysian fields in minds secrete A lasting memory of John Keats. When you part again, The love wells up, O Grecian urns and nightingales! The heartbreak hurts some more. Sweet song and ode I hear. O heart of heart within me fails, When you think of them, Soft sleep and dream it nears The wrongs are recalled, To wash and swim the dead of night, But you love them still. I travel on in mist; Descending verdant slopes of leave

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I stumble on in bliss; With a wife and son, all our worldly My being off in humble flight, Goods weighing less than twenty kilos; What pleasures have I missed? Since then, I’ve lost the root of truth And sold my ideals in pursuit of fame WEEK 44 (4th February) And money. And for what? …. Like storms the best stories have lulls. A student’s life of part-time work, A wife estranged, a son sixteen who’s (i) THE LULL Still to young to make it in the world, As nightly he sleeps on a sofa in a flat I am not your average student, In shipyard Walker by the slips of Tyne. I am at most, ten years senior To my peers, my fellow scholars Meanwhile, I who has not moved Who are in the main quiet free From the comfort of our home - I have And easy going despite the studies, A girlfriend who makes me feel desired; Which, when said and done, are all Yet how can it be love when there is They have to fill their leisure. Something that is dying still alive? It commands years to love new lovers, And I? I have age …and just barely tiny And a lifetime to unlove the old - crow’s feet Yet life goes on, the sun comes up Walking towards my hazel eyes - And every day is a new beginning That most times contains the devil That never seems to double back So I’m told - while smile lines Upon the past turns of fate that ill-sent Leave me handsome in a happy way; The unkind experience of disillusion. (And what better wisdom need we gain By this, unless we know that it takes Now of late, I newly see how Seven facial muscles to smile, and I have travelled blind along the road Twenty three to frown with disapproval). These last two years. I have gone For fame, and in the process lost Therefore, as we must, I’ve had The me that was the basis of my providence, Strength and personality, so that now Carefree love, and felicitous emotion I am an empty vessel shipping light In my childhood and teenage years - On a wave crest driving me Joyous years of wit and honesty Like driftwood caught in undertow Continued in my travelling years To barren shore. That crossed the breadth of one full decade; Perhaps in this, I am average, Years of faith, defence and truth Though in other ways, like other In which I triumphed over vice Individuals, I am my own persona - Despite the human follies I encountered But by mulling on well off the point, And embraced in want, in cold survival. Not quite explaining why I’m different From my fellow English undergraduates, But now I also see the present - It seems I am making mountains out The two iced years since I first Of inner risings I cannot view myself. Returned from half-baked Delhi

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If this has been a moment of interlude They worked on their love with a passion Between storms. It has filled the lull. Hotter than the earth they tilled They promised each other a nation WEEK 45 - (11th February) Of children to sail the seas.

(i) TYRANT TYRANT They laboured and turned the dust That built a country of strangers, Tyrant! Tyrant! Burning vision! Lying in the burnt grass by starlight Devastating, ruining Britain! They mumbled a heaven of words. Will immortal fame or glory Seek you out before Time’s jury? They stood on the banks of Jordan Pledging an undying immortal faith In whose future age or eon And on the Mount of Olives Will you justify your reason? They swore to never break. In whose memory will you rule? By whose will formed you cruel! But fate had other roads to take, They were separated for two days; And will justice, and will law My friend sent down to Galilee Make us will what Gorgons saw? Returned to faces weighed. And will our voices cry enough! To army boots and policemen’s clubs? For everything that lovers know It is not enough to guess - Will the hammer? Will the chains? She could not wear the world Will the people bear your pain! And had craved for death. Will the cross? Will our blood? Will our veins gush and flood! They showed him her wan body - He shed a lake of grief, Will your words clothe our poor? He kissed his suicide lover Feed the starving, sick and more? And swore he’d always weep. Will your smile heal our ails? Will your harsh laws ever pale! But time has eased his misery, My friend now often laughs, Tyrant! Tyrant! Burning vision! Yet still I see in his tragic eyes We are slaves in your Britain! His time with that Galilee girl. Will immortal fame or glory Seek you out before Time’s jury? (iii) NEWCASTLE ENCLAVE

(ii) GALILEE LO VERS Meanwhile in Newcastle, On the northern fringe of England, I had a friend in love in Israel Far away from all the fascism, With a girl from New Zealand, We have a youth culture Who he’d met in the orange fields Fired and burning. Out in the dry slopes of Galilee.

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You can have your Liverpool’s, Pretending to be free; Bristol’s, Birmingham’s and Leeds Is there beast strong enough And cold calculating London, To keep a hawk at bay? There’s nothing there but heartbreak For the young and hungry. In former times dragons slept In caves high in the mists, Rebels - you’ll find them in Newcastle But we had knights to battle on On the frontier with Scotland - For honour and the girl; For if you like to sing, dance, For there were once men enough Paint, film, write or crow, To combat wolves and bears. There’s plenty here who’ll listen. Now the mist is ever down (iv) THE BITE O F THE WRITER And thick about the vales, The doors are locked as nightly knocks A writer lives in a world of his own, The eagle shaking chains; He’s always probing into worlds he Is there one to free us all, doesn’t know. To do what what no one dares? You’ll find him knobbing where no other artist goes - WEEK 46 (18th February) Whores, housewives, debs, his inky fingers roam; (i) LINDA Crooks, nice-guys, bores , his icy humour gnaws. And then there was Linda A friend when he sucks, a killer when he I met at the swap shop, blows, Blue tank-top and bob-socks A writer loves to love, but don’t eff him And hair like a wild mare; over, She led me to pasture Or you’ll see yourself lampooned in print, In a one night affair. and more he’ll have every privacy, publicly known. She talked of her loved ones, And then God save your reputation of old, Her brothers, ex-husband, For a writer never lives in a world of his Her daughter, and mum, own, All her friends in the world; He seeks out the truth, then moves on She was open, yet shy, alone. She was sweet, but not dry.

(v) EAGLES AND HAWKS She was fine English lass Who’d tasted green grass, In this country of democracy, Who ran on wild winds Who carries the branch of peace? To fly from life’s grasp; She was cheerful and free In the hills, in the mists, And asked nothing of me. There hides the eagle’s prey Cowering in the windswept nooks

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(ii) THE MARTYRS (iii) THE WRITERS WORKSHOP

Robbed of good health, Got a letter from the Workshop, wrecked by sharp rods, you know .. them writing people prodded with needles, who spend all their time in talk tortured and roped, and criticism of your work ... cudgeled and clubbed, battered and doped, The secretary wrote and said naked and shamed, that he couldn't get the pub, fingered and raped, the next meeting would be held degraded and shaved, in the cinema coffee-shop. twisted and shaped, conformed to reply, He said "if you miss us, moulded to lie, you'll find us down the Lane", ordered to speak, which of course is a bar slugged to be quiet, not noted for its talk. forced to eat shit, pressed to drink piss, Then again the beer's good. coerced to suck pricks, It has to be to take the sentimental made to ass lick, then love verse and the soap and soppy kneed in the gut, pop culture of the Workshop - kicked in the teeth, bent to say sir, which drains Labour's veins beat on the feet, with plays about shipyards gouged in the eyes, and rusting empty docks; stabbed in the ears, poems about the miners poked in the nostrils, and dustmen and bakers, choked and turn keyed, haunted ex-signalmen, shocked to confession, seamstresses punching clocks; starved to comply, teachers feeling guilty denied any sleep, about being quite well-off, broken to cry, students rambling on marched to an end, about some forgotten cause, hung to the sky, housewives driveling dry put in a grave, about missing out on love, buried with flies. husbands droning wet about the girls they've cocked; The revolution end, doleys whining ceaseless the rebels smashed, about not having jobs, the martyrs dead, the bourgeois gurgling over the people lashed. about being in hock, gays flowering out about being in the cold, sexists mouthing-off

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about feminists and jocks, In my hands are novels women calling for action In my fingers blame and their own Workshops, In my arms is gone men demanding order The girl I tamed. and more pints of hop, the chairman caught unready In my life is nothing searching for smooth words, In my home is pain the secretary amused, In my brain is longing pissing in his socks. For the girl I maimed.

O what a wordy shambles In my loss is posterity during these pub Workshops, In my loss is fame imagine the next meeting In my loss is glory in the cinema coffee-shop? And the echo of her name.

(iv) STELLA’S BRO THERS PLACE WEEK 47 (25th Feb - 3rd Mar)

Jerry and Carrie were happily married, (i) I KNO W THAT GIRL TOO WELL Three girls, a boy, a house on the bay - He was a medic into obstetrics, I know that girl too well … She was thinking about a fifth baby. I’m trying to cling, Amid the mess the kiddies had wrecked, She’s trying to break away, Stella and I drank their January wine; She loves me just the same. We recklessly throttled six litre-bottles And awoke hung over to the noonday sun. I talk about Rome, She looks at me and smiles (V) IN MY BONES She’d love to go I know.

In my bones is posterity I try to make her laugh, In my blood is fame She attempts to swerve my trap, In my flesh is glory She’s already caught in fact. And the memory of a name. I walk her home in talk, In my heart is success She’s got work to do inside, In my mind the same She’s got me on her mind. In my soul is money And the script writing game. I say goodbye and kiss, She says she’ll see me soon, In my eyes is poetry She doesn’t seem too sure. In my ears acclaim In my dreams is love I know that girl too well … And the girl I shamed.

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(ii) EVERYTHING AUDIBLE (iv) A’ IS THINKIN

Sometimes I hear and pick-up everything: A’ is thinkin itsa wast o tim Budgie singing at the top of his pecker; Neimn’ a studnt writin’ powtry Cars rubbering-by along our shabby street; Fur th’ sak o nuthin butt wurds Neighbours swearing at each other loudly; And jib’s ut fulkin no-buddies. Postman stuffing letters through our slot; Front doors slamming in a fit of temper; (v) CLITSHITCUNTPISS Gas fire hissing throughout mid-winter; Sink water draining down the plug-hole; CLITSHITCUNTPISS was a town Electric cooker harmonising with the I left behind years ago, kettle; It was somewhere right of here Video snowing heavy on a blank channel; Up a clodclutclingbutt road. Telephone off the hook and purring; Students in the flat below playing reggae; I guess I won’t be going back And all those other sounds that make To those asskissbrownnose folk - renting Everything they steered me off An upstairs flat on Tyneside far from I’ve freakballprickdip toked. silent. WEEK 48 (4th March) (iii) PUNTERS PASS (i) FRIDAY LECTURE I wrote a letter to Tyne Tees Television About being just another plebe - After sitting through the Songs of Queuing up outside Studio Five Innocence, To get into The Tube every Friday. I wit and willed an hour of Langland, But in place of timeless lecture notes, I put in some flippant poems with it, I felt the full impact of my hangover. It didn’t cost a penny more to send. I don’t expect to get a Punter’s Pass, O laudee! Lectures are so boring; I’m grey about the temples and no Punk. Students asleep plugged into their walkmans. At least I don’t have a beer belly O doolah! There’s nothing worse than Like Jools who seems to be going bald; snoring I guess it must be too much coco - Or a fourteenth century lecturer’s It must be hard doing lock-ins every droning. night. (ii) SELF DESTRUCTIO N The grey grimy North has its laughs, I’m going to pray for my Punter’s Pass. Up Hell, come on Tyne Tees telly - Over Let me have my chance just for once. The top He Threw himself

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‘Till WEEK 49 (11th March) Under The Sun (I) ON A TUESDAY IN DUBLIN He Baked to Death. Wandering the streets of Dublin On a springtime afternoon (iii) THE DREAMER The Book of Kells behind me.

The dreamer sat swimming I stepped into the National Museum. in an open window sea. There I found green walls The wasters drifted by Hung with Tintoretto and Titian. on rafts of beech wood trees. Yet half the paintings were missing, The captain waved a scarf Sent to London for an Irish exhibition; as he set his parrot free What they’d left were twenty Magi, which flew to the dreamer's Countless saints, and a dozen crucifixions. shutters creaking in the breeze. I found nine other rooms, He put out his hand One with Barrett, one with Roberts, with a palm of budgie seed, Hickey, Crawley, Chinnery, Barry, have you ever seen a parrot Scenes of love, lust, want, desire. eat that type of feed? A mandarin stoic and grey in age, You can always tell a dreamer, An Indian girl in silk unveiled. he's full of words not deeds, An actor watched by two fair sisters the parrot bit his hand off Caught in a comic-tragic musing. and dropped it in the sea. I sat and watched their wily game The dreamer took a shotgun, Before dwelling on Eve tempting Adam one handed drew a bead, With a rotten apple, he closed his eyes and fired The poor bloke Rodan-like despairing. at the parrot on the beach. Alas, we know the outcome of that tale, Yet when the smoke dispersed, I move on thinking, seeking more; with sea-weed in its beak I glided on to other rooms the parrot rose and flew off Mulcahy, Mulready, and Mulvany. with a wild triumphant screech. Then I came across the sixth apocalypse, And the dreamer sat gazing A Martin, Blake, Dore - all in one, at the open window sea Moynan’s waifs across the way for the next bunch of wasters Looked well fed in view of Danby’s fallen. to come by on beech wood trees. Then I spied Lavery’s Lady, Orpen’s Yeats, O’Connor’s Nude,

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Osborne’s hand at Jugs and Dogs, And all I think in my head And artist Yeats Many Ferries - ‘I should have made it years ago’.

Its naked men and women walking Their interest wanes like winter sun, Towards a priest absolving sins, The conversation turns to them - Beehive cells behind the grief ‘How’s your kids? How’s your wife?’ And death before those who’d come. And they offer then to buy a drink.

And that was it, I’d seen enough, ‘Maybe you’ll write down what I say?’ I walked back through the many rooms; One pint’s cheap payment for such hope I’d passed away two afternoon hours, - On a Tuesday in Dublin. No one ever pays me for such work, A bluey for a timeless poem. (ii) ONLY THE POET PAYS FOR PO ETRY Painters get hired by the dozen, For tons, grands, ten times over; Visiting Ireland has made me feel Poets are expected to do penance I have to start a new life - And write their works while on the dole. Somewhere no one knows my past Nor kens I have the semblance of a (iii) THE UNDISCO VERED PO ET future. I must go someplace no-one knows me Life for me in small town England so I may give up being a poet, Is a cloistered thoroughfare - someplace where words on my tongue I cannot go or be alone are heard as me and not as work. Nor find the time to be unknown. I long to be where things are new, In every bar, on every street, where days are bright and evenings warm. I see to glance a face I know - I long to be with plain young friends They give me nods, chance a wave, who laugh and never think of death. Sometimes a frown, a look away. I long to leave the past that binds Most times they ask’ How’s the wife?’ the present to the woes of time. And yet they know we’ve separated. I long to turn my back and walk ‘Keepin’ writing then’ they quip, from all the things that make me run. Hoping I may have jacked it in. I long to free myself from thought ‘Yeah’ I often make reply, to make my body feed my days. And fill them with consternation. I long to settle in a place ‘Don’t give up, you’re nearly there! where all my truth is in my face. Stick it out, you’ll make it yet!’ (iv) HEED ME, ENGLAND I look at them , they look at me, My jeans ragged, my shoes holed - Thus I have been in Ireland but one day,

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Yet strongly feel my life must change; Huddled, hidden, soldiered. Time may bring me fame and recognition, But I feel I cannot wait for fate. (vii) THE BELFAST READING I may break before my opening. Heed me, England. Hear my warning. We sit in pain … listening Politely waiting … our breath flaming (v) DISHONEST DEMOCRACY In the Art Centre cold.

Ireland has an honesty, a hope unbroken, We long for drink … for warmth, A spirit nor crushed by class oppression - For happy voices singing, England is a country where freedom is For lively conversation dying. Dwelling not on death and violence. Where were you when the miners were staving? Poetry readings breed discontent, Alcohol drowns … loud verse Democracy is a joke around the world, Thumping politics and bible humpers, Dictators are a product of the capitalist Anarchists in ties … Poets system; singing modern dirges, Every movement of reform and Traditional tunes sung off-key revolution By girls in blue jeans … Starts when hunger overcomes reason. Paddy Day short stories Delivered by grey pensioners Yes, this poem is for all you capitalist Over coated, in demob suits. pigs Who live off the back of slave labour; Meanwhile, the cold ankle numbness The ones who exploit youth Creeping up the legs … unemployment, Like a dog pissing one me. The ones who do no one any favours. Woof! Woof! The words protrude Into the private of my life … (vi) BELFAST See, we wait … in abject vain, In unprotected candlelight The church steeples rose We suffer on … and on … against the bleak black hills Until our hell is real. capped white and rolling down to the stormy Loughs. We totter in our chairs, We pray for soft release, Industry's scab-coal smoke We engage in harsh inertia … swirled the day … the night The poetry reading stretches, cold and bitter blasted Stretches far beyond the threshold by the wild Atlantic gales. Of artistic taste.

The black taxis snaked We near the end … Falls Road and the Shankill, We near the end … grey walled, round-shouldered, We near the end …

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Or delighted. (viii) ST PATRICK’S DAY DUBLIN 85 Never mind, my son, St Patrick’s Day by the Liffey, What we have not touched Green, white and gold, To get you a two-one The flags along the quay, Is sleight. The sea-salt fresh with freedom. I do not understand, master, The tide turned at three, I don’t remember enough The icy winds from Iceland To take the final step - Tempered by a brave March sun Examination. Burning bright the north bank. Never fret, my lad, The parade long since past, The world is out to lunch, The girls stop to parley, Beyond this room lies The gulls quietly circle. True habitation.

There is no Sunday frenzy, (ii) MARCH RAINS No wild mad fighting, Only happy families, The heavy March rains, washing grave Couples strolling, laughing. stones, Drenching mourners, weighing willows, Dublin traffic gently rumbling, Pressing cypress, bending hawthorn, Grandmothers pushing children Dripping on crocus. Waving flags, green rossetted. Falling forlorn, the March rains soaking, Budding elm and sycamore, Spring rains pouring, Spires, arches, domes, Weeping, weeping, cleansing, restoring, The Liffey flowing out to sea Winter passing - no more snow; Beneath the fair bridges. No more cold - its anger going.

WEEK 50 (18th March ) (iii) PURITY (for Elaine) (i) TUTORIAL - WHAT HAVE YOU LEARNED Purity came out of the cold, Stood on the doorstep, End of term again Dressed in red, And what have you learned Her hair in plaits. To make you more human, All the way from Manchester, More enlightened? She came to love, to walk through the door I do not know, mentor, Towards the unknown. I haven’t read a word She stayed barely a day, To make me feel special A night together,

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A night forever, Mailer to the right. Flippity flip flip. Sunshine at dawn. Durham and York. Doncaster gone. Bus station parting, Bumpity bump bump. Faster past houses, We kissed quietly, Slowly on southwards. Trundily wooh Turned backs sadly, wooh. To worlds of our own. Onwards by pit-heaps, by towers of concrete. (iv) THIRTY O NE Rumbily nock nock. Onwards to Kings Cross! I never thought that at thirty one Ditches and pastures, Constable pictures, Some people would view me as still very Gulls in the trees, windmills in fields. young. Humbily hum hum. Wheeliwah run run. Swans in the furrows, horses on stubble, Thirty one, Gypsies encamped by motorcross tracks. Just a young one Onwards to Kings Cross! Clickity clack On the poetry scene. clack. Broken yard fences, dirty black bridges, I know poets sixty or more, Fallen down churches, uprooted hedges. I think I’m just starting Softly slow slip. Steadily clack click. In this game. Grey weather breaking, tall multi's looming, It must be tough Scrap pile mountains, factory smoke For those students streaming, Who’re only seventeen. Wires criss-crossing, highways well- knotted, No wonder poetry’s boring People on platforms, people on buses, And for old farts People not waving, people kept waiting. And ugly intellectuals. Juddery jug jug Juddery bump bump. Onwards to Kings Cross! Midday and not Take it from me, pal, far. Thirty one is young Onwards to Kings Cross! Tunnels and To be a poetry man. sunned skies. Onwards to Kings Cross! Welwyn and (v) THE NINE-FIFTEEN TO KINGS Hatfield. CROSS Onwards to Kings Cross! Hadley and Barnet. The nine-fifteen to Kings Cross! Onwards more tunnels, onwards past Twelve-nineteen at Kings Cross! Southgate, The nine-fifteen to Kings Cross! Electrified cables, whizzing past Hornsey. Bumpity bump bump bump! Onwards to Kings Cross! Four minutes late. Telegraphs and Times', Maxwell House Onwards to Kings Cross! Kings Cross! and wines. Kings Cross! Clinkity clink clink. Heller to the left, Arrival at Kings Cross! Four minutes late.

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(END OF TERM FIVE) We passed the jays in steady flow, Conversed about dreams and future things, EASTER VACATION 1985 Family ties and the passing of years, (Easter Monday, 7th Apr 1985, Sleepwalking, music, and personal faults, Newcastle) Rejection of love and welfare forms. We charted the troubles of the world, My life is empty Till half asleep, we recorded the dawn – Of all those things Billy with song, I with this poem. … those hang-ups we are pegged by TERM 6 those envious and hurt THE STATE O F LEARNING IN who are about us ENGLAND daily and forever. [22nd Apr – 30th June 1985, mainly Newcastle] For we do not see the harm caused, WEEK 51 the pain unleashed As bankruptcy edges in on my friends, by self admirers I’m glad to be lost in another term. and their liggers … until too late (i) BASIL BUNTING the cut is made and the wound runs deep. Where now Basil is dead, And the crows cry alone on the Flats, I am severed The north has lost an aging man, to the marrow To dust now gone. by very little … we are bled What now Basil is dead by contempt and shuns And the wind blows seed over the reeds, and sharp returns, Earth to air and water fired, and still we heal Tall grass split and shorn. to carry on as ever. What now Basil is dead JUNE The lake heaves twigs into the weed, [16th April 1985, Newcastle] The trees bend in sighing woe Wailing ‘Where did Basil go?’ June got me to smoke a cigarette While listening to Elgar (ii) WE ARE O RDERED As we kissed upon her bed. Too often we are ordered YOUNG BILLY To do that which we should be ordering For ourselves, for structure comes from [21st April 1985, Newcastle] within Not without. For without parameters Young Billy and I talked into the night Till the sun rose over Byker Hill.

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We allow ourselves to be shaped by Yes, how the tropics call to me, others. To dream and idly pass my future In a hammock on a beach upon an island The commands of others represent the Set amidst the coral reefs of an ocean – disunity Within ourselves. Such disarray Coloured by the bounty of a teeming Only spreads the power of others. Bathymetric sea … But in England, We are equal, but order produces Only some folks have all the fun, A master for each slave. To run to the joyous ocean to escape work; (iii) WHY IS IT SNOWING? Whilst the rest grind on towards the hope Why is it snowing in the last week of Of summer, the lucky least take off to April? Asian parts in quest of drugs, of pleasure; Is this the start of the nuclear winter? While a covert few depart in search of When I look out my window, wealth Ignoring all the red-brick houses, In young America, and only those I do not see a veritable garden discouraged, Of green shrubbery and protruding Disillusioned, and despairing, find flowers. themselves Dwelling on the bleakness of the weather. It is spring, yet the verdant promise Of a profuse summer of botanical plenty WEEK 52 Seems a hazy distant hope based on past Everyman has deeds to do on Earth; Experience of long hot summers. Sleet Ill-spent time impedes great design. and Hail three days before the advent of May FO LLO WING MY TUTOR’S ADVICE Suggests a shortish summer of heavy rain And cool afternoons spent beneath the A poet must be brief, so my tutor tells eaves me. Of park pavilions and disused shelters. This week I bought some hash, and drove To the Lakes on the Lit Soc outing. Outdoor pursuits of tennis, bowling, Tutor’s advice stops me from telling Walks along the beach in search of quiet more. And isolation to go nude bathing, seems A far mirage, a forlorn dreaming - WEEK 53

That paradise will come to England (i) CUMBRIA While the well-to-do travel overseas And read the British press every day just I cannot help but dwell upon In case they miss out on a summer heat The last few days … and how wave. The Lakeland Pikes call on me To turn towards their tarns,

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Those strides that cradle heaven For those earthbound creatures Pride rooted in power Straddling dungeon gyll and airy fall Cast Satan into Chaos, To standing stones; to mere side hosts Alexander to the Indus, Round islands garlic green and yewed Brought Anthony to Egypt, That calls on me anew – till few And Bonaparte to Russia. Remaining ripples lap me constant In the shade of silent waters, or Ofermod! Ofermod! In the mists upon gowned fells, or The knell bell tolls. Beneath cracked and gullied crags One man’s will Cutting cloud, piercing the sublime Brings many more woe. To sweep along the edge of nothing Where I long to stand and wonder (iv) I SHAVED MY MOUSTACHE OFF At the limit’s of man’s kingdom. I shaved my moustache off, (ii) CAEDMON’S MIDDLE-EARTH Then talked to my lover on the phone, But it didn’t make a difference, Now shall we hail the heavenly guard, I was still the same to her. Metudaes might, and his mind-thought, His world-father works, each wonder that I struggled on with Judith, he our God first ordered. Hating very verb I didn’t know, He, prime poet, of men’s children, My upper lip quivered violently, Heaven unto thatch, the holy shepherd; Trapped in study not in love. In Middle-Earth, mankind’s guard, Our god, who past adorned For my love had left me, Life’s land as lord almighty. And fled across the vale, Up the steps, beneath the beeches (iii) O FERMO D (PRIDE) Sloping up to Byker Hill.

Over mind, over thought, There I drifted, there I lingered, Over spirit, over all, There I pined to rest, Some try to split the atom But Judith drew me on to work Before the apple falls. As darkness made descent.

Pride rooted in chivalry No fair muse heard my call, Killed Brythnort at Maldon, My spirit passing on, Harold Goodwin at Hastings, Judith had me trapped fore’er Prince Henry at Crecy, Without a thought of love. James Stuart at Flodden. I called upon the summer winds Ofermod! Ofermod! To bring on cooling calm, The kettle drum judders. To wing me clear across the vale By one man’s will, Into my lover’s arms. Many more suffer.

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WEEK 54 (ii) THERE IS A WO RLD O UT THERE Ageless I find the motive of my existence Inconsistent with the dreams I demand. There is a world out there that no wealth Of language can express. Ablution. The (i) PRO SE WRITER life Of an undergraduate is always taking turns True to all ideals, existence bears up Towards the future. Likewise, his forms, To all examination, discounting art his means And emotion as reasons for survival. Of demonstrating inner motive – outer emotion Prose should be the medium of poets – Require changing styles in keeping with Alas, would-be-bards soon turn novelist the In reaction to dictionaries and foreign Constant variation of his education. And languages. so, In streaming prose, in keeping with the How sad, we mourn … tut, tut – wet Poor England lacerating her native May weather, I the undergraduate, the tongue, driveling And which pulp fiction hack would deny Scholar, once reviewed as a tartan it. Candide, Must entertain. Prose, my friends, is for the likes of me, For this is too often Poor man’s poetry, rich man’s lifestyle; Is the failing of our Arts Council poets – Prose is not safe for fine ideal. They rarely make us laugh, and I can only Giggle when I see and hear such artificers Hence, an escape to freedom, at Removal from restricted reason Readings with their puffed out chests To digress on Kenya – And scraps of yellowed paper – with their Neckerchiefs and garden-digger sweaters – Where girls mate with strangers With their droll dry voices dragging out And strangers have men at their feet. Dreary dirges – their audience with smiles In pain until the clapping’s finished. Oh In prose we swallow nectars Sad state of learning in England, must That middling poets have never tasted – We cry, forego the pleasures of laughter, Poor, lone souls drifting somewhere Exchange the literature of song for such Between the high moors and the crashing Versed misery? sea. My tutor, a man of learning, So Romantic, he is an expert, whispered I the prose writer, you the reader Quietly in my ear that poetry was dead – Can twitter in a huddle to ourselves ‘There are finer things a man may do In the recess of a fiction bower, than waste his time upon the art of read words poets will never warble. verse.’ He made me see the light – and now Transformed, my voice speaks to you

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Unmarked by rhyme, unchecked by Dick was trapped, and fairly full sad metre, That Fanny forgot to ring or drop by As the novelist in me triumphs over poet With a thumbnail of hash, or bottle of To hack me free of dogged-down verse. wine To splash on his books – to get him WEEK 55 wrecked Text pages wet with tears, dog-end with As he sat revising Old English verse. weeping. WEEK 56 FANNY AND DICK (i) THRASHING THEMSELVES WITH Fanny gave Dick hell for six months. NETTLES She studied art and film at the Polytechnic. When the sun shines in the far north of He, poor soul, struggled through Old England, it does so usually by chance. English When the heat wave comes - the natives And Milton, while she watched movies Cancel their plans of two weeks in Spain In class and at home on video. And travel instead to France by motorbike Her exams finished weeks before his; Or thumb. The less adventurous potter She partied and drank, balled and smoked In the garden or make pots of mint tea hash And enjoy the only time in England when While Dick stuck it out with Beowulf and The climate is everybody’s idea of Judith, summer. Hating the silence of Fanny’s departure - No one came round, called, or arranged Then the thunderstorms bring the overcast To meet Dick for a drink, or over for tea Of cool afternoons so typically the norm – – They left him to drown on Seafarer The windows close, the doors stay shut verse, And everyone goes around with hard They left him to wallow on Wanderer shoes text, And a briskness so common of the Abandoned him totally to Old English drudgery literature; Of work and day to day low grey dawns None thought to save him, least of all That drizzle, fizzle, pop into dull Fanny. descending Evenings leading on to another grey Out on the town, out in the countryside, morning – Off to wild picnics, off on mad trips While the folks in Spain, turn a shade Down to the seaside, up in the hills, more Free as a lark, with no thought of Dick. Olive, and the grape in France swells fuller Fanny was happy and shot of her studies. Bodied – the natives in north England suffer

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the fate of Caesar’s legions guarding Rachael Rock – I cannot yet forget. Hadrian’s Wall - Who thrashed themselves angrily with WEEK 57 Flowering nettles to keep from getting cold. (i) PROVOKED

(ii) RACHAEL ROCK Too often men find themselves for Sarah (Stone) provoked, To lash out at the world and hit whatever Rachael Rock – if ever there was girl it is that they find most cause to hate. More perfectly in tune with how I felt, Or how I wished to be, then hell, I Such umbrage can produce from a writer, Don’t think I’d feel this panegyric. A satire on the fellows of his profession Who sell themselves for everything but Yes, Rachael Rock, sweetness profound! truth.

We met and came, and conquered all (ii) THE STATE O F LEARNING IN Inhibitions at an all-night party that ENGLAND Threw to dust the cobwebs from my Boring life of going to university. Is it back to poetry so soon? I thought I’d given it up for good. I loved her sea-green eyes and coral Black hair, and her dark brown skin But listen, which right minded writer And soft quiet voice that spoke like Would admit he’s lost the knack of verse No poet ever could affect. And thrown himself to hewing hack lines Of nonsense and tomfoolery? I see her still, we talk of foreign Places where she would like to go, Now, you may wonder at the state of To live content teaching English learning Language to the world. In England these days when its undergraduates Rachael Rock, a candle in a storm. Are told that their verse is too long, and Yet Rachel is a lie, her name false – That they should think about doing other It gives no truth to the natural spirit Things more in keeping with the century. Underlying her sweet exemplar. I’m sure wee Alexander Pope would turn In this grey clay bed in the Abbey, and To call her Rock is wrong … she is an Nudge the elbow of big John Dryden, and Island verdant rich profuse with fruit Say ‘Hey, Bayes, have you heard the In passion ripe abundance. latest Gossip in the town?’, and John would say The Muses sing her praise as a precious – Angel set to gift rare treasures ‘No, young lad, I’ve been dead three Of amber-gris and jet. hundred

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years and been enjoying the peace and Hadn’t taken all of a year to compose. quiet.’ They play with words and hope that the But of course, his curiosity would better idea His common sense, and he’d ask ‘Well, Drops into place like a round peg in a What are the hacks in town moaning on square About right now?’ – And obligingly Hole, and lo, when it does not happen We Alec would open his trap and blurt they pretend to one another that it has, That ‘I’ve heard that goddess Dullness until each is slapping each in turn upon Has been set above the poets that the back at their genius – each buys each Abound the list of Arts Council scribblers, a drink at the bar, and getting drunk And that each, to get his pennies from they make their lies much easier to The State, must first of all agree not spin, until by closing time their words To write the truth or say a word against are so inflated by bombast and farting, The leaders of the country, and that they sing into the rafters of how they’ve All their verse must be published by the solved the mysteries of time, and can Friends of friends of friends of proffer forth solutions to the ails of government common folk and half the world. And Ministers of the Tory faction, which off the go in blind drunkenness to their Of course, so they say are the only ones shabby attics to compose their Who can afford to pay the scandalous masterpieces – prices where slaving half the night to find For the briefest lines of piss-pot bumf the first word, they abandon it for That slides its way on to the shelves of their beds like the Irish bards of old. All the public libraries in the country There they remain till afternoon and where Hunger calls them to the vertical – Its ignored, as it hasn’t got a thing Once more they totter off to the public To do with anything that’s got anything Houses with their pens behind their ears, To do with people who use the public The first word of their latest masterpiece Libraries up and down the country!’ On their lips, and safely memorised, written And Big John Dryden, listening sleepily Out a hundred times in case they lose it, To the high-pitched lilt of Alec’s voice Or forget what it was the laboured Echoing through the night of the Abbey, Half the night to compose. Aye, hear Scratched his nose and offered up some Me, young Alec, none of this is new – Quick advice to his young death-bed The Dunces abound and belch louder Mate, and said ‘Nothing ever changes. Than those who sleep quietly at night Shadwells, Settles, Cibbers, and all those And rise and keep Nature’s proper social Grub Street liggers, hanging on to words Hours. Though, I must confess, that Like children clinging on to sixpences as I have slept these three hundred years if Without seeing a single dawn, though They were the jewels of the realm. Ne’er I doubt our enemies, the Hacks, have Did I hear a sentence from a hack that Seen any more first greying than I Did not take an hour to construct – ne’er Since they embarked upon their fancy I heard a line from a scribbling poet that ships

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As self-appointed captains of genius, just So long to find my companions here because the government pays for every Are but mortal men?’ ‘You hush, John line. Milton!’ Marvell said loudly ‘You’ll bring Aye, Alec, the hacks were bad in our day- Damn Satan down upon our Eden!. How But at least we were around.’ Can I forget your pounding verse, in Our time I passed as second best. Yet, Woken up by Dryden, Jonny Swift, from I will admit you helped me to get on, Over In a corner, spoke – ‘You’re right, Prosper, writing all that propaganda Big John, wee Alec was the scourge For that old dog Cromwell. He paid To all those hacks in our time – I gave For every line to which I confessed – Them hell in my Battle of the Books, It’s just as well I hid the rest. I wonder And you turned Shadwell’s hair wig grey If they’ve found it yet? With yon MacFlecknoe. That bit the ear Off half the poets in the kingdom, and Milton scratched his grave-sore bum Man, it was treat to see all the faces And said –‘The Devil still not caught Of the critics red and shit upon Your tongue, young Marvell? You were In the very manner that they tore down A cad for sure, we both well knew The pillars of literature we erected - How to sit on fences, ride the times I put them all to sea with my mad cap Of king’s departures, lords beheadings – Tale of three rub-a-dub fools in a tub.’ I played the Penseroso, you the Allegro, We rode our hobby-horses, not a Pegasus. The Abbey rang with their laughter, as No wonder I got lost in Paradise, it Now, big John, wee Alec, and lank Swifty Was safer than playing politics no Garbled on about the good old days – Matter how much we pandered. Look Till suddenly they heard a creaking, a what became old Suckling, Lovelace, Groaning, then a yawning, & the voice of Carew - Andrew Marvell - ‘I remember well the feathers in their helmets, daggers at their hacks of England, throats; they went public, while we held And yon when I went to Rome private our own personal views. We must And bumped into MacFlecknoe; and later have done right to be buried here. But lo, When that fool Tom May died and left who are those poets whispering over Behind his sad driveling, it made me there? Tirade more on him than I ever did on Is that young Dryden I hear?’ Our deist Monarch! But quiet, headless Charles lies over yonder, and Cromwell, ‘Hail, great Samson of English verse! Thank god, is even further apart from us Aye, it is I, big John, you hear twittering Good poets crowded here in the apse.’ On to our great Augustans. We have Been upbraiding hacks and scribblers. Then through the darkness of the Abbey Do you remember any such piss-pots Night spoke a poet lying close to Marvell Who driveled on and made a name?’ ‘Do I hear the lilt of coy Andy? I cannot Samson took a breath, then spoke – see, but I remember well every sound ‘Aye, there are a hundred hacks to I learned on my journey through Paradise every single poet of worth, so many And Hell. Surely I could not have slept to recall, so few worth the bother at all.

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If they are not buried here, then time though art could be bought, genius could Has taken its toll. But hush! Let’s speak not Softly, we don’t want to awaken John be made to order like a pudding or a pie Donne; from a recipe concocted to guarantee a He’ll sermonise us delirious, his work was diet of good poetry and honest verse. Good, but its better to let dogs snore.’ So – this for all the hacks, and all Too late! The Dean turned stone-cold The piss-pot scribblers – let this be over A gauge of all that needs to be done And flew out emotion with a roar from If a poet is to succeed from meagre His mouth four centuries dry and silent. Verse to great timeless poetry. For ‘I heard you, young Milton – quiver In the Abbey lies our slumbering critics; if you will, but we are in the Abbey, Only in the whispers of their approval and I dare not use any dirty words. These Will you hear the truth – and only when are the stock and stave that burden hacks You lie with them will the truth be and bind them loveless to the universe.’ known- ‘You old piss-prude!’ another poet yelled. That you are no hack, but a poet in your ‘Who calls me that?? Dean John own. indignant. ‘I know that voice. Come on, own up my WEEK 58 friend. I still see your Tyburn thumb pressing up the butt of Ginger Jimmy. (i) WHAT’S IN A NAME You’re loud-mouthed poetaster Ben Jonson!’ Petra is not happy with her name. She wishes to be someone, but cannot say ‘You dirty old priest’ sniggered Ben, Whether Linda is better than plain Jane, ‘Four hundred years and still the same – Or Debbie more common than mere Jill. buried in this musty mausoleum, you’d think they’d have cleaned your grave She should be called Anna or Emma, out once at least. I’m surprised Poetry’s But she has some friends with these pilgrims don’t complain. I could do with names. a wash and brush and change myself. Rachael or Petra, one means the other – Our poetry is fresh, but our bodies hum. I’ll call her Heather, play safe. I wonder when old Willy last turned?’ (ii) HEATHER AND PETE As if no one wished to disturb the Greatest bard of them all, a chorus of Heather and Pete came down on a cloud ‘Ssssshhhhh’ filled the Abbey, and And slept together in a moor land bog. everyone fell silent as they listened to The mist provided a curtain from peepers the echo carry down the aisle towards Wanting to know the phenomenal cause the kings and queens, the patron of their Of the deep red glow, the blue flashing art, whom they had served and pandered light without being low common hacks. For That covered the sky seven mornings and nights.

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But Heather and Pete, unsaddled, unbridled Not on the tongues of middle-aging Rode out their love with such blinding fire capitalists, The peepers turned blind watching their Secure in their homes, secure in versed passion. hypocrisy. They most they espied was one naked For were it not for reasons less important thigh, Than a personal commitment to myself, Or a knee, or a toe pushed to the sky – I would give up this diary of event – But never a torso, a cheek, or a face. And believe indeed that POETRY IS DEAD. On the eighth day of bliss, they rose aloft, Enveloped and wound in a celestial haze. For when all is said and done – The mist vaporised in a steaming whirl I still turn in recoil from nature As the lovers sped off at a chase – To attack all that has gone wrong The peepers stumbled forward into the In Poetry since I began this sojourn. bog Like the hour before the battle lours, Scrambled, and crawled at a loss. I see the hordes of hacks advancing, Their armour dull, their plumaged They cam upon the love bed departed – jaundiced, A crater shot-hot with the host; Smearing bile on all they trample. They tumbled into the heat of the hole To discover their vision miraculous Yet I should ignore all conflict, restored; And turn my face to gaze upon But never again did the peepers The beauty of wild nature; seek the experience sublime Heather and Pete making love in the bog. Hidden from the know of city dwellers. For when man is sick of his fellow man, WEEK 59 He should renounce all that is material – PO ETRY IS DEAD Travel to a landscape right for solitude, Or seascape sedative, to reshape his There is little point saying something hostility. When there is nothing to say. Having declared that poetry is dead, And there, on the barren hills of nowhere, Where now can this long work lead? Out upon the wild waves of ocean, If there is a resurrection, then Poetry may come to a listening man Who shall witness and proclaim it? And fill him with the resurrecting spirit Surely not the critics, the closet hacks, That eludes the urban guru – the city The ones who invent meaning, yet deny Hack pounding his machine for copy. it! For if Poetry is dead, there is no body, Only a spirit waiting where few men No, if Poetry is to live in spirit, not wander. material, Then it is in the voice of youth we’ll find WEEK 60 it, Exam results – how we tremble To hear that we are not geniuses.

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(i) LIVING O FF THE STATE Clever means stupid and dumb About the common practical aspects To hell – its summer, Of everyday chore and habit, Time to hit the beaches, Or whether clever means uncreative – Forget all the book crap. That is – totally critical, Analytical, verbal and quantitive; Sun, sex, and travel … Or whether it means that students Vitamin C mornings Who study seven days and nights Chasing alcoholic dawns. In every week are weirdoes – Or whether people who get 2-1’s Give me stretching beaches, And Firsts are just into books Tall cocktails mixed, And not into drugs and sex. Slow music yawning. But who cares – everyone’s different – Aye, the student vacation, In America clever means money; No talk of work, There you’re dumb if clever, but broke. That’s for commoners. So, maybe in Britain, if you’re clever, Greece? – no, man, Then you’re into particular studies That’s only a thousand off – That means more than just a 2-2. It’s India or Oz for me. Where as, if you are not clever, You’re into having a good time, But not this year, Enjoying life, and that sort of thing. Mass for this guy, Standby to New England. (iii) ANO THER YEAR ENDS

Makes you sick, eh? And so another year ends. Us layabouts lazing, No more exams, no more classes Living off the State. Till October comes again.

We cares, mates – The grey autumn skies Someone has to pay – That herald another cold winter But not me, okay. And nights over books.

(ii) NO T CLEVER Sixty weeks gone, thirty left, The undergraduate life withers, You know, the more I study, Moves towards freedom. The more I realise I am no critic. Someone said to me ‘Anyone Vacation is here, lord – Who gets more than a 2-2 Cobwebs and bookworms Doesn’t know how to think We leave undisturbed. For themselves – they’re only clever.’ And what have we learned? It makes me ponder whether The echoes of masters

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Go round in our heads. that far exceeded the beauty recalled of lost Eden, forbidden for all time We go down for the summer, to mortals on this earth or the next – To sink in green meadows, unlike Nirvana that lies beyond To forget all out trials. perception to those who dwell solely on Heaven, We go down till autumn, Utopia is a bookish premise for Returned with knowledge happiness, ‘cept of ourselves. offering no rules for all that’s realistic.

2ND YEAR SUMMER VACATIO N And still, while summer grips the conscious world of this new republic THE AMERICAN DREAM made beautiful by a hive of industry [18th August 1985, Framingham, and the will and heart of ordinary citizens, Massachusetts] life slips by towards some Armageddon taking root in the soil of America. And so beginning with the trees and all the summer foliage, And while the breeze blows the tops I commenced to question nature of old Virginia or Ponderosa pine, for the answers to wild theories and the grasses of the Plains bathe formed on half-baked ideas, in the sun-seas of botanic ocean – never tried or put into practice time moves a sleeping Kali to awaken in the context of the milieu and explode upon a guilty nation. the great American Dream. Yet, if truth belies stock ignorance … Yet here in this vast New England if ideal is misguided by good intention, where men and women shape a land then we must part blame our teachers, far different from that all others know … the enlightened leaders taking us towards There is a void, a lack of life the dark empty void of chaos that flows beneath the surface world filled by a blind adherence to order. of timber houses backed by yards that stretch in common to an acre, Hell has many paths to its centre, deep and fenced and posted ‘Private’. but Bardo is a place where terror reigns; for along the road to other worlds For common to the rights of individuals can be seen great citadels of pleasure is belief in private ownership – where warm blooded creatures a concept in keeping with an Englishman serve with smiles and care for nature. that his home is a lofty bastion, from where to view the world, Thus in this new England we discover to champion, to defend the Dream - passion flying on the ecstasy of now, as proud hero, a stalwart of liberty the Dream – in that there’s no tomorrow behind his mighty edifice of wood where each yesterday is forgiven - For while Atlantis may have been a each sin pardoned by some saviour, paradise Leaves the wicked wickeder than before.

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God makes his plan in each of us, or the spine, and not on the light that in each, in all, in everything – the Dream matters. lives and births anew upon America; forever, each dawn enforces the myth, Misguided in our visions, we slumber supplants the new world doubt that where we should show alertness of action overcomes the inner spirit. purpose, sleep where thought should penetrate For Paradise is a café, a diner and manifest itself as action – where good Americans feast or breakfast we die where concentration fosters life, before returning to the hard reality struggle where the way leads on with ease. of social failure midst material success – where proud, fine individuals, fail to admit If the barriers to a fruitful progress the alien-ness of their fellow citizens. are not already mighty in themselves, we create fresh mountains from the debris Struggling to put a face on a day of decaying faith and moulding beliefs – that every hour is a part of the Dream, then foster a new religion, a fresh in this new world there is hope enchantment that someone is going to love you, with which to obscure the plain old Truth. that someone is going to touch you, And shower your life with sex. And having thus erected a mountain, we fortify it with all our knowledge, And still … as summer slumbers on, invest our time, our wealth of interest, the wild grass seeds blow across foster reverence, guard, defend, and covet a continent basking in plenty – all that we jealously protect – ring it the sky fills with native birds with walls and keep out our enemies. following a host of insects; I lounge in the caverns of this England, Loving what’s within, hating all without pine roofed, pine floored, clear pooled. our code of conduct becomes enmeshed in a struggle to subject, or conquer On the water, the sun reflects a vision all that stands against our belief - of perfection so much the American way. our vision as we perceive it from Yet, if we cannot wish, then how our castle on the mountain. shall our dreams ever come to bear? A penny dropped, the ripple created And thus the Dream - a sacred summit is all that marks the wish never made. in the mists of complex fortification - is beyond the sight of normal man Dreams are never read on people’s face, travelling across the flat plain of Truth – rarely found in the yellow of our hearts, It is a mirage, a thirsty man’s delusion we think alone, and pass off foreign that life is more than what nature offers. notions; adhering to the glow of the seventh And here, in this new England – I see chakra, trees swaying in a warm south wind, those of the Dream are centred in the smell the pine and maple in the air, bosom watch the wagtails flock for insects

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in the long grass grazed by ponies, back to old England, disillusioned, shy and lazy, in the buzz of summer. unwilling to share the daughter’s Dream; what will I say about those wooden castles And as the light begins to fade - built on moral sand and half-baked views. the Dream is but a myth that’s peddled - each setting sun reveals its secret – EMMA there’s nothing new that is not old, [21st Aug 1985, Framingham, Massachus.] or nothing old that’s not been repeated since the first cockerel crowed. As I took my morning tea, I heard the breeze in the eaves; And like old England, this new England Quietly, as the warm of the day has men desiring to imitate the old anew Rose on me, I lingered in the park, in replica appearance with golf and tennis, Wandered there, till noon – with quaint olde world facade and fashion, Listening to a bird singing ‘Emma’. till even those familiar with the real may wonder if the two are so different. As I tore myself from earnest concentration, In old England, the Dream is dead, I caught the stream whispering softly, left rotten and best forgotten – Barely, as the leaves of autumn the shame of centuries chokes all swagger; Shed gold on me beneath an aspen Imperialism as the perfect form of That I pondered by, at three – government? I listened, and I heard ‘Emma’. With human justice so badly enforced, who now would follow such a course? As I bore myself out of meditation, I heard the cicada call her name – In that old England, the Dream – Slowly, as the cool of the night once carried around the world as a flag, Descended on me beneath the maple exists in this new England – in the same Where I retreated after supper, clash of colour – red, white and blue. I heard it again ‘Emma’. Men marching in the name of God and nation, THE BOSTON SHADE overlord of all other Gods and countries. [22nd Aug 1985, Boston, Massachusetts]

For this is the way, the way of America, August afternoon in the Boston shade, the Dream that goes beyond imagination - watching the tramps collect their booty save the world, organise the universe, from the trash in Copley Square. shape the destiny of man by arms – to bully on beyond the know or Lovers winning kisses with a laugh, knowledge kids skate-boarding crowded streets of lesser mortals doomed to feed the across a city doing what it does – Dream. Despite the frenzy of nearby New York, And I, in this new England as a guest, Boston , slow and easy every day, what then when I return from here - Buses on as if it’s on vacation.

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THE MAN O N EARTH rule a greedy few against all [25th Aug 1985, Framingham, Massachus.] commonwealths, the brotherhood that sets all equal. Let the peregrini travel the world, the saddu’s walk the roads; Upon us are the laws of class let them find kundalini that forever cast us to the wind, while I stay at home. where the voices of the dead cry out, warn us of the wrongs of servitude, Let the sanyasin preach the word, blind compliance to a dying system, the rishi guide the way; kept alive by a blind obedience let them have their yagas to a forceful order that breaks resistance while I dream the dray. with the iron fist of fear.

Let the guru teach the pranas, This cruel injustice that sends policemen the saints love of god; To the doors of the innocent, sets soldiers let them drink the ambrose armed upon peace campaigners - while I sip on broth. More & more the victims of repression.

Let pandits tap the monad, These are the methods of the few, the charkas, yantras, rays; Put in power by a people let them chant their mantras Soft and easy in their mediocrity, while I from slumber rise. Where ideal sold for false security,

Let the master reach nirvana, We are sick and fevered – our children their pupils astral highs; Die in this plague of self destruction. let them quench their fire The time for words has gone – and we while I live to die. The people search for a new Messiah. For we have no future joy – we lead THE CULTURE SHO CK our children blindly on towards an end. [5th Sept 1985, Newcastle-upon-Tyne] Can no man steer us from annihilation?

The culture shock of squalid England, man pressed to man like rivals – the open land gone centuries ago, opportunities no longer for the labourer, as we wait, and watch the decay eat and fester any future we had for ourselves or for our children.

Sent out from our homes poor & hungry for a life this land will never let them have the chance to search for … as above us

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THE UNDERGRADUATE - 3rd YEAR

TERM 7 in whimsical go-as-you-please. [Oct 1985 - Dec 1985, Newcastle] You can have your two quid- PROLOGUE an-hour or so, dirty snot jobs or the brue. (i) RETURN TO THE O THERWO RLD The soft student life of parties and wine I am undone. is a rich doddle and breeze. Autumn steals long summer. Take me then, And so when I howl, take me back in chains. wrinkle and scowl Fix the bonds of study at returning to varsity - until I'm imprisoned. take it from me, it's only a sneeze, Free my time has been. I'd rather be there than at sea. I have lazed, procrastinated. Racked .. my books stand dusty, WEEK 61 aside lies knowledge shelved for pleasure. (i) CHARLIE Now, goes the vernal equinox. A girl from down-south And what has gone? with an incredible smile Soft long mornings, and blue eyes that dash tea and conversation, flash kingfisher dart wine upon the sands, like the back of a dolphin tomorrow hung on sunsets, cutting reefed sweeps tomorrow .... of lapis-lazed oceans, hung azul horizons Now, expectancy is dead. aglow with the blaze Each day takes meaning. of a heaven of candles In a diary of engagements, lit by the gaze, time punctuates all time. the aquamarine glaze And study draws in on of Charlie, my blue-jay the freedom of living. and darling.

(ii) AND NOW? (ii) ALBERT

Yet shall I laugh My mate and my marra' while all others cry. but no timid sparrow, What better life can there be or vole off a-scurrying than taking two thou' through grass to burrow, to peruse and browse novels to hide in the dark

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like an owl or bat; WEEK 62 no frightened field-mouse turned out of house (i) SO ME FO LKS when the harvester culls the wheat summer ripe Some folks are pebbles in oceans for eating and storing others stones in dry streams, by hamster or mole. some like soft limestone He's Albert, me china, wash quickly to sea, me mate an' me marra', some like black basalt me chip off-the-old-wood, weather, fade, and erode, solid and rot-proof, others like soft clay treated and seasoned, rain-run in storms. sound and dry through. but some are white marble, (iii) BILLY pink granite, red sandstone, others green feldspar, What's that you say? blue quartz, common mica. You've got terrible drug debts! (ii) MICHAEL Billy, my lad, what can I tell you but pack it all in, He was a lump of schist, and go back to piano hard as calcite, or singing, or stringing and thick as pitch-blend. your poor gut guitar. Lived in grey millstone I heard a C minor by erections of whinsill when you last thumbed a chord, and outcrops of sandstone. it's been floating around like pollen since August, He was a blunt flint, I swear it vacationed a dull scaly shale, all of September, a soft piece of slate. I heard it come back last week for certain. WEEK 63

Look .. it's under your bed, (i) THE SO LDIER & THE VIRGIN I heard it yawning, being on the dole He put his eggs between her legs is no good for notes either, and dipped his soldier sin. it's starting to smell, She was pale and yellow turn blue, and sound rotten. as he broke the yoke within. So give us a song, son! something major to rock on. He beat her hard and curtly, he whipped his weapon round. She was warm and runny

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as he gorged and finger wound. to travel where no black wing dares; till all is calm and safely back, Shelled, ash, and lint white, Charmed, and chained, and anchored he crushed her fey remains. there. She chalk gone to powder, he boiled to rape again. Where time slips by like no-one knows and ships return like wolves to lair. (ii) AS TALL SHIPS DEPART WEEK 64 Erstwhile tall ships depart, arrive around the world of seaboard fringe (i) WAITING IN LIMBO where hearts akin to wind and wave speed farewell and haste return And always we must return to parts dry-marshed or thistle-downed to the Undergraduate ... unbaptised that have not heard the call of tern caught in Limbo ... his studies nor whale nor seal nor ocean sprites like some task on the edge of Hell. that sail far-off beyond our ken. And if he breaks his chains like some And we who wait and dream of storm Prometheus and wreck upon some wrecker's rock dispossessed of Olympic fire? midst gale and tempest lashing hard Or if he overturns the columns like some on minds beset by fear of loss, Samson we bar and bolt our flimsy doors dispossessed of all his strength, against the angry hail of night will he bring down the roof of that abode and sleep unwary of the deep so called ... The University? run by ships in hunt or flight. What then? Will not his Hell Till home they come, and drop and rock become the ends of all labour? in haven, harbour, quay, or dock. No! Into chaos sink the misdirected Till tall masts sway like beeches void of heart and mind to pain, along the margined strand they break, into dark and depthless chasms the captains on the bridge-decks sing and tack about their sea-dog days … fall the weary, weak, and worn and still the lubbers stand about of struggle, weight, and burden laden and gaze wide eyed-about the lee, on them strapped great bales of straw and shipwrecked souls roll or stroll around the birch, and elm, and shore. each sheaf a thousand lengths of timber each fag ten chords of sawn log. While other dry-jack-tar-chips wistfully whistle subtle tunes, Without end, through-out time, the tall ships lean against the wind; without time, beyond all end, their flags set-out to bruise the sky through ethered air, without grass to wing like gulls afore a gale ..

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nor ground, nor solid living mass, (ii) VINO for all is dead, and black and hums of corpses burnt, bled, or hung. If vino is the drink of Gods and poets, there is no dispute ... men of wealth And this .. when nightmares haunt sip the grape and swill the berry the lax and lazy lolling student, while lesser men of fortune go thirsty this is his Hell, his sinful fix or quench their wants with hops and barley from which he wakes to find his books closed and stacked, his notebook blank, mashed, but not strained to perfection, his thoughts unformed about his work not sipped and tasted unto vintage, not aged in vaults in seasoned casks, while stern Abe Stone his tutor broods but served from vats like common feed like Satin waiting .. set to cast of husbandry .. with earthy modesty another erring student term-time down. and slop dispensed as honest beverage for the breed of lower beast Yet .. in innocence of all misdemeanour cast by fate into lesser human order like the nightingale at dusk, maintained by those of higher birth song issues from our Undergraduate. irrespective of genius, beauty, honour, Pride, concern, conscience, love or In deference of cold hard reality, learning ... sweet words vibrate off his pursed lips zipped upon the latest modern air. (iii) WE ARE THE O XBRIDGE MEN

The refrains lilt his worries skyward We are the Oxbridge men. like a lark soaring free - We go up. We come down. they lift him on the south-west breeze We end up running London Town. rising up from out the far West Ocean where once his childhood gamed on sands. Stock and state! We take our share! Now adverse to the strands of universe We carve it up medium rare! that the teachings of demented bards We are the Oxbridge men!! expound like surf upon Time's rock – he walks … Nothing ever changes. he mocks … Beginning without end, End without start. he knocks upon the door of learning Doesn't matter if you're smart, which he finds closed and barred, You'll end up with nothing. cobwebbed like some great cellar If you're nothing at birth, You'll have nothing at death. where shrewd and greedy men hoard We are the Oxbridge men! the wine that unlocks the inhibitions that block mankind from truth and We have the fortunes! wisdom. We have the wealth!

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Give up on money .. porridge oats, and lentil rice, Grow potatoes instead. tahini toast, rye crisp bread, This is our advice - Typhoo tea, and boiled eggs, For we are the Oxbridge men! Pasta, paste, and boiled veg, Lifeless, salty, starchy stew, Bonds and chains! Madras, Bombay, Vindaloo, We run estates! he'd give a dog to chew. We run the place! So know your place, While his studies ... We're not your mates! like some task in Hell We are the Oxbridge men!! wait in Limbo .....

We are the Oxbridge men! WEEK 65 Punctuality is the virtue of the board, (iv) OUR GODS ARE MORTALS And tardiness the vice of the game.

Oh what dark rumblings can be heard (i) IT MAY RAIN .... from behind the clouds shielding Olympus! It may rain in Spain, Today .. our Gods are all mere mortals but England never changes! implementing tyranny like pseudo Titans. It never nears the paradise we seek when on vacation. Where is that fire Prometheus gifted us? It never quite sustains our want Around us dim shadows flirt in half light. to shed our winter clothes Where is the torch to guide the good man and bare ourselves strong and naked as he emerges from the swamp of on the sands of Whitley Bay, nationhood? Bournemouth, Rhyl, or Morecambe. May such lesser beings free their will seek their wildest dreams on equal terms? (ii) WE WHALE WHITE BRITS

No! The Titans interfere .. enslave! We catch on time our morning trains No! The Titans doom all mortal kind to Yet arrive too late to catch the sun. Limbo! We wan and waste whale white Brits, Yet some wriggle free ... we sit before our fires and freeze, our blotch red cheeks blue-vein cracked, (v) THE UNDERGRADUATE our joints arthritic, stiff, and knacked. All wrack rheumatic, pinched, and hagged, He gets his chance, his nibble we huddle nursing heart attacks. at the Stilton and the Camembert, the reckless olives served with endive, (iii) HAPPY HUBBY HOME before his grant wanes to peas, beans, chips, and cheap mince pies, From eight to five we log and clock; muesli base without nuts, From five to eight we wait for work.

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Happy hubby home to happy housey goes Everyone, and everything, to waiting wishful whole-some model until there is no present wifey. only the will to recollect They smile sweetly with the morning what should have been separation and shall not ever be. expecting every evening's joyful re- uniting. WEEK 67 Cold English rain upon our lips, What Perfect Bliss! What Bon Accord! You chill us with your winter kiss. God made the world for such love! KUMQ UATS Until, home hubby came one noon and in their house found his wife Night .. it drops in half-cast grey, wrapped round the torso of another the yellow street lights hazed hubby. behind the spray of fruit trucks bowling north to Scotland. Lord! What Fate! What Bad Timing! How long has model wife been double- I watch and dream parch mouthed timing? and think of kumquats, guavas, avocados rolling up to Glasgow, The other hubby Spanish brown and to be unloaded ripe at market. beetroot, in a jiffy panted, but unbuttoned, For these are things I never saw gathering up his tails in a panic, nor tasted in my childhood dreams, said "I’m off! It's coffee at the office!" these were left till travelling days But almost out the door he scanned took me far to luscious gardens his season pass lying on the carpet. where resplendent fruit rained and dripped The erring lover swift returns! and soaked the earth with sensual ease, Folly feeds on such dumb stuff! until I was taught to balance waste as Nature's will to please itself. Angry cheated hubby cruelly quick seized cheating hubby and did him in. For I was want to think of fruit Screaming model wifey called the police as Man's reward for being first Can you imagine such a scene! in need of Nature's sweetest food, But soon it was explained to me - One dead! One jailed! and wife possessed! All on account of a season-pass! all creatures share in Nature's gift. And I, with Northern childhood gone, WEEK 66 saw kumquats as a fruit for all, and tasted kumquat, ate my fill. THE STRAGGLER And as I watch the trucks haul north, It is so easy to fall behind the dark November night now black;

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I taste the kumquat in my mouth, but the thing ran on and barked, and guava, avocado, forms a part - and barked so loud, I went to the owner standing all dumb and stupid with his chain of all the taste my travelling taught and said "There's a phone-box! Put the which ample childhood did not teach, mutt nor knew existed in my North on the lead! Or I'll call the cops!", of berry, briar, and Scottish mist. and the bloke swore at me, and meanly commanded his dog "Get him. Get him!", WEEK 68 but the smart dog, hurting in the mouth THE SEVEN SISTERS ran circles round and round me till the thing was spent and sore There are many things books cannot tell worn out and tired and crushed of. and only half the rave-mad beast There are many worlds poets cannot dwell he was before he went for Dot ... in. who hadn't even seen or heard him whooshing-by just inches from her ankles. The Seven Sisters ... Alice, Annie, Betty, Dot, Mary, Vicky, Violet .... But Alice had, and Vicky holding fell out from Hospital heaven Violet's arm had seen it all, and went on a big dipper ride with me and tried now to tell her all about it. around the snow topped Northumberland waste But, well, Dot's the least with it of the in a light blue mini-bus with insignia Sisters. on the side which read Health Authority; and although nobody stared in the Annie's eyes are bad, she's almost blind. country, Betty's usually dreaming or half-asleep. when we got to Rothbury, everybody Mary likes to sing all the time looked I could hear 'Kitty Kelly's Daughter' and wondered why seven old ladies as the punter's dog attacked. were wandering up and down the High Street But the threat was over, the punter in the freezing cold of late November. took his dog away on his chain. I didn't watch him go, my eyes But the girls didn't notice a thing were down the camera on the sisters as they sat on two park benches posing for me in the Rothbury cold. and I took their photos for posterity .. Click! One more for old posterity, when all of a sudden, a rave-mad dog then we joined hands, and crossed came bulling helter-skelter across the the road to the seven-day cafe grass famous in the North for being open and tried to knock Dotty to the ground! on Sundays all year round. What a beast! I chased it off; but the thing came back as Alice shouted Two young boys stood at the counter "Dot! Dot! Wartch out!" and I kicked it sweeties in their hands, fingers in the teeth so hard I heard a crack, scraping the frost off the ice-box,

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"What's that say, mister?" one lad and put her instantly at ease. pointed to a giant cardboard-cone "Cornetto" I said, and he grinned, We were in the cafe quite awhile, and I asked "No school today?" and as three o'clock drew closer the cafe filled with afternoon custom They shook their heads and giggled that either seemed disturbed by the Sisters when I said "Teachers on strike, I bet". or failed to notice them at all. One pointed out the window, other said "Oh no, it snowed this morning!" Mary sang a song, I forget what. "School was called off!" "We live up the tops. Over there!" Dot inspired by Mary's singing, sang one of the three songs she knows. Both pointed out the window Alice talked about her hair-do, beyond the Cragside trees to the bare hills, and Annie a little more about her eyes. and as the boys turned to be served Violet, always silent, laughed, I helped the sisters slide along and Betty tete-a-tete with Vicky the pine bench-seats of the empty cafe chewed on fruit pastilles she had got while one boy asked the lady owner me to buy with her seventeen pence for the ice-chocs on the ice-box chart before we left the cafe and went by pointing and saying "Two please". for a walk down Rothbury High Street The owner couldn't see what it was in the freezing cold of winter. that the young lads wanted. She was on the other side of the ice-box. They loved it. We loved it. We all laughed, and the two lads, We talked with three tied up dogs now red-faced, plunged their heads and said hello to every passing child into the ice-box to ease their and felt that Christmas was in the air, embarrassment. and walked down to the river where they posed by the bridge Good-natured they emerged and parted in the biting wind for another picture with the change burning in their hands. that would prove that we had been They said goodbye as I ordered to Rothbury one icy winter's day. five milk coffees and three teas from the lady owner eyeing the old ladies And though there were no photographs of with a look that slightly disapproved me, of the Sisters sitting quietly waiting when finally we stood on the High Street for the drinks they'd come twenty miles dancing to music from the cassette to spend their twenty pence's on. recording of Glenn Miller we had along, although we all froze and our noses But soon she came around to view dripped them as the lovely Sisters that they are, as we waited for the mini-bus and asked me why they were so subdued, that would take us back to Northgate, I said "They're quiet because they're old". I knew I would need no photographs This truth seemed to hit the owner to remember the day I took the Seven as a thought she'd never contemplated Sisters to the seven-day cafe in Rothbury.

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And as the sun went down, and (iii) LIFT UP YO UR EYES .... the full moon rose out of the North Sea, we travelled back silent, and cold, In the bleak December chill but inside flamed a light and warmth the coke-smoke drifts ... that matched the blazing orbs of heaven The South-West blows upon we could almost touch as we crossed the slate-cloud, wet and dark, the high moors of bleak Northumberland. it casts a smoke-blue shadow on the red-brick pit-rows And as darkness fell, the other Seven Sisters The miners hold their ears twinkled in the folding day, and to halt the singing of the wind pointed us in the direction of home. howling babies huddle into breasts of mothers hauling laundry WEEK 69 December's here. This time of year Weary round-back-shouldered, Undergraduates stay in bed. skin-sagged, puff-red tears roll down shuttered eye-lids (i) BED and streak wind flayed cheeks.

Dog-down hoe raked The harsh December cat-in-lash rough shod over ridden tan-hides their impaired hearing. black hell flat backed The miners dream of hearing angels cat-gut mouse tailed with their wan angelic singing. cool cruel tip-toed Will it take a summer sun pit cut gob filled to ease their beastly burdens? dark down air caught bed sore dead bum The winter wind has no voice, numb tongue lead head mute, it is a silent brute dick stiff limp legged bent to bend and cock-a-snoot Bed, bed, bed! in mischief in the pit-row smoke and blow, and blow, and blow (ii) OTHER WORLDS about and on the miners going head-on up long valley slopes Other notions, other times, red-brick row, pit-house row, Sequenced, travelling on Row, row, and row row row, through age predestined, no curve, no crescent green, no park, era held determined. no tree to break the chimney line, Movement, motion, matter the grey-slate wet of time. Made, destroyed, made, Destroyed, created out The miners hold their ears in pain, Beyond, within an end, who can tell what they hear? a destination, pre-defined, Eyes that scrape the step of time re-embarked, disengaged never climb to see the sky .. upon arrival ...... O lift up your eyes!!

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WEEK 70 The aspens shiver ill at ease, The larch droops yellow in the frost, (i) WHO ARE YOUR FAVOURITE The willows sag, and weep, and creak. POETS, LAD? The lichen grey, and green and dark Who are your favourite poets, lad? Like carpet layers wind-chaffed bark, Whose influence sparks your verse? And branches bare against the sky Who taught you how to elegise? Where spruce and pine, and fir tree rise, Who shaped your line and length? Shed their needles, cones and sap, Who showed you how to satirise? Drift, and thud, splat and crack! Who trained you in such words? Like treasure on the forest floor, Why sir, it was God himself Acorns, nuts, hard berries hide Who taught me style and length! Beneath the aural autumn glory, God it was who gifted me Beneath the gold and amber foliage, Gave rhythm to my words! Scratch the mouse, rabbit, deer, God it was who married me The fox and squirrel, as winter nears. To poetry, line and verse! FORLORN Who is my favourite poet, sir? For Frances Why - God, the bard, who else! [5th January 1986, Sandyford, Newc.]

(ii) GOOD MORNING ROBIN What beauty takes us from ourselves to leave us where we've never been? Little robin bobbing hopping What love can make us break old vows through the white frost morning, and make us want for purer things? Charlie said your bright red breast What tears may fall to make us cry thawed the chilling winter. for joy at all this glorious earth? I said I thought your chirpy song Tell me, please, I do not know split the morning sleep. what makes love and lovers so. We slumbered on, rose, and broke some breadcrumbs for your supper. TERM 8 Oh bright red thing! How I think CO LD WINTER we'll greet the spring together. [21st Jan- 27th Mar 1986]

End of Term 7 PROLOGUE LAY ME THERE NO VEMBER FO REST [11th November 1985, Newcastle-upon- There is none Tyne] but what there is before it began. The lime tree lemon bitter stands Beside the beech sandy leaved, Take me down The chestnut reigns in the breeze, the river of life until

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time flows by like a kite Ablaze, the taper hovering over winter fields crackled to the moon edged by trees standing bare and round and back. in the twilight of evening. Onwards to the sun Carry me there. burnt the awful stuff.

Carry me forth Ten million miles upon the warm south wind away from planet Venus, until I cross brown hills the verse burnt out. fly over verdant pasture Earth was left enclosed by thick hedgerow with only good verse. thriving with nature. Bear me there. The children played, adults stood amazed Bear me along at the pile of debris. the floor of long valleys Someone made a joke that stretch from a sea but none were made. gull hung to greet me from white cliff and tide-wash They'd all gone up by jutting out headland. in the tower of smoke, Lay me there. so no-one spoke, no-one could think Lay me deep or remember any. where silence fells day not far from white fall Worried critics frowned stream banked by hawthorn nervous of their choices. on thistle-down mountain They thought of verses kept, clover vetch crowned. one's they'd burnt Leave me there. or might have saved.

WEEK 71 In panic they hurried THE TOWER O F WO RST VERSE with pen and paper to collect all they could The worst verse before time erased collected all together all bad verse for good. towered to the moon and round and back They talked to poets, and onwards to the sun. idiots, and old folk, recorded every line, Beneath that tower noted every rhyme, eager critics hovered collected them together. dizzy at the height. Caught short of breath, Until the new verse stood they lit the fire. towering to the moon

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and round and back Her delicate skin and onwards to the sun when waft by the wind beyond, and back, forever. was moon-white and shiny

WEEK 72 Her cheeks fairy pink, THE FIELD HO SPITAL contrasted her eyes the colour of envy. Behind each screen lies a story, WEEK 75 a book of scenes unfolded in sequence (i) SNOW, SNOW to present the whole, the complete picture. Snow, snow, fall slowly on me, With each scream bury, bury me rises a confusion, deep in your quiet. a scar of blanks compounded out of order Soft, soft to expose the numbness, lie so on me, the bloody horror. hide, hide me forever in your peace. WEEK 73 FEBRUARY Settle, settle, light on me The alabaster weather heavy, heavy, drifting, conceal me with your flakes. the hungry starlings descending dropping, (ii) SNOW IS COMING on to the winter-store dripping. If February were not so cold, nor berries black on blackened hedgerow, The hawthorned garden would we listen for the blackbird's berried, caution "Snow is Coming!". lower branches laden, laying, If February were not so dark, on the white-carp-pond nor elm trees bare, oaks crack-barked, frozen. would we laugh at our blackbirds' calling "Snow is Forming!!". WEEK 74 LILY Yet February is cold and dark, the bare skyline is cast and stark, A petaled flower, we dare not miss the blackbird's who drifted at ease warning "Snow is Falling!!!". upon an unrippled surface.

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WEEK 76 [Feb 17th-23rd 1986] and throw them, stem rotten, down my trash-can mountain. (i) FINALLY They scatter on the lake, As a first year undergraduate, until the thaw sets them drifting my obsession for poetry in a toothpaste foam. was also an obsession with study and student life. I wander the margin of shore fern, wood-rush, garlic, As an aging sophomore, beneath the dry still oaks my delight was sex, I lie immortal. with drugs and alcohol, and things of the flesh. (iv) RACING ON TO MARS

As a mature finalist, Men of war racing on to Mars. my canon was respect, Sickle star red banner rockets knowledge, the freedom submarines of spatial ocean to move on and forget. aging Argonauts birthing knowledge.

(ii) WEEK SEVENTY SIX STUDIES Submarines of spatial ocean. Where the reeds? Where the coral? This week I've been pounding Arnold, Where the beasts of astral atoll? having a go at insincere elegiac, Creatures basking in clear shallow? looking at Masefield, Bridges, and J.B., poets of cloth, not substantially plebeian, Sea of stars without strand, men of culture, not anarchy. journey out without end, sojourn on into dark (iii) GYPSY DREAM floating in a void of shadow.

Far off, I hear gunshots ring, Through the vast cosmos going and hand-held hounds barking fiercely, onwards daily to tomorrow I look about me, no-one's looking. on to strange unknown border chaos new beyond old order. Nature wells in me like water in a vase upon a sideboard, Submarines of spatial ocean, but flowers drink my body time sits on standing shuttles, as I think upon a flood. lies in dreamy empty thoughts fixed upon furthest harbours. I am alone, an eagle on a mountain, below me .. frozen lakes (v) IN THIS ROOM rimed with nature's spittle. In this room I groom my ruffled thoughts, I take my pleasure, gather the flowers feasting in me With this hand

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I clasp together, leads to death by vice. All alone I clap forever. The up-so-down condition Let me do or die. root in passionless lust, Alecto's bow-strung arrows In this house pierce such hapless love. I make my laughter, With this mouth (ii) WINTER I reap and gather, All alone Winter take me from my confess I smile forever. to the execution wall, Let me do or die. about me wail the furies frothing on my wrongs. In this town I break my anger, Free me from my confines With this foot at the gate of freedom's dawn, I kick and scatter, around me woe the sirens All alone with hiss and spitting song. I smash forever, Let me do or die. Blow me wind in confide to the throne beyond recall, In this world around me wing the cherubs I wake my father, with whistle, word, and sword. With this heart I date my mother, WEEK 78 [3rd – 9th Mar] All alone I grieve forever, (i) THE MARCH STRIKE Let me do or die. O Ireland! Ireland! In this church native Celtic blood spills I fake my worship, and stains humanity. With this mind I kneel tight-lipped, What hatred! loathing! All alone Love your countrymen. I pray forever, No! slay them! Let me do or die. The shadows of the clans WEEK 77 [4th Feb - 2nd Mar] haunt the no-goes, death shades the sunlight. (i) THE FURIES Strike! Kill! Murder! Many feasts Menara saw, sick, hollow-eyed stole bread from Thesiphone, rampage the ignorant! friendship based on virtue

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O Ireland! bleeding! the lichen rocks heal your gaping wounds, ancient and sentinel. crush your angry fever. Felled forest brush, (ii) DERWENTSIDE RESERVIO R bare winter gorse tree-line break. Wide, crimson-grey breeze calm still WEEK 80 [17th Mar] wild fowl cast, larch bare margined (i) THE EYE O F A TRO UT iced last week, Time rolls on like thunder. now peat-brown, Imagination outstrips imitation. Form and context thorn-hedge wall Wither in the light of summer. rain-waxed stoned grass soft-earth Urban decay recedes snow-hash hollow. With each view of country. War is for lesser mortals. spring-kissed wet Peace, harmony, surrender. bud-sprig full, bird flight wild, Images are refracted south wind flown. As pictures disjointed. Worlds are created, WEEK 79 [10th – 16th Mar] Synthesised and ordered. KIELDER Beauty and balance, Out there .... Comfort in a flower, there is a forest Love in a river man-made, gigantic. And in the eye of a trout.

In here, (ii) WITHOUT PART there is light, artificial, comfortable. Brain without reason, mind without body, Indoors, my heart pines. thought without logic, Tired limbs, weary, sense without object. slumber on desire. Hand without digit, The ravens silent, arm without muscle, the forest creaks ... foot without measure, a lapwing dips, leg without tissue. soars and dips, Middle without centre,

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heart without core, green in variegated brown. blood without colour, flesh without whole. WEEK 83

TERM 9 (i) CESIUM O NE-THREE-SEVEN ESCAPE FRO M THE TOWER [7th May 1986, Newcastle] [22nd April - 27th June 1986] Thirty years from now, WEEK 81 half of what has fallen O LD MEN WIDO WED will still be halving. [30th April 1986, Newcastle] A week ago Chernobyl blew; Individuals, struggle on exhausted, lovely iodine one-three-one fatigued beyond rejuvenation. and cesium one-three-seven.

Old men widowed, soldier on, Today it rained thirteen times; tend small flowering cacti, never saw the sun at all - weed beds of daffodils grey, grey, grey. with bodies stiff Couldn't drink the water; and wills too weak, have any milk and cereal; they wait for late-spring REM count was hundred over normal. to set the geraniums, get at the roses Thirty years from now: cesium one-three-seven - while ill-mates in pain half will still be there, linger in bed, dreaming halving. of companions waiting in Eden or heaven. (ii) TO WORDSWORTH [7th May 1986, Newcastle] WEEK 82 WATENDLATH RO AD Wordsworth, were you living in this hour: [3rd May 1986, near Ashness, Cumbria] England would disgust you with her marsh Of murky waters: bomb, missile, and flash Rain on Ashness; Of fire: unwanted misdirected unheroic celandine, violet, and sorrel, power bullfinch call, wagtail hop, Which railroads; dictates; makes cowerers Derwentwater in a mist, Of her own people. We are wrecked; birch trees barely leaved, awash. gorse-top touched yellow, Corrupt men dissect our diseased nation: sun peeking over crag sky, Use tissue, flesh, in barter for sour wild bee, midge, black fly, Upkeep of order; democratic freedoms. scent of bark, of stone, Lake, tree, flower, creature, sky: of moss, of fern uncurling, In your time were whole and healthy; high

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Mountains once safely climbed to cloud; they watch me haul a thought Water fresh to drink; in our kingdom across my pale ploughed brow Now leave us sick, unhappy, and unproud. two grey-blue eyes .. (iii) THE SEVENTH ART [9th May 1986, Newcastle] that halts me in my labour through the blue of summer Image on image, language of vision, eyes that greyly cloud language without words. the grafting hours I've spent Montage of meaning tilling miles of tract, to guide, lead thought. the long lays of text that ruts the fields of fact. Composite pictures, accelerated time, Grey, grey, she gazes .. parallel shadows, attraction by like. Vacant, empty, back I stare, and reach, but stop, Each image a painting, and rise and stretch, a thousand sounds, and touch her hair, aesthetic edit, her hand, her breast, realist long-pan, and with a kiss, immediate copy I close her eyes, across imaginative span. and go with her beyond my books, and go with her to A hand-wave, a fading smile. where ..

This is the dark, .. flowers light the earth, the celluloid end, and bees, and birds wing the composite picture, upon the happiness of day, the whole and the part and sunshine streams, beams montage and image and plays wild upon the sound of the seventh art. of river, burn and stream,

WEEK 84 and pools of weed, THE BOOK JUST CLOSED reed and birch, [17th May 1986, Newcastle] and ash and elm, where turkey oak Between the book just closed edge a hedge and the action of a hand verge a road stretched to take a hold heading for a wild coast of yet another volume, or some wrath ocean two blue eyes stare .. of white wave toss

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and salt scent breeze Insensitive in every way, on which a gull everywhere I look, carries free, and drops avarice in the eyes of God, into a boundless sea and no God that's any good. all the books that hang to me See men scream in every dream, see each pass along Park Lane, The grey eyes smile, see each walk with oozing pain return to blue, the empty streets of shame.

Free I see Is this the face of brotherhood? the waves of love, Is this how things must stand? books are fields Have I rightly understood of fallow stuff. the vision that I've had?

WEEK 85 Is there love in Bethnal Green, WHAT ABOUT MY BROTHER or faith in Cheney Walk, [21st May 1986, Newcastle] or hope in pitch black Hackney that men are born as one. See him dying yonder in Kandahar, and watch him starve in Eritrea. WEEK 86 Look at him slain in Nicaragua SELECTIVE while we wax fat in Surrey. [27th May 1986, Newcastle]

There's inequality everywhere, Selective, everywhere I look, the images emerge I see the shame in sad men's eyes within the frame and pity in their stare. of consciousness.

See him slave in Bangladesh Arbitrary, see him toil in barren Bolivia, without record, see him bend in hot Sri Lanka, visions fade and martyred in South Africa. into eternity.

There's injustice everyplace, WEEK 87 everyplace I've been, anger in the eyes of men, (i) AXEMAN O R TREE? and hatred in their glare. [4th-5th June 1986, Newcastle]

See him rich on Hampstead Heath, Can I be the man I was and watch him stroll in Windsor’s green, when words were blunt axes see him lounge in Kentish pub, on the trunk of other's wisdom? snug and smug and warm. Now, my blade wet keen

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stands no match against Sun of bliss and happiness, the metal walls of politics. sunshine of my youth, blue sky urban wilderness, A life in the thickest wood green grass, fragrant nooks, is no civil training shade of summer bower, for survival in the clearing. glades of cooling brook, canals of duck and moor-hen, My axes stripped from me swan, and grebe, and coot. I stand dazed transformed into a tree. Breeze of joy and freedom, waft of infant past, (ii) THE SACRED MOUNTAIN clear-air rural tameness, [7th June 1986, Schiehallion Rd, cowslip, milkwort, flag, Perthshire.] pools of summer eddy, coomb’s of damselfly, Burn, sun, burn, vales of swift and martin, the long summer light swallow, finch, and lark. drawing behind the high Grampians. WEEK 89 THE DEVO N DAY SUBSIDED Schiehallion, sacred mountain, [22nd June 1986, Bucks Mills, Devon] the ancient yews of Fortingall, talk in the wind Ever so meek, of primeval memories. the day drizzled open. Summer rain fell. Blazing orb, sinking, catching the bens of Atholl, Still, swelter noon shadowing the corries of Rannoch, gave way to afternoon storm. the sentinels of Erricht. Sun emerged from hiding, Red, silver, indigo, skies cleared, then clouded, sublime Swarga of the ancients, blackened, then poured. burn, burn, and burn, as the yew trees whisper. Warm, chill, then cold that's how the day subsided. White cloud lifting from snowy ridges, WEEK 90 red, pink, marbled sky, THE CLASS OF '86 red, red, burning. [27th June 1986, Newcastle]

WEEK 88 Today I graduated. COTSWOLDS - EARLY SUMMER The sun shines in all its glory, [14th June 1986, Stroud, Glos.] I laze on the burn-tipped grass while my contemporaries congregate

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gowned and happy. Fourteen years have chained me fast, now eddies turn, and shift, and pass. At last, three years strained, I relax and feel the world before me I gaze upon the red brick rows, open like a lotus. and who can gauge what I know, my footsteps vanish, the waters reach I gaze into the blue of heaven the parts I've walked upon the beach. so glad with joy, I would not trade this sky THE WIDE DIVIDE for all the world. [11.30pm, 17th May 1986, Sandyford, Newcastle] Let the role-call be made. Now, no longer a class, Romance is not sweet the class of '86, when distance separates, Is part of history. or time runs away with intimacy. WAITING TO GRADUATE Independent lovers O N THE RO AD IN LAKELAND war and fight forever, [10.30pm, 4th May 1986, Sandyford, never lie embraced Newcastle] in fields of clover.

Derwent, Grasmere, Coniston, Sweethearts faced with doubt Hawkshead, cry and tremble, Ambleside and Ullswater ..... shudder, nervous roll off the tongue like a recipe for and uncommitted. solitude .... but 'Keep Out', 'No Parking', 'Private', Emotion fired by anger, 'Closed', rowing sleepless fight, double yellow lines and ticket machines, open-hearted whisper keep the cars rolling, and the hikers on across the wide divide. the road. LIKE A MAY MO RNING IN I COUNT THE DAYS KATMANDU [12 noon, 11th May 1986, Sandyford, [3pm, 24th May 1986, Ouseburn, Newcastle] Newcastle]

I count the days till I depart, The daffodils barely gone; and who can say what's wrong with that. thrush and blackbird song My time in Newcastle's all but done, rose higher than the sparrow hawk. the sands of time have had their run. Dragonfly flirted on the hogweed. Breeze-borne hawthorn blossom Day dream hours ill spent I sit, and wind-blown nettle flower but who can guess the cause of it. drift-caught in the burn.

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Elder swaying, bramble trembling, I USED TO RHYME dock leaf and glass-blade twitching - [9th June 1986, Newcastle] bee and wasp nectar hunted dandelion bright and blinding. I used to rhyme all the time but now I try a different style, Oh what a welcome late May dawning! instead of rhyme's alternate lines Fresh air-scent, water babbling, I drop the metre curtly. soil damp, sun fire-warming - like a Katmandu bright morning. If this makes my verse unsound and rough, and does the lyric in, LOCH TAY IN JUNE then the gain is in the lost and found [8th June 1986, Loch Tay] of accentuated meaning.

Violet and primrose, AN EVENING IN JULY stitchwort and bugle, [11.30pm, 25th July 1986, Sandyford, dandelion and daisy, Newcastle] anemone and thistle. Where are the whispers, FROM THE PANDON ROOM the gentle sighs of children? [9th Jun 1986, Civic Centre, Newcastle ] Is this the miss? The thing gone adrift? From across the Great North Road, Where are the nymphs the Pandon Room of the Civic Centre, by the pools of glass? I gaze sleepily on my former University, Hear we the pipes? stoic red-brick, atheistic concrete. Scent we the flowers? Where are the Muses, Old Father Tyne, green-copper rusted the makers of music? drips Kielder water from his finger, Where do they hide? wind whispers thru’ the Council dome, What do we sense in the ducks' feathers ruffle in the moat. the touch of dusk dew? The smell of the night? Wearily my eyes close out the Town The lure of the wild? Moor; the rush-hour summer traffic rumbles by to blend the snorting of the Sea-Horse Heads with the Blaydon Races of the Tower Bells.

I slumber in the D-Day heat, the Union clock clicks past six - the Banquet Hall echoes time as in a dream, or sleep, I sit.

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IN THE WILDS

FIVE BIRTHDAYS ON (for Laura) BILLY JOE (song) [29th July 1986, Sandyford, Newcastle] for Chris [24th August 1986, Sandyford, Newcastle] Five birthdays on the summer lingers, memories rise, but good times stay, Billy Joe the pop idol, the Royal would-be's live and mirror tried to eat his fame, all that will be history. the press shot him down for getting on the heroin game. While in some rotten Irish prison lingers once what was a love, Billy Joe the drug addict, some tangled soul caught in ideal wrote all his songs in pain, for a cause that's all but lost. the judge sent him down for shooting crack and H. Every day and every rock-blow, he sweats to serve the hated foe, Billy Joe the prison convict while maidenhood and pining lover sang songs to the cons, awaits for him afresh each dawn. the guards beat him down for getting it wrong. Where is that love that carried rivers on towards the peace of sea? Billy Joe the rehab hero, When flowed the barge that ferried life shut up and played it straight, on the tide of kiss and freedom ? the warden marked him up an A1 in-mate. And now, at thirty five she waits, the river trickles, erodes soft rocks, Billy Joe the model prisoner, and still her lover, barred, imprisoned, spent a year in Durham jail, cannot yet break time's lock. the parole board decided he was back on the rails. THE BERBERS [23rd August 1986, Sandyford, Newcastle] Billy Joe the hip musician, came out a wiser man, From cap-topped ridge and never touched the needle, to valley stretch nor sniffed another gram. they lead their goats to drink WATERPITTS, SO MERSET with flute or sling or tribal song [4th Sept 1986, Manor Farm, Waterpitts, upon the hills, the mountain cols Quantocks] they go from stream to spring. At last, the green Quantock combs Their Berber blood, enclose my summer days. their nomad lust, Chin-high nettles sway, their life of dust and wind. tap on our mobile-home.

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Chickens brood or scurry, its branches latticed, locked, and stout. horses snort and sneeze, Two centuries gone, aye, and more pea-fowl fuss and faddle it's whispered in the warm sunlight, about us all the day. it's sighed in wind, in rain, and night, it's creaked into the quite, cold white DOWN ON THE DEVON SANDS of frost, of sleet, of snow, and like. [9th Sept 1986, Branscombe, Devon] With laurel, chestnut, cypress, oak, And I too, lay naked there sprout and sprigged, specked and span, on the beach of Branscombe, the mighty beech, the Broomfield beech Greece, or Spain, I'll have instead has stood and been -strike or stroke- the Devon Costa Brava! a shield and screen -sheet or bolt- by star, or moon, by twilight hour Moaning sea and sighing gulls, with spread and shade, a sacred bower, skies pure grey to yonder, of copper leaf and silver bough. ticking breeze and breaking waves, it was a lovely torture. IN HOLFORD COMBE [4.30pm, 10th Nov 1986, Holforde White chalk cliffs tumbled down Combe, Quantocks] on chalets ruined and rotten where pensioners transfixed by the swell In Holford Combe, I climbed through oak watched the bare and brawny. and made my way to Upright's hill, and there I saw Wordsworth's Thorn, Girls voices perfumed the air, more ancient than he saw it then. sweet laughter fed the coast, cider swiggers crunched their crisps I sat beside this tiny bush, and ice cream lovers snored. and gazing out, I saw the sea, the coast of Wales beyond in haze, Explorers paced the shingled shore the purple holms in silver mist. proud of being English, they scowled at my naked bum And rising with the south-west wind, and damned the bloody British. I walked along the Quantock crest, and saw to east the Parrett wynd I lazed until the sun passed over from Avalon to Quantoxhead. Branscombe's cliffs then under, and left as clouds rose out the sea Towards the beacon ridge I strode and brought a touch of thunder. Through the bracken, broom, and thorn, beyond a cairn and Wilmot's Pool, THE BRO O MFIELD BEECH until the west spread out below. for Bridget McConville [2nd Nov 1986, Waterpitts, Broomfield] And to the fore the Brendons rose dark, more sombre than the clouds The copper beech, the Broomfield beech, rolling in on evening grey mature and tall, huge and round, from Exmoor and the Devon south.

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And turning from the chill and night, my fuel is black, charred, or ash, I started on the downward climb my flame once my burning dream, through the oaks of Holford Combe spent out, now, is gone. and home towards the village lights. THE DO LPHIN THE SEVEN SISTERS O F [9.30pm,1st Dec 1986, Waterpitts] CO THELSTONE [3-4pm, 23rd Nov 1986, Cothelstone The dolphin beached upon the sand, Beacon, Quantocks] I stood and watched and thought I might wade into the icy waves The sun in a beam, a flash, and a blinding, and set the creature on its way. shines upon the tumuli of Cothelstone Beacon But no, I let some others come were like thirteen old women, the Seven and plunge into the winter tide, Sisters I let them nudge the dolphin's snout stand witnessing the acts of heathens. on towards the sea, and out.

The wind, in a howl, there shakes the When at last the creature reached moss some water deep and clear of beach, and the rain falls bitter and cutting; as the dolphin swam out free the crooked sisters creak and lament their an ocean welled in me. fate crested on a hill so uninviting. PO RTLAND BILL [10.30pm, 1st Dec 1986, Waterpitts] The worshippers come, but the sisters remain The spray, the spume, foamed and spat, through autumn, and winter, and spring, the black shags cracked and opened crab, and though summer brings hot baking days the winter wind blew and crashed the Sisters stand trapped in their ring. the crest and trough against the crag and cliff of crumbling Portland. THE FLAME IS O UT [11.40pm, 30th Nov 1986, Waterpitts] The Channel lash, licked and smashed the oolite lime and salt-washed linch, I feel like some piece of waste, the lifting gale threw and dashed I cannot feel my inner flame; the heave and break against the link I am extinguished, snuffed, put out, and limb of lichened Portland. Inside there burns no light. CHRISTMAS JINGLE I cannot yet escape my hearth - [7th Dec 1986, Waterpitts, Quantocks] the heat still gives a lingering warmth, but every hour brings on chill, Jingle, jangle, juggle, do! I cannot yet rekindle life. Candle, bauble, trinket too! Cards, cakes, pudding, phew! No little spark lingers on, Enough for me and you!

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Got the holly? Got the tree? 'We've heard' the leader of them said Got the sherry? Got the beer? 'We've had it from a groom Golly! What a lot of cheer! that in your room hides John Black Merry Xmas! Bon New Year! who murdered your man Gray.'

THE BALLAD O F MEG GRAY 'Is my husband murdered then? [Begun 8th Dec 1986, Waterpitts - I'll wear no black for him - Finished 13th May 1988, Cothelstone] He was a swaying braggart man, his love was forced and cruel.' He heard the sound of horses hooves in the dead of night - 'Then open up this door, Gray wife! He tossed and turned and shouted out for you have part in this! 'They've come for me tonight!' We know you have the gigolo behind your scarlet skirt!' His lover took him to her breast, caressed his fevered brow - 'I shall not slide a bolt for you, 'They'll not have you this morning light be off beyond my walls! or first they'll have my life.' I'll aim into the shadowed night and one of you will fall!' She rose and took a pistol out and threw the shutters back - 'You cannot scare us off like this, 'Who's there below in the yard? we're here to serve the law. Do you know the hour?' Send him out before we fire and send you to the Lord.' The horses in the courtyard bucked, their riders reigned them in, 'I'll gladly go' she boldly spoke but none would say who they were 'I'll never give him up!' or why they'd ridden in. She drew her pistol to the dark but her lover cried out 'No!' 'Who are ye men?' she firmly called 'Who are ye black cloaked mob? 'Enough of this! I am here! I have a pistol by my side You may take me as you want, to use if none will talk!' but leave Meg Gray out of this, she has done no wrong.' She caught the sound of whispered words, then heard the leader say 'She is a common tavern whore! 'We look for a husband slayer! She'll die with you tonight. We‘ve heard he's come this way.' Let fire!' their leader shouted out and pistols roared to life. 'Who be ye men?' she asked again 'Which rich man be murdered now? Death they brought to Meggie Gray, Who be this man you’re looking for? she fell scarlet to the floor - Why look you to this house?' 'O lover, do not tarry here, they'll soon be through the door.'

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I will not leave, never, no! He never spoke a single word, No, never will I leave. his thoughts were all for Meg - I've killed a man to have you thus 'We will meet in the corn And fate has made it brief!' as soon as I am dead.'

'O John, O John, flee you must They strung him up, sent him off or I die in vain for thee - to spend his days in Hell - Leave me here upon the floor and when cold and stiff and dead, and fly like the deer.' they threw him in a well.

'I will not leave you now' he cried Who can say what transpired 'Our fates are met in one - on the coming of the morn, Close your eyes and sweetly dream or whether John and Meggie Gray of all our times as one.' made love in the corn.

And as she lay there in his arms But woe betide the married man the riders broke the door - who treats his wife amiss - And as he kissed her on the lips for there are those who'll gladly kill they took him with a roar. and die to have her kiss.

'We have the adulterant murderer now! THE CO TTAGER We have him in our hands! [6th Mar 1987, Lower Terhill, Take him to the oak outside, Cothelstone] we'll hang him good and high! Oh Robert, need your sullen frown 'John! John!' Meggie Gray called out Dark the days of Spring now born, 'We'll meet tomorrow morn. The sleet is but a passing gloom, We'll meet in summer sun and heat The wind is nothing but a storm. and make love in the corn.' Why sit you brooding by the fire? Is it yew you burn for warmth? 'She's mad!' a rider shouted loud Through green the evening molders on, 'It's best we help her die.' What is your ail? What works your 'Leave her be!' John screamed out thought? as a pistol pressed her brow. For whilst you sicken by your hearth, A shot rang out through the dark The laughter fills the village inn, and Meggie sighed no more - Though you might not liken beer, 'Now take him to the hanging tree There’s comfort found in ingle nooks. and dispatch him to his whore.' Yet sit you still, tense and bilged, Nursing pains you self-inflict. They took John out to the oak Tell me, Robert, I’ll have the truth - and tied the noose about - Is there sense in these dark moods? 'Now we'll hear your final words and then we'll have your life.' And as your fire dims and whites,

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The cold of night upon your back, THE WILD MARCH WINDS Do you wish that you could flee [27th March 1987, Cothelstone, Somers.] The sleet of Spring, the gale of March, To take upon some lengthy voyage, On the Bagborough Road above Tilbury A pilgrimage to some beyond? Farm, Where gloom and wind and sullen storm One of Brown’s beeches was down in the Are traded for a health of thought? gales, It cut off the road to Cothelstone Hill, Oh Robert, will it turn you grey The old Saxon way to Seven Mile Stone. To sit and pass your Springs like this? Get you up, dowse the fire I turned, descended by Lower Terhill, And venture on the wind and rain. Then to Quelbec, past Cothelstone Arch; Forget your brooding by the hearth, A small ash lay felled by the Vicarage, Forget the yew you burn for warmth, But I climbed the grade to the crest of the And though the sleet and stormy blast, hill Get you down the hedge-rowed path. To find a great elm blocking the road That joined the way to Seven Mile Stone. See now, those hazel eyes alight, Burn like all the northern stars, I turned, went down by Cushuish Cut, See how a fresh kindled flame Stopping to gather armfuls of kindling, Flares up in your knitted brow. Then on to Kingston, along Lodes Lane Here now the latch, your lively gait, ‘Till at Broomfield Cross another Stepping firmly off into the night; impasse! As through the sleet and stormy blast A colossal oak tree straddled the way, You set out for the village lights. Hedgerows smashed and many trees felled.

CO THELSTONE The lane, deep cut, I passed under the oak [12th March 1987, Lower Terhill, Reached the cross at the edge of Fyne Cothelstone] Court, There met a lad on the Duckpool Road Cothelstone is a place for a poet - Who told me - six beeches were down! The landscape cut with the knife of the The only way out was by Broomfield Hill artist, By the lane that leads to the Enmore The air has the quiet of a national park, Road. And the earth has the tread of the prehistoric. Up, then down towards Smocombe and Barford, I sit on the stoop our cottage hide, A huge larch lay slain on Enmore Green, And bathe in the blaze of the first Spring The water of Durleigh looked like a sea, heat; The Quantocks, now a chaos of felled The collie lies on the warm tile path trees. And the cat stalks a bird. Surely I’ll remember March Eighty Seven And the twenty-seventh day for the fallen.

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SLEEPLESS NIGHTS And lip to lip we kissed the tide, [16th April 1987, Cothelstone, Somerset] Breast to breast we lingered hours, The breeze, the salt, the in-rush spray, He who takes sleep for granted All alone the night was ours. Goes through life like a dream. He who works night and day The city lights strung the bay Suffers, pain, distress and fights As dusk fled in from the sea, To overcome the anguish plight And night fell on the quay - Of a sleepless, torturous life. We rejoined the promenade. Rest, rest from the flickering flame. Drink, sip your phials of ethanol. DINEVO R For Jane and Dawn THE Q UITTER [20th June 1987, Mumbles, Swansea] [21st April 1987, Cothelstone, Somerset] By sycamore and nettle path Inside my heart, my belly, my bowels, With wine and female friendship, There is a voice that whispers ‘Quitter!’ A troubled sky easing past At first I could not hear the voice, We climbed from Deilo’s pasture, But slowly as the weeks went by Preceded by a wind bourn host I heard the voice grow like a storm, Bent to summer madness. Until now I dread the nightly echoes, The ringing in my ears ‘Quitter! Quitter!’ The River Towy wound below, We skipped and crossed the motte, Perhaps you might think I’m ill, Vertical to the milling sky For I cannot say that I am well Ivy-walled rose the fort, When I have this voice inside my head A fortress mount, a Norman keep Shouting ‘Quitter!’ You are a Quitter!’ Enclosed by fern and oak.

I cannot run away from what’s inside me! In fleeting bursts summer broke I cannot silence the voice that haunts me! Through the violent Ambrose cloud, My belly cramps and knots and gags, Then summer plunged into dark My mind turmoiled, boils and gasps As showers fell on Evor Mount, And gives out - ‘I am a quitter!’ And we beneath a sycamore Read our plays, smoked our dope. THE Q UAY For Jane And turning from Dinevor’s walls, [25th May 1987, Mumbles, Swansea] The sky burst open, blue on blue The Towy glistened in the heat’ Out on to the promenade, Deilo’s pasture beckoned forth; We walked our love around the quay, We passed beneath the sycamores And there where sea and sea-wall meet, And saw no more - Dinevor. We found a shelter from the waves.

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I WISH IT WAS MY LO VER HO ME I cannot bear the grief. [15th August 1987, Mumbles, Swansea] Jane is my want, Emma my need. Every voice I hear I think And wish it were my lover home. RUN ME OUT OF TOWN I wait, I hope, I pine [20th October 1987, Swansea] And do not know where she’s gone. I have myself a lover I will not cry, not tonight, But I haven’t any time I’ll sit into the dawn - For all the awkward moments How can I rest without word To talk about our crimes. Of what my lover’s done. ‘Cause I’m a dodo, O break, o break my broken heart, No, a dirty hobo! For now I think I’ll weep - Run me out of town! For only if my lover comes Will I be made to sleep. AT THE BO TTOM O F THE WELL [6th November 1987, Swansea] CO ME WIND CO ME STORM [1st September 1987, Mumbles, Swansea] At the bottom of the well If you listen quietly I love you for what you are, You’ll hear a ringing bell. Wind, storm, and song. How I long for your warm arms Who can really tell About me ‘neath the stars. Who tolls that lovely bell At the bottom of the well. I’ve never had a love so pure, Crystal, ice, and snow. GHOSTS IN THE LANDSCAPE How I wish for your fresh lips [15th November 1987, Swansea] Upon my wanton own. Wind water rush And though I cannot have enough I crave to see the blood Tempest, fire, and sea, Some ancient Saxon shed O how I know I’ll always want With his dying breath. The love you steal for me. Howling honing rain JANE AND EMMA Sing the gasping sighs [13th September 1987, Mumbles, Swansea] Mail-clad Normans made As the fatally fell. Jane and Emma The loves of my life Rage torrent flood One without the other? Flush the choking screams Oh my, I will die! Harold’s soldiers poured For I cannot stand the parting As they cried fleeing.

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YOU’RE A WANKER MY MATE - THE O WL [18th November 1987, Cothelstone, [26th December 1987, Cothelstone, Somerset] Somerset]

Why don’t I tell you like it is? That owl nightly sits and who’s How I’m really pissed off. And woo’s into the winter wind, How I don’t like your ideas. But as there are no summer leaves How I don’t give a toss I hear no whispers from the oaks. ‘Cause you’re a wanker. That owl’s my ear upon the night WHEN I’M PISSED O FF Witting through the winter white, [18th November 1987, Diana’s Statue, Its who’s and woo’s waning slow. Cothelstone] ‘Till once again, it wits some more.

When I get really pissed off, That owl and me, we’re old mates, I climb Weary-All Hill behind my cottage, Sometimes he keeps me wide awake. And sit and stare out on to Exmoor. And even when I slumber deep That owl’s in my dreams and sleep. For there’s something in the nothingness That exists when inside is full BIDDY BROWN (song) Of hate and envy and burning anger. [27th December, Cothelstone, Somerset]

I don’t care about money and stuff, I used to think that Somerset girls All I really want is beauty, Were the ugliest lasses in all of England. The world and all that’s natural. But then I met Biddy Brown. Oh my! What bliss her kiss was. I can’t stand all the jealousies, I hate people stealing ideas from others, Who would have thought amid the Doing nothing for anyone that’s any blossom good. That I would meet the likes of her? But Biddy Brown was so divine So I escape my hemmed-in cottage, I took her for an angel. Flee the smallness of the human world And sit and stare into the sun. I think my luck was luck as such At finding such a virtue, INSIDE BURNS A CANDLE That Biddy Brown knew my mind [18th November 1987, Cothelstone, And lay me in the hay barn. Somerset] I never knew such bliss before Inside burns a candle At touching such a beauty, Lit for those who’re lost; For Biddy Brown was soft and lithe Outside hangs a lantern And supple like a willow. For those that might return. If you knew what sweet release

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Came from our mutual longing, But never …. Then Biddy Brown would not be mine Fed on English whey. She’d be hunted like a fable. THE LANDLO RD'S WIFE For I am all of sixty nine, [8th Jan 1988, Cothelstone, Somerset] Hunt master at the stables, And Biddy Brown’s just twenty one! She is sweet, she is coy, Sweet, and young, and able. a dream, a blushing angel, she's the sweetest tavern lass TO AND FRO ON THE LONG that man could ever fancy. BRITISH ROADS [30th December 1987, Severn Bridge] But all my hopes fade away she is the landlord's darling; To .. ing and fro .. ing, he's a brute of plus six foot Neither coming nor going, that men are loath to battle. Not in nor between Neither excited nor bored. I did not stay to love her, no, because she had her hard man, What’s next on the road? though in my mind I thought her mine What next is in store? halfway through the evening. Hell if I know as I fro on the long British roads. Sometime later, feeling bolder, I grabbed her by the shoulders, I’VE SOWN BARLEY next I knew, out I flew [30th December 1987, Severn Bridge, chin bouncing off the gutter. England] 'Oh my love, where are you? I’ve sown barley Why are you with this butcher?' I’ve sown oats My head was broke, my back was sore, But I’ve never but I loved her like no other. Sown English oak. When I woke, I was soaked, I’ve sown these, and wet from too much drinking, I’ve sown those, but I could say I'd made a play But I’ve never for the darling of the tavern. Sown English rose. THE KNO T I’ve reaped wheat, [15th Jan 1988, Cothelstone] I’ve reaped kale But I’ve never I do not know what I have Reaped in English hay. Nor yet what it is I've bought; The cord as yet is not taut, Heed my words, It's coiled loose around me. I’ve eaten curd,

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I will not know what I have and every star has died. Nor know what I've got; The cord binds as it knots, I'll wait forever, and for more, It's hot-burn cruelly smarts. till time no longer goes, until the exit of all space I cannot know what I have I'll wait and love you so. Nor yet what I've caught. The cord continues to garrotte And when I've waited for all time, My knotted heart. I'll wait a lifetime more, I'll wait until you're in my arms, SHADOW OF A GIRL and your lips are on my own. [18th Jan 1988, Cothelstone] WHEN I LISTEN When I look out upon the hills [21st Jan 1988, Cothelstone] And gaze into the swirling mist, At first I see, a hand, a mouth, When I listen to the beating of my heart, Then the shadow of a girl I hear a little voice pleading with me - Who’s in my head, who’s in my mind 'I must escape! Please let me out! But will I find her in my bed? I'm in love, my prison's crumbling!'

A NIBBLE O N A TART Then, suddenly I find my head pounding, [18th Jan 1988, Cothelstone] my breath is short, I'm in a pant, my cheeks flush, I'm flashed with feeling, I cannot think what I'd like there's swelling where once there was better than a bite of you, slack. perhaps a nibble on a tart or some other less exotic food. And having listened to my pulsing heart, I listen then to my throbbing mind - But ban such joy, I'm on the case 'You must be nuts to feel like that!' for a taste of you - and once again I am torn apart. you're better than a row of cakes or a mouth of sugar cubes. TWO NAILS IN AN O AK TREE [22nd Jan 1988, Cothelstone] I wish to have no other muse than have a chew at you - And though they age and rust with time, so come to me, sweetest thing, these nails will never parted be; I've come to nibble you. likewise, though parted by wide seas, this tree will bring you back to me. I'LL WAIT FO REVER [21st Jan 1988, Cothelstone]

I'll wait forever for you, love, till all the seas have dried, until the heavens twinkle out

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NORTH SOUTH DIVIDE

PLAYMENU (North-South Divide) but we wouldn't want to kid you [7th - 27th Dec 1987, Cothelstone, that nothing has a price. Swansea, Monmouth, Leeds, Newcastle, Bradford] Oh, it’s great to be a Southerner, rich, and smug, and loveable ..... THE NORTH - SOUTH STORY (song) we haven't got no problems 'cause we've got everything. When I begin to tell this story about the hate, In the North they have the strife, about the system, its thistles, spuds, and beer ... about the North, about the South, they've got all the problems about two different ways of life. 'cause they haven't got our cheer.

When I relate the awful truth Up there, they all rock the boat about the wealth, and throw each other out, about the poor, and when they want to come down South about the North, about the South, they get nowhere on their bikes. about two different ways of life. They have their northern customs Then you'll know, god you'll know, wot they've got's for them, you'll see it all, we wouldn't want them living you'll take it home, on the Downs or by the Thames. you'll smack your head and break your bones Oh, it’s great to be a Southerner for coming to these written poems rich, and smug, and loveable ..... about the North, about the South, In the South we have the life, about two different ways of life. its roses, cake, and gin ....

WE HAVE THE LIFE (song) we haven't got no problems cause we've got ev-ery-thing! In the South we have the life, its roses, cake, and gin .... NORTHERN GIRL ENVY (song) we haven't got no problems 'cause we've got everything. What have I got, a couple of bob, There are a few who rock the boat ... look at her now .... the South is not for them. she's all buttons and bows. We like to keep them on the move How come I'm dull and keep them off Stonehenge. and she's all dolled up. Is it because ... We have our southern heritage her dad's loaded wot we've got's quite nice or what?

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How come I work THE WEIRDOS OF GLASTOBURY and I'm broke all the time. How come a student Iv 'ee be lookin' for that ther' place swoons like a queen. I not be tellin ' ee where it be ... Why am I tired 'Cause iv 'ee be knowin how weird it be when she dances all night. To be zeein wizards in dar' High Street Is it right, is it right, Wu'd a man be right iv he point the way is it right? To a town, skip, where wumen 'uv bare- feet? She's taking my man! How can I win. No, it not be on me mind to show 'ee dar' What does she have Where zom volks backpack evrthin' they that I can't provide. 'av, When money can buy Rather I point ee' towards a smarter town love has its price. Arr, Taunton be alright vurst time round. I shalln't give in, can't give in No, 'ee be staying away vrum dat weird when I'm losing my man. place Glas'an'by be lost, an' best n'eet vound. ON THE DURHAM STREETS (song) CONSETT (song) Down by the bus station you can get yourself a sniff, Last time I went to Consett you can be a vandal, to look for a steel souvenir, you can smash a bus-stand window I couldn't even find a washer and get stoned for kicks. from the works that once was there.

I've spent my life on the streets, Consett's wonderful for recreation sitting on benches, Country walks, unspoiled views, hanging round cafes. and dry-slope skiing .... People think I smash-up gravestones They shut the Steel Works down. and sniff glue with kids. They shut the Steel Works down On lovely Consett Town. I love the hills, it's great on the hills The steps led up the Derwentside you can walk for miles. there was nothing but new laid steps you can run with the wind square miles of caterpillar tracks take love and be kissed. grass seed and the wind on my neck.

But down on the streets Consett's wonderful for recreation ... you're no good to no-one, you're in with the bums. I turned my back on the grassy banks When you live on the streets and went into the town you run with the scum. I couldn't see an unboarded shop the town had been nailed down.

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Consett's wonderful for recreation ... such sweet happiness if you offered it right. The folk of Consett aren’t outdoor sports they're a salty home-loving lot. Would I say no .... The works are now dry ski-slopes Would I say no .... where the doleys walk their dogs. if you let yourself go ...

Consett's wonderful for recreation ... I LEFT THE NO RTH (song) Oh lovely Consett Town. I left the North for the South. ENGLISH Q UALITY O F LIFE I heard the venom that seeped from twisted mouths. The quality of life is not in a house I'd gone over to the other side, is not in a job, a car, and a wife. I'd buttered my bread on both sides.

The quality of life is not in cash I went South to study, not in possessions, trinkets and trash. To get a degree at a pre-fab Poly. After four years I graduated; The quality of life is not pounds and I got a job being somebody's Wally. pence mortgage and rates, bills and rent. I earn good money; I have my own warren; The quality of life begins at home I have come to think of myself not in the pub, or over the phone. as Southern, not Northern.

The quality of life is in the mind I think of myself as Southern, in the spirit, and being kind. not Northern.

SO UTHERN SWEETHEART O N THE NEWSPAPERS BOTTLE (song) How can people be what they read? Would I say no, Are there such newspaper breeds? if you let yourself go Can it be true that political creed and kissed me right on the heart. Is husbanded by such press-baron feed?

Would I regret For what of the others; the Star? the Sun? such delightful caress The Mail? the Mirror? - the regional runs if you offered it so. That headlines "Vicar Becomes A Nun" Next to a picture of the Queen and her Would I forego Mum. if you presented it forth and hugged me into the night. Can we believe what the papers say? We have to judge day by day - Would I forget

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IF EVERYTHING IS PAID FOR, SO He was a dick to the last ... SELL THE CO UNTRY'S SILVER He was sick and crass ... He was a piece of trash. If everything is paid for why should everyone pay again? He was a chauvo man ... he had no class If everything is paid for He was full of lust when he made a pass. it should be given gratis. He always made her feel real bad For if everything is paid for He always found ways to make her mad. and paid for yet again, who keeps the profit He was a prick first class .... when the second payments met? BLACKBURN BURGLAR (song) Nothing is free in this world, free means you've still got to pay. Caught in the act Nothing is free in this world, The goods are the facts you've still got to pay! My hands are all red I'm in a fix for sure If everything is paid for who's making the dough? I'm in trouble with the law If everything is paid for And I'm on my way to court who's running the show. O I wish hadn't thought For if everything is paid for That I never would be caught and paid for yet again, we're purchasing free things, O isn't it a shame we're buying up ourselves! That I'm taking all this blame I really should have known CHAUVO URBAN MAN (song) That I didn't have a chance.

He was a chauvo man ... he had no class And then I might have not He thought of her as a piece of trash. Had an eye on what I've got He never tried to read her mind ... I've been nabbed by the collar He brought to task all woman kind. by the long arm of the law.

He was a pig first class ... I've been caught in the act He was a braying ass ... And the goods are the facts. He was a brutish mass ... He was a piece of trash. THE TEMPLE MEADS PO RTER (song)

He was a chauvo man, he had no taste A porter can retain goods entrusted to He saw every woman as a humping mate. him He tried to ignore his woman's mind Until carriage is paid in full, He wanted her for the bits he liked. A porter can keep a suitcase Until carriage is paid in full. He was a prick first class ...

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A traveller might lend his items with the stags in the autumn leaves. And might expect to get them back I do not exist, I will not exist But a porter has no wages with the whistle in the winter breeze. Until a traveller pays his whack, I do not exist, I will not exist A porter has no wages with the trout in the river reed. Until he's paid his whack. I only exist. I merely exist amongst man and the city creed. So there we have the law, sir, : It’s as plain as Jane, you see; HEAVEN IS A SUPERMARKET (song) A porter will have his carriage Or be first to cry 'Police!' We kept meeting at one of those places. A porter will have his carriage It was like Daz, and Omo, and Persil, all Or be first to cry 'Police!' in one. It was marmalade, jam, and honey. THE TORIES AND THE HEATHENS Cornflakes, Crunch, and Wheaties. (song) It was baked beans, pasta, Frozen peas, and crackers, He had no faith in nothing Rashers, buns and marg. Not even the Lord above, At every counter we encountered. He didn't believe in Fairies In love we touched and rubbed. Or all those other things. He only believed in nothing, It was disgusting. Negated all he could. We always met there. It was warm, it was public. O how we felt for him! It was secret. O how we prayed for him! We could be discreet. O how we tried to save him From the Devil's grip! In Sainsburys! In Sainsburys! The super-duper market where we meet! O Lord unleash this poor enslaved soul. Sainsburys! Sainsburys! Make him see you, make him know. The only place where we can be discreet! Make him cower where you go bold. It is an institution, THE LONDON VEGAN without it we'd be losing half the hanky panky going on. I do not exist, I will nor exist It is an institution in the mist upon the hills. where men almost equal women, I do not exist, I will not exist it's just the place to have a love affair. with the swans on the frozen lake. It is an institution I do not exist, I will not exist with lanes of smiling women with the hiss of the rain in the trees. looking at themselves in shiny cans. I only exist, I merely exist It is an institution as a human in an urban cave. where men thin or middling I do not exist, I will not exist push back hair no longer there.

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In Sainsburys! In Sainsburys! The pounds for me, and the pennies for The super-duper market where we meet! thee. Sainsburys! Sainsburys! The only place where we can be discreet! It's a great old world we live in I wouldn't trade it with Gunga Din ANGLE, SAXON, and DANE (song) For all the hashish in Peshawar! No, I'd rather be Lord of the Manor! The Romans came and brought a name I'd rather be Lord of the Manor! Rule Britannia! Screw Britannia! Toasting my bum at the fire. They buggered off to fight in Spain. Left Britannia! Fled Britannia! THE SEX PLAGUE (song) They left Britannia to the invading waves. Then the plague came along Poor Britannia! Sick Britannia! and struck us all down, Saxon, Angle, and sodden Dane. there were fewer of us left, Rue Britannia when that lot came! we were sad for a time, we were sad for a time. ARTHUR Then we came out of decline Arthur lies near the Holy Thorn everything was fine for awhile, At rest in the earth of Avalon. then, the children started coming! He awaits the call of the Celtic tribes O they kept coming! To gather his sword and ride, ride, ride! O they kept coming! Ride to the aid of oppressed souls, 'till they filled all of London To fight against heartbreak and woe! 'till they filled all of England To rule by right, and vanquish foes! He'll draw his sword, unleash his bow, And they never stopped coming And then for certain we will know no, they never stopped coming That Arthur has come to save us! they've never stopped birthing they'll never stop birthing And once he has saved us, cause we cant give up fucking Back he will ride swifter than wind, they'll always keep birthing Rises on the Holy Thorn cause we won't give up fucking Where Arthur sleeps in Avalon. they'll be millions more birthing so there's billions of fuckings THE MASTER O F BRO O MFIELD cause we never stop fucking HALL (song) so they'll never stop birthing.

Profit's the reward of those in authority ROOTS (song) Too often it's a few impoverishing the majority. You've got to have roots. Unless you know where you're coming But that's the way it is, mate from, That's the way it's got to be how can you know where you're going to.

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You don't have to go someplace else for the fancies of wandering souls. to get on in the world. Nothing wrong with being in one place For I'll tell you right now all your life. at isn’t swell to find out that there's no-one you really know It breeds community .... It makes for harmony .... For if I show you now It breeds family ..... while the sun's coming out that I all that I care for Life's all about family, is the home that I came from, having your close ones about you, then you'd see why I say especially in times of trouble. you've made an awful mistake by neglecting your roots. I feel sorry for these poor kids who drift about the country like gypsies. ROOTLESS (song) I feel sorry for their mothers ... especially at Christmas. I don't earn a thing I don't work, so I'm thin It’s shameless .... I live in men's homes and hostels. Who's blameless ... I had a wife, Depending on neighbours .... I had a child, And a mother in Fife .... You don't have to go someplace But time can be hostile. to get on in the world. Not if you've got roots. I am confined You've got to have roots, To a bed on the ground or you might as well look And roam the country in all weathers. to the ends of the earth for yourself. I get the Nashy I need it for baccy You've got to have roots, It keeps me happy .... or you might as well shoot Though life could be better. to the moon for the source of mankind. it could be better.

GOODY SNATCH (song) For if I tell you now, while the clouds are about If we've all to have a value, that all that I know Then it's nothing to resist, is what I learned back home, We might as well cry 'Uncle!' then you'd see why I say And cease to resist - you've made an awful mistake by neglecting your roots. Goody Snatch, Goody Snatch, Leaping on our backs You've got to have roots Goody Snatch, Goody Snatch and I don’t give a hoot With her hacking sack

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Sharpening up her axe We want to see a crunching slide Heads instead of tax, from our midfield lads, On our back We scream to tell our inside men With one hack to smack and have a crack! Head in sack! We cry on seeing our super star Goody Snatch, Goody Snatch strike it home for us A price upon our heads, There's nothing like the after-crack Goody Snatch, Goody Snatch, while boozing in the bar Lets have your head instead You are such a witch We are the football boys You are a fascist bitch, We are the champions. You are unwell, Time will tell. THE CRICKETING VICAR Go to hell! How about a game of cricket, vicar? A RENTED HOUSE Nice day for the odd over or two. Don't you think the weather's rather A rented house is not a house splendid? When it's someone else's home, There’ll be no sticky wicket, for sure. There's those who think rented stinks Have you ever thought of being an cause it'll never be one's own. umpire? My, you're wild with the odd ball or two! But why do such people think You're batting is rather wicked, that what they've got is their's, You're a wretched player, vicar, aren’t I like to think that everything you?? Is merely out on loan. THE THICK SCULLED RUGBY All I know - we grow and slow BASTARD (song) And take nothing when we go. I'm a thick sculled rugby bastard I'm Neanderthal and slow I like to beat upon my breast FOOTBALL BOYS (song) And spit at people's toes.

We are the football boys I am a rugby bastard! We are the champions! I am a thick sculled bastard! I am big slow bastard We love to see our goalie dive I am a sick pissed bastard! and save the day for us I am a rugby lad! We love to watch our centre backs hack, and hook, and writhe.

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SOUTH SEA WANDERER

HUA HIN The palms stood higher than the Cross [5th Feb 1988, Hua Hin, Thailand] and drew in from all sides.

The palm fronds quiver, The moon two days off being full, the sea breeze cools Scorpio flicked its tail. the heat of the tropic noon. Dead of night went ka-ka as deep night onwards came. Ants file across the sands, there is an army on the march With it came the quietest calm, towards the blue lagoon. a hushing of the wild, as white sea-horses softly bucked Massage girls oil men down, dawn up like a child. peanut-boys sell their wares, deck-chair men halt the swoon. CHAWENG [6th March 1988, Chaweng, Ko Samui, The sun beats evening down, Thailand] the shadows lengthen everywhere, night comes on too soon! Caught in the greyness of evening, moon three days past full, KIRI KHAN a stiff wind in from the east [7th Feb 1988, Prachad Kiri Khan, rolled the surf over good. Thailand] In the sultry still evening, Below Mirror Mountain night hung on the moon, and the Koes of Kiri Khan, the palms nutted the up-draft by the shading palms above the palm-thatch roofs. on sands as white as pearl, beneath the broad pandanus In the throb of the nightfall, and a moon of tropic night, the moon splintered in pools beside the warm green waters on the hot tropical passion on a shore as smooth as ice, in our sigh-filled lover's room. under the spell of Taurus and the ka-ka of the black, I WILL FIND MY PARADISE near an edge of ocean [18th March 1988, Ko Pee Pee, where the breeze never barks. Thailand]

KO PHANGAN Beyond the gates of paradise [28th Feb 1988, Haardin, Ko Phangan, where sadness comes to bear, Thailand] I cannot face being left in such torment there. The cool night breeze walked right in with the ocean right behind. In search of earthly paradise

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where joy and bliss are free And in a moment all the world is a search I cannot miss broke upon the golden shore to settle down and be. turquoise waters on the mind of Pillock going round. So I will find my paradise where hope and love are one, O mighty ocean, perfect sea and I will be forever smiled chase the shade from the breeze and joyed and free and young. for who can sneeze upon the shore of such a pleasant bay. THE SO UTH SEA WANDERERS ...... [18th March 1988, Ko Pee Pee, Thailand] Poor Pillock on the rock the sun inside his head On the deep-blue South Seas, midday heat burning we sail beneath the Cross, all he should have said. we travel on by starlight in thought, not in talk. O how love eats his happiness the ocean drowns his hope We travel on in daylight alone upon a coco beach beneath the burning sun, coping with the pain. we rest and slumber fitful without plan or cause. Should such fire eat him whole and ash his paradise We wander through the seasons Pillock on the rock of time beneath the shifting clouds, unwise he sits and pines. we pass by whole continents without halt or pause. Boats out on the sea crest ships beyond the bay PILLO CK across the endless oceans For Donna Catherine gypsies run the waves. [18th March - 16th Apr 1988, Thailand & ...... Indonesia] Pillock sat and ate the bile CANTO I that rose into his mouth he spat it out and cursed Pillock sat upon a rock and gave out a mighty shout. the ocean washed the sand sea-salt crystallised Was that the cry of a gull? on his body-tan. Beachcombers turned and stared all they saw was a rock O mighty ocean wash away and Pillock huddled there. the meditation of the day for who can say what will break Who is that wretched crying man upon this man of clay. surrounded by the sea?

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Should we proffer forth some help He'd been miserably lonely or should we leave him be? mopping and home-sick moaning and groaning ...... in off-putting tones.

Pillock rose and blew his nose She was a God-send then dived into the waves who came by and saved him walkers stopped and whispered low who took him to quiet seas Is he mad or brave? and healed him with love.

The green sea frothed vanilla white They travelled through lands then settled smooth as glass they laughed and they sang the eddy reached the pearl sands they lay in the sands - and broke without a crash. he adored her! ...... O mighty ocean, perfect sea break some coral from a reef She was his Venus for who can hope for the return She was his Daphne of Pillock from the deep! She was his Sappho all made as one...... How he adored her! Sunbathers weighed the waters How he upheld her! beachcombers clocked the tide O how he fell! walkers stretched their metered legs O how he plunged! 'til sunset measured night. Into her bosom They searched for him 'til sunrise into her arms not a trace was found unto her charm his love left on the shifting sands he went without qualm the sea took Pillock down......

CANTO II She was an angel a beautiful angel It had begun in the islands but I must relate on the night of a full-moon that he was unkind. by a gently lapping lagoon while eating coconut-curry Unkind to an angel! Such despicable nature! Pillock met an angel! I'm ashamed he behaved She lifted him upwards like a mere mortal sole. she carried him skyward until they touched the stars Failed to cherish an angel? forget she had feelings?

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thought that her smile circling the globe. could never be lost? He had a restless spirit Man can be cruel that left him no comfort when he lives by vain rules nor property nor home life and not with soft feelings nor such common joys. nor heart, but his head. Four-score foreign states Man can be hard six continents, six seas when he orders and bullies he'd crossed waves and highways when he ignores all reason to fulfil his dreams. in the throws of a mood...... And always one more nation called on him. Come! And so with his angel One more distant country this beautiful angel lured him on. he clouded her smile ...... and damaged her wings. He loved sun and palm trees The wings that had borne him the sands of tropic lands to island and mountain and to such magic shorelines that had carried him forward he trekked to paradise. from his earlier gloom. He'd leave behind his stereo CANTO III his push bike and his car and take an endless flight What drove him East, then South to an exotic distant isle. to the island where the angel found him eating curry He'd carry little baggage beneath a full-moon? take precious little cash take nothing precious with him I might suggest it was boredom and bring precious little back. or some political objection or that his health was bad All he'd seek was shelter and he needed more sun. food to keep him sleek and sun to reach the parts But such trite reasons that time makes weak. for travelling from home ...... won't wash with Pillock who loved to rove. He certainly wasn't perfect but sought to be himself He was a wanderer to find the child beneath a vagabond gypsy his adult grave reserve. rootless and footless

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Reserve that clouds the morning He spent his last few pennies reserve that wets the day on a boat out to the Isle reserve that darks the evening the sea kicked up a fuss and turns the spirit grey. he gifted it some bile......

What better aim or purpose Landing on the white sands than the betterment of self he was broke and hunger-wracked Can all of us aspire to she wasn't there to greet him on this planet Earth? his mood grew dark, then black.

Perhaps there is a better cause He sold his last possessions that some wiser person knows he prepared for her to come many preach on this and that somehow he'd travelled faster and many follow so. than his blessed airborne one...... But Pillock followed his own heart which led him all about He brooded over a plain tea and this is why we first find him and a stale banana bun in the tropic South. why had he let her fly off towards the southern sun? CANTO IV Why had he blindly followed Pillock lingered in despair to catch with her again? waiting for his angel Why hadn't he turned North they had parted by a lake to home and sleet and rain? to rejoin on the shingle. Why was he in torment She had taken to the air when he was in love? Pillock to the land Bewitched and so bewildered his journey lasted six long days why was love so rough? that took an hour to fly...... The sea wiped the foreshore Pillock rushed to meet her coral broke the break he couldn't get enough Pillock waited every boat he had never met a woman to bring his angel-babe. who'd given him such love. He hoped every morning He crossed volcanic mountains he worried every noon he trekked through matted bush he cried every evening he forewent food and drink and nightly swooned. and slept on bare wood. O what a sad indictment!

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What a turn of fate! the dark-skinned girl put about Pillock and his angel her arms and held him tight. deemed never to be mates! With Pillock's head upon her breast That is what the breeze said she combed his unkempt hair into Pillock's lug .... when he slept she lay by him 'You'll never see your Angel!' and watched till break of day. 'She'll not show up, you mug!' She devoted all her time O how cruel the breeze tormented! to Pillock's small demands how vile it played with him! she didn't know nor knew about it drove him to the rock or why his fever ran. and did him in! ...... She nursed him thru his restless turns - his fixation for the sea Poor Pillock, love-sick Pillock she could not guess he waited there what a hopeless chap! for Angel to appear. where was his fellow Man ...... to help hold him back? She loved Pillock more and more CANTO V as more he grew more ill Pillock did not realise While despairing on the Isle his cruelty to the girl. there was one who nursed him she was a dark native girl The village talked of the cause who cared and tended. of Pillock's strange malaise until at last they came to guess She gave him shelter in her hut sex was to blame. fed him rice and fruit wiped the sweat from his brow The girl's father came to save when his fever took. his daughter from a rogue but when he viewed the fevered man She could not speak, she was deaf he quickly changed his tone. she spoke to him with touch she tried to make him laugh For when he saw Pillock's face but sticking out her tongue. and his daughter's hovering care he saw that God was needed there She made him take swims with her and off he went to pray. and long walks on the shore but Pillock lost in angel love But Pillock leapt from the rock scanned the waves for boats. before he reached the temple the girl put a red-tailed snake No boats came one whole month to her lobe temporal. Pillock wept at night

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Yet strange enough she did not die she wasn't a waitress but fell into a swoon or farm girl dyke. she woke to hear crashing waves and voices in the room. She was no nun or schoolteacher mam A miracle! the father cried she was a lady God had cured his girl! alright! which God this was who can say ...... but she has her hearing still. Angel had beauty CANTO VI she was perfect in feature age had failed Who was this angel to sag or to line. this glorious creature who mesmerised Pillock Her voice was honey and managed to beach him? her hair golden silk her eyes a warm ocean Was she a mortal her skin like milk. or some heavenly person sent from above Cheerful of nature to break ego-ed men? happy of face lively of step Perhaps I should tell you she walked with grace. that this woman was human she was as mortal A model of manners as woman can be. patient to learn careful of action She was all Irish never angry nor stern. as Irish as I am ...... when you're raised in America in cold Illinois. With no obvious flaws nor traits to dislike Lets call her Chicago she is an angel sweet girl Chicago to all Pillock types. an angelic Chicago in her thirty eighth year. When she met Pillock she was lonely and tired She was no chicklet far from Chicago newly out of the shell and drained by desire she was a well-groomed Mid-Western belle. Till under the full-moon by a lapping lagoon She wasn't your rough type they kissed in the starlight who tended bar and a lotus bloomed.

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And what was this lotus and every morn they were wet freshly new formed? heavy with love's scented sweat but Pillock and Angel's they rose into the day. bosom love - born? Each gazed into each for hours CANTO VII they were bound by passion's power Pillock brought his Angel flowers Sometimes when upon the road she gave him all she had. happy times come and go ...... and when things are really slow it's sometimes best to split. Yet time in Paradise can pass and turn into a timeless trap Pillock had his moody days that holds mortals in the clasp cold as ice, insatiate of a living Hell. with his own lax ways when he couldn't get his fix. In this Hell mortals wither idleness can turn sweet bitter His needs changed with his mood love can soon slide and dither and Angel couldn't understand on the brink of loss. whether he was sad or rude when in these mental fits. Couples once so sweet united find themselves quickly frightened Tired of his changing nature at the thought of being bonded she took to pen and paper to one another for life. or books about romantic capers that stole her from despair. In a way these thoughts hinder bring on love to its winter She loved him with increased waver break pure love into splinters as his fitful moods enslaved her before it is a whole. she gave less of her favours until they kissed no more. Sometimes there is no prime reason ...... when neither wish for such lesion when couples have great cohesion But why discord and such rancour in matters of the soul. when each had found safe harbour in the breast of sighing ardour Circumstance can pressure all made to foster love? Pillock needed time alone Angel thought she'd get along Angel never had such passion better on her own. she cherished Pillock without ration she made with him in every fashion So Angel flew up and out in hammock or in sea. Pillock took the hard land route they said they'd meet on an isle They were fast at every sunset in the tropic south.

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CANTO VIII but her shimmering shroud did not save her. What became of Angel? ...... Can I really speak of the tragedy that befell There were some who survived this perfect lady. but in fact they all died those with true faith It breaks my heart to tell went to Heaven. how Angel plunged was lost in the clouds Those who were bad on her flight south. I might sadly add had their spirits snatched Wrapped in misty garments by the Devil! above the soaring birds she was sipping coffee Where Satan took them when the engines cut. is a hazardous guess I'd rather forget What did she feel! they were taken. Will we ever know! Her coffee spilt on her dress For to dwell on the Fate as the plane plunged below. of the unfortunate is the vice of curates O what distress!! and the righteous. Imagine the fear!! ...... Imagine the panic, the screaming! as the mountains neared. Angel was borne away with the others saved Those mountains of death and carried beyond ... with their volcanic smoke to a garden. craters that bubbled and flowed! And there she was cared for and tended by fairies Such serious trouble! and brought endless gifts the entire plane shook by nymphets. the passengers took to their knees! There she was happy but for moments of memory But Angel was calm and thoughts of poor Pillock she took from her purse on the Isle in the South. a picture of Pillock and laughed! CANTO IX

When the plane hit the ground What of that distant southern Isle she was haloed in love surrounded by a smooth jade sea

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where Pillock spent eternity Stacks of stalk lined the paths waiting for his love? as natives cut the ripe rice-sheaf and winnowed chaff from the seed It was a place of nature wild sparrows swooped to steal. where steep volcanoes rose above the green expanse of coconut Men set-to with four-pronged hoes that swept down to the shore. mud clinging to their heels they dredged the ditches with a zeal Temples broke the undergrowth that drowned the heat. ancient shrines fresh offerings bore ...... wood chimes hung on every door and music drummed the air. And Pillock waiting for his love vainly wrestling with defeat Rice fields steeped the verdant land lay prostrate completely beat streams flowed ... everywhere and cried all day. rivers rushed through sacred lairs where creatures took the shade. Till slowly time caught up with him to leave him weak and crazed Brown snakes coiled harmlessly the natives thought him malaised green snakes slithered yellow scaled from being bone-idle. (But woe! The snakes waiting there red-tailed fork-fanged to bite!) They laughed at him for being so but they kept their silence Sun birds drained the pink papaya they left him on the shoreline swifts soared to sightless heights the ocean waxed and violent. parakeets plunged like light ...... into the shadowed glade. So who could blame the natives Herons filed across the sky or the girl who couldn't save white cranes waded on parade Pillock from a sea-grave sparrows stole down in raids in the tropic south. upon the seeded rush. For who could muse this indolent Lizards scurried in the ditches would plunge into the waves insects rose in a flush when only one could save him dragonflies beat the crush and she was not about. with their double wings. CANTO X In the pools shamrock clustered around pink-tipped lily rings Down and down Pillock went skeeters whizzed in reckless whim dragged deep wards by the current from leaf to leaf. driven by the wild sea force he went beyond all worry.

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Short of breath he knew no more and that was that. sound and sight departed some would say he left this life At last! They were together but this is mortal fancy. he ... by land and sea she ... by air and accident Two mermaids took him in their arms until there they are. ten leagues took him down ...... 'til they broke the surface of a cool lagoon. O how we try to change things and work to shape our love Doting nymphs took him then but Fate will have the last say dressed him in shinning robes in spite of all our work. drew him up above their heads and in procession bore .... And Faith will be the one hope we have to keep our love Him through a singing forest for without belief in someone through a citrus grove we haven't got a lot. through a spice filled garden of nutmeg, ginger, clove. And some may say that's nonsense we're better on our own There's no beauty quite like this but perhaps they have no knowledge no scent nor sound to match of how love grows. one might say its Heaven itself but I do not know that much. Yet, I have little wisdom ...... on matters of the heart you should turn to authors They brought him to a splendid bower more expert in this art. they laid him in the grass they kissed him lightly on the lips But now you know of Pillock and took their leave with that. who pined for absent love it was all a little drastic Pillock suddenly blinked awake but it worked out well enough. before him stood a Queen ...... before him in a beam of light stood his waking dream. IF LO VE WERE LIKE THE EAGLE'S FLIGHT It was his lovely Angel-babe! For Donna Catherine It was his Angel-pooh! [29th March 1988, Tuk Tuk, Lake Toba, It was his every wish in one Sumatra] but how could this be true? If love were like the eagle's flight He rose and kissed her gently and hovered on a gentle breeze, she gently kissed him back and we were fast into the night he took her in his wanton arms and never thought to tease nor scold;

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we would soar into the clouds What can I do but take these days and leave the works of man below; as trial by Fate at work - we would penetrate the shroud for if I try to fight such luck of earth and on to heaven go. I'll never know true love. And when we came to love's abode where mortal coat immortal cloaks, O heaven grant me sweet respite naked in the clouds we'd dote from all the ails I've done - and lip our days in endless bliss I repent for all the times until we'd filled the skies with stars I've made others burn. and lit the universe with kiss. Forgive all the sins I've cast, BUKITINGGI the hearts I've bled with pain, [4th April 1988, Bukitinggi, Sumatra, I know now that love is not Indonesia] supposed to be so vain.

Crying into my tea in Bukitinggi, Age has made me realise an hour before my bus-trip to Jakarta, that love is not return, the girl I've travelled with flies on but giving all you have to give to cultural Java and Yogyakarta, without a selfish thought. while I less fortunate in cash terms must brave the broken roads of Sumatra. I suffer now, now I know what it is to lose Thirty eight hours away in Java, contentment with a special one Jakarta waits for me, and I am sad Fate was want to chose. that twelve hours on lies Yogyakarta where the girl I've travelled with will rest So break my pain, let me go while I sleep fitful on a bus, unite me with my love - she will wing her way to Bali. for I have learnt the hard way that love should not be spurned. Eight hours on beyond Yogyakarta, eight hours on beyond Surabaya, I will travel on through sticky Java, I will reach then rest in sleepy Bali, and there I will meet my travel partner, or I will cry some more into my tea.

RELEASE MY FATE [16th April 1988, Ubud, Bali, Indonesia]

Never had I had such love rush and gush and drain me till I am wrecked upon a shore where none can save me.

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UNIVERSAL BEING - BOOK 1

THE UNIVERSAL BEING 7. Of State, of place, and circumstance, [May 1988 - June 1989, Moscow, The shape of things as they stand, England, Scotland, Iceland] The way of style and high fashion, And its relation, status, rank. 1ST LEXICO N 8. I am all of these ins and outs: I exist, therefore I am — so goes the philosophical Of juncture, of matter, and of case, argument. As beings of existence, humankind is In respect, regard, in every detail; related to the whole. This relationship is abstract — and humankind cannot make sense of it — for Chapter and verse - I am the page. humanity will not embrace the Universal Being. 2 - RELATIONS 1 - EXISTENCE 9. I am kinned, and connected .... 1. Ergo sum, in being I am absolute, Related, allied, and of that ilk, Monad in the currency of time, To all that is pertinent, ad rem I prevail in essence and reality, And all that is relevant, a propos. I exist, and become to evolve. 10. Mortals are misallied, & misrelated, 2. I resist absence and emptiness, Foist in, dragged in by the shoulders, The vacuum of the nothing & the void. Isolated like some outlandish alien, Nirvana is nowhere, null & groundless, Adrift from all that comes and goes. The neverness of life unbegotten. 11. Some have blood-ties, affiliations ... 3. My reality is the stuff of visibility, With clan, tribe, nation, race: The matter of plenum and of things, Kith, germane, distaff, spindle, Substantial, concrete, and solid - Distant, intimate, and close. Body, flesh, pith, marrow, meat. 12. Some have relationships thru' 4. I resist vacant inane Maya, marriage Gauzy ghostly vague & hollow shadows, Affinity with the whole wrecking crew: Dreams of folly, fancy, and figures, Relatives-in-law, nuncles, lawma's, Figments of vain fantasy and fallacy. Buddies, step-kin, and kin removed.

5. Inherent is the inwardness of ego, 13. Some reciprocate with interaction, Intrinsic and generic to the self, Engage and interlock and inter-tie: Essential in all aspects and features, With mutual or joint correlation, Implicit and autistic in the gist. Some respond, and give reply.

6. Outward is an accident of foreignness 14. Some identify with selfsameness, Collateral and appendaged to the id, There's no difference 'tween them all: Incidental to the basic nub of being, Duplicate, twin, and homoousian, Casual to the quid per se — the ideal They're six of one, and on all fours.

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15. Alike or similar, analogous mortals 24. I am not a faithful photocopy, Match the alter ego: the mirror image; Pastiche, parody, or perfect dub ... The twin that resembles and takes after No replica, off-print, or tracing; The pea besides it in the pod. Nor cast, nor chip from the block.

16. Some dissimilar, differ by degree 25. I'm no artist model, or dummy, Enough to tell the daisy from the dock; Archetypal, died, or punched I'm not a bit alike, nothing of it! Sample, specimen, or taster I'm as different as a prune from a plum! Made as object lessons for the world.

17. Uniformity certainly doesn't suit me 26. I am in accord, in perfect unison, Nor persistent running true to form. In keeping with consensus omnium, Invariably, without exception ... I am right down everyone's alley, I do not tick monotonous like a clock. Agreeable, congenial, and in sync:

18. Subtly, I am different, a far-cry, 27. Not clashing, jarring, nor discordant, An apple off another type of tree: I'm no ass in a lion's skin ... Like a horse of a distinct colour, No jackdaw in peacock's feathers, I'm nothing of the kind, or the other. No sardine in a salmon tin.

19. Contrary or repugnant, I am not 3 - QUANTITY Counter, and opposite, and hostile. Such obverse, inverse antipathy 28. In quantity Humanity is a mass: Is vis-à-vis to all I desire. Measure, strength, a force of numbers; Some certain sum, a magnitude, 20. Many are uneven, irregular, each way An amplitude, plus ou moins. Divergent, and all over the shop: Changeable, and varying in manner, 29. In degree Men are marked, Inconsistent - everwhichway erose. Graded, notched, stepped in pitch, Ranked and rated, status staged, 21. Few are multiform & hetramorphic, In so much, bit by bit ... Allotropes motley manifold: Of every colour and description, 30. That some are equal, even, par, I’m diverse, and eclectic of sorts. Equiponderant, balanced, poised, Even Stephen, nip and tuck, 22. Many may mimic, imitate, & copy, Neck and neck, drawn and tied. Ape, and parrot, dupe and mock: Some might follow suit, and mirror 31. Most are at odds: imbalanced, Pattern, model, echo, all they want. Ill-sorted on an inclined scale. Thrown off, they're disquiparant 23. But I am original, and novel, In a top-heavy lopsided way. Fresh, and unique in the whole, Authentic, underived, and firsthand, 32. Others - mean and juste milieu, A prototype going down the road. Is in the long run middle state,

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On the average, normal, standard, 41. Mortals are addenda, & appendixes, Mezzo termine ... Generally. Supplemented to all issued things: Codicils, postscripts, offshoots 33. Most are recompensed quid pro quo, Allonged, lapelled, suffixed. Peter robbed to pay off Paul - Counter poised and bent over backwards 42. Criminals are deducted, & removed: To indemnify and cover costs. Subtracted, tarred without rebate - Rubbed out, ruled out and written off: 34. Some men are great, much, and vast, Struck off, knocked off, or erased. Stupendous, lofty, large, and grand, Colossal in their mammoth most, 43. Tramps are remains, relics, & Extreme and ultra beaucoup gross. remnants: Odds and ends, rags and scrags, 35. Most are small, slight and little, Parings, raspings, filings, shavings; Minute, smidge, smitch, and snitch, Fag-ends, doubts, stumps, butts. Scant, and sheer, stark and scarce, Barely not a wit, nor stitch. 44. Kings smack of vestige Hybrid too! Mixed and blended, instilled, fused, 36. Some are eminent, transcendent, Touch of tar, and interbred - Superior, senior, and predominate. Hodge podge, mixty-maxty through! Excel! Surpass! Exceed and better! A cut, a stroke above the main. 45. Saints are pure: simple, plain, Unmixed, neat, straight, and true; 37. Many are base, and second fiddle, Uninvolved and disentangled ... Subordinate, shabby, bottom drawer, Uncombined and absolute. Tip-the-hat, understrappers Inferior, low, and in the shade. 46. Demons are complex: tangled skein, Labyrinths and Gordian knots 38. Some advance, and some expand, Snarled and fouled, confused, muddled; Increase, gain, grow, extend, Embrangled in Hyracanian woods. Build up, pyramid, and parlay, To mount and fuel the rising flames 47. Thus joined, hooked up in copulation, Fastened, fixed, lashed and trussed, 39. Before decrease & lapse, they wane, Hand-in-glove, dovetailed, battened, Downturn, fall, and fade away; Firm, secure, and hung together: Cut down, rolled back, then shortened, They waste away, wear and tear. 48. Mankind is bound, rope and anchor, Bowline knot and harness hitch, * Inside clinch, and hawser bend, Couple, link, and bridge ... 40. In addition, adjunct, append, Attach, tag on, cum multis allis, 49. Sectioned, parted, severed, Clap on, slap on, burden, saddle Ruptured, fractured, split and slit, Et cetera, and so forth, affixes - Non-adhesive rifted, rent and ripped,

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Chipped, crazed, checked, and chapped, Factor, part and parcel, leaven, I consist of all that's named. 50. Cohered, adhered, stuck together, Staying close, Mankind clings - 4 - ORDER Holding on like some old creeper: Bramble, ivy, briar, burr. 59. Before the sequel: before the trail; Before the eddy and the wake; 51. So inconsistent! Non-adhesive, Before the aftermath was tagged; Useless as a rope of sand - Before the after clap was tailed; Man is lax, slack and loose Flapping, hanging, and detached. 60. Before the egg; before the dawn; Before the very starting point; 52. Unified ... associated, Before the onset; before the light; Some tie-up, fuse and blend: Before the hour Time was born - In cahoots they pool their interests Till fortunes join in common cause. 61. All was disarrayed, crooked, Awry, amiss, askew .... 53. Atomised ... in dissolution Huggermugger, willy-nilly, Ravaged by the tear of time, Rant on, much-a-do. All break-up, fall to pieces ... Crumble, wear, and waste to dust. 62. Disarranged, mussed, confused, Messed up, fouled, disturbed: 54. Thus, I’m the whole, tout ensemble, With no general order Each and every, be and end .... Like tea-leaves in a mug. The shooting match, the total works: The complex jimbang, one and all. 63. Then, all was set to rights, regulated, Cut and trimmed, separated, 55. Some are part, portion, fraction, Groomed, spruced, straightened-up, Section, segment, cantle, tithe; Placed ... policed into shape, Piece by piece, and in small doses, Dribs and drabs, scraps and crumbs. 64. Into class, rate, and grade, Genus, genre, group .... 56. I am complete, all or nothing, Subdivided - list and file, Heaven and earth, no stone unturned: Species, branch, and root - From Hell to breakfast, cap-a-pie, First and last, charged and crammed. 65. ‘til Nature left us everything, Fine fettle, jimp, and snug, 57. Incomplete, scant, and half-weight, En regale, and apple-pie ... Lacking, wanting, in arrears ... Like flowers in a jug. Mutilated, mangled, butchered: Most are short of what they need. *

58. Embodied, constituted, made, 66. However - I have prime place - I am set up, formed, contained; I go before: I go ahead of

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All afore-mentioned things 77. Some fellows are barred, excluded, Preliminary to existence. Precluded, purged, shut-out. Colour, race, and segregation ... 67. Bipeds come next, ensue, & follow That's what I'm on about. In procession behind me. They are successful pioneers 78. Some revile the foreign devil In the order of progression. In favour of the long-nose men ... Abroad in distant parts, or home - 68. They're foregoers, and voorloopers, I’m at one with aliens. Frontiersmen, and voortrekkers, Messengers and harbingers ... 79. In worldliness, I am one - The prelude to the train. Every mother's son and more: Tout le monde, every Jack, 69. And that is that - subject closed. His brother or his far-flung wife. Yet - with the last cat hung, The proposition is not cold: 80. For I am special, I'm distinct - For constant flows the continuum Your Uncle Dudley, truly yours! The he, she, it; they, them too; 70. Parading, filing, marching past The videlicet. To wit I am - Round the clock; ceaseless rows, Caravans in cavalcade - 81. The line, pursuit, pet subject, Columns swathing to and fro. The main interest, the leading card. I confine my major in - 71. Never interrupted! stopped! By going into minor forms .... No fitful longo intervallo ... The pioneers come behind me: 82. Until all men walk the chalk, The ceaseless masses onward follow. Keep in step, fall into line, Play the game, hold the rule, 72. So I’m accompanied on my journey, Come up to scratch when I squawk. Attended by a comitatus: A retinue, an entourage, 83. Men might dissent, get out of line, Fellows who blindly follow. Leave the path, go out of bounds, Stretch a point, drive a coach 73. When they muster as a caucus, And six - but not to be undone When they convene as a congress, Packed like sardines, thick as hops, 84. By normal, real, and naturalistic, Like flies on a carcass ... Usual, ordinary, commonplace, As matter of course, expected things 74. I demob them, I disband them ... Prescribed and regulated - I dismiss them, disperse the lot - Scatter, pepper to the winds: 85. I welcome abnormal eccentricity! And then I journey on alone. Mis-creations, freaks and monsters. Only quirks of Fate by mistake - * Create basilisks or Minataurs.

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5 - NUMBER We could terminate trilogic ... And three times more think as one. 86. Let us figure, let us number, digit count, cast and score. 95. For why trisect and make three parts Let us total, let us tally, Triangulate and leave three-forked, The whole including aliquot. One third this, third part that ... Trisect one, 'til balance goes. 87. Let us reckon, let us rehearse, Count noses, call the roll ... 96. We could be four! Tetrad, quartern, Let us tell, let us tot-up, Two square one, a quartet whole ... Keep a check as we go. We could a four leafed shamrock be - Precious, rare, and blessed with luck! 88. Let us list, let us line-up, tabulate, screen and scroll. 97. Not one fourth this, a quarter that, Let us calend, let us cadre. To be nothing in this world .... Log .. roster ... poll. Four-fold these, by quarters those, By quadruplication - distance grows. 89. Am I to stand alone? Exclusive, single, removed, apart 98. There is no need to draw a quarter, When I am lonesome, on my tod, To make a farthing of the whole, A sole - per se detached ....? Create four answers to one question When the answer isn't four. 90. We could be mates, coupled, matched, Twinned, braced, yoked, teamed ... 99. We could be five! Six! Or twenty! Tete a tete, a heavenly twain, Sixty! Or a hundred thousand! A starry twilight pair engaged We could be five billion beings ... And still be one in number - 91. Who need not duplicate, repeat, Nor be two-sided, twice as much, 100. Such a great number! A plurality of Nor double-up as much again. causes! If we were more like pals The majority with the excess of votes, The lion's share, the manifold most 92. Who need not bisect, cut in two, ..... Who’s who amongst that host? Split in demi, semi-spheres ... And half-an-half, fifty-fifty 101. A number .... a certain number; Divide and take bipartite stance. Rife, abundant, copious thick ..... A million and one creeping & crawling, 93. We could be tri-form, three-in-one, Not easily stopped by shaking a stick. Create a third from our love ... We could triumph, deuce-ace all, 102. Only a handful, scarcely a middling, In threeness be as one in bond. Sparsely scattered, barely a few .... A precious little, skimp and sprinkled 94. We have no need to triple tension, Here and there push thinly through. Cube derision, and treble thought

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103. Till over and over, again and again, 111. Till all is flit, fly, and fleet, Many times round ..... the echo rings Two shakes of a lamb or monkey's tail; Tedious, monotone, without a dingdong: Gone like a shadow, gone like a dream, Until it becomes a harped upon thing. Burst like a bubble - short, and sweet!

104. Into the infinite, the inclusive dark, 112. For all's forever, constant, immortal, Knowing no bounds: bow without stern. Deathless, imperishable without bound Thru the eternal void, they untold go: Ore a sempre - perpetually perennial End without end, on without term. Knowing no limit, knowing no end.

6 - TIME 113. While in the twinkling bat of an eye, In a jiff - like a shot out of Ulster! 105. I am that bald sexton of Time, Afore you utter 'Goody Snatch! Witch!' Nurse and breeder, devourer of things. Time has been plucked by the Swooper. Author of authors, spinner of all, Summer sun and winter wind .... 114. Till what's left? Calends & records, Annals & diaries & journals of verse, 106. I am timeless ... sine die; Almanacs, chronicles, signed and dated A neverness of blue moon days. By Greenwich time & tolling Big Ben - I am the moment, the last millennium, The era, the epoch, the aeon .... 115. Mistimed, misdated, misleading, Prochronic or anachronously false ... 107. I’m the age that spans and stretches for I am true Time - I am a neverness, The swing of season, spell and shift, I come before, and I follow all. The kalpa ... yuga ... manvantara, Day, date, duration, stint. *

* 116. All that is new, novel, and fresh, New fangled modern, firsthand & vernal, 108. You all have your innings, Abreast of the times, fin de siecle, Your whack ... and your go, Up-to-the-minute latest in fashion: Your bout ... and your stretch, Your spell filling in for ... 117. And posterity? subsequent & later? The expost facto of all presence? 109. Before the interval brings the pause, I attend to that afterwhich The meantime, meanwhile, ad interim: Sequenced to beyond past forever. The pedente lite, the provisional break for the time being, for the nonce - 118. All that is old, cobwebbed and reliced, 110. That makes you endure, last, abide, Antique, traditional, primeval & worn, Maintain steadfast for donkey's years Outmoded, disused, has-been & old hat, The lengthening vista of human time, Old as the hills; like dodos outmoded: All your born days, hour after hour -

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119. Simultaneous in pace with the after, 127. Until dead and off, a creature stalks As one in concert & chorus 'una voce': Dry or rainy, nightly comes .... I keep in tempo with the nowness In solstice swing and equinox ... Concurrent in the same breathe as yore. Through Aries, Cancer, Capricorn ...

120. All that is youth, tender, and callow, 128. In proper time, in fullness shows. Childlike, puerile, girlish & awkward, In passing, by the by - it turns Cherub, doll-like, minor and new-born To pinch, clutch, squeeze, and rub, In May-morn life & salad day summer: To hinge past, and push on luck.

121. And time out of mind - auld lang 129. Untimely, importune, half-cocked syne This creature is an evil-hour When mortals were a figment of fancy: That feasts on those who miss the bus Days beyond recall when I was young; And locks the door on those who dote. When all was green and newly sprung - 130. It steals on those with time to spare, 122. All that is boy, laddie, and garcon, It swiftly gains on those who rush, Girlie and missy, maiden and gal, Soon enough such said - than done! Infant and baby, bambino and bairn, Straight with, fore with, it overruns Chunk of a kid, and unspoiled child: 131. The late, the tardy, and those 123. I remember - I am sum past of all behind, Time: Delayed, detained, those who dally, This day and hour - the here and now; Those who stroll, hold off, prolong, The hereunto; the as yet; the already; Put on ice, postpone with red-tape: The thus-far-today but not the man'ana. 132. 'Till the morn, red-fingered dawn, 124. All that is adult, woman, and man, Has woke the lark at cocklight call Darby and Joan, dame and old duffer, And noon glides on to afternoon Crone and hag, heffer and gammer, And moves upon the close of day Senior and dean, elder and doyen ... 133. 'Till pale pink hour of evening turns * - Grey-hooded sundown brings nightfall, 125. Where flies the future on the And shank of owl-light dimply draws morrow? 'Till dead and off Death it comes. Which by-an-by some advent calls life to light; which in coming, 7 - EVENTUALITY In time is lost, by the act of going. 134. Death is an accident, a fact, 126. All that is years, the measure of age, An incident, a bloody do .... Mature and ripe, full and flowered, Affair, matter, thing, concern, Past one's prime, in the sere As things turn out .... its back. With one foot in and worse for wear:

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135. It is imminent ... any minute Death has had its way. Approaching, nearing, looming close. An attack impending ... to be expected 144. Birth, blood, breed and branch, Any moment ... it will attack! Death has seed in every house. Bastard, bantling, nobody's child, 136. Frequently Death prevails, Death has sown a billion times. In common occurrence, oft returns: Without cease, perpetually, constant, 8 - CHANGE Regularly I hear the fiend hunt. 145. So we need to change! alter! vary! 137. It's rare, uncommon, unusual & we men of Earth, we savages? seldom Will we deviate? revamp? veer? I see Death doing its job. Shift and turn a leaf? Once in a dog's-age or blue moon, Pro hac vice, I'll chase it off. 146. You status quo conservatives! You standpats! You unprogressive's! 138. Intermittent, spasmodic, on and off, You intransigent bitter-enders! Wavering, flicking, spastic, erratic, You brute old bulls! You farting By fits & jerks, snatches & catches, wallowers! Death sporadically gnashes. 147. Who are you? You fickle dackers! 139. It is a presence, an omnipresence You chameleon rolling stones - That permeates and overruns ..... You kaleidoscopic Cynthianan phasers It haunts and hangs around like mist Who blow hot and see-saw cold? That always scares or chills. 148. Who are you a plomb fixed 140. It's always absent, non attendant, Immobiles Playing hooky without leave. With your mortgaged investment-homes? It's always nowhere to be found, Secure, battened, anchored, moored, Out of sight ... but always there. You high, dry marooned buffoons!

141. It lives, habituates, and dwells, 149. Can we keep on, prolong the pain, Quarters, billets, rooms and berths. We men of Earth, we savages? It camps, it bivouacs, it roughs Drag, maintain, retain, keep going, Where man cannot descend. Pursue the tenor of our ways ...?

142. Death likes to copulate, 150. Change, convert, transform, Couple, mate, and fornicate, progress? Congress, coitus, intercourse, Mature, mellow, melt and merge? Death's beget a billion souls. Time has brought about the need, To renew and mend our Earth! 143. Mother, dam, and grandmamma ... Death has had its mount and lay. 151. You’ve lapsed, regressed, reverted, Stock, stirps, sept and strain, Harked back, embraced reversionism!.

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So turnabout, escheat, recess ... Capable, competent, vis viva et vitae, Change your ways, you Earthling. I am endowed, invested with life.

152. Overthrow, overturn, break down 160. I am not impotent or weak, Without revolt, or revolution ... Eunuched, hog-tied, done-up brown, Without anarchic, sans culottish Out of the battle, out of the running, Jacobinic insurrection ...... Off the field and laid up bleeding!

153. Exchange, supplant, switch by proxy 161. I am sturdy, staunch, and stable, Without fall guys or whipping boys. Strong, sound, a stamina'd stalwart, Ring-in no ghosts, goats, or dummies, Sinewed, sphinctered, strapping, No faute de mieux in absentia. Stout in stance, I stand solid.

154. Tit for tat, quid pro quod, 162. I’m not feeble, whimsy or wimpish This is our Earth, noble Earthlings! Frail, fragile, faint, infirm. Tooth for tooth, eye for eye! No delicate dainty, dodder or drooper, As you take, you shall pay back! Wobbly waster or weakened fool.

9 - CAUSATION 163. He's the kick, the zip, the zing, The punch, the drive, the get, the go, 155. What's the cause, occasion, call, The pep, the vim, the verve, the snap, The big idea behind the whole? The spark plug and the dynamo. Who is the author primum mobile, The mainspring, fans et origo? 164. I am not violent, fierce, nor savage, Fury, furore, ferment, fume. 156. What effect, result, conclusion, No storm, no tempest, roaring wind. Culmination, climax, end I am no Vulcan fuelling such things. Arises from all germination, Stems from such development? 165. I am the all of moderation, Mildness and the golden mean; 157. What attribution, imputation Medan agan - the happy medium Can be ascribed on this account, Striking a balance, instilling peace. Laid at the door of assignation, Who's to blame, and on what ground? *

158. Perhaps by chance, fortune, fate, 166. None have influence, favour, pull, By fluke, by random shot, by lot, Prestige and sway, pressure, effect, Without design, the way things fall, None have the in to carry weight ... Providence provides the cause? None have a hold or gain on him.

10 - POWER 167. You are all non influential ...... Impotent against my immovable self, 159. I am the power, vigour, the force, Unyielding, impervious to corruption, Omnipotent, almighty, puissant .... I am unresponsive to pleas for help.

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168. I'm not inclined to lean or bend, Drift with trends, swing with fashion. Bearing, line, direction, course, I am in a fair way unopened.

169. I'll not go with the current, Fall in with fads, follow phases. I'll not be brought down, I don't believe in braving chance.

170. I'll not get involved or entangled Up to my neck - nor deeply ensnared In embarrassing tie-ups of interest That make for a party's own greed.

171. He'll not concur, co-act or combine, He alone is the Ergo Sum Id. He'll not go shoulder to shoulder, When he is the all, the whole of it.

172. He contravenes, he contradicts. I conflict, clash, and collide. I am the crosscurrent, I am the counter - I am creator and child.

* 173-177 removed

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UNIVERSAL BEING - BOOK 2

2ND LEXICON 184. Displaced, misplaced, dislocated, The Universal Being is everything substance and Some are square pegs in round holes: non-substance. Mankind's, anthropocentric Some will never roost or nest, interests quickly make Man tire of revelations They're out of joint with all the world. about time and space. Man prefers to hear of himself and the world he inhabits. Thus the Second Lexicon, is about earthlings and their place in the 188. It's nice to be indigenous, native, continuum. Citizenship domesticates ..... It's harder being naturalised, 1 - SPACE AND PLACE Adopted, tamed, and broken

178. There is space and time continuum 189. By a populace, people, public, From here to spheres beyond dark Pluto Incumbent, 'loco tenis' folk To hell and back through black holes; With their slang ... wog and dago There is extent, expanse and more: For those newcomers making homes.

179. While Earthlings - between two 190. Homes in lodgings, digs and bed sits. Poles Abodes in hovels, huts and shacks. Migrate towards the torrid zones - Homes in dives, dumps and dog holes In split domains of country, land, With pig-sties out the back. Of province, state, canton, shire - 191. Nooks, corners, crannies, niches, 180. Nations swarm, republics spawn, Cold water flats, single-ends ... Kingdoms come, and empires go. A commode as a bathroom Scotland, England, Ireland, Wales ... Beneath a folding bed .... They are one, but they are four. 2 - TOWN AND COUNTRY 181. There is rural rustic man Of the clods, of the sticks; 192. Cities - roly-poly, plump, Provincial, pastoral, countrified, Beefy, tubby, rotund, gross, Hickish, boorish, and farmerish. Bulky, massive, ponderous, vast, Over sized and overlarge. 182. There is urban, civic man Of the suburbs, of the slums; 193. Hamlets - teeny-weeny, midge, Burgher man hived in glass .... Pee-wee, itsy-bitsy, wisp, Where nothing unobserved can pass. Pint-sized, puny, tomtit petite, * Smaller than a mustard seed.

183. Location, situation, and place, 194. Towns enlarge, expand, and increase, Some strike root, plant themselves. Spread, sprawl, span and stretch Some drop anchor, hang their caps, Potbellied to the furthest shores Set up house, settle down. Bloated, forth they gassy swell.

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195. Nature - in the way - contracts, Where root & wrack get ebb-tide reefed Shrinks, shrivels, withers, wastes, Where fleet shell-creatures creep. Till compressed-condensed, it puckers And gets strangled all together. 204. Give me the deep, the ocean bottom, The bosom of the bathyal sphere ... 196. Wilds, distant, far, remote, Draft on draft, depths unfathomed One stride from the back-beyond, Below the shelf and shallows - As far as east is from west to where the parkland spreads ... 205. Where time shapes plains and prairies: 197. That's where I'd settle ... Flat as a board or bowling green. Not near, not next to a town, Flat as a pancake or billiard table. Not two whoops, not a holler, Flat as the belly of a skate. Not a stone's throw, one spit closer! 206. There weeping willows pendant 198. Give me space! remove and break! droop Let gap and gorge and gulf divide. Cernuous as a sunflower nodding - Keep the town and country rift! Pencile like a fuchsia dangling Where's the harm in that? Or gargoyle from a cornice hanging

199. With their rubbish - packed, 207. Off buttress, brace and mainstay Loaded in a truck and lugged Above rostrum, pulpit, priest .... Out to the dump, abandoned ... Great 'locus standi' on 'terra firma' Towns are ringed by muck. Beneath roofs of slate.

200. Plastic bag, cardboard box, 208. Shafts of ash, staves of maple, Newspaper, polystyrene cup .... Rods of birch, staffs of oak, Detergent bottle, soft-drink can Stalks of rowan, sticks of hazel ... Mountains out of waste land! Jamb, spar, stanchion, post

201. Give me hills, downs, moors - 209. Which stand, run abreast ... Bare steeps where desolation stalks; Correspond, match, equate ... Alps on Alps, sun bright summits ... Co-extend in such a way High monuments topped by hummocks. They collineate and collimate:

202. Give me lowlands, the fens - 210. While outside at a slant, a tilt, Wetlands where marsh-birds wade ... Slew, skew, askance, awry, Moss on moss, neap-levelled grasses, Kittycornered, catawamptious, Wart hung banks where water passes. A churchyard guards the sky.

203. Give me sand flats, shoals & bars 211. Head over heels, and bottoms up, Ripple-rung and driftwood skimmed .... The soil turns and somersaults.

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Who can say if fingers clutch Muff, slough, scab and fluff. To keep headstones totherway up. 220. Yet this is skin-deep information! 212. Processions reach the intersection, Desquamation might be learned: The traverse of the thwartways round, Endermatic might be clever - The cross point and the carrefour But it's dressing on the mutton. Where whippletree's plough the earth 221. Where's the grizzle or the wisdom? 213. Around the weave of braid, and plait, The silvery livery of advanced age? The warp, the woof, and weft of wreath ... There's many wanton riddle ringlets Intertwining, interlacing, And cataracts of names - Interthreading strands of grief - 222. Sure, you can tux Nature, tart it up, 214. Sewn together, seamed together, Dress it in best bib and tucker ... Funeraled by a fine drawn stitch ... But strip the Sunday gad-rags off Until the cloth wears and rents And what have you got? And the flowers fade unpicked. 223. Nudity, nakedness, the altogether, 215. This is surface, the outside world, The state of nature in the raw. A facet of the great out-doors ... Does nature start in Spring? The open-wide wild alfresco ... Or begin with the Fall? Beyond the starry glow. 224. Round and round the seasons go, 216. Not recess! Not inness! Backdrop to the hinterland. The herein, therein the whole The stage is re-set, mis-en-scene, Within the inside of the keep The elements hot, then cold. Of the inner core. 225. We know no termination, 217. Not the hub! Not the centre! Limit to the stint of days. Not the focal point, the kernel Though Nature is precise, exact .... Midmost at the heart - the navel, Not partial ... nor halfway. The nucleus sheaved and levelled 226. Yet there is limit to all things 218. Into endless tier and stratum: Length, extent and distance, Layers, beds, belts and zones ... Measure, span, reach and stretch, Laminated, furfuraceous .... The footage of two steps trodden. Multiplied a zillion fold - 227. There is a shortness, brief and curt, 219. Where Nature's wrapped in a Extent reduced, abridged, curtailed; coating: The beeline that cuts a corner Skin, scale, shell, and tuft Quick and sweet and cruel. Of human, snake, crab and bird

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228. Sometimes there's width, expanse, 236. For there are those against, opposed Wide and wondrous as the world, To weeds and Nature as it is .... Broad arched like a church Vis-a-vis they tame the wilds With beam that's vast inside. 'Till cities grow and towns collide.

229. Sometimes - narrowness, closeness 237. And there at the fore - the farmer; Is just a hairsbreadth off - In the vanguard are his cows ... A leanness that jaws and weakens In the front-line are his sheep To leave a brink of brick. Keeping nature down.

230. Sometimes filament, fibre, thread - 238. At the rear gnaws the cities Cord and line webs the earth, Coming up the trails of tar ... To strip, spill, spin and shred Through the towns and ribbon villages A white sky for the dead. Growing side by side.

231. There are features, outlines, 239. Back to back, house to house, contours From valley head to river mouth, Where sea meets sky, shore meets bay - Night lights lamp the wilderness Where brow and brim, and ledge and edge Of sea-mist and hill-cloud. Make brink and rim the same. 240. Yet, thru' a clockwise tick of time - 232. Woods enclose, and hills shut out, Through a starboard tack of tide - And fields hem in, hedge in the towns. Through a dextrous turn and twitch - Cloistered, closed, confined at first, Through a right-handed twist - Towns have grown to fence the world. 241. Through a flinger out of bounds - 233. But only twixt the Thames and Through a southpaw rout of bouts - Severn, Sinister things may come about: And Hampshire east to worn out Kent - Then switch around no doubt. For ... only north beyond old Derby Is there some wild country left. *

234. There is Scotland, some of Wales, 242. Tiptop ... icing on the peak, The Pennines and the few odd Lakes, Apex, zenith, apogee - And Northern Ireland wild wind-swept There is crest, crown and cap Where Nature's on the gain. Paramount above the sea.

235. What snoop will chose to intrude in 243. Nadir, bedrock, base and built-on Or trespass on these barren lands? The under bellied nether side ... The usual thing's to cock a snoot The fundamental primal hardpan With less than half a heart. That pours the magma out.

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244. Erect, uprearing, to rise 'a plomb', 252. Some cities curve and circle ... Palisade, cliff and crag .... Durham, Bath, Exeter and Lincoln. Basalt square, endways steep, Cestus sashed, they loop and hoop Sheer rampant to the sky. About their own circumference.

3 - CITIES 253. Convoluted, winding, twisting ... Birmingham meanders crinkled. 245. There is structure of a kind ... In tortured whorl, it rolls and curls, Pre-fab house, skyscraper tower. Corkscrews on the Midland soil. The anatomy of cities As formed in most minds. 254. Rotund and globular London splats Itself about its hinterland - 246. Persistent, true to form ... The ice-cream cone of British towns Cast, mould, impression, pattern: Drips upon the countryside. Leicester, Coventry or Swansea - Are they differently fashioned? 255. These bulging, swelling cities creep Towards mull and ness and spit. 247. Some may - say they are formless, It makes me dream of coral reefs Featureless and A-morphic - And lands far from this. Pity we the citizens of these cities Living in their rough-hewn diamonds? 256. Give me a cave, a subterranean lair, A burrow underground - 248. Some cities are well proportioned - A subway tunnel to a hole Lancaster, York and St.Andrews. That opens on the wild ... Symmetrically balanced, well-favoured, Trim, neat, clean and comely. 257. A wild of thorn, bramble, briar, Fern, nettle, thistle barbed: 249. Some cities are thrawn, distorted - I'd run the gaff of dale and combe Stoke, Bradford, Leeds, and Dundee. To escape the city drab ...... Defaced ... disfigured by industry, Misbegotten by business folly. 258. The dull, blunt edged city life. "Turn! Turn!" the grey walls cry! 250. Some cities are straight-lined, even "Run! Run!" they toothless mumble With streets unswerving for a mile - At those who march on past. Aberdeen, Edinburgh, Glasgow, The Scottish straight-cut style. 259. Unbroken slip the buildings, Walls smooth and made of glass. 251. Some cities angle off akimbo ... Slick and sleek and most discreet Sharp cornered veer at every turn - Shine the glossy polished banks. Newcastle, Liverpool and Bristol Through nook and fork and quoin. 260. Rough and shaggy, course, unkempt, Against the grain - are you like this?

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You might take the washboard road 268. Scamper, scud, scuddle, spurt ... That some already tramp. The swift and swallow lightning dart. Under press of steam and fission 261. That's the score, the notch and nick- Hell-bent are some folks driven. One cockscomb less won't be missed. The city's got folks enough 269. Like a snail, slow as death, To keep it on the turn. An easing off, a creep, a crawl: Life doesn't go fast enough 262. In the rut, the well-worn grove; For those in transit. Trench, trough, ditch and gutter. Why carve, chisel, gash, gouge 270. And so, en route, on the wing, Ourselves in much further? On the high road, mid-progress: They are always on the move, 263. In the fold, tuck and gathered On the run and not secure. By a bank for a mortgage? Wrinkled, creased, purse crumpled 271. On the transfer ... car to bus, To exit with what you've borrowed? Train to plane, truck to van: They are hitching round the world 264. This is the passage to the chasm, And never looking back. The break into the yawning rift: Split, slit, crack and fissure, 272. On the wander, roving, roaming, Not opening to a wilderness - Traipsing, gadding on alone: Nomadic, vagrant knowledge-seekers, 265. Where banks're grass brackened Drifting hobos ... fancy free: slopes; Where Nature borrows time from 273. They are bums and birds of passage, summer; Knights of the road and lazzarones. Where life is rock and fern and stream Some are pilgrims, hadji, saddu's, And cities are a distant bother. Immigrants and refugees .....

4 - MOTION 274. They flee lands, run the wind, Voyage the sea, ship to ship ... 266. People are motion, movement, Leg the world, port to port shift, And never sleep ashore. Course, career, passage, and flow - Travel over distant lands 275. Here's to those galongee men: For those who're on the go. Lascars, tars, and devil dogs, Jacks, and pipes, and matelote’s 267. Stillness, quiet, peace, repose, Steering full ahead ..... Resting calm on shipped oars. Most people sleep, do not snore 276. In their ships: spars of steel; Enough to rock the boat. In their splinters - dug from soil -

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Buoyed upon the bob of Nature Pepper. Pelt. Pump. Pick off. Others sail the blue-beyond. Let fly and never slacken.

277. Not bound by salty favour, 285. Some straining, dragged in tow, They fly, wing, and ride the skies .... Left behind, pull together ... Soar, drift, hover, and cruise Take the rope, snaked and ravelled And touchdown where they can. And choke those to the fore.

278. These aeronauts, these airplanists, 286. They lever, pry for advantage, These birdmen and these aviatrix Reel in those who take the bait, Jet the world - then they're back Handspike in their flapping catches Well before they're missed. And oarlock their brains.

279. In their jets: in their choppers 287. By attraction, by allurement, Above the cloud to higher spheres - By the power of adduct awe, Where fighter planes loop-the-loop Some lure the unattached Clear of surface gazers. With magnetic draw

280. In rockets, spaceships, shuttles: 288. Then send them about their business They are trying to get to Mars - Repel, repulse, chase-away; We know however that these seekers Keep at length, thus never learn Are - very few, of course! Charm or wit or grace.

281. On thru space, on thru systems 289. So what direction shall we take? Beyond the dusk of solar light: Shall we drift or take a course? Cosmic rays and blackout waits. Most have been north or south Who'd be a hobo now? But few have reached a Pole.

* *

282. People impulsed, impelled, forced, 290. Perhaps it's easy to digress, Thrust, push, prod, and shove, Lose one's way, go adrift, Elbow, shoulder, butt, punch Double-back get side-tracked, To have what others want. Deviate - and go astray.

283. On the rebound, on the bounce, 291. Perhaps it's hard to head the dance, They flinch, whinge and cringe, Go in the van, lead the way, Shy and dodge, duck and kick Shine the light, be the guide, And bite at everything. Get out and set the pace.

284. At the fore, propelled and driven, 292. Perhaps it's fine to follow on, They draw a bead on ambition: Swallow dust, bring up the rear,

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Tag along, be on the heels, 301. Perhaps it's fine - make an entrance, Join the trail of hanger-ons. Set foot in, come breezing in .... Make way into lover's beds .... 293. Perhaps it's hard to make headway, And pierce the minds of friends. Make up leeway, make up time, Fight one's way, forge ahead 302. Perhaps it's time to make an exit, In strides through the crowd. Bow out, run off, and go abroad ... Leave a lover, weeping loudly, 294. Perhaps it’s hard to veer around, Desert a friend owed some dough. Turn a heel and face about, Retrace one's steps, fall behind 303. Perhaps it's down to introductions, And turn one's back upon the world. The squeezing in, the cramming in Of things inserted in our nature 295. Perhaps it's all to do with chance That often surface on a whim. That some advance, get ahead .... Draw near enough to gaining on 304. Perhaps it's all these things removed, The get-at things they're dreaming of. Pulled up, plucked out, raked away, Extracted from our better being 296. Perhaps it's all to do with luck Rooted up and left decaying. That some diminish, fade away, Draw in their horns, then withdraw, 305. Perhaps it's how we are received, Retire with their dreams stillborn. Taken in, absorbed, installed ... C'mon let's have full report 297. Perhaps it's hard to come together, Let's have food for thought. Come to a focus, to a point Where folk can meet, unite together 306. Let's feast and wet our whistles, And fall-in with converging thought. Lick and smell and do our duty, Eat our fill, break bread, dine 298. Perhaps it's easy to diverge, With no wolf or whaling down. Fly off, go off at a tangent, Take different roads to a crossroads, 307. Let us cheer in creature comfort Take separate tracks at every fork. Without resort to short commons; Bring on the victuals and the tucker 29. Perhaps it's hard to achieve arrival, So we might toast our mothers! Get there safe, reach one's end, Attain one's goal, check-in fit 308. Let's sup and spoon with regime, And know the journey's end is home. Let's knife and fork with diet And take our nourishment complete 300. Perhaps it's hard to take departure, To alkali our acids ..... The sending off, the last adieu ... The leave take and the shoving off, 309. For we eject, expulse, disgorge The 'Come again!' and 'Keep in Touch!' With a puke, or wretch, or heave

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All that is no good to us: 318. Hippity hop, skip, jump and vault, Discharging - we defecate High hurdlers can be leap-frogged on, Pounced upon, bobbed and tripped, 310. Like at election - then - Sprung upon - left standing still. We fly the red flag; Bear the trots in mid-summer; 319. People in motion in the water; And flush our flux with passion. People in motion brought to scuttle; People in motion sent to the bottom; 311. For we secrete and lactate much, People in motion in Davey Jones locker Saliva with a spit or slaver.... Which might be due to hormones, 320. While around & around the waters Glands or rotten guts. turn, Winding & twisting as the current runs 312. For we are infringed, Put a girdle around the world? Infested, ravaged by the plague ... Would those in motion falter at all? Rode roughshod over, beset, invaded, Overrun by countless things. 321. For things whirl, and reel, and spin! Rotate, revolve, gyrate, wheel! 313. So - in motion, people fall short, Like a horse in a field ..... Coming to nothing, fizzling out, Tethered up and left to feed. Found to be lacking, they go amiss, Slumping, they don't make the grade. 322. If this is evolutionary growth ... Progress through advancing time, 314. People in motion - upwardly mobile, Are we blossom still unfolding? Climbing the ladder, scaling the heights Opening up to flower? Best be careful to watch for snakes At the head of the slide to decline! 323. To and fro - people go - With a flourish, flaunt or wave. 315. Descent is a dropping, tumble & fall, People in motion, back and forth A slumping - as the world gathers on; Move through every day. A sag - when you discover the snakes Weren't your friends at all. 324. Are you petrified, disturbed? Should you quiver like an aspen leaf? 316. People in motion, rampant, exulted No. Look you quietly to yourself Like poppies paraded every November: For the things you seek. Fast elevators reach the top storey Before flooring again to the ground.

317. Lower than oak hewn for timber .... Lower than beech felled by high winds Lower than elm pulled down, diseased - People in motion can sink.

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UNIVERSAL BEING - BOOK 3

3RD LEXICON

Man has not created the universe. Mankind is part What awnings drawn cover, shade of the creation and is bound by it. In an attempt to Till all is overshadowed? explain creation to himself, Man has developed a science lexicon which reveals his ignorance. * 332. Objects, lucent, lucid, clear - 325. There is belief in natural theory, Chiffon, silk, and cellophane; Atom chain, ring and cycle .... Onion skin and tissue paper; Neutrons, protons, fusion, fission Panes to liquid windows … Governed by law and reason. 333. Do these frost light - milky opal? 326. There is belief that creation Put mother pearl on all creation? Flash-burned, waved, mushroomed out - Beryl, diamond, moonstone, quartz? Charge-exchanged ... cascaded forward What forces - glaze such crystals? As a speeding blur of cloud. 334. Creation is ... opaque and cloudy, 327. Alpha, beta, showers of gamma ... Misty, fogged, smoked and murked. Ray to particle, X to Vee .... Dirty, turbid, obfuscated ..... Irradiate - charge invested Like a wolf's dark mouth. The cosmos came to be. * * 335. There is hue - colour tint, 328. Whence stemmed the firstborn Bright, gaudy, rich and gay .... light? Exotic, intense, florid, vivid Prime creation, blaze and glow .... Chromatic coating, pigment grain. Radiating ... stream and glimmer Across the veld of all that's known. 336. Pale, dim, faint and sallow .... Pallor ghastly ... haggardness. 329. Whence stemmed the flame that Livid, sickly, pastel, blanched ... lamps Pasty, wan, white as a witch. Moon, sun and flambeau stars? Whence came the force, the power 337. Silver, frost, chalk and pearl, And the corpse of atoms - matter? Alabaster, eggshell, hoar. Kelt and buckra, lily, snowdrop, 330. Or darkness - the palpable obscure, Fair jasmine and albino rose. Creation in a pitch-black shade ...? What has fuelled the heavenly luminance 338. Jet black sable, ebony, ink; To light and fire day? Pitch, tar, coal and soot. Raven, rook, and night dark crow ... 331. What screens & shields and filters? Noir, schwarz, dhu, negro. Veils the day with blackout curtains?

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339. Gray, taupe, slatey ash .... 348. Day on Earth - heat and hotness, Dove, mole, mouse and squirrel. Fervour, ardour, steaming warmth. Dappled, spotted, salt and pepper ... Atacama .... Kalahari ..... Steel, lead, zinc and iron. Sheets of fire, seas of flame

340. Cocoa ... coffee ... coconut, 349. Like - the fierce Sirocco flare Chocolate, chestnut, cinnamon. Birch-brand burning - auto da fe; Bay, dun, fawn and tawny ... Or the blow-torch blast and blister Hazel, olive, autumn corn. Of the Baha scorch and sear -

341. Rose, rouge, scarlet, crimson ... 350. With its basting and its broiling, Blushing bloom, flush of flesh. Roasting, grill and barbeque; Damask, puce, stammel, murrey, The Gobi fry and frazzle ... Cherry, carmine, ruby red. Bake, cook and sand caboose.

342. Orange, ochre, peach and carrot, 351. All that heat: fuel and feed, Morning sun and marigold .... Torch, taper, faggot, fuse, Marmalade and tangerine ... Thunder caps and detonators ... Mandarin and apricot ... Tinder, touch-wood, amadou -

343. Lemon, daffodil and primrose, 352. Against the night, against the chill, Saffron, amber, citron gold. Against the glaze of jokull cold. Dandelion and sulphur yellow, Against the raw-frost feathered snow, Beige, buff, sand and yolk. Depth of winter, berg and floe -

344. Emerald, jade and olivine .... 353. Of Alaska - of Siberia - Fir, grass, leaf, and sea; And the kvef Icelandic white. Yew, apple, leek, and pea - Creation sleeps in wolf's attire, Shamrock, moss, myrtle green. Glacier capped or crowned -

345. Azure, turquoise, sky and sapphire, 354. Sugared by layers of cloud, Electric, steel and cobalt blue. Light, weightless, buoyant, airy, French, Dresden. Prussian, Persian ... Feather, thistle-down and fluff: Hyacinth .... forget-me-not, A bare touch, a cobweb's worth

346. Pansy, violet, lilac, thistle; 355. Of dense, solid, thick, compact; Plumb, raisin, damson, grape; Body, block, cake and mass. Orchid, lavender and mallow, Clotted, lappered, bonny clabbered, Mulberry, mauve and bilberry. Serried, heavy, firm, intact.

347. Multi-coloured - variegated. 356. Oh so rare - attenuated ... Poly chromed - kaleidoscopic; Refined, purified and cleansed. Creation is a striate prism, Defecated, filtered, winnowed, Rainbow plaid mosaic daedal. Subtle, tenuous - sublimated.

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357. Cloud catching on callous mountains, Jam and spoof, sweep and scan - Rigid, firm, stiff and tense. Inelastic, quite unbending ... 366. With mechanics, statics, kinematics: To torrent gullies, o’er becks Hydrodynamic engineering ...? Man exits by tools and instruments, 358. As soft, gentle, pliant water: Power machines and locomotion. Tender, mellow, tactile, lax: Lithe, fictile, supple, limber - 367. Knife, fork, spoon and chopstick ... Over rock and shingle .... Movement, action, motion, work. Machines are geared, wheeled & driven: 359. Across the Earth's surface grain ... Combustion, cam and piston rod - Jurassic wale, Cambrian weft, Course or rough or linsey-woolsey, 368. Automated, self-pro pulsed .... Dainty, thin spun, fine and filmy. Self-controlled and regulated, Robomatic, cybernetic ... 360. With weight, gravity, tonnage, heft, Self-winding: moving freely - Sinker, lead, plumb and bob. Avoirdupois, troy or metric .... 369. Rubbing, scraping - scratching, Running on and on. Abrasive, grinding, rasping sounds. Machines with gnashing of cogged teeth * Wear creation down ..... 361. Yet, there is a stream, a current Through a field where no men go. 370. With elastic, flex, and rubber!; A circuit, path, loop and break, Whalebone, baleen, spring and gum. Cable, cord and coil. Vulcanised, strain and tension ... Give, yield and snap return. 362. No machines can take Man there ... Image matched, output retarded. 371. Things - tough, resistant, stiff; Should we drone on about it ....? Tenacious, viscid, fibrous enough, When it's so dull and boring. Even leathery, stringy, ropey .... For when the goings rough. 363. Folk would rather don headphones And tune-in on their radios ... 372. Things - fragile, brittle, frail, Play a tape, or flip a disc Easy crushed, easy cracked .... Upon their personal stereos. Shattered, shivered, splintered quick As light - through a pinprick hole. 364. Or watch T.V. - their V.D.U's, Relay link and simulcast ... 373. Until to chalk, reduced to powder, Than wrestle with the facts beyond Pulverised, churned to meal ...... Reflectors, discs, and telescopes. Beaten, pounded, thrashed and mashed, Creation's querned to dust. 365. Electric boffs try their luck: Radar pulse, and microwave ... Huff-duff, sniffer, cat and mouse ...

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UNIVERSAL BEING - BOOK 4

4TH LEXICON

Bound by matter, Mankind has no knowledge of Lacquered, varnished, and veneered matter beyond his own solar system. This is We are hand-glued souvenirs. reflected in the crude and small vocabulary that tries to equate that all known life is embodied in matter. 2 - LIFELESS MATTER

1 - MATTER 381. What of all lifeless matter? Azoic, brute - the mineral kingdom 374. Rotating constellations, times & Of regimes contained inert in tides Atom chains and rock crystals? Inverted dish we call the sky, Surrounded by such golden fire 382. Is there life? We do not know! Revolves a globe where we dwell. A mortal's interest is in gold, Silver, platinum, uranium ore. 375. Material, matter, substance, stuff, Men melt worlds to cast their own. Ball-bearing in the cosmic hub, There exists ... length and breadth, 383. Rock, stone, gravel, shingle, Our flesh and blood ... The cosmos in a grain of grit ... What more to scoria, breccia, schist 376. Bound by corporal mundane fact, Than tombstones, shrines, & pyramids? We mortals live to disembody. We dabble in the unsubstantial, 384. In Terra firma, we are rooted, The psychic and the supernatural. Sod, clod, dirt and clay ... On this Earth, we are bound ... 377. We are crazy! We are mad! Shore, coast, strand and bay. We are brick, plaster, lath. We are lumber, timber, wood. 385. By ocean ... we are margined, We are textile, plastic goods! Sea girt in an insular way; Island, key, reef and atoll, 378. We are oxygen at base .... Isolated ... salt and wave. Organic elements in trace. Atomic mass, molecular weight ... 386. By continent ... we are divided, We are chemical in every way. Bordered and barb-wire walled; Behind strings of pointing missiles 379. We are fat, grease and oil. In defence, we fence off. Lubricated, waxed and soaped, We are lard, blubber, ghee, * Tallow coated, bees-wax daubed. 387. Man is O ... or A ... or B, Ab ... Rh ... plus or minus. 380. We are resin, rosin, gum, Blood, gore, claret, ichor ... Shellac joined and mastic tarred. Such liquid is our water.

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388. Creamy, milky, semi fluid ... 397. Where millpond days, few and far Curd, clabber, goo and gunk. Allow sick-travellers lakish hours When male and female get together, To dream of lax lacustrine life Sperm, semen, gamete run. By loch, lagoon , mere, or tarn;

389. O liquids racing, mixing, fluxing! 398. By inlet, estuary, gulf, cove; Through the eons in suspension By bay, bight, firth or fjord ... Evolution turns ... resolves Where homesteads by the harbour stand In solution ... Luxivium. Where men are want to be land-bound

* 399. By the salt marsh, quicksand mud, Bogged down in conventional mode, 390. Wet and moist dew-beads drop Where humans tearful for the sun, Seed of earth and sky begotten, Sink, and slough in their abodes. Showers soak and impregnate Mortals tearful for the sun. *

392. Arid, baked, parched and scorched, 400. We humans are prone to vapour; Too much sun or not enough. gas; Burnt, shrivelled, seared to dust, Fetid air; and chokedamp smudge; Never drought. Always flood - The reeking fumes and plumes of smoke We breathe in leisure and at work 393. Rain, drizzle, scud and mist, 401. Should we not enjoy our air, Cloudburst, downpour, deluge, storm, Alfresco go and fresh breeze take; Dogs, polecats, tadpoles, frogs, Weather-beat our bloodless faces, Dagger drencher, pitchfork drowner. And think about the ozone layer.

394. 4Rindle, beck, gill and burn ... 402. Should we not inhale the wind, Headwaters run, race and rill, Boreas, Notus, Zephyr, Eurus ... Jets spout, whirlpools gush, Eager stand their howling rage, Cascade, force, linn and rush. And welcome gale and hurricane.

395. Aqueduct, canal, and ditch ... 403. Should we not, shroud in cloud Channel, trough, drain, sluice. Enjoy the nebulous, sleepless sky, Eddy, gurge, surge and swirl ... The wool pack banks, the cirro-tails, Clear of weir, the waters billow The pillows, curls, stripes and snails

396. To the sea ... the bounding main, 404. That froth, foam, and bubble up, Neptune's realm, soaked with salt, Spume, surf, and spindrift boil, The wavy waste where men thirst Seethe, simmer, cap-cloud cream Upon wild waters wound with wind - 'Till culled of smog - the air clears.

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3 - MATTER ORGANIC Nursed, hot housed, cold frame forced, Grown, cropped, cleaned and stored. 405. We are ... protoplasmic, Organic, bion, morphon, zoon, 413. There is fauna ... creature, critter, And like all flora-fauna Creeping thing, brute and beast. We die too soon .... Lion last, and foul mart first, A cuddy Jack ... a neddy ass. 406. A bridge across a burning stream, We are chased by fateful forces. 414. There is insect ... vermin, louse, A ladder infinite climbed to safety Bed-bug, tick, chigger, midge, Is fiction made from fact imagined. Cootie, skeeter, gadfly, nit, Leech and worm ... such lovely things! 407. Death follows life without arrest, There is no tribute cancels sentence. 415. What's wrong with worms after all? Across the bridge, the burning Styx, Platyhelminths ... anneloids ... There's only sleep not more adventure. Nemathelminths ... what a mouthful! Don't let the name put you off. 408. There the Beast dwells eating mutton, 416. Let's love worms! Let's love worms! Drinking wine knee-deep in water. What pleasure's found in such words. No abattoir ... no aceldama ... You cannot herd, drive, or goad All is quiet, there is silence. Five billion worms to rule this world.

409. There are no graves, no catacombs, * The earth's grassed & sweetly flowered The Beast is all that's left of us, 417. Mankind, mortal, human Man, Hic jacet on it's tattooed arm. Biped .... homo sapiens. A false God made us as we are - * A breath, a shadow, nothing more.

410. There is flora, plant and herb, 418. Our peoples, cultures, ethnic groups Seedling, evergreen, perennial. Are skin-deep to the cosmic whole, Legume, cereal, fern and shrub, Like ants we swarm, our greed succeeds Tree, woodland, grove and scrub. In keeping each racing each.

411. Botanised, it is vegetable, 419. And were it not for OOMPH & IT, Thallus algae, fungi, moulds; The facts of life, the birds and bees- Lichens, worts, rusts, mosses, The phallic male and vulva woman, Smuts, fuci, wracks and more .... The heat, the burning, and the itch:

412. It is husband 'd .... cultivated, 420. Blokes and guys, bucks and chaps, Gardened, lumbered, tilled and farmed, Penis, gonads, testes, sperm;

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What point would there be to men And all their lust, desire for flesh

421. Without femme, and frau, & dame, Rag and bone and hank of hair ... What appeal would IT have ...? If the OOMPH became unknown.

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UNIVERSAL BEING - BOOK 5

5TH LEXICON

Through the senses - Man feels the Universe. Such 428. Goodness, zest, gusto, gout, sensations effect Man's mind and body - and often Sapid season, sauce and spice, when Man speaks of it, he uses a lexicon of love. Provocative, piquant, larrup, Luscious, gratifying love! 1 - SENSATION 429. Not nasty, foul, vile nor acrid; 422. We all have feeling, conscious or Not pungent, sour, bitter, gall; not, Not icky, rank nor nauseating ... Sense of awareness, perception, response Love sucks deep and savours on For all experience sensuous or nerval, Keenly exquisite, poignant, or raw ... 430. Manna, nectar, eau sucre; Syrup cloying honey dew .... 423. Till we faint, swoon, succumb ..... Mellifluous fancy, sweetened fervour, Numb and dull ... fall out of love; Rich sugar-candy bill and coo! Dazed, stunned in dammerschlaf, We return dead to the world - 431 . It does not feast on sour grapes, Tart crab-fruit, acid diet ... 424. Where suffering hurt, distress, pain, Astringent vitriolic fare, We pang, ache, fret, shrink ... Fermented citric pickled food. Inflamed, festered, sore tormented - 'Till time salves the sting. 432. Love does not nip the hungry tongue, 2 - TOUCH Pepper hot and ginger kick .... Lively, tangy, racy, brisk, 425. We contact, touch and feel It pierces - but does not prick. With a whisper, breathe, or kiss; With a brush, graze, or stroke 433. So, pull, puff, draw, drag, We run our fingers over .... Chew, chow, dip, inhale ... Take the pill, spit and run, 426. With a tickle, tingle, thrill, Through the smoke feed on love. We titill, goose, and vellicate With tactile paw, wield and ply 4 - SMELL We palm, massage, manipulate. 434. There is an odour, ... a scent, 3 - TASTE A whiff of fragrant perfume. Strong, heady, and suffocating 427. With taste, relish, smacking tongues, That stops all lovers dead. Wooers sip, sup, lick and lap The savour flavours love supplies; 435. For is there aromatic equal ..? Sample, specimen, and bite. Attar, essence, balm or oil

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Of jasmine, musk, frangipani, En evidence, exposed, outcropped, Sandalwood or bergamot? Crystal clear, love's not blurred.

436. Malodor, fetar, stench, stink 444. Invisible, faint, 'a perte de vue' Of skunk, stinkhorn, rotten corpse, Hazy, misty, foggy, fuzzed ..... Offensive, reeking, fetidness, Escape the notice, lie hid, dim? Stops all bipeds short. Blush unseen? .... don't kid us!

437. So lovers fumigate and lime 445. Love's own air, mien, demeanour With sachet, spray and potpourii; Betrays itself, comes to light ... Deodorize and ventilate ... Bearing, garb, complexion, colour Rose water, cologne, bay pastille. Flushes forth, flares into passion

5 - SIGHT 446. Till time dissolves, leaves no trace, We lovers cease to be, fade out, 438. With bedroom eyes we lovers stare, Melt away, depart or flee ..... Gaze, gape, gawk and glower, Leave no shape or form behind.. First blush, wink, coup d'oeil, We steal and spy and look. 6 - SOUND

439. Through a glass darkly mote, 447. Listen drumheads, conches, luggies! Mope-eyed dim, we boss-eye view Hark, you cock-eared, long-eared house! Men as trees walking past Hear, you acute lappet audience .... And forty ways Sunday note. Eavesdrop on these lips of mine!

440. Blind we ken not hair, nor hide. 448. For you are deaf or hard of hearing, O bats! Amid the blaze of noon! Dull-eared to the sound of song. Eclipsed without a hope of day. Attend! Oyez! you adder stoppers! Dark, dark, we play at peek-a-boo! Heed you now the voice of love.

441. Bystanders watch, behold as seers, 449. Love is sonant, stressed, accented, Observe and witness our blind love, Poly phoned, vowelled and thonged ... Spectate and see us lions slum Timbre, tone, key and note, And rubberneck like cooing-birds! Lovers voice then voiceless turn

442. Bifocals, pince-nez, goggles, specs, 450. Silent, still, quiet, and mum. Blinkers, lorgnette, contact lens, Mute, muffled, deadened, lulled, Horn-rims, monocles, glims and shades, We save our breath. Cheese it. Choke, Love is clean-cut, sticks out plain. So hushed you'd hear a feather drop.

443. Perceptible, prominent, pronounced, 451. Faint and soft, dimly veiled, We lovers live in homes of glass .... Voce velata, we lovers sob ....

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Mummer, whisper, sough and moan, Waft a sigh ... sordo ... low. 460. Love is a melody, a Lydian measure, A mosaic of music, a canto of verse; 452. Love resounds, echoes, rings, A lay, a ballad, a carol, an anthem, Peals and tolls - in hollowness A rondo, an aria, a lyric motet. Vibrates, rebounds in repercussion On all send backs, all returns. 461. Arranged, adapted, harmonically tuned, 453. So thump! Beat the lovers' drum! We lovers vibrate, tremble and trill. Rat-tat-tat! Tom-tom-tom! Metrically cadenced - rhythm & pulse Tattoo a ruffle, rub-a-dub! We scale and run. Minim and rest Kettle, snare, and tympanum! 462. We make music ... nightly perform 454. Thunder clap, crash and crack! In tin-pan alleys, where neckers know We lovers take our knocks and taps; That no-one need play second fiddle Burst, blast, bang and boom! To catgut scrapping troubadours. Rumble, roar, roll and rale ... 463. So harp and lute, viol and flute, 455. Love hisses, fizzles, whistles out Zither, banjo, cello, horn, To snooze, snore and saw on logs, Guitar, bassoon and tambourine ... We lovers sniffle, splutter, lisp, Love is string, and wind and drum. Wheeze, sneeze, don't kiss but spit.

456. For love can be a shrill, course rasp, A croak, a caw, a growl, a snarl, A screech, a shriek, a scream, a whine A high-pitched, jarring, grating life.

457. A cry, a call, a shout, a hoot, A bawl, a yelp, a yap, a howl .... Love can be a view halloo ... A cruel sport - hunting you!

458. So you may gaggle, crow, or squawk, Cluck, clack, gobble, coo ...... Love is not just ... chirp and cheep! It's not a tweet or twee cuckoo!

469. Love can be discordant, flat Sweet bells jangled out of tune. Above the pitch, sharp and sour, Chiming harsh and toneless hours.

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UNIVERSAL BEING - BOOK 6

6TH LEXICON

Of all the things in the Universe - it is supposed 470. Rational, logic, dialectics .... that Man knows the workings of his own mind best. He has intellect - which he believes to be Deduction, debate, deliberation, unique and singular in the Universe. To Argument, premise, postulation ... demonstrate that intellect - he has compiled a They don't break the bounds of reason. modest lexicon. The modesty of the lexicon reveals the modesty of his intellect. 471. Thus they're wise not ignorant, blind, 1 - CONCEPTION OF MIND Stupid, doltish, dense and thick - Chowder-blocked and turnip-headed, 464. There is intellect, sense and psyche, Foggy in their numbskull brains. Sconce, reason, vernunft and wits. Faculty of mind, gifts, talents ... 472. Thus, they're not inanely silly - Pate, noddle, noggin, nouse. Witless, crazy, goofy, daft; Wacky, batty, mute and dumb, 465. There is intelligence and savvy, Loopy, screwy, inept and mad. Verstand, comprehension, reach ... Astuteness, acumen and foresight, 473. Tomfools, nincompoops, noddies, Canny cunning, geist, esprit. Zany, gaby, sops and sots .... Dolts, dunces, dopes and dullards, * Drivellers, doters, dunders, dummies.

466. Thus are sages ... Plato, Nestor, 474. Some conjure up their own Solomon, Manu, Buddha, Christ! psychosis, Sensible, prudent, knowing, wise, Schizophrenia prepossessed .... Oraclers, luminaries, shafts of light. Maniacs well demented - with Rats and spiders in the head - 467. They are sober, sound and sane, Right in mind, compos mentis. 475. For some have bats in the belfry ... They get things in proportion, Others have a button missing ... Bring to reason all that's bonkers. Some have water topside (ugh!) And demons in their upper stories. 468. They know - with ken and savvy, Acquaint, grasp, master, grip, 476. They are strange! odd and freakish, Have it pat, dead to rights .... Eccentric, queer, crank and kinked, Have it at their finger tips. Non-conformist, nuts - screw balled, Quirked, twisted, beed and quipped. 469. Brainwork, headwork, mental labour, Workings of the mind ... ideas. 477. Eggheads, highbrows, savants, They weigh, muse and ponder all, pundits, Profoundly think ... Deliberate. Gents and scholars, men of letters ...

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Pedants, blue socks, dilettantes ... 486. Not allowed answer, reason, Triflers - who know no better! Explanation, real denouncement ... Issues addressed to the public 478. Blind and naked, empty-headed, Remain unravelled, unresolved. Vague of notion, ignorant, green ... They are cooks of half-baked ideas, 487. Thus HEADLINES - Caught in the They are wise in their conceit Act! Caught Flat-Footed, Caught Off-Guard! 479. Of notion, fancy, concept, image, Caught Out Napping, Pants Down - Off! Impression, statement and opinion: 'GAY VICAR HANGS SATANIC BOY!' Recept ... abstract or principled By slant or twist of inspiration - 488. So - flying in the face of facts, Misjudgement warps, miscalculates, 480. They are fallow, vacant, empty, Misconstrues with misconjectures; Vacuous. blank, with no idea. Over-reckoning leads to censure Pushed from their hollow thoughts - Riding in on hobbyhorses, 489. Till mountains out of molehills rise Because the most is made of least. 481. These vague ghostly dreamlike Some overrate the worth of dung shadows, And under prize the worth of meat. Don't perceive the things unseen, They do not see themselves around us - 490. Some undervalue and underrate ... These 'little birds' live by hunches, Minimise, make little of ..... Think nothing of, set no store, 482. Claptrap, moonshine, pussyfooting. Make light of all they do not know; Such camel gulpers, hedging dodgers Beat themselves around the bush 491. While others experiment and test ... And beg no questions later. Try it on the dog for size, Fly a kite ... just to see 483. All their talk is caption headings, How the wind blows, how land lies. Topic leaders, banner-lines ... It's the pabulum of the day! 492. Others measure, gauge and estimate It is what the papers say! ... Load luck to the plimsoll line. 484. Inquiry, search, quest and hunt, Apply the yardstick to chance ... Rummage, ransack out the muck ... Square off - and with wide eyes - Question, quiz, grill and pump, Poke, probe, pry and plumb - 493. Compare, contrast, and check, Match dope, stack up, note 485. Press men don't allow reply, That candles melt in the sun Riposte, retort, repartee ... And shipped water can sink boats. They receipt response rebukely With quotes of butchered precis. 494. Others - discriminate with tact, Know a poop from a prow ....

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Pick and choose, be diplomatic - With a "Now, now ... I know better!" Know the walrus from sea-cow. Take them with a grain of salt!!

495. For indistinct is half of twelve, 503. They're the ones to turn an ear, And one half dozen of indiscreet - Disposed to be no-one's fool .... For those promiscuous, muddled up ... Sceptical - and hard to swallow See their ships sink on reefs. They kid themselves they're ungullible.

* 504. Such folks need proof of all belief To bring it home to prove some point - 496. But let us not judge, presume, To make a vessel hold great volume Surmise, imagine, fancy ..... They make a hole in it first. All things considered - on the whole Taking one thing with another .... 505. What confute have we for blind faith That takes the ground from under us? 497. That preconceiving, presupposing, Lets knock wind against the sails Going off half-cocked in pre decision Of those who won't shut up! Is prejudice on the trigger By leaping to conclusions. 506. Some would say we should exempt, Make proviso for their sconce ...? 498. For suppose, I had a theory, guess ... Mitigate, concede and temper .... An inkling, a hint, a notion, an idea, Make concessions sine que non. A shot, a stab into the dark And took a fancy into my head 507. But with no ifs and ands or buts To certain express clear beliefs, 499. That philosophy, that love of With no strings attached outright wisdom There can be no fixed proviso. Was the summation of all folly in man. Would my supposition be preposterous? * And deemed untrue - rather than a lie? 508. Yet - as luck may have it - 500. For some have belief, faith, a tenet By off-chance, all things considered, They swear by, take an oath upon ... It’s conceivable - on the cards You can bet your bottom dollar, Imaginable and remotely possible - Bank on them, give them credit, 509. For some to weave a rope from sand; 501. Trust that they will not swallow, To catch the wind in an net; Take the fly, hook, line and sinker, Go fetch water in a sieve; Or think the moon made of cheese, Gather thistles, think them figs. Believe in cats or broken mirrors. 510. It is plausible to believe-in 502. While those from Grantham Probability and ben trovato. disbelieve, I dare say one can assume ... Doubt, mistrust, don't buy a word - Ten to one that everything's equal -

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511. Some can in two places be; With one's eyes open, un blindfolded And make cheese out of chalk; With it comes the dawn for some. Catch a weasel fast asleep; And gather grapes from thorns. 520. So, let us assent - some are smart, Give the nod, our validation .... 512. Certainly, sure thing, it's a cinch, Put our Hancock to the thing Rain or shine, sink or swim ..... And carry it by acclamation. No buts about it, without doubt, Sure as fate, some are liars. 521. Let's not dissent, protest, object, Put up a squawk or a howl .... 513. So - in a maze all turned around, Raise our voice against the charge Who shall decide when all disagree? That some are sometimes clowns. Who will leap into the dark ... When up a tree or out at sea? 522. Let some avow swear and pledge To tell the world what they know, 514. When the certain seems improbable, Maintain with their final breath, Some go blind, take pot-luck; That they have taken an oath. Some buy a pig in a poke - Nil lay down, nought take up. 523. Let's not deny, disclaim, dispute, Not for love or money sell .... * The issue some are joined on If we cannot help. 515. Some hit the nail on the head, Some hit it on the nose .... 2 - STATES OF MIND Right as rain tell the facts, The truth, the real McCoy. 523. Outlook, attitude, point of view. From where I sit, my bent, my bias 516. Phrases coined, said before - I'm warped by the way I feel Dictum, adage, proverb, gnome ... In the climate of opinion. Slogan, motto, moral, maxim ... Hummed tunes and quoted songs. 525. I am broadminded, open, free ... I swear no oath to any master. 517. Errors, faults, untruths, wrongs. I forbear to hand out judgement. Boners, blunders, slips, faux pas's'. I live, and let others breathe. Lapses gauged without one's host ... Aimed at a pigeon - wound a crow. 526. If I am narrow-minded, blind, And do not protest to aid a cause ... 518. It's all a trick, a gross deception, It's not because I shut my eyes A wrong impression, a warped illusion, But because I'm ill-informed. A will-o-the-wisp conception .... Imagination and hallucination. 527. As curious as a snooping cat, Quidnunc & questioning as Lot's wife, 519. O rude awakening! Disenchantment! I would brave the Gorgon's eyes The bubble burst, the truth exposed. To get inside her mind.

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528. Elizabethan born, and heedful ... 536. Blind with hearing, deaf with sight, I look right or left with interest. We forget things, and erect monuments. I don't want to be indifferent We collect trinkets, cherish treasures Pursuing an easy life. Like diaries to review in retrospect.

529. With attention, thought and ear; 537. Blind with movies, deaf with music With observation, note and care; ... With concern, regard, respect; There's lots missing and loads burdened. I'll smile while bored to tears. Bygone's - trickle through a sieve Like water - consigned to oblivion. 530. Without disregard, distraction; Without unwatchful inadvertence; 538. So wait! And watch! Bide your time! Without unwary, dismissive yawns; Or we will say 'What did we tell you!' I'll bear the dullest simpleton. That's how things are, the way it goes When something turns out as expected. 531. And when my mind's made to swim - And when my head reels and whirls - 539. With a start, a shock, surprise ... And when I'm really made quite ill - We do not expect some things to be I'll bear the jokes of bimbos. Unforeseen - dropped from the clouds Like cats and dogs on Christmas day. 532. I'll take care to groom my image - I'll take time to be most vigilant - 540. It blights our hopes, leaves us blue, I'll keep alert, take an interest - Frustrated, foiled and all forlorn. It pays to know others' business. Letdown, it makes us sad and glum, We zip our mouths and bite our gums. 533. I'll not neglect to heed my needs - Nor disregard my own hushed voice. * Muddled, fuddled, hazy, fogged ... I'll not let others knock me back. 541. Sometimes we feel it in our bones To see our way into the future ... * There were no spacemen when I was born I was seven when Yuri flew. 534. Flames of figment, fumes of fiction, All the dreams romance is made of - 542. I never thought I'd foretell High flown turrets, flights of fancy, Of men on Mars before my death. The rainbow's end, cloud-nine fantasy. But who needs crystal balls When the Big One's overhead. 535. Some are staid, stuffy, dull ... They keep both feet on the ground; 543. Warnings, portents and omens They burst balloons and say that stars imminent, Do not shoot the moon at all. There are foreboding presage signs ... But I harbinger in the Space Age * And proclaim auspicious times!

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3 - COMMUNICATION Puts a false construction on All that strains or stretches sense 544. Word for word to the letter, Or perverts, distorts the meaning of. We learn to grasp sense and meaning. Purport, import and implication - * Not everything need be verbatim. 553. I took a walk into winter ... 545. More than meets the eye sometimes Then came back, began to write That makes no sign, escapes notice. A letter to the girl I love. Unexpressed, unsaid, unmentioned .... We keep in touch across the miles. Latent things can be suggested. 554. We've learned to talk 'tween the 546. Sounding brass but tinkling crystal, lines A bunkum tale told by an idiot ... She lives in the English south .... A load of bosh blabbed by a bumpkin ... Open, out-spoken, we tell each other Is something almost inexpressible. Of the traffic we've encountered.

547. For to get the idea, get the picture, 555. We wear our hearts upon our sleeves, To get it into our thick heads ... We face the day, bare and naked - Some speak volumes of high English Plain as the path to the parish church When single syllable words are best. We lay our cards upon the table.

548. There's much Greek and Double 556. We confess, concede, own-up ... Dutch, Cough-up our soft impeachments. Way over my head and beyond me - I get it off my chest, she her breast: Enough to puzzle a Law Lord judge Without disguise - we plead guilty. With the word LOVE in the language. 557. Kept informed, kept up to date, 549. Unintelligible too much of the world, Made aware of all small changes - Ambiguous and inequitably duplex ... We give notice of impending strain Love's meaning is a four-letter word Progressive love acquaints us with. Or a five lettered one if you’re French. 558. And here's a piece of news for you - 550. As a rule, in a manner of speaking ... We've no time for small town talk: Figures of speech make it difficult The gossip sailing in blabbers' mouths To partition parable from paraphrase, Is filth to the normal child. And to separate fable from rendition. 559. And I pronounce - We are young! 551. In other words, strictly speaking ... Write in the sky - We are in love! Explanations can be all wrong. Let it be seen the length of Britain To read between the lines is fine And publicised by sandwich boys. But not when sense is lost. 560. For when we're on the telephone, 552. Abuse of terms, misuse of words I can hear the call-girl's sigh.

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A long distance toll call signal 569. With a gesture, with a nod, Is all that keeps us silent .... Di gave Charlie the hots .... Maybe they haven’t such a lot - 561. And in the chill of a winter day, What have we got ...? I dispatch ... this newest letter. By van, by bus, by rail, by plane - 570. We've got regalia, emblems, badges, We'll keep in touch forever! Lions, eagles, crosses, sickles ... Flags starred, barred, tri coloured, * And Liz and Philip. 562. Teach a cock to crow, a dog to bark. Teach a hen to cluck, a fish to bite. 571. We've got records, rolls and annals, Sometimes the blind lead the dumb Memo's, memoirs, notes and minutes, When the dumb are born with sight. Catalogues, lists and registers ... But give me hugs and kisses. 563. From time to time, we're all misled And fall foul to the propagandists. 572. We've got clerks, scribes and writers, Laputa leads the pack of wolves - Ledgers, books, journals, logs. Goody Snatch follows close on after. You can have my private diaries ... All I want is love. 564. These quack philosophers - so absorbed * In extracting sunbeams from cucumbers; 573. We're all dolls, puppets, dummies, They turn students from high ideals Manikins and men of straw, And make them dwell on vulgar matters. Models, marionettes and statues In a spitting image show. 565. Till education is a live and learn - Lessons in the school of hard knocks. 574. We're all mis-drawn, falsely To burn the candle at both ends .... coloured, Means a Goody Snatch help yourself. Disguised, distorted by all art. Actors give the wrong idea - 566. For we're in the hands of Coryphaei: And painters camouflage. We're witness to the New - Old Order. Our tongues are tied, we cannot chorus 575. Yet art is commonplace perfection, This schoolmam'ish kind of drama. Time captured in a gasp of air. Meaning caught between two rhymes, 567. It's fee-boy stand and free-boy fall. Sense tossed between two lines. It's fee-girl laugh and free-girl cry. One is privileged - Ten are not - 576. Science is a still-life flower ... Why teach worms to walk or talk? Man made man a crafted chore ... Sculptors tooling at their marble 568. Public, private, boarding, free. Till gargantuans roar. Fees! Fees! Fees! Fees! ...... See those mud holes by the road ...? 577. Potters work the fine fire-clay, Where state schools used to be! Shape and throw, turn and bake.

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Glaze the world in a kiln - 586. I'll never learn how to express Day after day. In good set terms the way I feel. But I wouldn't trade all my Rrrr's 578. Snap-shooters shoot mugs and For a world of Quuu's and Peee's. places, Blow up the world in their own way. * Stop in the bath as a solution ... Before the picture fades. 587. Grammar rules parts of speech - Subject, object, case and tense. 579. Engravers needle, point and etch, Some can parse and conjugate Scratch, hatch, stipple, burr ... And that is very nice. But like all high and noble artists They infer what they concur. 588. Some misuse, murder English - Caco on, lax and loose ... 580. For artists conjure up illusions, They misconstrue and malapropos Consent to dream the actual world. But that is not abuse. They cannot note how things are - But how things might become. *

* 589. Diction creates wide divide - 581. My language is the speech of Time, It is the garment dressing thought. My father's talk, my mother's tongue. The wealthy - clothed with fashion: I speak with a Northern Rrrrr .... The educated - hung with language. And patter is my idiom. 590. But O what elegance! Grace and taste 582. My alphabet is Roman through - In those who master language ....! My script is cursive, sometimes print. The right word in the right place My spelling isn't very good - Upstages the snob or bastard. My signature's a squint 591. Barbarous, uncouth - plain vulgarity 583. My stock of words is very small, Is most offensive to the ears! I use catch phrases when I can. Well, is it not? Crude and rude I use slang and pick up fads. And in bad taste, or what ...? I swear and curse when mad. 592. Far better we hear plain speech, 584. My Christian tag is very formal, Household words, dull and dry - People call me mate or pal - Than bear a string of indecorums: And 'cause I like my Granada's name Low stuff shrilly laughed-off. I use that as my handle. 593. Far better to be brief and curt, 585. What's in a name anyway ....? Crisp and terse, compact, succinct. Is it wrong - being unknown? Within a nutshell, all compressed What's with being you-know-who? The soul of wit's - a wink. Such-and-such? Or so-and-so?

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594. Far worse it is to gush out words - 602. Others - ride the tide of eloquence To circumlocute with longiloquence; With ideas that breed, words that burn. Expatiate ..... speak at length They have tongues in their heads .... With circuitous protractedness. Going double-four at eight-to-one.

* 603. Such prose run mad - the gift of gab Turned sesquipedalian highfalutin - 595. With wag of chin, yap of jaw, Is pompous bombast, rant and bunkum With a prattle, gaff or gab - That's balder dashingly platitudinous. Man may conceal the dawn of day, While breaking light upon the dark. *

596. With bat at breeze, bump of gums ... 604. There are hacks and penny-liners, With raise of voice, get in a word - There are many mad scribendi ... Man may buttonhole a friend ..... Writers drafting 'coup de plume' Or take the floor in self-defence. Black and white calligraphy.

597. Others - less articulate - 605. Much is written - little's published, Broken voiced, speech impeded ... Proofed, set, plated, pressed, Might stumble, hum, hem and haw, Left to run, pulled, reissued Stammer, stutter, falter, halt. Or printed time and time again.

598. Others - loose tongued, idly glib, 606. Few are fussed to write a letter, With a twaddle, tittle-taddle .... To communicate with those they love. Might varnish twattle with a rattle, The most they'll do is send a postcard A jabber-gabble-gabber-blabber. When they go abroad.

599. Others converse, have intercourse; 607. Yet nearly all ... peruse books, They sweeten the banquet with chat; Flick through art and fashion mags - Feasting on emotion, each conversation Read the comic strips and stories Feeds on the fruit of the heart. And headlines in the daily rags.

600. Others stand aside addressing walls, 608. But few review, write-up, report, Hamlets .... apostrophise loud Run a commentary on the world. Soliloquise on - alone in the world. There seems to be a billion views As life's monologue clowns. But few of any worth.

601. Others - orators mounted on 609. Perhaps we cannot compend life, soapboxes, Survey it in a few short lines, Lecturing, haranguing, tirade on apathy Abridge mankind in a draft on sin, spending, and world concerns - Of words, condensed and rhymed. Apartheid and the killing of whales. *

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610. Many fictions, sets of lies, 618. I hide perdu, lie in wait, The memory of man is gossip form. In the shade eclipse myself. Legend, myth, and fairy tale From sight retire, and undercover And scrolls of wild romance. Watch for tell-tale signs.

611. There is poetry, verse and song - * Emotion recollecting beauty; Painting with the gift of gods; 619. Signs of falseness, tarradiddle, Expression of exquisite feeling. Fib and flam prevarication; Cock and bull exaggeration; 612. But poetry - that knot in the gut - Bosh and bunk and drivel. The unison of man with nature: Is for all who love and feel great truth 620. With much cry and little wool, While cheering their own sweet solitude. The tempest in a tea-pot poured - I come it strong and stir 613. And prose - words in the finest The truth with a silver spoon. order, Grand - can be plain and common place, 621. But I don't deceive, delude or dupe, Matter of fact and unromantic Trick, jape, kid or spoof ..... When written in a truthful way. Play a bunko game of bilk Nor sell gold bricks to boobs. 614. Then there's drama - prose at play, Poetry masked to stalk a stage .... 622. I am no double-dealing Janus, Tragedy the art of masters: A Judas or a Machiavelli ..... Comedy the fun of knaves - An Artful Dodger or a Diddler, A cockatrice or Indian giver. 615. Actors puffed and self important, Prima donnas primped with paint. 623. For I'm no gull, duck, or pigeon, Extras always out of work .... Goat, cat's paw, mooch or chump, Like Pimpernels when paid. Fool, monkey, jay or coot .... Do you hear me? …. Good! *

616. Other times, there is a mute silence, A reticence, a Laconic calm ..... A tight-lipped, remote detachment I cannot understand.

617. There is a veil, a dark concealment, A screen of fog before my eyes. So I play dumb, put the lid on The coffins of my past.

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UNIVERSAL BEING - BOOK 7

7TH LEXICON 630. Some do not know their own minds. Humanity is gregarious, but each individual has They flounder between will & will not; a will that distinguishes him or her from the rest of humankind. This is commendable - but it also They wait to see how the cat'll jump - produces folly and madness which is counter- Call the shot once the coin's dropped. universal. Recognising this folly, and learning from it, requires Man to be familiar with the seventh lexicon. 631. With a coolness - neutral air, Without a care, a hoot, a scat; Nonchalant, spineless, cold .... 1 - WILL Desire can turn all black.

624. With a will, a wish, a fancy, * With a mind to have one's way, Some take the law into their hands 632. Some have cause to incite, goad, To have their own sweet way. Blow the coals, apply the torch, Wake the rabble from their sleep, 625. Jane ... far more un begrudging Nettle, irritate and prick. With willing heart and happy cheer Takes it ... on her own freewill 633. Others throw dust in the eyes - To gladly volunteer. On some pretext or lame excuse Find a peg to hang their cloak ... 626. Others ... more demurely scrupled, Or pretend they're drunk. Balk, beg off, shrink and shy. With recoil, and an ill-grace 634. Some allure with sex and glamour, They protest ... then fly! Angle with a silver hook - Gild the pill, give the come-on, 627. Fly, flee, cut and run, Vamp you with a wicked look. Abscond, elope, welsh and truck ... Take it on the lam, scram! 635. Others bribe, corrupt and purchase, Lead the world a pretty dance. Soap their palms with all they grease, Oil the pan with all the graft 628. Slip the collar, shake the yoke, They've sugared-off from thieves. Smartly leap into the lifeboat. Get off cheap, go Scot free ... 636. Others dissuade, dampen, deter, By the skin of their teeth. Play it cold, chill the air - Whoever they are, or their ends, 629. Abandon, forsake, leave, desert, They're a bunch of pains! Throw in the sponge, wash their hands, Azzle out of all commitment, * Bid a long goodbye. 637. Intent, purpose, design, aim .... * The be-all end-all raison d'être.

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Some take it in their dizzy heads 646. Jane makes the most, turns to To take no heed of progress. account, Applies herself beyond all price. 638. Scheme, device, plot and plan, She'll not impose, presume herself Many sketch out their whole life More profitable than her worth. But few make arrangements for coping With the problems they'll encounter. 647. For others consume, expend, waste, Finish, eat up all the cake ... 639. On the track, on the scent ... Light their candles all at once, Jane bends each step to shape a course; Burn incense in a gale. Others chase the hounds in full cry - In hot pursuit of what? 648. Some misuse, abuse, pervert, Persecute, do their worse .... 640. Business, occupation, work ....? Misapply their witch-like talents Task or stint, chore or job? To profane and desecrate. There are careerists in the world But most are just employed. 649. Others cast off, throw away, Adopt the order of the day, 641. Yet, there's a choice, a selection - Rid themselves of all the trash You have a vote, a voice to barrack ... Consigned to file thirteen. You have a yeah, a nay .... two hands To nominate your ballot winners. 650. Others labour on in vain, Take part in the great goose-chase, 642. You can reject, disown, rebuff, Whistle waltzes to the walls Do away with all those appointed. Shine their torches at the sun. You have the right to brush aside Those who serve you badly. 651. Such custom comes as second nature, Habit, practice, dastur, rule - 643. And if you are compelled, obliged There is a pattern that is fashion, To make a virtue of necessity ... There is the well worn groove. Then, the die's cast, it’s in the cards, And you must act with urgency. 652. Some break the mould, cure themselves, 644. For all is preordained, foregone. Buy a frock to dress old lines ... Who can swear it is not so? Do old things in a new way, Rough-hewn Time shapes your end, Rid themselves of inured self. While some say that God is dead. 653. Some glossed up in spiffy ideas, 645. How would I know if it were true? Adorn themselves in the latest thing. A case is still being made for Him. Stranger still - they keep in step Some say it is a put-up job ... With Jones - who's up-to-Dick. Please put me up there too! 654. Rather odd, but quite conventional, * Good form, really proper, right ...

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They shop for things on Main Street, Poor and hungry, lean and starving ... As that's the approved style. Shit! That's just tough luck!

655. Some stand on ceremony, outward 663. It must be nice to have plenty, form, To have a cup running over .... Prim and rigid, civil be ..... To have the gold to gild the lily Place social grace on par with riches. And the scent to dowse the rose: Well, on the surface, dear! 664. To have all one can have .... 656. Deep down most cherish - sans facon And not have piss-all any more - - To have one's fill, be satisfied A free non-tight be yourself .... Without being overdosed. So let your hair down - en famille - Do things as you might. 2 - CONDITIONS

* 665. Sometimes it's expedient, pis áller To make shift, manage, get along, 657. There is a path, a track, a trail, Eat one's cake and have it too A road that leads to a door. As a stop-gap, last resort. To what extent the journey's light Depends upon the load. 666. Sometimes there's drawbacks, damage, 658. You have resources, means and ways, Discommode to overcome ..... Devices, measures, methods, steps, Out of place, unfit things The wherewithal to get therewith Not worth the hurt. If you are equipped. 667. Sometimes mugwumps make ado, 659. Room and board, and the keep Ascribe importance to sine qua non, You eke each week to get by on ... Parade their greatness, make a fuss, Clothed, fitted, rigged and heeled, Play fiddle with the biggest frogs. You're ready then for fun. 668. Sometimes trifles light as air - 660. But what if you have no reserves? A paltry feather on the scales; No stocks or shares to trade for cash? A hundred years hence or back - No nest-egg for a rainy day? Is counting hairs, splitting straws. No savings in the bank? 669. Sometimes the good (as good can 661. It is very nice to be sufficient be), And satisfied with what one's got. The cream of the crop, the pick, A wallet oozing milk and honey, The flower of the flock, the bunch, The cupboards choked with grub. Are conditions well received.

662. But when you're woefully insufficient * With none to spare ... short of change

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670. Sometimes Jess endures all ails: 678. Why this destruction? Ravage, ruin The slug in an English rose ...... The wasp on a Scottish thistle ... How can Jess strike at the root? The flea up Ulster's nose. When the axe is aimed at the trunk After the branches are removed. 671. Sometimes plague, blight and canker, Locus, fungus, moth and rust ... 679. But, snatched from the jaws of Toxins dumped into the ocean death, Are worse than any worm. Jess lives to live again ...... Having weathered the storm 672. Sometimes perfection beyond praise, Jess pulls through - to err again. Sans peur et sans reproche .... Is quintessence - ne plus ultra - * Polished, pure and highly-wrought. 680. Refreshed, pure and sweet, 673. Sometimes, defect, flaw and blemish, Her strength returned, she's new life: A hole in a brand new coat ... Perked and chipped, cheered & bucked, A crack in a piece of china ... Jess joins a reconditioned world. Devalues the whole. 681. And then ... relapse! She reverts, 674. Sometimes scars, pocks and She regresses, backslides, sinks, birthmarks, Eats her deeds, apostate crows, A freckle on a cheek of cream ... Turns about, and falls from grace. A mole on a snowy breast ... Add interest to the common. 682. So seizures follow - fevers, throes, Cancers, tumours, cupid's itch ... 675. Sometimes low grade, second best, Heart disease, Aids and MS, Namby-pamby, milk and water ... Infirm - and on the danger list. Neither tripe ... neither offal, Doesn't mean it’s awful. 683. Remedy, relief, narcotics, balms, Cure-alls, heal-alls, elixir vitae's. 676. Sometimes - there's improvement, Knock-out drops or Mickey Finns, Things turn out for the better, Expectorants or stimulants. Jess seems on the lift, the mend And making up for lost time. * 683. Jess wouldn't mind a Turkish bath * To purify her washed-up skin. How she'd love a pretty boy 677. Then all of a sudden, things worsen, To scrub and rub her fit. There's a slump, Jess hits the skids, Things get out of joint, go wrong, 685. If you think that's impure, A plane-load hits the drink. And her body is a dump ... That's why she needs that pretty boy To scrape her clean of muck.

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686. No doubt, it would be good for her. 694. In retreat she needs a rock - Can you deny this truth? An ivory tower aloof from life; Jess thinks it's fine for one's health A refuge in a time of trouble; To care about one's looks. A door that she can lock.

687. And with full pep, a burst of health 695. For there is need for preservation, (Helped by the pretty boy) Conservation and all that stuff. She'd feel her oats, and of course There must be more reservations Enjoy the country air. And sanctuaries for you all.

* 696. Sanctuary - in a place of salvage Where you may be tirer d'affaire - 688. The healing arts are nine-tenths Where you may be liberated ... sense Free - and well at ease. And ten percent of medicine .... A bunion on Jess's big toe joint 697. Do not wait for the red flag. Is a fashion victim's paradigm. Wait not for the yellow jack. Attacks advance the raised alarm. 689. So treat yourself, diagnose yourself Read the signs ... or be undone! Or end up like Jess - beneath the knife! It's not so nice to have a slice 698. With dismay, disquiet, distress, Cut away because of pride. The cry of the wolf is clearly heard. But few believe that wolves exist 690. Perhaps we all have mental blocks, Until the chicken's dead. Obsessions sent to try our health. So wear broad shoes or be psychotic! 3 - VOLUNTARY ACTION You smoke and drink corned-neurotics! 699. What's doing? What's up? 691. For there is danger, peril and hazard What's cooking? What gives? When one sleeps on a volcano .... What's happening? What's with it? If one sails too near the wind, What's buzzin', cousin? Or skates on ice that's thin. 700. Not a hoot! Not a stir! 692. For when one's name's on the list; Not a sausage! Not a thing! When one totters near the brink; Just Jim twiddling thumbs When one dangles over a viper pit - Leaving things as they stand. It's too late to run for it! 701. Well! Where's the enterprise in * that? Where's the itch to get ahead? 693. There are those picked to guard Jess. Doesn't Jim have fish to fry? There are those who watch and ward. Other irons on the fire? And there are beasts sent to cordon Sent to beat her up.

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702. No - he bums and loafs about, Free a slave, navvy, kefir!. Eats the bread of idleness .... You workers try to pull together! Swings the bat, whips the cat, Wastes what waking hours he has. 711. Fighting fatigue, wear and languor, Without being tuckered beat or pooped. 703. He sees no need to hurry, rush, Battling tiredness like a lion ... To scammer, scud, scuddle, spurt; Without collapse, or dog-tired look. To bundle on and make short work In hot haste against the clock. *

704. He has spare hours, time to burn 712. Hail you workers, makers, doers! With a creep and a crawl. Perform your tasks, do them well! Every tick he takes his leisure If an actor, author, artist - Every tock he lives for pleasure. Be a master, do things - else

705. For Jim - it's all sweet repose, 713. Find your workplace, house or A take-it-ease sprawl and loll - parlour; Every day's a - dies non -; Install your skills and be yourselves! Every week's one long hol'! Hive away and work your engines, Be geared for life! Now try! 706. His sleep - makes darkness brief; Knits-up the ravelled sleeve of bliss; 714. So why do men make no provision Gently dons the hood of grief - For tomorrow, live hand to mouth? That cloaks his idleness. Go unprepared in this world They haven't a clue about? 707. Jim has no wakeful nights, Restless, sleepless moonlit hours. * He doesn't toss and turn 'til dawn 715. If Jim had skills and knew his stuff To rise ulcered, tired and worn - If he could tell the hawks from doves. Would Jim be stinking rich like some 708. Like they who strive, struggle, strain Who cut a coat to suit the cloth? Till they are black in the face ... Breaking arms, breaking legs ... 716. Jim's unskilled, without the knack Breaking necks, to do their best. To start a business. Yet he's not daft, He has a brain, but what good's that? * He hasn't got a credit card.

709. Why undertake a task, a venture? 717. He's not cunning, crafty, sly. Put your hand to the plough ..? He can't outwit the blue-suit men. Take the bull by the horns? He'll pay his poll tax and his rent Do all that's in your power? And watch all wealth elude him.

710. With great effort, pain, and labour, 718. Though he is artless, simple, frank, Free the dog - the donkey Briton! He can look men in the eye ....

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He can trust his honest self 726. Where all that comes good - But not a blue-tied world - succeeds, Makes headway on a raging sea ... 719. Where all that might have - is So that which goes beyond all dream, undone, Cuts a swathe through a world Not carried through, left half-hogged, Not implemented, nor finished off - 727. Where all's comfort, well and fat - And all's not worth a shout or bawl. A cuckoo's life in a sunny hedge. Born beneath a lucky star .... * Living high in a feathered nest.

720. All that fails, flops, collapses, 728. Where all that's effortless and That starts off like a rocket, smooth - Takes it on the chin, and sinks Catching tadpoles in a goldfish bowl; Falls to earth like a stick. Stealing candy from a baby's mouth To live the life of Reilly's folk. 721. All that's ruin, rout, defeat, * Overturned, crushed, reduced ... Drubbed, licked, whipped, thrashed, 729. To be good, be nice, behave, act A cooked goose served as hash. well, Deport oneself with perfect manners. 722. All that's adverse, hapless, hard, Easy said - hard to do. A shock fall from one's high estate, Perfection is the mien of few. To come down heavy in an ill-wind And left to bear the elements. 730. Mischief makers, rogues and devils, Pixies, pucks, minxes, rascals. 723. What a hindrance! What a shock! Most people are a little elfish To have one's beak put out of joint. About their voluntary actions To have one's wings clipped so short That flying is a skip and hop. 4 - AUTHORITY

724. All that's difficult, arduous, tough: 731. The government, authorities, them To walk on eggshells, tread hot coals, above, To dance on crocodiles - What suicide! Old John Bull and Uncle Sam .... The end of the rope! The past brought us Goody Snatch And her argumentum baculinium. * 732. On the throne - on her broomstick, 725. Give Jim a world where that Potent, lordly, influential ... dispatched, At the helm, puissant, powerful, Is not by halves brought to pass .... Ex cathedra - magisterial. Realised, accomplished, done, Wound up, closed, capped and crowned. 733. Lawless, nihilistic, rule by lynching, Doing as disorder pleases ....

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Mice will play when Puss's away Matroned by a gracious dame ... And eat the mouldy cheeses. You would not have been governessed By a Madam T. * 742 I. f you were served, chambermaided, 734. You had no Lords, no Lower House Cinderella'd or Abigail'd ... You had a parliament of mice .... You would not have had Wizard Man With one big rat on the floor In to take her place. Logrolling laws with Christian no-no's! * 735. You had the UN, the IC laws, 743. Jim sometimes fears the IRA, The EEC .... the IMB. But only when he cannot hear God saved you not from crushing rule Words of reason from Sinn Fein That changed to suit just one. On his own TV.

736. You were the pawns of dismay 744. Why is there so much censorship? science, Phone taps and ID checks? The guinea pigs of party line ... He does not know from day to day Nineteen-Eighty-Four come true The real from rumoured in the press. By Nineteen-Ninety-Nine. 745. Is he a traitor to question these 737. You were the biggest chumps to date, Precepts, maxims, canons, codes The greatest number ever sold ... That hide the true facts of life? And what you bought in exchange He has a right to know! Won't help you when you're old. 746. And if it's said he has no rights, 738. And who's to blame for your greed? Then now's the time to fight for them. Who led you to get round God? He wants a Bill of Rights, and then Whose assets were such liabilities? A constitution to go with it! Whose strengths were your own faults? 747. He wants a free elected Lords, 739. If you were properly guided, steered, Ten year seats for all the shires. Directed where you'd like to go. He wants to phase out birthright peers You would not let dictatorship And join the modern world! Drive you to war. 748. He wants a senate, free, impartial, 740. If you were managed, stewarded, Instead he has a bunch of cronies chaired Once roped together by the Whip Governed as you'd like to be .... Of Goody Snatch the Witch - You would not have been overseered By an Iron Moll. 749. Now conjured by the magic wand of Wizard Man the Rich. 741. If you were mistressed by a good It is a sort of horror story, wife, Demands, claims, upon Jim's rights.

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750. Sixt'n Scots peers, twelve from 758. Captured, charged, confined to care, Ulster, Consigned to a custodial cage ... The rest from England, dukes & earls. Cordoned off, cooped up, committed. What right have they to govern Britain He wishes he were a bird! Or he to think them wise? 759. Free to be at liberty! 751. He'd send them back to their estates, The right to live and live well right. And call elections for the Lords. Go unrestrained, run the wind And if a duke desires to stand, Be free in will ... and wild! Well, let him if he wants. 760. Set loose, free to go ... 752. But let Jim have his parliament ... The wish to want to and want to wish ... Not some junta bashing god. To whisper sweetness to the world; No committee in a huddle To whistle down the wind! Deciding for them all. * * 761. Serf, vassal, thrall, slave, 753. By force of arms, coercion, Bondsman, odalisk, villain, churl - violence, Dare not call their souls their own At point of gun, hijacked, dragooned, And who can really blame the sods. Put under screws, duress and pressure, The fist, the big stick and the boot. *

754. With rod of iron, stern austerity ... 762. Offer, proffer, presentation ... With heavy hand, grimly harsh ... Submit, propose, bring up broach, With Spartan shrift, hard and rigid, Make a move towards advancement, Roughshod rode, no hold's barred. But .. Jim, don't volunteer!

755. With rope enough on a free reign, 763. Appeal, cry, call, plea, Lax and slack, loose, relaxed ... Entreat, implore, beg, beseech ... With remiss and pliant head If you please, for goodness sake, With plenty yield and give ... Don't cap in hand proceed.

756. With lenient favour, mild 764. For if Jim acceded - acquiesced, forbearance, Surrendered to the rule of men, Easy going, decent, kind ..... Bent a knee, bowed his head; Pampered, spoiled and mollycoddled. He might as well be dead. Jim would think that nice! 765. If he submitted - suit and service, 757. Fettered, hampered, trammelled, Pleasure, nod, beck and call .... shackled, Had to lie down, roll right over; Constrained, controlled, curbed, checked; He would kill herself. Hog-tied to the ways of men ..... Jim's had enough!

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766. To disobey, revolt, rebel, Things they cannot authorise. It is his right to counter cruelty, To fly in the face of tyranny ... 775. Ban, embargo, veto, bar, Instead of dying cowardly. Forbid, prohibit, enjoin, preclude; Some governments license misery 767. To observe, respect, comply with By making happiness taboo. All that's wrong in humankind ..... With faith in justice, law and order, 776. Repeal, revoke, recall, rescind, He'd have to be a hypocrite. Retract, renege, reverse, abolish; Nobles null and void agreements 768. To disregard, infringe, transgress, That peasants have to swallow. Take the law into his own hands ... He would, because the law's a bitch! 777. Select, they choose their nominees, Life has taught him this! The Party Man, committee backed ... Oh how Jim wishes he could have * A candidate with heart. 769. Promise, pledge, word of honour. Oath, vows, marriage contract ... 778. Each Party Man's a go-between, There was Jim ... some time ago An advocate of Party line .... They slipped the ring ... oh bother! A mouth piece for the Party boss And the Party mind. 770. Signed, sealed, arranged, settled, They broke it off, went their ways ... 779. Can he respect a Party Man? They had a bargain, an agreement. Promoted for the Party cause? Instinct engaged their reason. Christ! Jim does not have a vote He can't pay his pole tax. 771. Deposit, stake, monkey money ... They had none - with none to sell. 780. How can Jim remove the Party No insurance, bonds or stocks; When they've removed Jim's voting They only had themselves. power. Deprived of rights, the poor can't oust 772. Consent, assent, deign, comply, An incumbent oligarchy. Turn a willing ear, approve .... Some voters have no objections, none. 780a. Jim can't retire. He's thirty four! They nod their heads without a hoot. He'll not make enough next year To pay his tax, and get his vote - 773. Refuse, decline, reject, turn down, To stab the caesarean Party. Repulse, rebuff, deny disclaim ... Some landlords up their tenants' rents 5 - SUPPORT and OPPOSITION And go off winter skiing. 781. How can Jim aid, help, support 774. Permission, leave, imprimatur ... A girl four hundred miles from him? Permit, license, warrant, pass; Foster, sponsor, back, abet? On sufferance archbishops vouchsafe, Give manna in the wilderness?

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782. How can they ally, join hands, Hand to hand, contention, strife, Cooperate, club together A free-for-all, knock-down, drag-out! To get her through her college course Without a grant to keep her. 791. Violence is an insane epidemic; A brain-bash wind-pipe slitting art; 783. Must he consort, confer, collude A feast of vultures; a waste of life; To find a patron, friend at court? A by-product of the arts of peace. Is this how time has worked on him - On all who need support? 792. Violence is the art of bullies; The trade of traders in ideas .... 784. Must he join cliques, clubs & circles, It does not determine who is right: Belong to clannish social groups? Victory goes to those who survive. Must he enrol or be invited Without a pedigree ....? 793. Attack is for - the dogs let loose! Bloodhounds seeking out their game; 785. How can he without connections The hunter stalking on his prey - Ignore the set, avoid the lodge? Brought to bay, slain and eaten. What hope has he in aiding well A girl who needs his love? 794. Defence is for the ready primed, Those who beat the yelping curs - 786. There are those in his way The hunted, shielded, armed and waiting With bayonets crossed, daggers drawn. For the attack to begin. Yet, Jim’ll make his stand against The fiercest queen or pawn. *

787. Opponent, adversary, antagonist, 795. Combatants, soldiers, warriors, Assailant ... rival on the field; veterans, Up in arms he’ll do his worst Rookies, draftees, and plain regulars, And advance like a fiend. Mounted troops, reserves on foot, Fleets of forces, flying or floating - 788. Jim’ll kick against all the pricks, Put up a fight to frighten God! 796. Big guns; small shot; cannons; He’ll resist, repulse, rebuff, pistols; And stand on his tod! Munitions - ammo, missiles, bullets; Polaris; Trident; fission-fusion 789. He’ll toss his glove into the ring, Nuked-up megatonned plutonium. Pluck a beard, slap a face ... Raise his fist, bar his teeth, 797. The world’s a stage, a coliseum But take it at his pace. For slingshot, shrapnel, high explosive; A hippodrome of TNT, * A theatre steeped in tragic hope.

790. Such ‘guerre a mort’, ‘a outance’ * Are struggles of the last ditch kind;

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798. Instead - let Jim seek fellow feeling, From year to year the lessee pays Affinity, sympathy, harmony, union. The bank the leaser owns. He needs rapport to cement community With people of the same mind. 807. For property is one’s real estate, The visual proof of all endeavours, 799. He does not need a house divided, It does not show the inner wealth, A rift within the lute, discord. Nor account for mental assets. If there’s a crow needing plucked Leave him out the quarrel. *

800. For peace of heart; peace of mind; 808. Acquisition through take and profit: Follow that which makes for peace. Make a penny turn a pound; Be at peace, Jim, with yourself; Rake off gains, net the gleanings, Vade in pace! Pax vobiscum! Have money on the brain.

801. Wave the white flag: play the pipes; 809. Retention through: holding on; Shake hands on the truce agreed; Gripping firm to what one has; Raise the siege; play in tune; Clinging on as if for dear life: Pour waters on the waters smoothed. By always sitting tight.

802. Settle troubles, Jim, come between; 810. Loss through waste, expense, Intercede and referee - depletion: Negotiate, and arbitrate; By the board; into the red .... Bring to terms a lasting peace. Out of pocket; cut off; bust; Without a single cent. 803. Impartial be to point of means: On the fence; half way trim; 811. Relinquishment through: giving up; Be neutral, Jim, strike a balance; Letting go without a fight ... Not hot, nor cold, just in between. Disposing of, kissing goodbye to All chances to be rich. 804. Be compromising - fifty-fifty, Adjust to steering a middle course; * Make some virtue of necessity; 812. Commerce, trade, traffic, truck, Make it your measured most. Bull and bear and all that stuff ... Buy and sell, outbid, haggle. 6 - POSSESSION Mercury keeps his shop in London.

805. Nine points of the law - possession. 813. Share the snack, take your whack, Tenure; holding; ownership ... Have your finger in the pie ... Mine; yours; ours; theirs ... Divvy up, halve your part Puts one’s name to it. And have a jolly laugh.

806. Finder-keeper, those who have: 814. Parcel out the cake, allot, Master, mistress, holder, host - Cut the melon, portion, piece ...

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Save a pittance, stave some crumbs You out of house and home. For those who’re having none. 823. Do they restore, return, give back? 815. Buy up, buy in, buy off, buy back - Make restitution and amends? Bee Tee was a yuppie granny ... Remand the wrong? Reclaim right? But Sid Gas was a come-on con Atone for all their wolfishness? Who got the suckers bidding. 824. They pilfer, filch, purloin, swipe, * Plunder, pillage, loot and sack ... 816. Transfer, convey, hand over, sign They disregard the ‘me’ and ‘you’ Seven years on before demise ... And lift what they like. Why should Charlie pay death tax When Mam’s estate’s so fat? 825. Crook, gun, chor and prigger, Sneak thief - poacher, prowler, 817. Donation, present, gift, grant, The biggest bandits of them all Largess, gratuity, bounty, favour! Are the stock market dealers. Hand outs are the fad of gentry. Begging is the poor man’s legacy. 826. Illicit business, racketeering ... Fair trade? What a piece of crack! 818. Who shall now inherit the earth? These swag-looting marketeers Receive? Accept as beneficiary Moonlight on your backs! The birthright passed by primogenicy That has displaced the many. 827. Perhaps Jim needs business kings, The egg and butter job tycoons - * Merchants, salesmen, brokers, traders And the hordes of lesser mongers. 819. Beneath the sign of three gold balls, A line of desperate wallahs queue ... 828. Perhaps Jim needs their The needy in the loan shark’s jaws: merchandise, The way it was between the wars. Their goods for sale, products, ware; But need he take the dividend 820. Pawn; hock; - debtor’s borrow, They hand out as pay? Raise the cash on credit, trust. They never pay the interest off; 829. Perhaps - if there were ten-pence They soar like birds before they drop. stores, Pound-post houses with his needs ... 821. Sell up, sell out, sell the lot! The open-market would be fair, That’s fine if you’ve got some spare, Not fouled-up by greed. But not when hunger knocks it Under the hammer of despair. 830. Jim’s not a - me first - speculator, No wheeling-dealing operator .... 822. Sharks catch, grab, snatch, hold, He mounts no raids, rigs no killings, Hook, snag, snare, spear, Nor washes cash like dirty linen. Strip, fleece, shear, skin

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831. Jess has no stocks or shares, 839. Who will pay a living wage No big Nats, Gas or Oil ..... To clear and settle up accounts? She could have bought her piece of State. Stand the shot? Recompense Instead, it was sold for her. For Goody Snatch’s work?

832. Jane had a share in this country ... 840. Who’ll wipe off the Welsher’s slate? A dividend from National wealth, Cancel out the bankrupt’s bills? But Goody Snatch has stolen that Who’ll pick up the debtor’s tab And sold it to her friends. Before the system fails?

* 841. Spend, expend, disburse, outlay ... The cost of living rising daily. 833. Money, cash, all legal tender The boom is over so they say - Is at the root of most things wrong: Who now can spare the price of day? The eagle on the dollar bill; The monarch on the one pound coin. 842. Profits, earnings, gains, receipts, It’s not enough to make ends meet. 834. Financing backing, sound, The yield brings in scant return; substantial; Expenses out-gross net-income. You’d all like that, it’s only natural, But there are greedy Midas types 843. Accounts outstanding, statements, Not sharing El Dorado. debits Banks gnaw life like diseased rodents. 835. Made of money, bloated, pursed, Accountants gobble at the cheese There are those flush with wealth: And leave the mousetrap open. Stinking, filthy, lousy rich; Who are also wadding sick. 844. The damage done, the quotes accepted, 836. There are those on narrow means Tax and duty, vat and pole .... Pissed off at not possessing much: Direct tax, progressive levies, Not worth a rap ... the going hard; And tax to fill a hole. They’re walking in the crap. 845. No discounts, cuts, deductions, 837. Of course there’s credit, trust and No rebates, reductions, none ... tick, Perhaps the odd set-off concession But nothing’s free, that’s for sure. And allowance for a child. The interest compounds every month And doubles every year. 846. Precious, dear, and far too much, Overcharged, inflated, steep .... 838. It’s no surprise that there is debt Through the nose; you onward go Up to here - and in arrears! Without a wink of sleep. Repossession .... what a price. Death is not as dear. 847. Cheap, low priced, marked down, slashed;

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The cost of life’s a piggy bank ... A bargain-basement crock of chalk Cracked from being robbed.

848. Where are the Annie Oakley shows? The on-the-house Scot free gifts? The free-as-air get for nothings Life presents you with?

849. Now-a-days it’s economics .... Frugal prudence, nothing free. Skimping witch-face Goody Snatch And her gobbling few.

850. Clean and smiling Wizard Man Is no miser, is no match For Goody skinflint-pinch fist Snatch And her venal pack.

851. She spared no expense, She lavished wealth with her wand On the backs of those who kissed Her butt and felt her hand.

852. There is waste, a down-the-drain End to all that you have known. Close your eyes, make a wish ... And dream the nightmare gone!

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UNIVERSAL BEING - BOOK 8

8TH LEXICO N

Mankind is affected by a weakness termed 859. That is a pose meant for art: emotion. In sympathy, humans support one another. Yet, there are those who employ the Not for people who have nerves; lexicon of morality and religion to hide their Not for those highly strung weakness in order to foster their own superiority. In truth, there are no superior beings - there is And living on the edge. only one - the Universal Being. 860. No! I shall forbear, brook, abide, 1 - PERSONAL FEELINGS Take it like a man, resist! I'll lay in the lap of good 853. I have talked in brief of love: And make the best of it! Of beings ruled by taste and touch; Of feelings roused by sight and sound; 861. What's the point of being impatient, But not about what passion does. Fretful, restless, in a sweat, All hopped up and in a lather, 854. Now I'll speak of lesser love: Too breathless to submit? Emotion locked within the heart; I'll try to strike an inner chord 862. For life is balmy, sunny, bright, Without pealing raw. Delightful, pleasant, sweet and nice, Divine, sublime, fetching, fine 855. For there are those numb to feeling, ..... Most of the time. Poor creatures lost: hard and cold With hearts of stone; callous; brazen; * We must keep them warm. . 863. Sometimes life's unpleasant: sour 856. We must not let them shirk Enough to make a preacher swear;So bad, excitement. that it becomes more We must help them get some thrills: Than flesh and blood can bear. Make them tingle, tremor, quiver; Let them thaw their icy selves. 864. But let's be happy, just like larks Soaring high in joyful bliss. 857. And if we can't? Then we'll become With -joie de vivre- pleased as Punch! Just like them ... sober, staid, Let's be four times blessed! Calm, composed, stiff and starched. We'll become straight-lace faced. 865. There's natural shocks enough to wound 858. For what's the peeing point And ghost our lives in misery, Of living life with a Rodin look Without arrows barbed with trouble With dark Da Vinci staring eyes Aimed at our closet histories. And mouths forever crooked? 866. I have no belly for such tosh! It shouldn't happen to a dog.

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Of all the ills, the sickest pill 875. Until at last there is a laugh! Is a dose of vile gossip. A rah! rah! ray! A hip hur-rah! A haw-haw! hee-hee! tee-hee guffaw! * A whoopee! hoopee! yippie! Wow!

867. For ease of mind, I'll not flirt 876. Such celebration deserves: a fanfare; The shadows of my own dull past. A 'feu de joie'; a gun salute -But wait a Instead, I'll now be reconciled mo! I'm blowing the trumpet To be well satisfied. For no reason worth a hoot.

868. I'm not a grouch, a crank, a crab, 877. This verse is but a small amusement, A grumbling, griping malcontent. A diversion from the waiting world. Why be displeased, vexed of spirit It is a game, a sport of words In a world that isn't bad? To drive the hours on.

869. It's not hard to raise a smile, 878. It is a dance: a Terpsichore; By being chipper, crouse and canty. A hoof around the lexicon; As merry as the day is long, A reel around the dictionary The blithe will chase off melancholy. In lines of four.

870. Let the demure, grave and grim, 879. Perhaps it's all a bit absurd Not be you, or who we know .... That I should make fun of words, For who enjoys a staid long face:Morning But after all - we're all fools. solemn, evening sober. It's ludicrous to think we're gods.

871. There are those with heavy hearts: * Penseroso; soul-sick; blue ... In the doleful doldrums; dumped, 880. I'll admit, there are wits Sad-eyed, and forever glum. So quick their lips merely twitch: They tongue tunes like violinists 872. Sometimes a sadder man is wiser, Fiddling on a Stradivarius. Wild with regret - the better - But what a pity when remorse 881. Such banter as a joke is fine - Turns into a penance. Kidding; ribbing; ragging; razing. Such jesting as a give and take 873. Worse still are those unrepentant, Might lead to fists in faces. Unsorry folks - hard of heart - Who untouched by their own impenitence 882. But is there worse than those who Are without any qualms. are Weary, stale, flat and dull: 874. And there are those wailers: weepers Who pass through life switched off Who beat their breasts, and fall about; As dreary lumps of lard? The ones who cry their eyes out; bawl - The world will end tomorrow!

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883. What's more tedious than a bore? 891. Sometimes it's fear, a cowardness, Ho hum! Heigh ho! What a life! A qualmishness of cold misgiving ... Humdrum dead and near extinct?How do An afraidness brought on by years, they survive? A diffidence of shivers.

884. And what of those who sow the 892. Scared to death, I stand in terror, wind? Cowering in the black of time: From bad to worse see things increase? Paralysed, pale as ash - Those who might round Cape Wrath I bear the pass of panic. To come to Pentland grief. 893. Dare I admit such dire fears! 885. What would they give to have relief: And still proclaim myself an adult? To smooth their ruffled brow with rest Be strong: quit yourself a man. Like lion fleeced to tempered lamb Be bold! Beard the lion! Meek with sighed short breath. 894. How can I - paper back boned, 886. We all seek comfort from distress; March up to the cannon's mouth? So let's rejoice with them that do. When my courage's made of glass Let's weep with them that weep! And broken in a moment. And laugh with them too! 895. Yet advance I must - timid go * Safely forward, right foot cautious: Tip-toe slow, across the floor 887. There are those when things are bad Back into bed before the dawn. Who declare that all is well; Those who will come what may * Say:- The blackest hour's heaven! 896. Often I'm overcome by life, 888. These optimists make the best The pernicketiness of urban folk, Of all the worst thrown their way: The nothing of their finicalness, They knock on wood, trust in God, The up-turn of a nose. Make promises from air - 897. Dainty judgement - discerning airs, 889. Which is no worse than those of Good sense pertly put in force: gloom Such culture of the conscienced soul Who fancy clouds - where no clouds are: Leaves the spirit low. Who dash the cup from the lips Of all enfants perdus. 898. So base in fact, an angel dies! Such folk can be vulgar Goths:- * To err is human, sin divine, 890. For I have thoughts, troubled, chafe, And they submit to both. That vex, beset and plague me:- Worried sick, disturbed, distressed, 899. What ugliness in refined taste; In dead of night; I leave my bed. To see a clock stop a face

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Wry and baboon-made by art 908. The modest violet outshines the Like something a cat has pawed. rose:- With bashful blush it finds its fame 900. True beauty is without a name: In the shade beneath an elm A something caught with half an ear; Where timorous lovers play. Something glimpsed with a flick Or felt without a hand. 909. But oh beware! Also there The pansy in self-love - in bloom! * Conceit and swollen cockiness 901. Ornate array is foofarow: With which to please a fool. Make-up on a small girl's cheeks Tinsel round the head of Christ,Or rings * on every toe. 910. Braggarts on their trumpets blow Louder than the big-talk daffs 902. Unadorned natural beauty Along the shore - where Wordsworth Illuminates the common world. Strode - head into the windy blasts. Fair is the lily gilt ... Fair sweet the wild rose. 911. Chatter, chatter, June to May, They rave and rage, fuss and fury. 903. Such air! There is no pretence: They are bound, yet sway free: No posy in a piano vase; Bluster, bluff and swagger. No bouquet breakfast jug arranged That we might love if wild. 912. Let he - whose arrogance values pride 904. For vain our species seems to be And all false traits so admired - With all its trump and solemn pride. Let him ride his high horse home We may act the grand seigneur - Eight hands above the mire. The rose grows beyond all time. 913. And those - whose insolent reply 905. Yet, what is pride? Self-esteem? Gives the world a curled lip - Napoleon on a beggar's horse? Let them be the rose, the bud - Mussolini flying high? And not the prick of it. Or Hitler cross-armed posed? * 906. Too few like Garibaldi, Gandhi, 914. Perhaps some forfeit our good Descend to sing the small man's song; opinion, Too few with humbled hang-dog looks Disgraced they fall from high estate. Stoop to conquer all. Exposed to infamy's black respect, They bid farewell to glory. 907. Nay! Who would be in servile chains! 915. Honours lauded, credit given:- Who would drain their every vein! How the cited can be sullied!By disgrace, Who would kiss the hem of Cain! stripped of ribbon, Unless they were a saint. Branded bad, and shamed.

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916. Distinction made with a title: Or greet our friends with a kiss Your Grace, My Lord, or just plain Sir. When we're not home ourselves. That conferred - can be annulled When favour shrinks. 925. Our door is barred, we are out: Displaced, we derelict move about; 917. And what of those born to rank? Proscribed, we pass the black ball Those sceptred, orbed and crowned: Round - and sign the robin blind. Those exalted in an age When republics blossom. *

918. The common man, the third estate 926. Friendship stems from fellow Cannot fall - can only rise feeling,. From out the waving multitude The love of fault in spite of virtue. Where future kings are spawned. A friend in need is a friend indeed And who'd dispute such wisdom! 919. Such wonder! Will such things be? Marvel! Miracle! and prodigy! 927. Thank God, said Kipling, for a Blow me down when such things occur. chum! God bless me! Someone with whom you are yourself. A pal with whom you are sincere, 920. Unastonished - not a blink! A mate not scared to give you hell. History will accept new things. Of course! No wonder! but why the stink 928. For who needs folk to bear a grudge! When queens spawn queens, not kings! Who needs fools with bones to gnaw! Who needs guys who throw a punch 2 - SYMPATHY When you come to odds!

921. What sympathy have we for friends, 929. Who needs hate, dislike and odium! Our comrades in the common cause Who needs detest, wrath and loathing! For fellowship and family joy Who needs abhor, adverse ill Hand in hand familiar joined - Eating at them like a poison!

922. When snakes coil snug in the shade * And spiders watch and web aloof, And scorpions wait self-contained 930. Love is the potion of my passion! To join the masquerade? Love is the fervour of my fancy! Love is the ardour of my enamour: 923. What know we of those forsaking Sweet, appealing, charming! A world forgot by those forgetting The kith less few fair forlorn 931. But O! La! La! Faire yeux doux! Far upon a foreign shore? Coquets flirt and dig for gold. Philanders wolf and whisper sex: 924. How may we keep a light Osculate - do not propose Or catch the latch in these times,

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932. To make themselves like man and 940. But I will don my public spirit wife. For love of man, extend my hand, Would you have that if you were wise? Embrace all hard malicious persons Well - many tie the knot - unite! Until they stab me back. And take for worse a better life. 941. I will - be their benefactor; 933. And some - the lone wolf on the Be their present help in trouble; prowl: Be their patron - help, assist The bachelor girl blissfully wild; Until they're saved from this. The monks, the maidens on their own; The misogynous world - all alone 942. How brave I am! Befriending ruffians, 934. The widow wearing dowager weeds; Hoodlums, thugs, monsters, demons. The widower grassed and weak; It's just as well, I'm a saint The lost divided by divorce; And not a friend of evil. They're in need of love and warmth. * * 943. Tis a pity she's a whore! 935. A nice and very perfect gentleman 'Tis a pity he's a bore! The mirror and pink of courtesy: Have mercy on all erring souls, Regards one well, gives his love You never know who's next to go. And always keeps a civil tongue. 944. There are some who give no quarter, 936. A nasty vile and utter scoundrel Those who claim their pound of flesh: Rude and scant of courtesy: The heartless folk who turn an eye Cuts one short, tries his luck, And cruelly call in debts. Cheats and never counts the cost. 945. Yet, why side with them that weep? * Why weep with those who grieve? 937. There is luxury in doing good: Why grieve with those condoled? To friend the friendless, vice a foe; Why console the weak? To help give the sick man health; To do as would be done to you. 946. Forgive and let all things pass? Rub out marks? Clear the screen? 938. There is no good in ill-will Exonerate all affronts .... In man's inhumanity to man. And wipe the slate off clean? No delight in sharp-toothed cruelty Nor kindness found in spite. 947. Congratulate the desperado? Compliment the woman bruiser? 939. All misanthropes are anti-social, I've pity for the bore or whore, They're misfits ill disposed to man. But no sympathy for losers. Befriend the unkind? Hard of heart? Is like asking for a cold. *

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948. So get down on your marrowbones, 956. And brooding on our open wound Thank your Gods, you are alive. We plan revenge before it scabs. There's many friends in the grave We breathe vengeance, take an oath, And many soon to die. And think not how vendettas start.

949. Bless the stars that we are here. 3 - MORALITY Je vous remercie tres beaucoup! Do not forget the gift of life 957. People and the ten commandments. And the life that's gifted you. People and a code of ethics. People and their inner conscience * Twinged by right and wrong. 950. For the monster begot, born itself The green-eyed worm within us all. 958. What is right or proper, mate? Suspicious, we distrust the world, The seemly thing's not always decent. And more so - those our lover knows. Some will steer clear of scandal, And some will have no shame. 951. Such pain of mind our neighbours cause, 959. The right of suffrage: that's justice. Our envy like a sickness gnaws - The defence of sex: that's indulgence. It eats the fibre of our souls Some men knock their girlfriends up, And leaves us hungry all the more. Then sure enough, they do a bunk!

* 960. One must reap where one has sown! Do you believe this? Not me, nope. 952. So ghosts of the great! Immortal All that comes our way is Fate, fame! And Newton's third is Karma, mate. The most recorded of all recorders! The name on everyone's tongue & lips! 961. Give an inch and take a mile. The pride of all posterity! Do you think I'd stand for that? All the gear we have for free, 953. Let not ill-humour be your game. Cost our friends very dear. Bad nature is the trade of sulks. Hot tempers are the quick of shrews 962. We have a duty! But to whom? When a quarrel brews. Friends pass the buck themselves. We have to lump it when we're conned 954. Resentment is a sport of teeth. And hoof it when we're wrong. Offence is a spray of words. Umbrage is the clash of fists 963. To hell with those who lay on When the humour hurts. hands? Impose themselves, palm off, fob? 955. Until we take an eye for eye; What respect have I for mates Give in kind for that sustained; Who take advantage of a pal. Pay off old scores 'en revanche' And take reprisal for each wrong.

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964. I respect - the setting sun; Every morsel in the house The wind and the tide that turns; And remaining hungry-minded. The lightning in the April sky And all the creatures in this world. 973. Thank god for those who care to fast, * Who dine with Humprey, Duke of Lent - 965. Young Adam's sensual way with Eve Who share a crumb with Tantalus As voluptuous carnal-minded girl - And make a feast of bread. Was hedonism at its height Before the fall from Eden. 974. You'll not find them intoxicated, Soused and crocked on whoopee water. 966. Then sometime after Plato thought Not a dram you'll find them lip That love should be virgin pure - From the still burns of Scotland. Diana, chaste as unsunned snow Chased the morning dew. 975. Sober as a judge they'll march, Beneath the Hope and Glory banner. 967. Then Jezebel, that queenly hussy, As tipsy as the day they're born Her free-love an easy virtue - They'll teeter to the terra firma. Strump’t her way through Ahab's court In the service of Israel. * 976. Except for man, I have no scorn, 968. Yet men, in their obscene state - No disrespect for all that's known Lewd, bawdy, ribald, impure. Or all that which I cannot fathom Bring temples down upon themselves In the universe beyond our own. For loving living idols. 977. I look cool upon mankind 969. Perhaps it's well that some abstain:- Which cannot curb its arrogance. The yogi in his mountain cave; It is young and cares not for The fakir in the cazzba shade; All the fruits in paradise. The monk in the vaulted nave. 978. Bah! Pah! Phoo! and all that boo! 970. They let passions dry to reason; Some don't give a toss, a wink: Look not at wine when it's red; With scoff, mock and caustic taunt, They mortify all fleshly lusts, They laugh and jape at all as twits. And say no to excessivism!. 979. Not so I - I'm more concerned 971. Too many indulge, debauch and To praise, applaud, endorse, accept. orgy, But who's to say I'll not regress Dine not wisely - but too well; To smirks and jibes and jests? Carouse; run-riot; squander health And wealth without intemperance. 980. For who's not prone to be a critic, A give-what-for Jesse or John? 972. And worst of all - the greedy eater, I'd be hanged if some could stop The swinish glutton wolfing down Their gobs from finding fault.

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981. Is there worse than blarney-mouthed That leads to weak and wicked sin Sycophantic taffy-talk? And shameless loss of pride. Or the patter of the urban snob Towelling on the butter? 990. Such malfeasance, such scarlet foible, These deeds without an act I name - 982. Tell the truth and shame the devil? Transgress the laws of decency Be honest as the day is long? With a crime clenched fist - Be noble, upright, sterling, worthy? I try to all-the-while. 991. They wash their blood-stained hands With looks like cats who've ate a bird * Shame-faced they guilty-conscience 983. But, in each man, betrayal lurks: Smile in a show of innocence. He parts on some a Judas kiss; He breaches trust with the thrust 992. It is said that there are those Of steel between the ribs. Pure of fault and not yet stained: I would like to think that - Yes! 984. So be fair - do the handsome thing, That some were clean of blame. See justice done, and all that's due With regard, respect or fear 993. No end of fellows, likely lads For persons near and dear. And perfect lasses nobly planned, Salt the earth and pearl the world 985. For iniquity is a way of life. As jewels of paragon. Injustice can be worse than death. As long as nepotism's rife, 994. For who has time for ne'er-do-wells, The wrong will judge the right. Wastrel, worthless, human wrecks - Radically foul-mouthed whoreson knaves 986. Dogs in mangers! Mean self- Who'd see us all in hell. pleasers! Fortune hunters, hogs and toads! 995. Such lampooners knock and slander, How I dislike such self-considerate Rake the muck and sling the slur. Self-absorbing bores! They give a bad name to a dog And tongue the blackest words. 987. Give me large-heart princely virtue: 996. They swear until the air is blue: Do as you would be done by too. They curse with candle, bell and book; Put yourself in place of others; They blaspheme! Blast! Effin! Dang! Make a sacrifice. Their way to Billingsgate, goldarn!

988. Do unwitnessed what you should * Like to do before the world. Resist desires that have no virtue 997. Why disrespect canon, law, Of health - good or moral. Regulation, dictate, bill; Lex non scripta, jus civile 989. For vicious vice is not so nice: And jus commune for all. Bad habit is a devilish fault

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998. I'll not say that laws are right 1006. No legal man is above acquittal Or those who make the laws are wrong: The law is not the right of lawyers. Many set the law to nought The law's no ass though attorneys ride And take it in their hands. It with a stick and carrot.

999. Perhaps there's need for bureaucrats, 1007. Come, you lawyers, if you will, For ministers and secretaries, Denounce, condemn and sentence me. For magistrates and mayorships Let the punishment fit the crime. And all the sheriffwicks. Convict - be rid of me.

1000. Perhaps we need courts of law, 1008. Come, you stiff-necked legal Circuit, County, High and Lords; priests, The mercy seat, the woolsack bench Vacate your temples, view the light, Where privilege confounds tort. Do not handicap yourselves By giving justice pric 1001. Perhaps we must respect our 'Honours' 1009. If you must play right from wrong, As Musselmen respect their Mullahs - Do it with an unmarked pack. And like a Solomon or a Pilate A stacked deck against the poor Accept their weighty judgement. Is a game non rightly bought.

1002. But what of lesser legal men? 1010. Take me to the scaffold now The green-bag mouthy friends at court; If I must live in a corrupt state. The slick-silk QC's, stiff-gowned men: Better dead and half-way pure The sentence never falls on them. Than alive in a rotten system.

1003. In their suits of deposition! 1011. Let him atone for all Man's faults In their suits of litigation! At the gates to the world beyond. In their suits against the world, Let him beg pardon from those - At the bar they please each other. Fit to judge him wrong.

1004. Should they make their 1012S. uch louring does not menace me. impeachments? I thumb my nose at clenched fists. Accuse and charge and lay the blame? I turn and watch the setting sun Should they cry out? Should they cast As in warmth - life moves on. The stone that starts the fray? 4 - RELIGION 1005. Many have learned to shut their mouths 1013. Upon the Almighty the world seeks To let attorneys rest for them; Allah, Khuda, Kami, Dieu! To allow advocates to speak for those The universal life force - Lord! Who tend to pay them best. The supreme soul - God!

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1014. Whichever gods that there may be, 1022. Amos, Daniel, Joel, Isaiah, They are one, and one with us. Confucius, Laotzue, Zarathustra. Too many names flood the mind Many tongues, and many founders, In the universal see. Vates sacer, saints, disciples.

1015. If there are Angels, then I believe 1023. There are creeds to shift That good will come of such belief. mountains. If there are heavenly beings - There are beliefs to move large hills. Then let them come to me. There are doctrines to mount hummocks, And dogmas to level dunes. 1016. If there are Devils, then I believe That bad will come of such belief. 1024. All, of course, are orthodox, If there are demons leashed in Hell - The faith as given from above. Then set the creatures free. Religion thrives on being right 1017. If the’re ghosts - and there may be When the competition's wrong. Such spirits trapped 'tween two worlds Then help such spectres right the ties 1025. And oh what names! Infidels! Of wrong that chain them there. Pagans! Goys! Zendiks! Papes! How can truly holy men * Belong to any faith?

1018. But take Man to the happy land, * The place of mansions in the sky Where mortgages are all arranged 1026. What is this holy business then And on the never-never. That's so ineffably inexpressible? What makes redemption and salvation 1019. Do not leave Man in the pit, So unutterably venerable? The nether-abyss far below Where rents are always overdue 1027. Why the bad press for things From years and years ago. unholy, Unhallowed and temporally mundane? * Why the bad crack about things secular Non-sacred and plain? 1020. Religion, cult, sect and faith, Every one is stamped 'Man-Made'. 1028. For many Fight the good fight: There'll never be one reply Stand up for Jesus - Hip hip hoorah! To all that Man has questioned. I don't mind being saved by a saint - I'm heavenly-minded and sane. 1021. Oh, there are scriptures, vedas, writs 1029. But I don't like sanctimonious zeal: From Moses down to Joseph Smith. The saint abroad who’s a devil at home. Words of prophets heat our thoughts Look at Tartuffe - need you more proof The way the sun warms the world. Of cant made snivelled and snuffled.

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1030. But hush my mouth blaspheming out loud 1038. And to the end I come at last About irreligion sacrilegiously sworn: To take my vows, renounce the world, Piousness ill-suits irreverent ranters To take the church, cloth & robes And is wasted on those who have faith. Of an ecclesiastic father.

1031. Atheist sin and wicked agnostism, 1039. I take the ministry as a priest, Clover & dock in the field of mankind: A black coat Holy Joe styled life; Undevoutness and sceptical scoffing - For I have come into the light, Are as common as weeds in the wild. No more will I go hungry.

* 1040. You, laymen, do not write me off, I will still be in your parish; 1032. So with a latria, dulia, hyperdulia! For I am in every being Praise the Lord and his hosts. And in every part. My God? I think I must be nuts Kneeling on the floor. 1041. And should your rituals leave me sad; 1033. But my, my, my, she ain't half nice And should your service make me laugh; That goddess statue over there. And should an unction be your last - If stone could speak, I'd find strength I'll be with you - always. To strip the idol bare. 1042. So let me don my robe and cloak; 1034. She does not touch the inner man, Let me take my staff and orb; The vital spark that fires life. Let me raise my cowl and smile She is no psyche divinely breathed And bless you - and mankind. With telepathic mind. 1043. And when you meet in your kirks 1035. Yet, this idol is no voodoo doer, Meeting houses, mosques and kiacks: No juju jigging vampire doll, Remember who you are one with – No hex or hag or witchcraft moll the Universal Being. Charming me - into a warlock.

1036. This idol casts no evil eye, No mumbo-jumbo leaks from her, No hocus-pocus makes her dance To place me in a trance.

1037. She is all stone, quiet and still, I see her, but she not me. I may touch her when I wish And leave her when I please.

*

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RETURN TO SCOTLAND

For Heather ran off with new lover Pete – NUDE TO LO VE And George midst the tears, swore he’d [17th September 1988, Flateyri, Iceland] get even On all the women who’d treated him Tomorrow strives to be tonight, rotten. Love is on the lips of dawn - Between the greying and the day Alone in his bed, the full moon rose We are fast, entwined, ensnared - And strange happenings took place in the Our lips bare touching, naked rest light – We are one in shy caress. He turned and tossed and dreamt he’d lost The use of his limbs overnight. Daylight stays to end the night; Our mouths match the parting clouds - When he awoke, it wasn’t a joke, Between the haze and hue of sky He nearly choked at the sight of himself – We have heaven here on earth - On his back he had sprung two lengthy Our sighs heave fresh, pared to touch wings We are open, nude to love. And his nose was the length of his arm.

MO SQ UITO He couldn’t believe the state he was in, [12th – 16th October 1988, Coventry Or the thirst that strangled his throat – Cathedral and Glasgow] Before he knew what, he’d straddled his cat In the east, and in the west, And drank all of its blood with his nose. In the south, and all points north … There is a buzz, there is a hum, George passed out with the cat’s last There is an airborne host of birds – meows Bees and flies and crowds of gnats, And awoke to discover it gone – Swarms of midges, swirling black. He looked in the mirror and sort of remembered In the spring, and in the summer, The pair that done him the wrong. In the autumn, before the winter, All the world is thick with life, He vowed there and then to do what he There is a creeping insect sea – could Cockroach, beetle, ant and worm, To take his revenge as the cuckold – Earwig, spider, tick and flea. George then knew what Jekyll went through There was one worm called George Facker Now that he was a bloodsucker. Who stuck to his woman Heather; He was a wimp until his friend Pete Some mate he was, George cursed Pete, Turned George into a sucker. ‘I’ll get the bugger back somehow!’ And as his anger grew, his wings grew George was in love … it wasn’t enough And his nose sniffed for blood.

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George headed for town to get himself And smoked a pack of fags – drunk, The nearest George got to work His head was rushing with thought – Was looking at the ads. ‘I’ll get my own back on them both!’ The cat came back just after noon He had no time for sociable talk. As George was having a nap – The cat went up and scratched him hard, He frazzled his brains on McEwans ale, Then shot into his lap. Until the landlord had him thrown out – He straggled and swayed along the high George stroked the cat and mumbled street things Shouting ‘I’ll murder them both with me As he watched the kiddy shows – hands!’ Both were glad to have respite From being on their own. At last he calmed down, smoked his last fag Evening came, the cat went out, And fell over in a heap on a bollard – George hummed quietly over tea – Someone helped him up, gave him a And then as he did the dishes … shove He said ‘ What’s come over me?’ And he stumbled on towards the disco. ‘Oh my God!’ He said aloud – There he met Stella, a bit of a pisshead, and then he buzzed, and buzzed about, Together they boogied, rocked and rolled; then folded back his wings in pain She booked the taxi, he paid the fare, as he pushed his nose back in again. And together they went to her hole. He took control, blurted out Stella would not let sleeping dogs lie, ‘I’ve got to have a woman! So George did not transform but I’ve got to have some female blood!’ performed – And off he went to hunt. Morning came, she drew him up, Then threw him on to the floor. Drunk once again, back at the disco, There he met Linda, a tart with heart – ‘Sorry, darling, I’ve got to rush, He sweet talked his way into her clothing I’ve an essay to write for my course – And spent the night at her flat. My tutor’s talking me out tonight, I’m tied up all the time. Adios!’ Linda awoke with George at her breast Sucking her blood up his long nose – George went home to his flat … She started to struggle, but all that was The cat was still not back – audible ‘Where the hell have I gone wrong? Was suck and a slurp and a croak. Christ! The cat’s crapped on the mat!’ George was flapping about trying to draw He ate dry bran and drank black tea, out

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As she swatted him one with her fist – Time went by, and George remained He staggered away in a lip-smacking daze Lodged in bed in hibernation – Shouting ‘What’s got into, bitch!’ His cat pined and moaned and gurgled, hung around in hope of a meal. ‘Get out of here! You bloodsucking male!’ Cried Linda in a fury and rage. George awoke – he was hungry, ‘There’s enough of your type wandering He hadn’t had a suck for weeks – the night His cat was ill and anorexic … You pervert! You keep away!’ George got up prepared to hunt.

‘You’re far too rough for my kind of He prepared himself to find a girl, love’ He no longer cared about freewill – Linda continued to fly at dazed George – He was now a dirty Devil! ‘I’ll need a transfusion after this evening, A dirty laughing fiendish insect. I’m weak, and feeble and faint!’ The cat lit out broken hearted. Linda passed out and George sneaked off, Escaping through a broken window, Back to his flat on the far side of town – George tried to grab it by its tail, The cat heard him coming and started to The cat screeched, took a leap of faith. run, It was learning to say out the way. It leapt down into a pile of snow – disappeared into the whiteness George threw himself down on his bed George thought him lost forever, And sobbed himself into a bad sleep – And broke down in abject remorse. He had a dream about Heather and Pete, A dream that made him quite sad. George grew worried, put on his coat, donned his wellies, braved a blizzard - The sun came up, George didn’t get up, Searched for tracks, called for the cat, He somehow passed and wasted his time – In the street, the park, and the lanes. Cleaned his toenails, scratched his bollocks, In despair, George threw himself down, The cat watched, keeping it distance. Lay in the waste, would surely have died, If a girl called Lily coming out of the Thus he spent the whole day in bed, Chinese For the night before he’s been amply fed– Had not seen him lying covered in snow. He groomed his wings, blew his nose And slept until the half-moon rose. She dropped her trash, stooped to discover He slumbered on and dreamt some more, That George was a man she had admired The cat came and went, meowed for food- from afar – George flapped his wings, spat out blood A regular customer in is days of sobriety And the cat hid under the cushions. She had liked his looks and his charm.

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She helped him home, put him to bed, An icy autumn downward wind Started to clean his mess of a flat - Whites the raging burn. She nursed him daily with chicken soup Until the pain he had - left his heart. Stumps of brackened birch, Fir and copper beech, George had no desire to attack his saviour, Twisted mountain ash, He had fallen in love with this Lily – Banks of lichened schist. For in her arms she had his lost cat Wrapped up in a bundle of woollies. Depths of black slow river, Cascades of swift foam white, She struck George dumb with her beauty Parts where violent rocks As he lay in his bed like a wally – Push up where ripples fight. She took his hand as he started to cry And tell her about Heather and Pete. Leaves down on the water, Needles on the stone, George agreed to go for treatment, Debris smashed and carried Discovered his wings and nose were Along and seen no more. figments – His emotional distress of being deserted CASTLERIGG Had made him imagine himself an insect. [12th January 1989, Keswick, Derwentside] Such low esteem is common enough For those who sustain emotion rebuff; The black clouds swirled about the stones, His need for revenge - manifest thus Across the fields a rainbow rolled, As a weird desire to suck human blood. Sepulchred the grey day moaned Hail, and sleet, and snow. His counsellor said the cure for his pain Was to find a good girl and love again – Greenhouse winter blossoms withered, And sure enough George quite agreed, Silver birch and thorn bush quivered - He rushed home - gave Lily a squeeze. Ravens rode the dry-dyke currents As sheep lay cold together. A squeeze? George was a changed man; No more sucking ladies breasts - NEVER THESE DAYS AGAIN Well, not in revenge. We’ll say no more. [6th May 1989, Glasgow] They got married. Isn’t that nice. Enclose me in your eyes Or just forget about me - BRIDGE O F FEUGH Never will these days return. [4th November 1988, Banchory, Aberd] Love, love secret, no one knows - In the weak November sun Think, think blush, I have found On the Bridge of Feugh, A sweet dream - the touch of love.

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Within my heart I’ll hide you, Hot is the passion pumping the heart, Truth, let no omen be on you - Hot is the body next to mine - Slave I am to your eye. Looking divine and ready.

These cool breezes, join our sighs, Don’t know what to think of this, These clear springs shower our joy, Who can say what it is - Sing a song to flower the world. Who can argue with the truth Or the passing with youth. Without you here I cannot smile, My eyes are never tired of you - On and on into the dark, I never can forget, you my muse! Hard is the way coming back, Round the world ever which way TAM TAR TIN ( a fragment) Standing still in the day. [19th May 1989, Glasgow] Sun coming up on the trees, Tan Tar Tin, the Mac of Man, Blossom falling on my hair, Made in Scotland, so its thought Breeze in the branches of thorn, Without the consent of the clan Around me friends travelling on. Without the tying of the knot: This boy, on Lady’s Day late March Over we go into the morn, Was born, weighed, wrapped and brought Over we go into the future, By a stork starched and large Beyond the horizon eternity stretches - And put into a foster’s arms. Dancing to mark time’s passing.

No clocks rang out, ‘t was that time MIDSUMMER SPEEDS Between five and six past twelve [18th June 1989, Glasgow] When all the clocks are spent with chime And once again renew themselves Midsummer speeds to aural height Except one clock - St. Thomas’s Church And we are caught in the heat Behind the hour began to bell Of days that bring more than rain With thirteen doleful blows struck true And wind that is the norm. And never struck again till two.

SAUCHIEHALL STREET BAR WE MUST THINK AGAIN [May? 1989, Glasgow] For Dawn [18th June 1989, Glasgow] Here in the bar on Sauchie’ Street, Tapping our fingers, stomping our feet, Two years ago on Dinafawr Pretty girls frumping under the lights - We wined and toked and read our plays I think it’s going to be a good night. And all the world lay before Beyond the green Welsh valleys. Hot is the air on this August eve,

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Now we’ve come two summers on Summer’s here for sure - June-time. And know not what waits ahead No festivals this year, just performances Beyond the Scottish urban life Taking place all over town. We must think again. Rehearsals drag out in the east - LITTLE INDIA The dandies dress up in the west - [27th June 1989, Halt Bar, Glasgow] The hours turn slowly on To the performance in the south. Can I watch the world go by When I am part of it? MAISIE MADRAS The man who sits and views the world For Isadora Mann is of no use to it. [28th June 1989, Glasgow]

URBAN LANDSCAPE Darker than a gypsy girl, [27th June 1989, Halt Bar, Glasgow] Nimbler than a ballerina, A quick-tongued shrewish lass In the urban landscape north - With a hot curry temper. North in the haze of summer, Jazz steals through the rainy nights Who would cross Maisie’s path? And music thieves all culture. Who would chance to kiss her? Who would lay a hand on her Here - the north west light of Europe, And not regret it? A throbbing bursts the strictured brain: Love is on the lips of strangers; In all the wide theatre world, Art’s in the mind of dreamers. No leg or eye’s like Maisie’s. Take heed, boys, she’s too hot Here - no structure, only chaos, A dish to have for starters. Anarchic freedom to be oneself. Here - no pressing common order THE GREENHO USE SUMMER Forcing denial on its people. [26th July 1989, Glasgow]

Why? Should pressure come to bear If this is how the future is, And force us all to be prostrate? Then lets be thankful of our past; Here - the weak sleep through the night Summer once was rain and cloud, And the strong embrace the day. Now its drought and fire.

WOKE UP THIS MORNING FOR REHEARSALS [28th June 1989, Glasgow]

Woke up this morning - window open wide.

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THE WANDERER

THE FIRST JO URNEY O F THE I was late and the Wanderer had gone: WANDERER Then I saw him standing on the bridge [Composed Aug 1989 - Nov 1990] Staring into the Kelvin water, which barely At the age of seventeen, the Wanderer leaves Trickled as it had been a scorching Scotland to discover the world and himself. He passes through seven European states, sleeping summer, where he can, learning what he will, before So hot in fact, it had been the hottest returning home to his own people. However, it is seventeen years later that the Wanderer finally Summer of the century; but there he was returns to his native city for good. He wishes to My childhood friend, just now returned re-establish contact with his former childhood From seventeen years of wandering friend and arranges to meet him in a bistro in the most bohemian part of the city. What follows is perpetually. the story of the first and shortest of his journeys which is related to us by his boyhood friend (The Narrator). At first I thought it was not him - I looked away but soon turned about to SCOTLAND see That he had noticed me standing there NARR: It was summer and the sun was Thin and greying from a life half-lived; going down: And he - elbows perched upon the Northward, the multi-storey windows parapet, glared Hands cupped beneath his chin, his eyes Above the chimneys; but to the west A piercing mystery of a thousand tales Beyond the Clyde at ebb, the evening sky That I would never get to hear - Reflected by the waters round He stepped forward and took my hand Strathclyde's isles, And pulled me to his bosom in a Glowed red and created shadows eastwards movement To shade Glasgow from the august day. That made me put my arms around him.

I met the Wanderer by the riverside He made me feel that we had never parted Beneath the Kelvin Bridge, close by the All those years ago when we were subway seventeen Where friends and folks from different And fresh from school. walks Of life relax by the breaking Kelvin We were friends again: in a Glasgow vale, waters At a table, we relived our schoolboy days And talk their troubles out over drinks Of how we two had faced the world In a bistro-cafe well-known to beggars Of childhood and never lost a fight, Who block the pathway to the cafe Nor failed a test; how we had spent entrance Our time together playing games, chasing And ply their trade, take their chances girls With the intellectuals and the artists the names of which we could still recall, Who patronise the bistro out of habit. One of whom, I had engaged, and who As my lover had given me one child.

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The Wanderer smiled, and said he envied I gave him my card and made him Me my happy home and family bliss, promise And when I protested that it was not so, That he would come and visit me soon. He cut me short and began a tale Meant to make me cherish all I had. But I would not let him start his cant The hottest summer of the century Until I had laid my troubles out before passed, him - Autumn came as autumn always does - How city living was a mental drain, The leaves lingered high until December How family life was dull and boring, When the grey of winter finally closes in. How children ate into a father's soul, Cheered by the lights of Christmas, How a job for life made life a job - New Year came, and a new decade too, But my friend laughed and called me And with it floods and gales so severe A happy man searching for unhappy joy, That thousands were cut-off, marooned; And as I disagreed, he began his tale Vast tracts of land joined the ocean. But I stopped him short with my all. It was on the eve of Saint Valentine's "While you were traipsing the world, With a howling storm ripping at the eaves I was bettering myself the best I could." That there was a soft knock at my door.

WAND: "Do not feel threatened, It was the Wanderer! travelling is not a life to envy. If I were to live my youth again Without hesitation he entered my home I would not take the road to freedom - But did not speak until tea was served. For freedom is an ideal manufactured By individuals shackled by their WAND: "People blame others for the upbringing." depletion Of the Amazon and the ozone layer. NARR: These words passed on top of Why? mine, And why do people pay this evil Tax?" and I recalled the faces of his parents - He banged his fist on my coffee table. His patient, warm and endearing mother And the father who adopted him as son. "Like rats cowering in holes! For it was common knowledge as boys Like rabbits in fear of a fox! That he did not know who his father was, Educated to live like cowards And thus half of him was a mystery - frightened to face the hunter's dogs! Half of him was secret and unknown. Fear makes people cunning and devious, And now my interruption had silenced They cannot face losing what they have, him, Nothing makes them relinquish He rose and said that he must go - possessions I pressed him for his address, Though they arrive with nothing in the But he stated that he had no home. world They shackle themselves to wealth."

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NARR: The wanderer looked me in the Beauty flawed by my existence; eye My craving for each moment different, Then cast his eyes about my house My need for every second quickened. I thought I lived a modest life. We all have wealth shut within us, WAND:"You have enormous wealth - Locked within us, trapped within us. Wealth of education and a solid house, I have tried six years by six In my travels I have been in palaces, To steer a painless course through life, But most of the world lives in huts But I have suffered more for this And shacks or homes less grand than this Than those who tightly close their eyes - To all out there - the pitch-black void In wealth you are a fortunate man. Where lurks the total of our past."

Once I saw a holy man in India NARR: I could not comprehend his drift, Beneath a date palm in the shade, He seemed to contradict himself - Cross-leg seated in the dust, bowl in front, But something in his traveller's words Eyes fixed on the great above - Made me see all there was - A crust of bread, dal or rice, Some fruit or nuts - a little cake, Killer whales snatching seals Students flocked to him with food Off the sands of Patagonia; But none could make him part his lips. Squibs bashed on the rocks Of Mykanos and Kos; Every dawn - the crowds collected Turtles netted and deshelled And swarmed about until night fell, On the Pondicherry coast; They slept by him or talked til dawn, They would not leave him on his own, These were the kind of scenes They asked him questions, begged replies I thought I'd hear unfold To things that any man could answer, As I listened to the tale They pleaded, but were met by silence Of his first sojourn abroad. Or cruelly jeered by the attendant throng. WAND: I first left these British Isles, Too often violence riddles heaven when I was seventeen, naive and innocent And breaks the brittle bones of children; our shores were all I knew; Too often pleasure eats the perfect our mountains were all that I had climbed; And pain feasts on the discarded; Too often destitution steals Our people white-skinned and Lalloned And richness robs all happiness. was the world of a boy taught to know that out there lay an empire once so vast I too wished to ask that holy man that one third the globe was British. Many things - find great truths, But I could not ask those things aloud: Those days were gone, and none knew where Britain stood in the minds I was filled with my own lies - of Sikhs or Kenyans or any nation freed Lies that shut me out from beauty, at last from colonial rule.

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The memory of the Third Reich years Such is the life of travellers: was still imprinted on a new built Europe twenty six years after Berlin fell We ate our bread and cheese for tea and the Allies split - East and West. then shuffled into a crowded bar where drinks were too costly to get drunk. ENGLAND In sober hunger we returned to the station I began to journey south - and in possession of our belongings, Through England I travelled by thumb we cooked sausages on a beach fire to leave Dover on the midnight tide and spent the night on the Channel sand. like Harry Four on his way to Agincourt. Passing through this Belgian world, BELGIUM I knew nothing of Flemish customs beyond that which I had read in books - I first set foot on foreign soil books weighed with facts and dates about four o'clock one morning late July. the creation of Belgium as a buffer state I slept with young folk like myself to protect the French against bully beneath an up-turned boat on the shingle. Germany.

Daylight came too soon from behind the History repeats itself despite the will town of men bent to make sure it does not. beyond which lay continental Europe Life turns full circle within a lifetime stretching eastwards to the Orient. though men believe they travel a straight line. In that Belgian channel port, I knew nothing of the world beyond. Now the Berlin Wall is down - new fears I left my pack in a luggage kiosk spread in France that Germany will rise. and went walkabout in Ostend. Europe, close to being one, shrinks from With my friends we hired bikes, unity - but a puncture cut short our time the ideal of a community with no on the cobbled alleys of the town. frontiers dies.

We spent our afternoon on the When I was seventeen, no date seemed promenade fixed for the end of European fellowship. drinking coke, baring chests Ours was a continent of young to the scorching sun of summer. ambassadors, a post-war generation free of death and I tried chatting up a local girl - hatred. she was tall and dark and pretty, she spoke in stilted French to me I vowed I would join no army, until her boyfriend appeared on the sand nor take a rifle in my hands - and broke our friendship in its infancy. I was a new breed of man.

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I was not alone - all across western Europe Overthrow of empire was everywhere, the youth were on the road, there was no-where left to plunder, hitchhiking to discover our new world. no-one to exploit except ourselves.

The hills of Scotland came under the A shower woke us from our slumbers. plough, Full of hope and belief in human nature swathes of moorland given to the tree, we tried to hitch lifts from cars I endorsed the arrival of forestation, driving off the channel ferry in from regretted the loss of scenery - Dover. barren waste and bog, aesthetic beauty.

Two ferries - no success, There are those who might have left we took a train to Brussels, our country naked for deer and grouse, on arrival at the Gare D'Nord, blood splattered gumshoes - we found a nearby hostel. wiped upon our Scottish soil.

We went in search of the Pissing Boy; We Europeans - a sky covers us, we made our jokes well heard to others the same sun lights us in turn. then took ourselves to a cafe for drinks. The same rains make our blood. What is race? We are one. We ran out of time - the hostel barred the door at eleven, LUXEMBO URG we forsook the demon alcohol for bed. I hitchhiked on to Luxembourg, Next day I passed on through to Flanders, through battlefields of past misery, and I should remember more than I do ... through landscape once battered by At Bastia - I rested by a rusting relic, artillery. a Sherman tank cemented by the roadside Quiet now, the summer fields lay left by Patton of the Bulge. stretching peacefully on to Alsace.

How could I forget the movies, Past a grove of trees, the Duchy's the comics that depicted war, frontier: the tragedy of dying in a foreign land, A pleasant country caught like a pea sermons preached to the young. in a mattress shared by Germany and France; Show me the man who has no enemies, I'll show you that man has no friends. Enchanted by fairy castles and bridges I spent two days wandering the City, I was educated - had no enemies - I shared a dormitory with two Quebecois, except for the Russians and the Pact; spoke with some citizens of the world. I was warned about the yellow peril. But Marxist life remained intact, Kenya? India? Brazil? or Alaska? Clydeside lived on strikes and sit-ins. What dreams had I - a boy from Glasgow?

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In Luxembourg I drew breath - Outcast - but reborn I sat out in the hot August night like the circle of life listening to the homesick talk of going on and on. strangers. Californian Bob was the first of many Captured by the white tales of trekkers, I met from the new Atlantis - journeyers fresh from Greece and Italy, a state where dreams come true drifters up from Spain and Portugal. like some Disney tale of fancy - living legends and self-made fortunes. New codes of conduct for the young - part imported from the new world: And I lily-white from my parents care, anti-violence, anti-foreign wars, fresh from a council house in abhorrence for hunger in Bengal. Pollokshaws, I swore I would reach the furthest shores There had to be more to life, or die within along the way. there had to be more than death, there had to be something to it all? Time grants the wish of those determined, fate takes those whose time is wasted. Such questions never leave the lips of those born to see the world - My future was already charted - youth rushes at us all ablaze I was to be - a civil engineer. before old age snuffs the flame. I had the choice of two universities. Which one? I was still undecided. The answer is plain, the answer is always the same, I had no idea of the great cosmic whole, the answer comes with the pain I was traipsing where will had no by asking the question again. authority, I was journeying where I was welcome A travel-weary Californian, and arriving where I had - no home. too old to make the draft for Nam, had lived the beatnik life in San Francisco At seventeen I had no awareness, on the Golden Park side of town. I had no notion of my own self, I had no concept of inner forces, Haight had flowered into hippy love my mind was set on the here and now. when a singer gifted weeds into a crowd. GERMANY Drugs became an aspirin to violence, love became the solution to war. When I crossed into Germany, I cannot tell you what I felt, A composer became more popular than a cloudburst sent me scurrying Christ, beneath a railway bridge for shelter. and a President more hated than the Devil who had butchered a Hollywood star. I hitchhiked eight kilometres,

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walked seven to the outskirts of Trier, He was going on to visit Prague, nightfall dropped like a curtain, just a thousand days since Dubceck I kipped down on a railway embankment. had been toppled by the tanks.

In the morning I awoke blackened, Revolution fights regression, I had bedded down on burnt grass. independence fights oppression. I looked into my pocket mirror - I was black. A child pointed. In Nuremburg's rebuilt square destroyed in nineteen forty-five, I was too filthy to hitchhike, we watched the figured clock strike I entered Trier looking like a tramp. twelve, then slept within the castle walls I was young! and rose with the dawn. A night on the road beneath the stars, a night in a bag on burnt grass, I headed south and outside town a night outdoors like a bum. I met a blonde-haired Berlin girl, We hitched together, got a lift - Eight to one, I exchanged marks for then another - we spent the journey pounds, eyeing up each other. booked into a hostel for a scrub - wanderers must take refuge where they An English lecturer from Reading Uni' can took us to the fringe of Munchen. or sink to being hobos short of luck. He was on his long summer break making the best of his substandard pay. For the now - I was in ancient Trier, He was on his way to Salzburg and Vienna. a Roman town with splendid baths and fountains. We hitched into the city centre, All gone to ruin, modern Germany we parted with a kiss, stood brash and imposing on the past. since then I've met Berlin girls around the world canning fish, I looked for signs of history - playing chess, or being chaste no spirits spoke, no voices whispered while chased by unchaste pricks. as the Moselle rushed to join the Rhine. Kim in the Alaskan wild, Bavaria Ula on a Carib isle, Bettina in sweet paradise - Next day I set off for Munich, What I've come to miss! three hundred miles at the whim of drivers, Faded images of imperial Munich, left me stranded in the heart of cobbled streets, parks and tramcars, Nuremburg. a touch of coldness in the air brought on by Scottish gibbering's. I dined out that night with a Dane who spoke of home life in Copenhagen. I found the hostel fully booked.

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With Dublin bouys, Pat and Ger spending all my change on ice-cream. and Joel, a Californian guy - Breakfastless, I hitchhiked to Austria. I went to eat, then returned to sleep in the public park. I saw no point changing sterling into Deutsche marks just for breakfast. At midnight the cops came by I swapped addresses with my pals, said - we may sleep upright and set-out for the Salzburg road. but lying down broke the law. An hour's walk took me to the autobahn; We climbed a metal fence I joined the hitchers on the ramp. into a small sports ground, The traffic was ferocious, in no time and dozed beneath some limes. I was halfway to the Austrian border.

In the morning we awoke Then it started - three hours passed, a herr with a shepherd dog a short lift of a few kilometres - silhouetted over us. three hours more, and another ride dropped me on a deserted slip-road. We explained our restless night, the janny let us use the showers Darkness descended, hunger gnawed, in the school sports house. Salzburg was a distant dream.

I took my stove from my pack With my friends I spent the day to heat some soup in a pan; in and out the Munich stores, I stuck a match - we made a meal of rolls and cheese, then ran to the hostel grounds A car pulled up, a door opened, to escape a heavy downpour. a long-haired youth got out to take me to his house. Later, hot dogs and bier, we squeezed into a photo-booth: I have a photo of us four - Eric was the local doctor's son. all hairy heads and beards. Life in a tiny village in Bavaria, not a stone's throw from Bertersgarden, That night it was too wet to kip was dull and boring much of the time. out on the sports ground grass. We slept beneath a building arch He was soon to do his army service, on a slab of marble. he did not relish the cropping of his hair, he saw no need for a German army, Stiff - we awoke, played in the park, he was against all things military. shared our yogurt and our choc-o-milk. I spent all my marks on ice-cream. Another night on marble followed. The house stood back from the road, there Eric had watched me wait In the morning, I regretted an hour in which three cars had passed.

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I had eaten nowt all day, miserable with love in the Bali hills, I was weaker than a mouse, ill and trapped in a Lucknow hotel, I would've ate horse that night swept out to sea in a Brazilian ketch, if he had set it out. under arrest in Panama city, alone and afraid in a Kurdish village. Out came the rye breads and bratwurst, the salami's and an assortment of cheeses What use has such travel been to me? - Where is my wealth? Show me my riches. I eat a donkey-full and brayed contently. Memories do not make a man secure. Stories do not shut out the cold. "My father is still marked by the war, scarred by Stalingrad and Warsaw, Twenty years on - I am a loner he feels the hands of six million Jews, living in the damp of a Glasgow basement. resting on the shoulders of his generation. I am here, but my mind is on - the waters of the Victoria Falls. Now, there is an ashamed silence there is a numbness - a self-humiliation My eyes are on the Taj Mahal, that makes me believe we should forget my heart is in a dozen countries, and forgive the crimes of the past. I am spread across the globe.

Germany went to war - and lost; This is the price I have paid: East and West and Berlin walled. experience feeds on variation, Never again will the Reichstag rule variation has ruined contentment, the West and East as one." ambition steals every second -

I spent the night on the surgery couch There is always one country more; Dachau and Auschwitz on my mind - one more sight left unvisited, I was clear about right and wrong, one more temple to explore, bible class lessons and the Boys Brigade one more beach to stroll. had made me a righteous snob - My eyes are bigger than my mind - I was as Presbyterian as they come; I would borrow ten pee and pay it back, the cupola on a minaret; I was an irritating sod. the turret on some ancient fort, the arch into a black bazaar, In the morning Eric gave me breakfast, the inscription on a soldier's grave drove me back to the Autobahn. "Here fell a man no-one knows, He gave me some Austrian schillings, May God safeguard his faithless soul." to buy a coffee on the other side. In a dark Glasgow bedsit, How many people have helped me since? February's light, short and fading, Stuck in the Saharan waste and dying, the blue skies of mountain Spain, tired and lonely on the Baha coast, the green canopy of Siam's bays, broke and hungry in the Transvaal, the red hue of Sudan's plains -

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it was cold - the mountain air; I am home to stay. the ground was dirty, damp, and hard as I lay my head on Alpine stone. The season's pull my heart apart, I want to up, leave, depart - I rose at six hunger-pinched, throw off the chains of urban life, I marched into the sleeping town trade in my all for cash - and run twee with schloss and austro-kitsch, to haunts where happiness exists, I waited for the banks to open. return - to life in paradise. I changed ten pounds into schillings, Who does not crave for perfect days? I bought some yogurt, bread and cheese Who does not dream of sand and waves? and hitchhiked on up the Pass - Who does not wish their life away? Gross Glockner at eight thousand feet, Here now - I stay to quietly rot mist about it's sheeted peaks in my Glasgow hobbit hole, five thousand feet over me. I struggle on to find my place in the cosmic whole - I felt small 'neath nature's wild rugged edge revealed that day - Despair creeps-up on me at times my mind expanded with each view, and lingers as a festering sore. my heart pounded on each curve that left me gaping at abyss. Spring rushes, summer fades till autumn golds wash the earth, There was no earth as we turned there they melt into the soil and wound our way down the pass, or cover the grey clay walkways a mile beneath us - pasture land, between the rows of graves. while in the distance, mountains rose not as high as those we'd crossed Not so when I was seventeen! but breathless still - to one so young! The snow capped Alpine peaks traversed the length of my horizons. A family bought me lunch at Dollach, Over those mountains lay fresh prizes. and let me out at quaint Lienz. I found shelter for the night I had the faith to chance my luck in Gastof Neuwirt - with outside loo in search of love and fortune. and washroom in the yard.

I knew nothing of transience, I settled in, washed off the grime I believed - youth and exuberance of travelling three days with a pack, would carry me to greatness! I toured the town as tourists do and listened to the town's brass band. AUSTRIA It had been a pleasant day - That night I slept in Zell-am-See I slept between linen sheets beneath the span of a roadway arch: beneath an eiderdown.

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I awoke to a deluge of mountain rain. I had no shade from the mid-day sun, I made a cup of tea on my stove, the mountain air was thin, but warm. and I thought of the road before me. My dark Celtic skin, once pale - now The downpour stopped, I set off south burnt, I opted for Venice as my goal - my hazel eyes more green than brown, I had counted my cash and concluded my auburn hair part streaked blonde, that Venice, that ancient merchant city my body changing each hour abroad, was to be the turn-round of my sojourn. my mind absorbing all it saw.

Who can say if I chose wisely, On that hot Ampezzo road! tradition has the grand tour end in Rome, What cared I for future life? but I was not versed in culture then I had the there and now or the ways of Oxbridge men - high upon the Dolomites!

I am still not acquainted with the latter, I pushed my thumb out at cars, they're not acquainted with me either. none would slow, none would stop; an hour more passed me by, A German family - their son hitchhiking then - to my shock - a biker! in Denmark - took me short of Sillian. a Dutchman on a Bayern bike - I walked three miles, reached the village where an old man took me to the hostel. "Where you go?" "Venice" I said. I clambered on the back - We waited patiently until it opened, and we set off south! myself, an Italian cyclist, an Irish couple with another - an Austrian from Vienna. A hundred miles downhill we raced, cliffs and curves and devil bends, The cyclist's shorts were brown a hot-rod ride towards the sea, but such details do not matter now; six hundred cc's taking us through village towns like Langarone ITALY and Ponte Nolle Alpi, Vittorio; on highway fifty-one we sped Friday morning - thirteenth of August - to join route thirteen near its end. I walked two miles to the Italian border, and two rides later I was in - Cortina. I was dropped eight miles from Venice, seat-sore, stiff and weather beaten. Perched high in the Dolomite mountains; I hitched a lift into the city ringed by rugged arete-edged peaks; along the Ponte del Liberta. summer's snows melting in the heat - alpine blossom blooming on scree. Venice

I waited by the roadside A vaporino from Piazza Roma, longing to be by the Adriatic sea. took me down the Grand Canal - Two hours of Italy passed me by, some say - the world's finest street.

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We passed beneath Sealzi bridge I saw too many things to tell by the ancient church of St .Jerome as the midday heat did me in. wherein the relics of St .Lucia lay. Ninety three degrees, give or take, Then a palace gazed my thoughts, I retired to the hostel shade my eyes fixed on its balconies - to watch young Venetian boys the port where Richard Wagner died. retrieve coke bottles from the canal.

Beyond the fifteenth century Ca d'oro, Five liras for every bottle cashed, the smell of fish caught my breath. the water was polluted with oil; It was the Pescheria! foul smelling and algae green, they dived head-first into the deep; I disembarked at the Rialto Bridge, found a hostel, booked in for two nights. Cheerful loud-mouthed dark-skinned Some potash des legumes did for supper, youths banana ice-cream as a sweet - performing for the likes of me. I was tucked away in bed by ten, I saw these young Venetian boys no lover in a gondola as in dreams. without the eyes of Thomas Mann.

Is there something wrong with me that I experienced so little at that time? Lost in my self-made world Is there something missing in the man I planned my route for the morrow - not living life while he can? Up the Po valley to Milan, What was I searching for in Venice, then back into the high Italian Alps. naive and young and seventeen? Short of company, and tired, I did not find it, or for sure I took another early night, I would recall what it was. my mind upon the day just gone Perhaps you do not see importance and not upon the years ahead. in noting that I ate ice-cream. For had I fixed upon a big house, Next day I marched to St.Mark's Square, a house so grand I filled twelve rooms - cheese and bread by the Procuratie, I would not now have wandered, no, I was impressed by the Basilica, not spent my youth in exile. it was an architectural jewel. I know better now - a wiser man, I still see the panelled doors, maturer in my thoughts, my looks, the hush of the baroque interior, these give hint of all I've done. a rival to the grandeur of St .Sophia I was to visit one year later Now I've come to some dead end barefoot and broke in Istanbul. where my spirit climbs a wall in order to be free of what? Let not the mutterings of a wanderer reduce Venice to a nothingness, Caged I cannot live out life,

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behave as though I'm civilised, when danger presses in on me. I cannot smile nor greet my friends nor live with purpose or with point - I heard no pipes on Como's side, I left my bench, went into town Four billion years of history - and booked into the hostel there. I am just thirty six. I've not seen nor felt a thing Drowsy from lack of sleep, and heat worth passing on to anyone. I found a spot beneath a tree and slept a couple of hours. All you'll hear from me will find its place in the wind I tried to rise, but with no strength and pass round and round no end I lay until late afternoon with no start to it. wrestling with some sort of pain.

My time in Venice is small worth, In my gut was diarrhoea, my journey fruitless to the hungry, I stole some public-loo sheet paper, I cannot say I enjoyed burnt hours in case an accident ensued. hitching west on the Pisto Quatro - By nightfall, I was normal, Como I shared a pizza with Johnny, a youth from outer London. Happily I said goodbye to Padova, the slip roads of Vicenza and Verona. Next day I washed all my clothes, Night descended as I flew past my jeans, my four tee-shirts. Brescia, Bergamo and then Milano. and dried them in the sun. About two a.m., I found lodgings on a park bench in Como. I had my lunch in a park, sunbathed, then ambled back This is the life of the traveller, to talk with Pete from Coventy. this is the way of the wanderer, weary miles across vaste lands Jean, Jenny and Israeli Ehud, to sleep wherever time allows. more like names than faces now, they became new friends. I awoke to the still blue waters of a resort the rich possess - This is how time's a swine, the beauty of the lake - spectacular it leaves you nothing worth a dime. after the hot dusty plain. SWITZERLAND The mountain air revived me greatly, I felt at home in the mountains - Next morning Ehud hitched with me, we planned to travel to Luzern, Dear is the Highland blood in me but who can plan anything passed down the generations, when you're at some driver's whim. I hear the skirling of the pipes

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We found ourselves on foot for hours needless deaths to aliquot. dwarfed beneath towering mountains, In time - shrines will rise at last a ride took us on, to glorify those who died. but left us short of Lugano. I will not justify aggression, Late afternoon, hot and tired, I will not back imperialism, Ehud took a train to Luzern, I will not put my voice to war I could not afford the fare, or call for retribution. so I hitchhiked on alone again - It is no joy to fry in the sun, Six hours I waited, walked, and passed he who waits blisters and burns. trying to circumvent Lugano, til at last I reached the town A ride at last! south of Lichtenstein; and met Graham 'Hockey' Henderson, three lifts more left me near Zurich. the ex- vice captain of the Academy I spent the night in Rapperswil, that I had left that summer. between bug-free hostel sheets.

Accompanied by his girlfriend, Bern a girl who'd been forms above me! we chatted for half an hour or so, I was in Zurich for breakfast, then they went south towards Milan, then in Bern, just in time for lunch. heading for the artefacts of Florence and the great monuments of Rome. I studied zoology at the Bear Pit, studied history in the national museum - I was mere pleb to such a hero - Hockey Henderson four years my senior, I re-met Robert, an Australian he had seen half of Europe's treasures, who'd been in Rapperswil the night before. all I'd seen - two thousand miles of road! If there was be some justice I befriended Christian and Liz, then "God" I prayed "Let me see more." and Jimmy, a boy from Bishopbriggs,

That night I slept on a wooden bench I visited an exhibition on pollution in the waiting room of Lugano station. 'Uberleben': I left somewhat touched. I was comfortable, considering - Survival, I was into that - depicted An early start saw me outside Bellinzona, as the dove of peace Picasso drew. but four hours followed in blazing sun. It all seems so innocent now That night I felt alive, aware; when we are faced with war - I walked the streets of Bern glad some folks were trying to 'Save the a half million Christian men World', against a million Musselmen. I knew not how they would succeed but I endorsed the whole ideal. Stupid pride will bring about

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And now? I am a trash of past, Respect and fear, hand in hand I consume and waste and junk, kept the two of us apart, I contribute to the filth yet we both knew, felt desire that floats or sinks to slime existence. tug at us, but we were strong. Who is God? Where is he now?

Lausanne We walked to the railway station; enraptured by her sunshine voice I left Bern for Neuchatel, I gazed into her deep blue eyes quaint and old and not so new. concealed behind her straw blonde hair On I went - to Lausanne flowing down her woman's back where Eliot wrote his Wasteland - where it was tied by a clasp where Spender penned his first lines used to the La Jolla sands on the shore of Lac Leman - and the courts of Kellogg Park.

Placid in the summer haze; She was not from Chula Vista, south, rose Mount Blanc. La Mesa, or El Cajon -

I pre-ambled in the hostel garden, I knew not then what I know now and spoke to a pretty girl, of girls from such foreign lands. at first I thought she was Swiss, Abe Lincoln! You may rest - but she was from San Diego. your girls are amongst the best!

Yet, we were young and knew not Late, we wandered slowly back how to bridge the wide divide - to the hostel by the lake - I, from my land of rain; all the while we talked and talked she from a sunshine State. and still we did not touch.

Our bodies were athletic, yes. We said goodnight, and as we went She was twenty one - we shook each other's hand. I kept quiet about my age. Romance? I hardly think so now, In the fall of evening cool, who knows, it might have worked we shared our yogurt, cheese and rolls, if I had been some Don Juan we gazed into the lake land depths or some modern William Tell. and coyly flirted - innocence! I was just a Glasgow boy - Youth flushed our faces, in a blaze that doesn't ring so well. we rushed into a quick embrace of minds; our bodies never touched, Wrapped in folds of eiderdown my finger tips never brushed I woke to heavy Sunday rain; nor touched a hair of hers mingled thoughts of getting drenched, though we were made for love. thoughts of San Diego Teri.

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I lay in bed made my plan Cold and damp we returned to stay another day. to the hostel hand in hand - No! we kept ourselves apart, We walked to a boulangerie, desire gnawed at our hearts. rolls, tomatoes, broke our fast, bananas as an after course, By then in fact, we had no hope we squatted on the harbour wall; of being more than friends.

Out of wind, out of rain. Two hours sitting by the lake, We played I-Spy, observed the lake. our dreams had not matched, Teri was a language student We put English names to things. with plans to teach high-school kids; Far away - snow covered peaks - Mount Blanc hidden in a mist; I hoped to be an engineer I know we should have kissed. to live and work in foreign lands.

Side by side we espied all Our worlds were - poles apart - except the souls within ourselves; I cooked some soup, gave her some, Greek and Latin poets speak then spent the afternoon in bed; of the myths we make from dreams; alone, and tired, and worn

Delusion feeds alternate worlds From travelling Europe like a bum, that no-one knows for long. my home upon my back -

So too - as I re-live Years of wandering were to come and tell you of my young life, though I was not aware of that, the truth will out despite desire when I awoke, I was fed to make it more than it was. by a little bloke from Brum.

On the shore of Lac Leman Macaroni cheese for tea! I had no interest for the Swiss, I'd never had such food before; all my thoughts were centred on the girl I was with - I was a simple Scottish boy brought up on beans an' toast; All the wishing in the world lunches of soup and pudding, cannot change this little truth. evening meals of pies and spuds.

So let me take you back again to the wind and rain that day - See, I was born in fifty-four, I was glad that I had found reared three miles from the Clyde a girl to share the break; in a Southside council house.

Far too much sun without some love At seven - too big for the sink, cannot make the difference up. I went every Friday with my dad

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to the public baths. my face turned beetroot red.

At eleven, we were re-housed Like a ton of church roof lead, when they pulled down old Pollokshaws; Gillespie pinned me to the earth. we got a toilet and a bath. Twelve years old and I had lost my first fight since I'd punched I was angry - my childhood Gibson's nose and made it bleed was erased by bulldozing men when I was seven years old. who then put up high-rise flats. I had never lost before, They filled them with families ten years of scraps, kicks and bites decanted from poor Govanhill, since my first success at two the Gorbals and Kinning Park. when cousin Hughie caught my blow and cried because I got to ride I was a native of the Shaws - on his sister's three-wheeled bike. and baited by new inner-city indians, wars erupted, battles were fought. Cousin Marjorie says I was an awful child, until my battle with G-Eye Gillespie; It brought me many victories there I was - bruised and hurt before I sustained defeat and in a heap against a wall, at the hands of Glass-Eye Gillespie! jibed and jeered to go on home to let my mammy hear my cries. What a name! Even now I shake when I recall his steel toe-caps, Such things flood back on their own, his shoddy tweeds and freckled face. and in Lausanne as I drank tea, the pain of defeat shadowed me, Ginger hair - like Irn Bru, for I had had a violent youth; his one good eye fixed on me now I wished to turn my back as he aimed his hob-nailed boot on acts that made men beasts. towards my sweet angelic face. There was more to life I sensed Innocence itself - a Shaws boy than the confrontations found standing up to all he could daily in the Glasgow that I knew. in the name of good! I walked to a patisserie - Where were my pals on that day and bought a bag of broken sweets, outside wee Pollok Annexe school; nabisco biscuits, dry and crumbly - Hamilton, Houston, Mackay and how I craved for real shortcake. Kennedy, cowering like wee timid beasties! Then thoughts of Teri came to me, I returned to search for her, Not a word to spur me on to kiss her while the night was young, Glass-Eye grabbed me by the throat, but it was not to be - I fought to catch my breath,

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The warden sent us all to bed, I ambled on the cobbled streets. I fumed and cursed at hostel life, it was only ten o'clock, The old town spoke to me - who could call that fun. history mingled with the now, this part of Switzerland I liked! So love was ruined - next day we parted, Teri Sher of San Diego - (sob!) I forgot all the miles, She is just a memory now, the nights sleeping in the wild, a name on a diary page the days burning on the road;

There is a note - Fell in love! I enjoyed some pleasant hours, Left unkissed! End of tale. not a traveller anymore but a tourist on his rounds Geneva strolling as a happy person might.

Through Narges, Rolle, Nyon, Even then the past was catching up; I thought of love - it of me; I ran into Shaun I'd met in Bern, I hitchhiked past Fournex, Versoix, he was looking to kip for the night. by midday I reached Geneve; I lead him to the hippy place the city where John Knox heard now candle-lit and Indian incense. the truth and gained the light Half the road seemed bedded down; with Calvin and the Lutherites. We found ourselves bagging by I found the hostel closed, three blokes from Glasgow - knocking back the vino tinto. but a helpful passer-by informed me of a place near there Oh well, such is the wandering life where drop-outs had encamped to sip wine with one's compatriots while dossing in a foreign country. in a hospital no longer staffed. Off I tramped to dump my pack FRANCE in this novel makeshift place, I rose with the dawn - in blazing sun and there I made my peace I hitched to the French frontier; with some cool cosmic freaks – on to Gex, and then - mistake! and secured a space on the floor. I crossed the high Faucille Pass in a fast car with a rally driver. I went outside to lie about and sleep upon the garden wall He put his foot to the floor, in sight of the Jet d'Eau - and deafened by the whining engine we crossed the Jura Mountains - That night I ate a heavy meal even now I still shudder and think promenaded by the lake, of how we might have come a cropper.

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Alive and shaken at La Cure, No trees grow on the hills of Verdun, I thumbed a sedate ride to St .Laurent, white crosses grow with each new sun. on to Champagnole, then ill-luck, Lest we forget those white crosses, a woman took me to Arbois buy poppies to paint the white crosses and left me stuck outside a farm. that criss-cross the hills of Verdun.

Between Mouchard and Besancon Sombre, I walked far beyond the town This was France - cow dung and straw, shadowed by the Great War dead; rural life - pigs and chickens. I loved the sense of openness, A lorry stopped, and in six hours despite being stranded by a dung heap - we chugged into the outskirts of Paris. A few hours rest, the driver in his cab, Three hours later a farmer stopped I kipped in the back with the cargo. and took me into Besancon, and there I spent another night We drove on to Rouen - where dropped underneath the summer stars, I slept under the porch of a restaurant off the road, in a field – avoiding the fierceness of the rain; fuelled by a storm in from the Atlantic. I slept beneath the sky. Daylight came and on to Abbeville. During the night a heavy dew My luck held out as I took a ride settled on yon poor hobo, with a lecturer from Croyden Tech he awoke wet and hungry who took me to Bologne and Dover. as factory workers filled passed along a lane some yards away. ENGLAND

Faces peered over the hedge. Up to London, and deposited at Brixton Red-faced I gathered up my things I caught the tube across town to Hendon and scrambled back on to the road; where the M1 once began, and where I could hitch-hike back to Scotland. I hitched through Marnay to Gray, took buttered bread for nourishment, I'd visited seven states in Europe. then thumbed on north to Champlitte. It was only the start of my travelling, I'd had a taste of the life My luck broke - mid-afternoon - that was to make me a wanderer." a ride with a girl from Geneva; she left me off in Verdun - SCOTLAND

Who has not been to that town and not NARR: The Wanderer stared into his had white crosses etched in their mind. empty glass. Criss-crossed with neat white crosses, I looked to the clock - it had unwound, everywhere one looks - white crosses, We knew not the time, nor what day white crosses to the ends of the earth. Or if it were night - Or if time had halted or sped on -

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We had travelled through the seasons And it was now Guy Fawkes.

I could hear fireworks outside, Yet he had begun on St .Valentine's night.

And while I pondered how and why, He rose and said he must go. Go where? He would not say, I must assume to his hobbit home Or to his parents house, Three miles south of the Clyde.

He said goodbye, and off he went Into the crisp November night, I wondered if I would see him soon, I was not convinced he was home for good. I regretted that I had not been To the furthest corners of the globe;

There was wisdom in my friend's rebellion. I had to seek him out, make him stay So I might use his knowledge to advantage. For if Scotland was to be a nation again And independence taken in the lion's jaw - The wanderer was needed for the cause.

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IN THE SLUMS

MORNING ROWS A BOAT I’m not one to wave a stick [11.39pm, 9th October 1989, Ashley St, Proclaiming peace in our times - Glasgow] Never were the times so rife To split us with black magic. At ease my mind floats beyond To dream of things to come - Fragile is our grasp on life - There is no past to recall A movement here - then a flash! Or years of troubled words. Gone like sulphur in a fire Shot from volcanic vaults. Time soothes the turmoil's of youth, Emotion falls with the leaves - Still, our idle rulers sit Rain dowses any thoughts And watch the worlds collide. Of wishful drifting, free. No man can shape his own end Nor God forgive his crimes. Clouds carry off balloons of dreams, Sleep sends off bottled hope - SWIFT AND SHORT Darkness brings the rainbow out [10th December 1989, Glasgow] And morning rows a boat. At the centre of the universe ART IN PLACE O F REVO LUTIO N We find ourselves conditioned, [7pm, 11th November 1989, Glasgow] Ruled by inner forces And all that yet may be. Art drives the world crazy! We are pressured by great powers As world walls crumble - Weighing down on us - People throng through streets! Yet still we will ourselves Elsewhere freedom marches. To be above - and free. Democracy bungles, tumbles As taxes fuel the grumbling. At the end of our being here In our reconditioned slums, TOWARDS THE END O F There will be no reckoning DINOSAURS Of all that has passed. [11th November 1989, Glasgow] No time will be spared (To list the rights and wrongs), I wonder where time has gone - Our departure will be swift How much time was spent And the journey short. When reckless mankind marches on Towards the end of dinosaurs. SO THAT WAS CHRISTMAS DAY [25th December 1989, Glasgow] Active minds still the feet Of those bound to rule us all, So that was Christmas Day Eighty-Nine. A finger pointed like a wand - Twelve hours in bed. Presto - and the world jumps! Twelve out and about.

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No Christmas comes easy - Each is crammed with prior obligations, Everything I do is already old, Arrangements with family. Though everything to me is fresh; I measure the past with the now Escape from conviction is painful But the present has no length. When mothers weep for sons Not yet home. GETTING O N FO R THIRTY SIX [14th January 1990, Glasgow] I cannot be more hopeful than I am That Christmas staves off isolation I am numbered with the dead. Bourn all year. I exist, but I do not live. I am at one with the dead - Now almost over - the goodwill shared But I am also partly flesh. Will not last the week ahead. Bring on the New Year. Everything I do is already old Though everything is fresh. POETRY COMES EASY I measure the past with the present, [Midnight, 13th February 1990, Glasgow] the now I measure by the then.

When poetry comes easy to the lips, This is why I am with the dead, Words slip out that should not be heard; Here I am, but I am gone. Meaning takes a backseat to melody I am awake to nothing living. And sense rides uneasy on the metre. In sleep I cannot raise the dawn.

THE SECRET CUPBOARDS THE MIDNIGHT STORM [13th January 1990, Glasgow] [12.35am, 18th January 1990, Glasgow]

I try to unlock the secrets kept It rained until the cows came home concealed behind large bolted doors. and then it rained some more - I have a set of keys weighing me down The grey city met the sky ... and a thousand locks waiting to be opened so grey they merged as one. The lightning grazed the black rooftops - There are no markings on the key chain peels shook the walls ... there are no numbers on the locks - the January gales howled wild I have only luck and desperation on the midnight storm. before time rusts the unopened doors. A STUDENT OF LAMBRUSCO I AM NUMBERED AMO NG THE DEAD [27th January 1990, Glasgow] [14th January 1990, Glasgow] It all began as little sips I am numbered among the dead. to get his mind off exams, I exist but I do not exist. and would you know it, soon enough I am at one with the dead the exams passed he never sat. But I am also part of the living.

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And why? you ask. What transpired? greenhouse effect and ozone destruction - A student once so ardent minded? who can say if God exists What made the laddie leave his books or if this is man-made weather. in search of El Dorado? Tying down the attic windows, Was it chance? No, not at all, roofs rip off Barratt houses - it wasn't fate that brought him down. sixty-degrees to the blasts It was - it is fair to say - wild nights bring disaster. his love of vino blanco. Welcome to the howling Nineties. No woman could have brought him lower. Who'll survive - then who'll remember? No drug could have doped him more. He bade farewell to book utopia RACISM IN GLASGOW once he was on the blanco. [13th February 1990, Glasgow]

So heed! You wayward scholar types, Militants and Nationists clash at stick to books - and don't imbibe! St.George’s Cross, The student of Lambrusco drowned They rip the faces off the foe; in a vat of vino blanco. They smash the limbs and crush the skulls Of those opposed. AN UNOPENED BOOK OF MASTERS [27th January 1990, Glasgow] THE ST. VALENTINE'S TRAMP [1.23am, 14th February 1990, Ashley St, It fell open at Milton on about Glasgow] Shakespeare, a few pages on, Keats, Byron and Shelley Another day for lovers comes, weren't far away from Blake and I find myself alone ... Wordsworth Not on some craggy mountain peak and Robbie Burns chasing Highland Mary. but alone in my home - a rented room, an attic box Not all these names are names to a pleb, containing all I own. Perhaps they're like a stick to a donkey - Beaten too often open wounds fester, Dawn filters through the yellow blind, until a past master becomes a dead ass. I curse and turn to sleep ... not slumbering on a tropic beach THE HO WLING NINETIES I sleep on dirty sheets - [12pm, 5th February 1990, Glasgow] a bed in a Glasgow slum the wine inside of me. February - and the gales blow ships on to the shores of disaster. THE CIRCUS Storms rage on the warm winds [2am, 25th February 1990, Glasgow] howling up from Africa. Laugh comic, laugh, laugh, laugh. Floods and melting Arctic waters, Circus makes the world burlesque,

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Parody pokes the Satire’s ribs, eviction writ in his hand, Pantomime tickles laughter’s lips. repossession order number blah blah seven days since notice served. THE FLO W O F THE FLAME [12.36am, 28th February 1990, Glasgow] I'm not a man of broken finances, how could I be stern with him? I can't decide too much about life, the roof above my head remains where it will take me, when it will stop. even if ownership changes. I go along with the flow of the tide - to see the eddy out when its time. Not any more - no more rights, eviction - no appeal, no protection. I can't believe all that is happening, Property is number one today, I have the luck, the chance to be free - a sheriff doesn't argue. free like the fleeting moorland deer to run in the wild breeze. He came alone and left quietly warning me to make provision - Perhaps I can see the light in the tunnel, who can live through these times the candle that burns in the howling gale. without a revolution. I nurse the spark that ignites the fire that fuels some inner flame. WHO IS GEORGE [3.39am, 4th March 1990, Glasgow] AYE AGAINST THE PO LL TAX [1.28am, 1st March 1990, Glasgow] Pushed into a corner full of drunkards, backed against a wall by a mob - It comes to me in these days of business Speak up now - or be dead tomorrow! That we ride the road to revolution. Don't mess with me - George's a murderer. Pressure bears down on us! Who will snap first? Regret later? Who is George? Who is George? The cavern echoes 'Who is George?' Tighter the screw is turned and turned Until there is blood. George will kill you in an instant, I can't back off ... this is destiny. inside him sleeps a tired warrior - I must stand as counted. inside George Prometheus rages, his fire stolen by ignorant forces. With the sheep march the cattle, I must face my own conscience. But who is George? Who is George? My back is now against the wall Mock the ignorant so-and-so's. With the Bruce and Wallace. George has witnessed Armageddon! TODAY I FACED A SHERIFF'S He has killed - escaped oblivion! O FFICER George has faced a thousand horrors. [11.48pm, 1st March 1990, Glasgow] Let him be - condemn him not.

Today I faced a sheriff's officer Who is this George? Who is he?

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He must be guilty. What's he done? like the hand of death.

George has harmed none but himself, Sunshine always follows rain, his nature is to give not take; life is ordered night and day, alcohol blunts his wits - the downpour might be falling now, who is not a slave to something? but light will shine again.

But murder is not mere mistake! ELIZABETH It is crime - it is horror! [1.29am, 16th March 1990, Glasgow]

George is flawed - unto death Today I met Elizabeth - guilt's a noose around his neck - Young and free and seeking help, George has been the pawn of innocence, I could not shut my eyes to her - the weapon of the righteous living. And now we’re friends.

Who says George should be forgiven? GLASGOW GIRLS (song) Who can wash the sin of criminals? [March?1990, Glasgow]

George has paid for us all, East Coast girls are good with talk he has lost so you might gain. And Northern girls are slim and tall The soldier home from the wars - And Southern girls have got the lot So let him go - or die! But Glasgow girls are warm.

LOST SINCE CHILDHOOD Highland girls can do the fling [1.48am, 13th March 1990, Glasgow] And Geordie girls can dance and sing And London girls - they know it all Such fantasies come my way. But Glasgow girls are hot. I cannot turn or turn again. Home is found in every street ABLAZE THIS SPRING And gone just as quick. [12.41am, 30th March 1990, Glasgow] Lost since childhood days I cannot halt to think. The streets are ablaze this spring: Burnt out vans in alleys; LIGHT WILL SHINE AGAIN Mosques set on fire; [1.01am, 15th March 1990, Glasgow] Fascist arson and beatings.

Sometimes life runs away Here in Nineties Britain with all the things dear to us, Things are going wrong. in it's place it leaves a hole The wrong corner turned - that none but past can fill. I welcome police protection.

Most lament the race of time There are no innocents: that leaves them staring at themselves, Children doping up on stairways; but nothing quite gives a shove Alkies passed out on the pavement;

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Dossers begging spare change. Spring in a skylark's craze, Fossils in the softest shale, No-one here pays the pole tax: Crystals in exposed quartz, Barricades in tenements; Contentment in the still collect, Demonstrations every day; Peace down by the loch. Fascists on the black-hunt. THE O LD RUSTS ALL THE MO RE Blue is a dirty ideal: [1.18am, 8th April 1990, Glasgow] Masons with funny handshakes; Try finding honesty in men Time marches on like some Goliath When poverty's on the gain. Trampling on the smallest things. I am an ant in creation, I predict no happy end, I huddle in a hole. I foresee no coming utopia. Blow breeze, blow fresh air I take no interest in the future Before suffocation wins. When hell gapes before us. Down wind success gathers, APRIL FOOL’S HAS COME Fame clears away barriers. [1.45am, 1st April 1990, Glasgow] No girl comes to me from America, Nor any place I know. Narcissus in the window Rain washes nothing new - Peeking through the curtain The old rusts all the more. Resting in a water jug. April Fool’s has come! NO MORE WORDS Spring has sprung! [12.11am, 9th April 1990, Glasgow] Winter now is done! No more verses for posterity BALMAHA (LOCH LOMOND) No more verses for prosperity [1.43am, 2nd April 1990, Glasgow] No more lines for infidelities No more words from me. Wagtail at the water's edge, Driftwood dry upon the bank, ITS NOT WITHIN MY POWER (song) Tree-roots bare to the shore, [Glasgow Girls, 2.40am 18th April 1990] Garnets in the pebbled stone, Narcissus edging on the bay, If you think I can Wood-smoke in the gladed shade, Then think again, my friend Ancient rocks perched to drop, You must think I’m a fool, alright. Footpaths washed away in part. Can’t you forget all The talk that you’ve heard Ash, elder, bramble, gorse, And see me as more than just a man. Holly on the highest hilltop, Hawks hazed against the cloud, Its not within my power Gullies gashing through divides, To make you mine. Crags and cliffs everyplace,

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BARBERS SONG When you're alive no-one knows [Glasgow Girls, 3.07am, 18th April 1990] How many paintings you've done, How many copies you've made, I shoo the sun How many you've stored away. I shoo the stars and moon I yeah I do - Life treats me like I'm dirt, O yes, I surely do … I don't care - that to them! My heart smiles The world can be a pile of dung When I’m sure of her With flies as thick as ..... Sure that she’s fine, oh yeah For sure, fine Have you seen the starlings swarming For I’m sure of that girl of mine. above Jamaica Bridge in autumn? The pigeons flocking in George Square THE PUPPET MASTER like agents at an opening? [from Glasgow Girls, ? April 1990] THE ARTIST In the morning I've a booking [Glasgow Girls, ? April 1990, Glasgow] Then two more in the afternoon. I can see the children's faces Is this the price of one week's work, Lighting up the gloom of adults gone for less than half its cost? Briskly going to and fro There are those who rule the arts Trying to make a living - who think artists have no worth.

Up and down the Merchant City I'm not one to paint a cause, People rush as if on wheels, I see the universe as dots: While I - in my tethered booth Within each dot - a million more Move both hands and squeek, Specks of life elude my vision And cry, and laugh, and croak Til I'm blind - beyond myself To make ends meet. I cannot view a new horizon.

I move the world with my hands; It's then I turn to booze and fags From every continent they come And drown and burn my talent - To stand and watch in awe; For when the musics plays – My puppets bow - they applaud. I'm free of all that's bad and nasty. They throw their coins into my hat, I wave goodbye, and they are gone. THE BO BBY AND THE BUSKER [Glasgow Girls, ? April 1990, Glasgow] THE ARTIST’S AGENT [from Glasgow Girls, ? April 1990] I know it's not a crime to play a tune, And it’s certainly no offence to sing to To see him take his high percentage the moon - Makes me boil - I want to - Phah! And it's hardly illegal to stand in the Would I drink the wine of leeches? street, Suppose I would - when it suits me.

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But to ask for donations is not the law for 'Be done by a struggling artist', sure. Why do I cheapen myself like this? Know what I mean. Well, it's better than office work. 'Oi, special offer! Three pound only!' I'm a Glesca polis, I take pride in my job, There's hooligans and ruffins around Silly way to make a living. every block. I must be mad to consider it. There's drunks and drug abusers and those that give the eye, TAKE WHAT YOU CAN (song) I just nab them by arm - just like that! [Glasgow Girls, ? April 1989, Glasgow] Get my drift. If you're ever going to make it, I'm waiting for this lefty to stick out her Take what you can when it comes. cap, No-one's going to give you favours I've heard she did it up the street right If you can't give any in return. behind my back. I'll catch her at it one day, sure enough, You've got to be nice in a hard sort of Then we'll inform the Tax man, the way; Brew, and she'll be done. You've got to be firm, but polite. Know what I mean. Even if its' Come back another day' Take what you can when it's right, YOUR PICTURE DONE [Glasgow Girls, ? April 1990, Glasgow] For you'll never get to make it that way, So take what you can and run. People going up and down No-one's going to give you favours Round and round the town, If you can't give any in return. And all those faces going past. 'Heh, mister! Your picture done?' Any chance you get - take the whole thing, Everyday I come down here Snap it up, squeeze out the life. And sketch this and that, you know. Don't throw it away when it comes your Sometimes a tourist comes along way - 'Heh, darling - I do portraits!' Take what you can when it's right.

Faces pass by .. zip .. and zap, LET THEM BREAK IT DO WN The someone stops, I look the part, [1.18am, 8th May 1990, Glasgow] And just as they're about to ask, They run. 'Come on, come back!' Once more the bailiffs at the door like the curs of robbers. For sure I'll never make it pay - Is this life in the hands For sure most days it always rains. of tomorrow's doyens? This is all part of fame ... And being a struggling artist. No sense comes of homelessness - people die in the streets.

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Around the world resistance leads Those who ridicule life's pale bookworms to a loss of freedom. Those who cannot flaunt themselves?

What place is left- what peace? MY LO VE IS LIKE A CO FFEE (song) Hounded out of home by crooks, [1.25 -1.41am 26th June 1990, Glasgow] men without moral thought in the name of duty. My love is like a coffee sitting on its own - Tired of talk, tired of niceness, My love is like a rainbow against the wall prepared to fight. just beyond the road - Bailiffs at the door - pounding. My love is like an angel Let them break it down! hovering above - My love is like a mountain LEFT TO RO T never big enough. [19th June 1990, Glasgow] But when I see my lover The world is going at a crazy pace, I am not alone - No place to hide, no escape from thought. And when I see my darling Where will tomorrow go and what found I have my pot of gold - When all is left to rot. For when I kiss my angel just lay me down - SANDRA For my love is like a fountain [3.24am, 19th June 1990, Glasgow] and I shall not drown.

One cannot pursue the sun, the stars; My love is like a bottle One cannot pursue the wind, the sea; tossed upon the sea - One cannot pursue the fleeting day My love is like an apple Or a Wexford lass running away. fallen from a tree - My love is in the heavens BODIES AND MINDS too far to see - [1.17am, 25th June 1990, Glasgow] My love is spring blossom raining down on me. What are bodies to those of minds? The flesh comes apart in the hands. IN BED WITH YOU The eye grows weak with time. [1.52am, 26th June 1990, Glasgow] Beauty of form turns to memory. And when in bed I am yours, Scars across faces and broken backs. And in the dawn’s glitter’d dew, Scars with no traces containing no past. Curlew’s cries say it all, Scars where smiles hide bad luck. To close our eyes to love. Scars where love has had no return.

What are minds to those with bodies? Those with muscles? Those with health?

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THE BELL TOLLED You who has me in your grasp, [2.13am, 26th June 1990, Glasgow] Till I am crushed and spent aside.

The bell tolled loud beyond the wood, IF EVER LIFE A taxi ticked into the gloom, [12am, 3rd August 1990, Glasgow] A drip of wax trickled through To mark the dark hours passing. If ever life were less confusing - If ever love were less a losing - TOMORROW’S A DAY If ever fame were less elusive - [2.54am, 26th June 1990, Glasgow] I would be less choosy.

Tomorrow’s a day and a half behind! If I had all I'd be contented - Question each hour to find lost time! If I had nought I'd be without - Forward the workings with all haste! If I had something in between - Wind up the past to now. I'd only be part right.

A SO BER MAN TALKS TO THE O UT O F THE FUTURE LIVING [10.39pm, 15th August 1990, Glasgow] [June 1990, Glasgow] Out of the future-winter came McDiarmid, Burns, Morgan, Muir, Rain on the roof of human decay, I cannae talk with youse nae mair, Love running down the gaping drain I'm up tae here wi' pritty wurds, On a night mid-August in Scotland. Youse auld boys must move owr, Gie the living life again, Where in eternity will faith enter, Let Scotland's gobs wance mair roar. Hope in form of happiness arrive? Out of the wet when will need falter THE NEW GLASGOW FAIR And not be turned down again. [15th July 1990, Glasgow Green] NANCY NOBODY (song) O Yea, you old fashioned fair, [10th September 1990, Glasgow] back now to haunt the new, try as we might to dance, Nancy Nobody was going somewhere, we sing the same old tune - Everywhere she went - people stared. puppets beat the children, She was held back by Tom's and Dick's; clowns play the fool. She was held back by all sorts of pricks; She was hassled by the weird and the sick; THE FO SSIL GARDEN Nancy was a nice girl at heart. For Germana Nancy Nobody went cheerfully to church, [11.50pm, 2nd August 1990, Glasgow] There she was safe from all the nurds; There she could hid behind holy words; In the fossil garden, I thought of you - There she could feel she belonged to God You whose perfume fills my heart, Until she discovered God was a man! You whose fragrance lingers fast,

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Nancy gave religion the shove. IN THE CHILL O F NO VEMBER [12.14am, 11th November 1990, Glasgow] Nancy Nobody cared for her country, She was patriotic to her undies and bra; We sat alone in the chill of November She was true blue and honoured the Queen; We talked of things that we could She respected the police, justice and all; remember, Until the appearance of the horrible And when we forgot why we had argued witch! We couldn’t recall why we had parted. Nancy couldn't stomach the bitch. We kissed in the dark - it was romantic, Nancy Nobody was trying her best We looked to the future across the To buy a flat in the trendy West-end - Atlantic, Rents were too high - she wasn't dejected; And when we returned both broken Her earnings were half of what was hearted, expected; We couldn’t resolve why we were angry. She wasn't a liar - she was just selective And coy when asked awkward questions. Entwined we stretched out across the mattress, Now Nancy Nobody's living somewhere, We touched the edge of our own Everyone wonders how she got there - circumference; She has everything a nice girl needs; And when we dressed, we were strangers - She has it all without the greed - We grew cold, then you departed. Nancy Nobody will not go to seed! Nancy's a girl born to succeed. AS THE END IS BEGUN [1am, St.Andrews’s Day, 30th Nov 1990, DO WN IN THE BASEMENT Banchory] [2.43am, 9th Nov 1990, Athole Grdns, Glasgow] In bed in a daze brought out by pleasure, Lost in the waves of evening and winter; Down in the basement Embracing the play of time in the hours; The window facing south Who would trade life for another’s? Trees as a morning view Who would fade and not be a stranger? Voices of children going to school, Who would crave that which is possible? Leaves on the pavement, The traveller home from abroad. Into the depths of night we journey - On through a tunnel to emerge for Across in the gardens eternity, Behind the old pailings, Sleep for posterity, and dream for Cascading seclusion - tomorrow; Voices coax a kite into flight. Scream for the past, and laugh at the Air stiff with a frost, horror. Not a leak on the tops Who would go forward knowing the I’m lost in the wild. outcome? Who would begin as the end is begun?

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KNAPPACH (BANCHORY) Feeding coins into slots, [1.04am, 5th December 1990, Glasgow] Watching tv close to dawn. Still breathing - I carry on. Four on the floor before the fire, Exploding coal atop Scots pine. THE WAY WILL O UT Where went the hours of the full-moon [2.14am, Christmas Eve 1990, Glasgow] night, An hour’s walk from a Deeside town. The way will out when there’s a will To succeed beyond the dreams of others; Whistle down the wind without return, Fantasy exists in the slumbering's of Fleeting flames - December turns hopers; Rooks on currents that seabirds sail Reality comes to those who are workers; On the tail of an Indian autumn. Gambling is for those used to losing, Sure-bets come to those used to choosing; MARCH IN THE NIGHT Don’t say that wealth is not for you - [3.14am, 6th December 1990, Glasgow] Happiness is now, not in heaven!

March in the night, my best friends - THEY’VE HAD THEIR LO T File through everything old age brings. [1.54am, 27th December 1990, Glasgow] Look back in anger at bad luck, Curse the fleeing of youth and love; Beyond, between, there is a view Find no beginning in goings -wrong, I cannot see, cannot hear, Search for the key to unlock it all. Something which you sense or feel, Not something they can use. March in the night, thunder, rail! Unravelled questions unanswered remain; I wish I could work it out, Lost is a scene never explained; I dream that we share - that thing; Perdu is all gossip lacking detail; I hope you get my gist, Request an audience with my past, And don’t ignore my drift. Travel the distance, march, march,march! For I cannot say more than this, LO NELY PEOPLE We must not think less of it, [12.32am, 23rd December 1990, Glasgow] You will not carry on unheard, Or they will think it strange. Hey! All you lonely people, I’ve been there too - Still - within a drumbeat pounds, Nights in the rain alone, Outside we think that all is sound, Dinner on the stove for one, Beyond you bobs to the swell All in bed on my own All they make from the tide. Before twelve o’clock. I pray you understand my thought, I’ve been there more than once, Bent, we make time of nought; Its not fun, not at all - You wait - all will be revealed. Coming home, empty flat, They have had their lot.

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NEW YEAR, NINETEEN NINETY O NE [6.30am, 1st January 1991, Glasgow]

Six a.m. on New Year’s Day, Full moon one hour from the west, Six full swings from Uni-tower This side of the Kelvindale.

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THE WANDERER - 2

THE SECO ND JO URNEY O F THE WANDERER SCOTLAND [Composed 1st Feb 1991 - 13th Jan 1992] NARR: I, meanwhile, in Scotland, relaxed by the fire reading Crawford, It is 1991, the same night the Allies invade Iraq kept warm by North Sea gas that the Narrator, sequestered in his bohemian hovel in the west end of Glasgow is visited by the I thought of my oil-rig days - Wanderer. Against the backdrop of the world the wild howling winter gales, news, the Narrator hears about the his childhood the ninety foot wrecking waves. friend’s second journey to Europe when he was eighteen. Snow fell that evening. Perplexed, THE GULF I set-out for the Wanderer's. I had been to see his mother, It was the night the Allies bombed, a woman of retirement age, massacred a ten-mile column - she had told me of his place January was all but gone on the slopes of Dowan Hill - and February all but come; basement bed-sit, dark and damp, ground frost made the evening cold the type of room students take for war! war! war! in over-crowded terraced streets let to Scots by prosperous Greeks. There is no escaping blame - wells pouring flames and smog; I found myself at Atholl Gardens, treatment plants clogged with oil; wet and dreary from the trudge; all in the name of God! I climbed the icy-sandstone steps and pulled on a big brass bell - Will we forget those bloody hours! behind me on Gilmorehill those bloody weeks, those bloody the college clock chimed half-ten. months! those bloody deaths without count! A student came to the door, those bloody wasted lives! I enquired about my friend - invited in, she led the way Is it dharma brings about through the house, down stone-stairs, slaughter to cleanse our guilt? to the right, along a hall, Is it greed that leaves us nowt the smell of dampness pungent, strong but blood on the butcher's knife? until we came to a door the scent of incense masking mould; Each answer given prompts a question: the student smiled, wished me well each question asked meets with silence. and left me there all alone.

Career the wild on to war! I put my knuckle to the wood, Push the weak to stop them short! tapped as lightly as I could; I chapped again, silence reigned,

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then came a muffled cough, we had no common present, but no-one came to the door - we made a present from the past. I waited some minutes more, turned the knob, entered slowly, "And Chrissie Campbell?" he asked me, and there! sitting on the floor "Where is she - about or not?" limbs crossed, in a trance, I replied "We're divorced - mind non-conscious to the now, I love her though we've lost touch." his back to an old gas-fire the tell-tale signs of simple life "And Jilly Hickman?" he inquired effused in the subdued light "Lorrie Irvine? And Jean Love? "Ruth Young? And Lyndsay Rourke? The Wanderer! "And Dorothy from the Tennis Club?"

I could hear a sitar dancing We drank our tea, and chatted on with a tavla in a rag. about the girls at school we'd known, Oh church of Scotland kirk men cry! about our wait to be eighteen Krishna lives! Christ has died! and what we did to look much older.

What place had my faith there WAND: It was the wait that done me in, in that dim-lit heathen room? made me idle, made me a dosser. I had intruded on his prayers, After Venice, you might remember, I tried to turn and get away I worked with you at the Bank of but I stood there just the same Scotland, to spy and gape and stare. six months of short-hair, tie and suit, saved nine pounds, spent three a week. I had not seen such a place, not since my student days, I'd got my place at university, that which comes out the past An English one, I felt good, some call fashion, some call art, I couldn't wait until September, candle in a Buckfast bottle, the bank-job was such a boob, incense ash on the rug. I wish I'd done something else, I was such a stupid fool." I was older than I thought, I tip-toed to the wee recess, NARR: And so began a lengthy tale, I put the kettle on to boil, which in part I will retell - a ritual no-one minds at all. about the Wanderer's second trip which in all took sixteen weeks, The Wanderer came out of his trance, which led barefoot to Istanbul saw me, smiled, rose and coughed, and changed his life for good. pulled the curtains in one draw "Earl Grey, Robert. One's enough." ENGLAND

He was older than he thought, WAND:"The Ides of May, my eighteenth we talked about by-gone times, year,

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with ninety pounds, I set off long-haired, tall and thin - down the A1 in a pick-up Mister Q slept in a chair. in the back with two Yanks. Mister Q drove up to London, Eight that night dropped in Brixton, with Missus Q, me in the back, I walked south to Blackheath, parking close to Petty France, I got a ride with Mister Quine we went straight to Clive House, who thought I was his long lost son. and with his diplomatic manner, I got a passport - twenty minutes! He let me stay the night in Bekesbourne in his Jacobean home, Oh Mister Q, my hero forever! I had never seen such wealth, swore he'd known me all my life. oak beams and Persian carpets, leather uppers, crystal cabs, How different then, eighteen and free, paintings older than the house. from thirty six and going grey - Vietnam was raging on - Mister and Missus Q were very nice, I cared, but it was far away. they were lately from Mauritius - It seemed a crazy senseless war, diplomatic service - ambassador she said, unlike the liberation of Kuwait. home at last from foreign climes. No sense is made of human strife Oh what I'd give now to live without some loss of life. in quiet Kentish countyside! Back to Blackheath - by bus, Orange juice, toast and eggs, on to Canterbury, beyond and south Mister Q wrote his address, to Dover spilling over cliffs I pledged to drop him a line forever England to the last. from someplace that he'd like. Who has not crossed by boat That afternoon, down in Dover the silver streak that makes G.B. I found my passport stolen!, different. Or lost! I did not know - Who has not had a glimpse Left in Bekesbourne? Dropped in of France in the distance. Brixton? I spoke with Q on the phone. FRANCE - Calais

I waited til nigh on six, Eight that night the rain poured down the police had nothing to report, as we docked in old Calais; and with a new passport form, two Bangor girls said goodbye, and snaps from a photo booth a Scottish pusher pushed on by, I hitched north back to Bekesbourne. skipping bail for Amsterdam, his goods inside his bag. That night I watched T.V. with Dave, the son who looked a lot like me, Stamped and checked beneath the lights

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I asked a couple "Que route Paris?" or on the steps of Macchu Picchu "A Paris?" .... "Oui, soi Ecosses." above the lost Inca world. They took me in for the night. Such romantic thoughts are the norm They were Chris et Marie, of those, like I, meant to die they made an omelette thick with cheese, where they are born, like a flower oozing with fresh young brie, root-bound in a pot. something odd and new to me. These days, I am in bloom, On the stroke of half-past-nine, open to the night stars, tucked in bed, hot-bottle too, open to the morning dew, I awoke eight next morn wind and water, sun and earth. to Calais shaking off the world I am one with nature and myself: invading it from dawn to dawn. until I am taken from my world by the words of a friend; NARR: Carried by the Wanderer's words, a friend not tied to homely things, I saw myself rising out of bed a friend long lost to wandering. I gazed out that French window, the May rain came on again, WAND: What did I find, or indeed cherry blossom fluttered down, did I seek from the nomad's life? narcissus drooped beneath broad elm, End to end the countries stretch, magnolia buds opened up end to end, until back they come to bleed their sweet scented musk; til memories are all but hazed a thrush emerged from a hedge by the doubts others have - that edged a walled-in back. For who can say yeah or no I love beauty, art and good, unless with their own eyes distaste all that's evil, bad, they've seen a leper with no nose all that which corrupts a child or a dog roasted whole. or turns the tender hard - I am a man of peace, not war. I am a man reading books I have gone where tourists go. who's turned his back on the world. I have been where life is sweet How can I assess the words and stayed where pleasure grows. of my friend - so vastly miled? How can I doubt his encounters Paris when my own are so short? In France, then, to be undone Taking refuge in my garden, I left Calais for the world; weekends and evenings in the soil, three lifts saw me reach Paree, I bury my hands in memories I came upon the Arc D' Triumph. and let time pass, as uninvolved with all but my own thoughts, Down into the bowels of Paris, I dream of being by the Taj Mahal, confused by my own bad French,

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I made friends with Steve and Pete and hitched with ease on to Meaux, with whom I shared a dorm. half-an-hour - on to La Ferte, then minutes late on to Metz. Thirsty that warm May night, we bought three two-litre beers, Metz gutter-sat, as wide-boys do, we drank and watched Paris move. Nine o'clock and in Lorraine by the Moselle yet again, We drank Stevie's lager too, now one year older, wiser too he was too engaged in talk I wandered Metz's platzs and rues, with a tall Finnish blonde twice German, French for now, with whom he hadn't a hope at all. I spent two hours touring round.

He said he'd like to give her one, In the station, washed and clean, we just laughed him off, my long hair normal for that year, we went to our hostel beds, a traveller bought me two cold beers, I dreamt of girls all night long. then left to catch a train. To where? I could not say - I left the gare Up at seven, showered and dressed, to find a park-bed for the night. I was off to sunny Spain, our football team, the Glasgow Gers A cool May breeze with a bite, had reached Cup Winners Cup, I perched on a wooden bench the final was in Barcelona. in my feathered sleeping-bag Up the Gers! Here I come! with newsprint round me tight to stop me getting sogging wet Or so I thought at the time, and drenched by morning dew. odd how life takes strange turns. I woke at five cold and damp Breakfast in the Kellerman Park, and hitched a ride into Deuschland. Steve told me all about Mannheim, Two French freaks picked me up three days of rock extravagance they were driving to the festival. at a village called Germansch. GERMANY - Germansch I may have been a Rangers fan. I may have been football daft. In Mannheim by nine o'clock, I even had my Rangers scarf! we got directions for Germansch. But it was not to be. Three days of bands had been arranged by some G.I's. fresh from Nam - Fate steered me then to Rock-an-Roll, I was ready for the road, The Second British Rock Show - man! no more going to Barcelona, that's what a road-side banner read, but the road to rack and ruin. we waited two hours in a jam paid twenty marks at the gate. I took the Metro to the suburbs,

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Through a wood to the field - In the evening, shy and tired, I lost the Frenchies in the squash. I lay in my tent in thought I pitched my tent within sight of listening to the sound of drums, the biggest stage I'd ever seen. guitars with their Clapton runs,

Remember I was young, naïve, the smell of hot dogs in the air a Glasgow boy from the Shaws, being cooked by Frankfurt freaks I wasn't used to seeing culture who gave me some hund to chew or being close to hippy stuff. before I fell asleep.

A German boy from somewhere north Next day I rose at ten again, asked if he could crash with me - washed as the day before sure thing, love, peace and dope, at a small slow flowing stream Franz spent three nights at my abode. in a clearing in the woods -

Oh life was so simple then, me and a hundred other dudes. an easy life - quick made friends, And there - while half-dressed, no need to find next month's rent besides me, almost in the nude or pay off a decade's debts. was Pinky, a peach from New York,

I found a place stage-front left long dark hair and slightly plump, to listen to the rock-an-roll - but formed in such female ways Max Merritt, Linda Lewis, Quiver, she made my boy's heart thump. Beggar's Opera - and Pink Floyd - She was all of twenty-two, flashing lights and zooming rockets and as the stream ran-off her skin, to the dark side of the moon - I saw how dark she was, and firm - I dozed off - hitchers sickness She eyed me with her charming looks, and dragged myself off to sleep. and soon she had me in her arms.

I rose at ten, took a wash, That quick? No, I lie .... then wandered round the site; it took all day to get that far: a seething mass of hair and sweat, naked bums in the sun. We spent the afternoon with Sandy, Pinky's boring Queens companion; The music went on all day long - we smoked the hash the G.I's passed us, Chicken Shack and Lindisfarne, and sat and ate their army rations. Osibisa, Mungo Jerry, Uriah Heep, Rory Gallagher – A sergeant with a headband on, and his platoon ex-Nam pals, The String Band folk, Tom Paxton too, had a hash connection chain Spencer Davis, and many others, that went Kabul-Saigon-Weisbaden. names past, names forgotten. All music is a passing fashion. Stoned, we missed Humble Pie,

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the Riders of the Purple Sage, between bush myrtle and gorse. Wishbone Ash, The Kinks .... The Doors And almost as if no time had passed who didn't show with Country Joe. he began where he had left off -

But as the night finally fell, Southern Germany Pinky came back with me, we got to touch and kiss and play WAND: Pinky shunned me in Karlsruhe, before the drugs did us in. there and then I quickly learnt how hard it was to make firm friends Pinky helped me pack next day, with those you meet on the road. no fond farewells, no sweet adieus. I said I'd meet her in Karlsruhe, You may be bosom pals one day and sure enough, we rendezvoused – then not recall their names at all.

She was distant, cold, withdrawn; Still friends, we all went for biers; she said we were two different folk two Yankee boys, the girls and I - with very different needs and wants. and after tea we smoked an orange, But what use now are memories – a hashish pipe of hollowed fruit – when in business I find myself at war before the rain coerced us in with my office landlord - Harry Singh, from the jugenherberge lawn - small time garage owner, who thinks - alas, in German youth hostel fashion an old cow shed's prime space in the we were all in bed by ten. West-End. As I was on my way to Greece What a joke! Four months I went I changed my plan to go through Munich, without a door to my cubby hole, Olympic year and full of tourists no window to the outside world, it was no place for me; I missed breakfast an asbestos roof hiding me from God. -

Every nail, every screw - my own hand - hitched to Stuttgart, then travelled on not a bit of help from miser Singh. to Ulm in a Coca-Cola truck. There every week for his sixty pounds, I struck Kempten, stayed at the hostel six weeks now I have not paid the rent. where I met Mike and sister Doris –

In response, the electricity is cut; The warden, mistaking her for a boy what use is an office without power? had put her in our small dorm, I must now call it quits. and there, with her clothes shed off, blonde, fair skinned and seventeen NARR: The Wanderer left me in a rush, that was the last I saw of him the prettiest German thing I'd seen, for some weeks, when by chance more lovely than the upper Rhine, I saw him one mid May Sunday more divine than Reisling wine, in Kelvinpark lying in the sun I discovered she liked me -

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But I was shy, reserved and quiet, Death! My girl, Cindy, quivered a Shaw’s boy to my very quick as up ahead a black crow hovered, that night at least I was warm picked a morsel 'neath it's claw, in that dorm with angel Doris. saw us, flew up, circled round,

In the morn we took frustucke, then settled on a grassy mound said goodbye, and travelling on and gazed at us, sideward glanced, two lifts later I came to Fussen, then foraged in the wild morass crossed the frontier post by foot. as we approached it from below

AUSTRIA it swooped up, circled round us slow and watched us as we turned to go Two German girls - Heidi and Rene down across the Campsie knolls, swept me up in their beetle, the dark eyed creature hovering low, carried me forth to Heiterwang, Lermoos and over high Fern Pass; we, three souls, all alone. Re-incarnation touched our every down through Telfs, Zirl and Innsbruck thought, to climb again the Brenner Pass, Cindy talked of spirits freed, through the checkpoint into Italy of cremation, and a need for God. on the south side of the Rhuetian Alps. As the Wanderer in Yugoslavia The beetle coasted down to Brixen passed through Lubliana and Zagreb, and beyond the turning east ... we lamented the loss of her mother.

NARR: The Wanderer went on and on, We walked through the blue bells but by this time I was thinking near the Forth and Clyde canal - 'Where was I when he was there?' off its tow-paths of matted reed, and then it all came back to me – we cried in an aspen wood -

I'd been on the Campsie Fells We were eighteen in lowland Scotland with my girl whose mother had died while my friend was on his way to Greece. the day before aged forty five. YUGOSLAVIA - Serbia It had been a warm Spring evening the waters in the burn were clear, And as he recalled his won past, we saw the sky in the pools I ignored his trivial passings by train and talked of swimming there some day, through Beograd, and south to Skopje where he had become shadowed – but not that night late in May, there to take the clean fresh air, by Findlay - a boy from Kilmarnock! we walked a mile up Campsie Glen, a dead sheep lying by the stream. Was it fact that we had once been the closest of childhood friends -

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biking through the Pollok woods For now, I will not name such places, or hanging over Cartcraigs bridge for when I was eighteen, optimistic, I did not wish to spoil too soon that spanned the Glasgow-London line my belief that I was pure and uncorrupted. spotting trains and looking up our Allen books to underline But travelling changes a boy - Robin Hood or Princess Caroline. the world must make him a man or he has no purpose for the world. The days of steam! We were happy then, How I resisted! I was a Spartan! racing up the Greenknowe road to the cows fields that overlooked Strong willed, I slept where I could, sleepy Pollokshaws and the Kirky Hill Hardy made, I ate what there was. I had no thoughts for home - with its wild plum trees, now concrete I was looking forward all the time. little boxes served by orange buses. Childhood days on Shuggies milk-float I lived for tomorrow! Not the present. along the Auldhouse road to the dairy Ahead! That is where I lay in wait for my own arrival. My dreams where Davie MacMillan's dad's garage were of distant lands, their treasures – was a place that smelt of grease, where tyres could be rolled down the road the secret monuments of men, and lobbed into the Auldhouse burn. the mysterious mountains of nature.

We had no cares, but if I had known I was glad to leave behind my friend would spend his adult years the repetition of life in Glasgow - travelling to discover what? Himself? There on that second journey, and leave me behind to struggle I encountered something I had not; and to carry on day to day with existence evidence of a world that was hostile - amongst those also, likewise bound, Serb, Croat and Montenegrin, who do not know what it's like to leave Macedonian and Bosnian home behind - then, be damned! Slavs living Tito-ised as one.

Suddenly I was aware of silence - I was in Belgrade barely an hour, The Wanderer stared at me intently; at midnight aboard the Orient Express, I felt that my mind was being read. at the rear in a second class carriage with Findlay I'd met at Zagreb station. WAND: Don't despair. No place is more sacred to me than home. Along with two Kiwi's - Gale and Carol - This you will discover if you listen we'd been with Croat musicians to the tales I have to tell of towns – eager to learn John Lennon's songs to busk on the streets of the world. where no man would wish to live unless it was the place of his birth. They put us up in their rented home,

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we smoked from a bong, as hippies did, that I was too young to sell blood, until the church bells of a Zagreb morn or that night, on a bar verandah I watched Ajax beat Inter Milan. brought up the Sunday dawn. Football, you ask - the European Cup, Four in the morning we halted in Nis, who has interest in such things? the Orient Express sped on to Bulgaria, Not those who's life is art - we recoupled, chugged out of Serbia not those who's hands are soft – and into the wine lands of old Macedonia. But let me tell you what I know, Macedonia football is the common man's art, not the Parthenon on Acropolis Hill, There was no time for breakfast in nor bronze Poseidon on display! Skopje, Findlay went hitching with two guys from Art is posters of guys like Gazza, Brum, magazines with strikers on their covers. I hiked for two hours, left them behind, Art is not the national costume, trekked six more miles onwards to Greece the tourist gifts and homemade trinkets – – I saw when I arrived in Athens Three Ozzies stopped, took me to down on the stalls of the Plaka. Thessy, I booked a bed in a room with a balcony, Eighteen then, thirty seven now, re-met Findlay boring an Albertan, I had only thoughts for the Aegean who skinned up and gave us a puff. islands. Findlay was whinging in my ear, NARR: The Wanderer rambled on about chasing me round Omonia like a flea, hashish, I yawned, and thought about sex - I liked him well, he was a Scot, I gazed over at his bedside clock but he was from Kilmarnock after all, which stood on his Mockintosh desk. and there we were - in sunny Greece - the time had come to go our ways. Heavens! if only it was original Tosh, a work by Glasgow's Jesus of Art - I took the subway for Piraeus, He, who had a penniless end, and met a Tahoe boy onboard, is priceless now he's dead. his name was Henry French the Third, a Nevada lake boy going on twenty one. GREECE Mykonos WAND: I sold blood in Thesalonika. Do you think I'm not aware, We took a ship for Mykonos, that you are bored by my talk? seven pleasant hours passed on deck, we palled up with a Gail and Sue Perhaps you don't want to hear though I was pure and virtuous still

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despite attempts with Dot, a Hutchie girl a robin would lightly ribble, who I had met by the cricket ground. but Dot and I, just sweet fifteen Dressed in whites, she should have been had no time for the birds. on the courts of Poloc Tennis Club – One hand upon her tennis blouse, instead, her racquet behind a bush, one against her pearl skin, we rolled in the grass by Pollok House. her fingers on my blue jeans, five others lost in my hair, She was such a proper spoken girl castled in a mansion in High Shawlands, we touched, kissed, lingered there we met several times without friends, her eyes closed while I stared, and hand in hand, we styled the fence, her eyes open, mine now closed I trekked my hand beneath her blouse to be amongst the Hielan' cattle herd. Wary, their piles of dung, we climbed soon to climb her little mounds the old stone dyke beyond, and made while she descended mine. our way through private grounds Then our youth would spoil things, embarrassed by our own desires, to where the ancient beech tree stands on a massive mound of earth - panic forced us oft apart made by the tree itself it's said to talk about our adult acts eight hundred years of leaves being shed. till soon the guilt of being alone in the woods of Pollok Park We carved our names into the bark and through the blubell copse of birch would make us both insecure, we came unto the garden path unsure if we should pursue that led us past the honeysuckle our trysts beyond that hour - our youth in its finest flower. and on beneath the rhododendron, so thick - the petals fell on us O Dot Fleming! tall and blonde! like winter snow on Cairngorm. we showed each other what we had, And on we went beneath the willow, but we knew from the very start that love was never in our charts, copper beech, scarlet maple - hedgerow bound on either side and thus annoyed, we disagreed at last we came upon our spot and argued as we left the trees sheltered by a garden wall fell silent through the field of dung 'til parted at the Tennis Club. beyond which fell sandstone steps topped by nymphish statuettes. And after that we met but once There, secluded, not a sound at Shawlands Church on Christmas Eve, would penetrate our secret lair - you coyly smiled, looked away as your friends nudged and winked, perhaps a blackbird would pip,

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our friendship well at its end, with a girl, all but half his age, our reputations made by then, in a three room reconned flat, we were older than the rest, hot water, carpets, car bay, grass but hungrier in our youthfulness. out front, grass out back.

Three summers later, there, aboard How time takes care of things. a ship out on the blue Aegean, It makes the poor think their rich. I conversed with Gail and Sue with the hope of union. WAND: Ten nights I spent in Mykonos. At first we slept on Bruce's beach, The barren Cyclades to the south, the west-bay sands outside town - the cliffs of Paros within sight, with Tahoe Henry as my pal – we rounded Thermia, slid past Seriphos, and rugged Naxos by her brother's side – we watched U.S. Navy ships anchor half-a-mile off shore. We came upon the Golden Isle. Delos! isle where Apollo dwelt In droves came these navy boys to be adorned by Mykonos men. from their nuclear warhead hulks Where men are boys, boys are toys. with grilled steak and burger pats they barbequed on the sand. There - on that isle of Delos, long robed Ionians once gathered They partied all afternoon to dance and praise Apollo and left us with so much food on the soil of his godbirth - we took twenty hippy folk to eat with us at Spiro's – tyrant Pisistratus, chronicler of Homer had purified the sacred earth a taverna on the rocky shore removing the lesser mortals buried below the west bay windmill. to the island's sandy edges. Who knows or cares to visit places to see them as I saw them so; Such a place is a robin's cry removed from the weeping daisies few would recognise my world and the sighing of beech and sycamore and fewer still would go by Crookston Castle's remains to many of the towns I've found off the track tourists trek. where Mary Stuart fled Langside through the Shaws and Pollok trees, Not Mykonos! The Windmill Isle through the dark of Crookston Wood, where pelicans are sacred birds, to harbour in the Maxwell keep. where life is made from the sea, fish, and squid, and lobster claw, NARR: There now, the Wanderer told me that he had moved to the suburbs, where Apollo's sons gaily dressed left his seedy West-End room hand in hand walk bare-chested, to live life as others do - in Crookston where old men sit playing cards

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sipping ouzo by the glass, to B.C. Glenn, Ash and Steve - while Henry slept, Sue arrived while the women make baclava to see how we'd survived - and children ride donkey-back along the dusty vineyard tracks. That evening we met the girls they took us back to their room - Idyllic Greece in fascist times! we downed four pints of white rum, The Junta ruled with heavy hand, Gail. of course, threw up, then swooned. no-one spoke with foreign folk unless a stranger spoke out first - We left her in, hit the bars, plain clothed police checked passports slammed the ouzo with a vengeance - and spies hung on every word. Henry propositioned Sue, she clung to me and shouted 'Rescue!' Too young to fully understand, I was a happy tourist lad – Next day, hung over, Henry slept 'til the girls came on the beach, Eighteen and free of all commitment, sunned their bones until time I shared my tent with Tahoe Henry, to meet the tourist policeman. and Gail and Sue from Houston, Texas. Policeman? Gail was seeking work! Gail's eyes were iridescent blue, Henry and I went slinking off sparkly like a Transvaal diamond, for toast, fried eggs, Turkish , yet something was amiss with her, but soon the girls caught us up, as if there was no mind attached . made us eat with them - spaghetti!

I have seen that look in others, Gail had got herself a job that glazed-eye stare they have in a bar, she 'trusted Greeks' - in common with a salmon. That night we ate stuffed egg-plant and drank another bottle of rum - Beware, you boys, of such women! Sue once more led Henry on, You may pour out all your love Gail spoke of the guy she loved. to find a sieve-like bottom - You may empty out your soul On the beach next day they came and never fill the chasm – to be with us - they always did. We were pissed off, told them so, that void between Timbuktu gave them what for, made them go. and the shores of the Sahara That evening we dined alone, The girls went B and B, we climbed the hill to Billy's club two wild boys, they'd had enough, stayed 'til we were well past bored we brushed our teeth in the waves, then built a fire on the sands, wished them bon voyage! and lo, our lives changed after that.

I lay on the beach and talked

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While wandering through the narrow I worked to live my weekends for Cindy, streets we'd walk on the hills, in the glens, I met Lynn, a Glasgow girl, Lomond, Glencoe or Aviemore we talked a while, met again, or the sandy duned Ayrshire coast, then made our way to the beach, kept a fire until there was no wood. to the fells of Tay or Killin, the Forest of Jed, or Rannoch Moor - That night Lynn moved in with me, there we took our wandering souls while Henry was out chasing Sue, with our pals, or sometimes alone. but he came back just as we were on the point of being one. But, my friend, that far-flung sage counted time by clocking miles - And thus we two, three became, a postcard from a Grecian isle three young adults making plans, mentioned distance, food and girls. Lets all hike our way to Morocco! We bought our tickets for the mainland. There were no insights, inner thoughts we average folk daily truck - no We relished our youth and nerve Who are we? What's life about? at crossing the length of the Med! that those we're close to often sigh.

What did I know at eighteen? How life turns full circle like a wheel, Full of my own esteem - we find ourselves upon a hill God might as well have been in space, viewing change that time has brought as within every being that tenth of June – but which, despite all that's past, has left us nought, changed us not. for soon the Bader Meinhof would kill We are no different from our youth. the spirit of the Olympic dream. Upon our hill, our native land, NARR: The Wanderer's eyes glazed like layers of dwellings upon the old, Gail's, that is all that time has built. he drifted off on some low cloud, he was stuck between hell and paradise Let them dig and find a church, between this and that and Grecian life. a primary school beneath it all.

I meanwhile had been working nine to All that marks my churchyard now five is an elm tree - gone the holly, in the Bank of Scotland Ibrox branch or poplar that lined the dyke stamping cheques and licking stamps, which faced upon the old schoolyard and inking figures in ledger files, sunken from a century of children taking home twelve pound a week playing above the old mine works when a pint of beer was all of ten pee; that fuelled the print field looms I hated my short hair, shirt and tie, that bleached the old Shaw’s fields. and my suit that made me look a pratt.

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By church and school ran Maida Street, such welcome prelude to the Spring. bare twelve feet wide wall to wall, across the road, Station West, where And then! tragedy on our young lives, we would wait for trains to come – a smoggy lunchtime February day, Neil Dickson ran across the road. trains that went on south to England through the station with a roar, We never saw our pal again - or if they stopped, we would peer run down by the bus to Ayr. into ill-lit coaches at weary travellers In the smog his soul remains from other countries, and wave, For we were three at that age, not out of recognition of their The Wanderer, myself and Neil; foreignness, In the class we were tops – but to let them know we existed, that we were boys from the Shaws. except for swotty Leonard G who couldn't run or kick a ball. On they would go hauled by Excalibur, or Lord Clyde, or the Queens Own Neil was the fastest one, Borderers. I was the smartest one, It is from those trains we learned of Fiji, the Wanderer the tallest Sierra Leone and Mauritania - lands we and the leader of us all. later looked up on the map together, the Wanderer and I, thirty years ago. After the death of Neil we were lost, we hung out with older boys Scoff not at those who tick off names. like Specky Smith - train spotter A name is knowledge, the first seed who was all of ten and a bit! out of which experience grows, for without a name, nothing's known. What a drip! - he tried to bully us, but we ganged up, kicked this shins, The railway linked us to the world. pulled his ears, renamed him "Specky Trinidad, Aden or Singapore - Git!" Through Pollokshaws the world roared! Then we joined the One Seven O, On Maida Street, between church and the Life Boy group in our church, school, there we found new things to do. we crowded up this narrow vestibule, squeezed through railings beneath crab Most boys were at our school – apple the Hammy Twins, the Hutchie Boys, to see tiny snowdrops droop their heads – Houston, and a few Home Boys we marvelled at such wilderness. in the days before Gillespie arrived.

Almost seven, I remember still And those above us - Primary Five - the beauty of that first wild sighting, Gordie, Fishy, Nivie, Bean, in mid February's luke sunlight and those in lofty Primary Six

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who taught us knots and discipline. that I had glimpsed the year before from the steps of St. Mark's, Venice. They made us march two abreast, the Wanderer learned to march the best - I washed two weeks from my hair, A left-handed, left-footed boy, remembered how soft a mattress felt, they never broke his natural stride, meanwhile my pal Henry, my girl Lynn, were getting on far too well. so he would lead us round the hall; and for eight years he led us on Morning brought Corfu into view, through into the Boys Brigade we anchored half a mile outside and out into our Higher Grades. the hidden reefs a million sails had lightly skipped in over. And yet despite his leadership, his natural flair to lead us all, H and L were tete a tete, at school I was the teachers' choice there and then I read the signs, for prefect and the honour roll. I knew not then what I know now about how fleeting love can be. They knew not of our boy's world, or saw the Wanderer as we boys did; Sometimes love fades away I got the prizes for my brains, 'til nothing's left but the grave but the Wanderer was our champion. filled with partners long time dead who haunt the romance newly laid. And now years on - at thirty seven he sat there greying, thin on top, Time and time again they rise, the boy who'd been around the world lover's cherished, partners dumped and knew not when to stop. 'til every kiss becomes a cross to hang all past lovers on. He spoke with a distant voice of leaving Greece and Mykonos. Criss-cross they ever onwards come every face of every love - Adriatic Sea until the last becomes the first and romance and death are one. WAND: The night boat from Mykonos docked six o'clock in Pireaus; ITALY - The South we took the subway to Omonia, wasted time having breakfast – We steamed towards the Bari coast, starboard Brindisi, we veered to port missed the first train for Patras. and docked and cleared all controls to pass into a shiftless town, Five hours on the Ionian Express, four hours on the Patras docks, grey, asleep, and like a fool we set sail on the 'Appia' I let myself be split from Lynn, across the dark blue Adriatic – she hitched on south with Tahoe Henry so much for pals upon the road -

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I was left to hitch alone. as I passed through Sicilian farmland on the last Palermo train of the night. In Taranto I checked the station to see if they were waiting there; In Palermo I dined on the waterfront, they had said they'd meet me there bread and tomatoes, nothing else, and I believed their every word. I sat legs dangling over the waterbreak, industrial, smoggy, and polluted, On the road south-west to Reggio, two baccalaureates transported me I fought to cope with the Etna heat, to a beach house in Lido di Cass. for it was the Ides of June, There we picked up some vino, the hottest night I'd ever known, went next door to a villa - the ship for Tunis delayed for a day, where three pretty Roman girls attended by a hag of a matron it shimmered in the dockland haze swooned us with their flirtation though it was dark, the moon was up and graces until the hag grew wary, as I stretched out on stony ground and waved us out into the midnight air. behind the bright lights of a fair,

It was a dream I barely recall. but I turned and tossed all night, Awake at nine, they dropped me off slept and dreamt in fitful fear, on the road that went from Heel to Toe. I clutched my knife in case All day I travelled the Sole of Italy, some Sicilian ventured near. five hours to travel thirty kay, lunch a half-baked calzone - That night was all thick sea air, three hours by a Fina station mosquitos darted everywhere, before a tanker ride to Crotoné. night gave to damp cold day That night, assaulted by mosquitos, in old Palermo. I slept in a ditch by the road. Half-five I rose into the fog, No music in my head - packed my stuff, hitched anew no poetry to make it memorable, a trucker slid to a halt, my only thoughts were of moving on, took me somewhere near Reggio. across the wide blue Med. I hitched on to Giovanni, crossed the Straits of Messina. What did I know then! Senseless way back - so many years ago, Sicily eighteen and floating aimless, like seaweed wrenched from rock. Sicily looming ever nearer, I felt the hairs on my back prickle, How was I to know someday I fingered the hilt of my hip blade that youth was the treasure, and mentally prepared for a fight – not the search for some hidden truth that only time could unravel. but it was all just silly self-delusion, I was frowning, but I began to smile You out there - listen well!

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I have seen the four corners of the world Lynn with her brown eyes smiling, but I have never found the edge I smiled back, but she knew to all that has no whole. I could see right through their sham - She couldn't fool a Glasgow man! Look! but you will never find an answer to it all. Lynn was from Newton Mearns, three miles south of Pollokshaws; Yet I arose that Palermo day six months later she would come hopeful that life would bring to my parents council home some joy and laughs as I progressed on my way. to tell them she was back for good, she had joined the Renfrew Police. My way! How now I laugh So much for the hippy life - that I saw my journey then she grew up far too soon. as a route from town to town in one straight line. But there on that Sicilian quay, Lynn and I, and Tahoe Henry, At eighteen - I saw clear, were still resolved to reach Morocco, my young man's logic made me believe and we were joined by Brighton Pete that I was right, I was educated who'd travelled in from distant Crete. too much, too quick, too Calvinistic. Now a band, we grew worried, I knew nothing of Italians, we'd be turned away at Tunis. my Latin was no use at all, Why I said? We're not Hippies, I had to learn to wave my hands, we're all under twenty-one. move my tongue around new vowels – The ship cast off at six o'clock. I was less learned than a child. Concerned that I looked so rough, I wandered down to the quay, I shaved off my fuzzy beard, lodged my rucksack at a kiosk, tied my hair up with a clasp. slept awhile by a road, I looked tidier in the face, ate some breakfast - bread and milk, despite the jeans and tie-died shirt returned mid-morn to the quay and their four weeks of dirt. to find pal Henry cuddling Lynn. Oh Southern Mediterranean - Oh what tales they told me – the fresh open sea - about their night in a barn, what now is sea to me! in a haystack with each other Chained to these Northern days fending off the farmers brothers of mist and sleet and rain. who wished give Lynn their love. Where are the years fanned by breeze? A likely tale - it made me jealous, the scent of brine, the feel of spray, it made me doubt them as friends; an untamed sea in my sight,

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the taste of waves and free? I opted for return to Greece.

There are moments in our lives Lynn and Hen and Brighton Pete, when we are free of all mankind, older, richer, than poor old me when we are on our own and glad had set their hearts on Marrakech, no-one's there to rein us back. via Marseilles and coastal Spain.

How many times have I felt so? And thus we finally parted ways. regretted not a single note, I hitched with Jurgen, good enough, called the tune and listened not seven rides took us north, to any but my own. we reached Sassari close to dusk.

TUNISIA We kipped out beneath the stars in a haystack - it was warm. Most mornings dreams dissolve, I felt all my worries go, and so it was when we arrived I listened to the evening song. in Tunis harbour where dolphins swim, to discover we were Freaks! I felt the on-shore breeze come up and fan the hay we slumbered on; I, and Lynn, and Hen, and Pete, the sea now dark - the sky aglow, and a guy called Jurgen from Koln - above - Orion's Belt and Bow; they would not let us go ashore, aboard they kept us under guard. I slept the best I had in months, what I dreamt I can't recall. We were they said 'Filthy Hippies!' The captain had to take us back. Perhaps dreams come, another kind Back to where? No-one cared, that later years bring to light - the ship set course for Sardinia. How I had turned my back upon the culture that was my life – I watched astern, Africa fade, I vowed one day I would return. Scotland - how proud I was, I have since fulfilled that vow, yet restless to see the world I shall not talk about that now. to find my fortune there - abroad! to turn my back upon my home. Sardinia And now? matured by that search, Thus we arrived in Cagliari, I discover not by chance against design, without plan, that which I have so long denied - we disembarked and in disgust that I am home at last! drowned on Sardinian wine. Reconciled to live and die Sardinia! Drunk we all agreed where I entered from the past, it was no place for the young. I have travelled earthly lands, I was angry, needed peace, I have come to know of man.

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I am ready now to pass, as he tramps the heavenly road - let atoms split, let stars be born, let new things take shapes unknown, guided by a clever sod let unknown things known become.' whose wealth is in his soul.

NARR: My friend began to glow with At eighteen, thinking wealth would come light, I fought off creature comforts, his Eastern ways had spaced him out, for how could I be a man candles, incense, music, fire, if I was over-weak from over-eating had made his brain run wild. or lazed in baths, avoided exercise? We were back in his basement, Thus, not ready to surrender Ravi Shankar blasting loud. I had to go - see the world! I heard no more about the trip I had to go in search of fortune that left him on Sardinia's shores. before I could take a wife, WAND: You think I'm mad, a little have myself a child, crazed a boy, a girl, one on the side living life as I do - in case of war or accident. what chance have I without profession, poverty is an endemic problem! So much of myself unknown, I began now on the real sojourn - Do you think it is my choice the exploration of my being. to live life at the bottom?' Who was I? Boy from the Shaws?

NARR: I offered help, but he was proud, The answer was no clearer then - he said he'd fund his own salvation, we slept late; a cock crowed, he'd survived past misfortune, we left Sassari, hitched to Osila his present life was a dawdle. ate salami, fruit and dry bread.

On this he took out a pipe Jurgen, in his stilled German manner, and put some hashish in the bowl; restless to be on his own he lit the stuff, took a puff, shrugged his ringleted shoulders then spoke with softer tone. and lit-out on up the road.

WAND: Judge not a man by his I waited by the kerbside pensive, surroundings, counted out my dwindling cash. what you see is not his - In Tempio Pusania, we met again, time destroys all he has, Jurgen in the back of a Fiat – all he's gathered soon decays. I joined him, backbacks on our laps, All he has acquired or stolen onwards went to Santa Teresa Gallura when he goes shall have no use, where beyond the Bocche di Bonifacio but is baggage on his back crumbled the white cliffs of Corsica.

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We spent the night on the rocks, Pete and I, bread and cheese for lunch hungry for hot Italian food - spent the afternoon on the beach, we met Lynn and Henry in the village, a rock quarry doubling as a dump. where having bought some pizzas - What about Lynn and Henry? we made our way to the beach and ran into Brighton Pete. They caught a bus to Ajjacio to catch a ship for Valencia; So once again we were five Pete - on a tighter budget about to depart another island; Took the ferry from Bastia. we had a swim in the Bocche; I visited the castle ruins – And I, poorest of them all, had to wait for five days briefly won by Totila the Goth, to take a cheap ship to Livorno. rewon by Justinian's Belisairus - Jurgen hung-out with me. lost five centuries later to Saracens, lost again to Pisa, then Genoa. That night, kipping in a field, we passed out on the vino. Who can say how many Princes occupied Sardinia before Spain Midsummer's Day in 'Seventy-Two, gave the isle to Austrian Savoy or Christmas Day in 'Ninety-One - in exchange for the riches of Sicily. I am as I always was - journeying on, not yet home. Napoleon freed the isle from Savoy, Garibaldi claimed Sardinia for Italy! It is rest I seek from debt, Restored it to Savoy's Victor Emanuel favours spent I cannot pay; by making him first King of Italy. if there is profit from my life, I've made no savings from the labour! I felt something of that history as I sat by castle Santa Teresa; In me, there is an echo ringing - I still see this image now, 'Fifty years left to get ahead!' the sun setting on the western Med A plaque in a crematorium, is this to be my only mark? and ancient ships slipping by unseen; but what did I ken of ghosts then Then, all is well, I am free as I slept on Sardinian bedrock, to live without fame or fortune; I was a Jacobin, not a Jacob. I will love my fellow man, I will not rise above my birth – Corsica I'll be third part commonwealth, Sixty pence to cross to Bonifacio, part God, and part of Earth. fifty minutes, cold, but pleasant. Jurgen didn't like the town much, Alas, hitching through Sardinia he hiked out shortly after – I had no philosophy as such, a driver gave me his in French

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as I sat nibbling some bread. bananas as the fasting break, our bags at a beach cafe A lorry took us to Bastia, as Pete left for Marseilles? we had sausage, beans for lunch, we met Jurgen in the street, Hands in pockets - promenading, we all camped out on the beach. we watched stripped men beneath the palms So mundane, but oh so free! throw their boules, inhale gauloise, God watching over me. laugh and joke and swig cognac.

NARR: Did you not miss family ties? We took some citrones from a park, You were gone for seventeen years, bitter fruit, but we were glad no Christmas union with your kin, of something free in that land; none you knew when you were wee? we returned to the sands, read books till it was dark, WAND: I had to break the family bond, then lay and watched shooting stars. so I took on foreign ways - At dawn I found Jurgen gone, Yet I was always looking in to re-appear with two French loafs, like some keeker at a window; a bag of fruit - we ate the lot, I was there, but not in spirit, then I washed beneath a tap. dining with a world of strangers; It was early, it was quiet, it was never to my ken; I brushed my hair free of knots; Christmas lacked the love of childhood, I was young, I was free, surrounded by those who're dear. I didn't care who saw me. Not so this year, home for good, That morning on the beach, bored my Auntie Mary licked her lips we tried to hitch to Sant Florent. and Cousin George in paper hat It wasn't very far at all - no-one stopped read aloud the cracker jokes so we returned, ate two loafs. while Cousin Nan sucked a bone. We walked along the harbour wall, Yet all the while the world whirled, looked back upon the town and saw we ate and wined to the news bonfires on the highest slopes. of Gorbachev's last Kremlin hour What the hell was going on? as Soviet Russia finally died – A celebration? I asked a man – the red flag lowered into hell The Feast of Jean Jacques! Who was that? and Yeltzin's dream just begun. And to this day I do not know though I believe he is well known. Who could have foretold such a thing, when I was sleeping on a beach Ah well, another day, nothing done, waking to the sound of waves, more dirty, one more day less young.

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Next morning I woke to find my t-shirts too, in the sea my rucksack missing from my side. and waiting for these things to dry I washed my hair beneath a tap. We searched about, found my clothes scattered all about the beach, It was Sunday, the shops were closed, my passport, traveller cheques and maps we made do - one loaf each. lying with them in the sand! The ferry for Livorno came, As for my rucksack, tent and stove, amongst the disembarking folk my camera, torch, cape and shades, a German hitcher spoke with us, my spitfire knife, toothbrush bag? then off he went without a wave. Gone the lot! I nearly cried - Half nine that night, we gave in, The police wrote down the particulars, the smell of grease luring us; gave me a typed claim certificate - we each bought a bag of chips and that c'est ca, we returned, and a sandwich with meat in it! searched some more for my things, What a splash out! Five francs each! found nothing else that was mine. All day we'd spent ninety centimes. I went to cash a traveller’s cheque and woe! The pound was going down! ITALY- The North I cashed a fiver just in time. At ten next morn we set sail, I bought an ex-French legion pack left Corsica and France behind - that set me back thirty francs. soon Capraga Island rose I sat awhile in the square, white and cliff-sheer out the blue. then I returned to the beach. Then, we saw a light aircraft I was running out of funds, circling off the ship's portside, enough to get to Greece - not back. and soon we came upon a boat I brooded, watched the grey Med lap, drifting in the Genoa tides. then Jurgen came, in his hands The crew and boat winched aboard, a bag of goodies for our lunch - the spotter-plane veered to land, bananas, bread, tomatoes, yeah! we docked Livorno high-tea time, My spirits soared, but later fell; lost an hour to Italian time. I walked the water's edge a while. Because the pound was going under, We wandered through the town again the banks would not cash my cheques. eating bread as we went - I changed six quid with a lender Another night on the beach, who made quite sure I lost out – this time our packs beneath our heads. I paid off Jurgen what I owed, Half-six I rose, washed my jeans, and I was left with just six bob.

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Money! How it comes between good then found a lonely spot to sleep friends. just off the Trieste road. How money makes life a hell! That night I slept really good Jurgen bought my evening meal - but paid for it - mosquito food! two pizzas, pan-e-torte, cider; I bought a loaf and a banana. YUGOSLAVIA - Croatia I was preparing for the morrow I rose, waited for a while, and the road that left Livorno. a lift took me to the border. We walked five kay, parted ways, My last lira spent on bread. tired of each other's company - I crossed into Yugoslavia – I made it to the autostrada; that part now known as Croatia. a sea-breeze brought some dampness, darkness came, and feeling tired The sterling crisis still full blown I kipped down by the highway. no bank would change my traveller Oh God - when I woke up – cheques, so I hitched on without dinar my face was one mass of lumps - towards the resort of Rijeka. the mossies had done their stuff, my lips were swollen, my eyelids shut; I trekked uphill out of town, no frog would have kissed such bumps. the Adriatic on my right - towards Karlovac I journeyed. No better than a dirty tramp, It took till night to reach Zagreb. a priest took pity on my plight. He stopped and took me in his car I plodded mile after mile via Pisa's leaning tower – to escape Zagreb's lights, but tiredness came upon me quick, He left me outside Lucca town, I stopped to sleep in a ditch. and on I went to outskirt Florence; four hours by a service station Serbia with twenty hitchers - Italians, Germans; Next day, hunger gnawing at me, I prayed for clouds to screen my bites a driver bought me some lunch - as I blistered in the midday sun. another bought me a coke, before a Lebon man picked me up, Yankee doddle-dandy day! bought me a coffee every stop. Two G.I's rescued me - dropped me off at Padova The windscreen of his car had gone, and on I went to Monfalcone. we got smeared with flies and gnats, and when we got to Belgrade - I walked a bit; bought salami, bread; oh my god! he tried it on! took a ride for ten kilometres,

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I told him there and then 'Piss Off', bought a loaf, two tubs of paste, I only kissed pretty girls, a pint of milk for twenty pee I kept away from guys like him and praised the Lord for manna. with his strange foreign ways. How life can turn on three dimes, What'd he take me for I asked? life once more became a triumph, My hair was long, I was lithe a Dutch pair took me on to Nis, but I was not a nancy man. I crossed the road, bought a loaf – I was an A1 Scottish lad! and heh, another couple stopped; Still no money, I couldn't eat, I had refound hippy luck. no-one wanted Scottish cheques. I trudged south towards Nis Jurgi and his love Marina, and slept in an urban park. he - German, she - Italian, were into Pink Floyd and the Dead. Woe the tramp who dares to stop; We spent the night at a campsite. dark is no protection from the law. I remember now, how bright the stars Half-past four a policeman nudged me, shone that night south of Nis, told me to be on my way - how content I was with life. He trailed me through the morning streets I had found two fellow souls tailed me down along the sidewalks. who were pleased to share with me Eventually, tired, I had to stop, the simple comforts of the road - but with his stick he coaxed me on bread, coffee and free chat out his patch and well beyond that views the world for all its worth. and on towards the edge of town. I loved all my time with them, Tired from too many nights outdoors, I helped them pack away their tent; weak from far too little food, we ate well, hit the road, I slept on the table of a closed cafe and past Kumanova, we turned off, until the cleaner shoo'd me on. went down a dusty road - I had no rest that morn as the birds found the church of Saint George. sang up dawn on the Balkan world. What piety it evoked this church, Was it fun to be alive? the relics enshrined in its walls. I felt fit for nothing but to die. Of all the churches, I believe Seven o'clock work began, this is the holiest of the lot. the shutters of a bank went up. Don't ask me why. I was touched. I went in, tried my luck Religion is about belief after all. and sure enough, crisis over – GREECE I changed two pounds into dinars,

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We drove to Skopje, ate mousakka, I could survive anywhere now; crossed into Greece, passed Katerina, put up the tent at the coast - I was back in sunny Greece. I slept out beneath the stars! I slept on the Acropolis without a care.

No dream is sweeter than the one Mykonos forgotten with the rising sun. I stayed six weeks on Mykanos, Fifty miles short of Athens, on the beach east of town - we parted ways, said goodbye. fifty pence a day, I ate eggs, On to Eribus they went, soup, spaghetti, and green beans, I picked up by other friends – drank ouzo, chatted up the girls, a pleasant Greek and teenage son behaved as any youngster might. who bought me a mousakka lunch. The days passed, the nights went, Athens friends were made - Glenn, Klaus, friends lost to time - Dave and Jan, An hour's walk I reached Omonia, who cannot be had back- Carl, Darryl, I carried on towards the Plaka - and first, resting at the bottom, they were a beginning and an end. I climbed up to the Acropolis. For struggles may rack Tblisi, A young boy spoke with me, fighting may divide Osijek, bought me a pineapple crush; faith may split Beirut all we could speak about was football, and people see no end – the universal sport of the world. end is beginning it is said. I continued up the winding road to the stairs of the Pantheon - The end came on the glorious twelfth, I clambered over the ruined shrine I had all of two pounds left. and let its history become mine. Glenn, Carl, Darryl and I said goodbye to Dave and Jan, At eight they threw me out; on the Agora, looking down and on a stormy Sunday night I smoked the hash Jurgi gave me leaving from Saint Stephen's beach - and sat content for two hours, a small boat thrashed through the waves, wet we stepped aboard the Patras, the lights of Athens far below, the journey of three weeks over. and below the stars Homer charted, I found a place to sleep on deck. Out there in the dark Aegean, lay the Mykanos I'd left. Though thousands go every month, Since then, I had changed, all these years - I've not returned.

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Mykanos remains unspoiled, Newly shod, one size too big, and as it was when I was young. I reached Larisa, got a lift - a French couple with two young kids, I have no wish to undo life a caravan attached behind, by seeing again that lovely isle. they left me out near Thessalonika. The Road to Istanbul The rest of the way by scooter behind a Greek who tooted everyone; Athens; I gave blood, got three quid; a hearty meal of rice, green beans, saw Glenn and Darryl off to Crete.. then a trek through the centre - Carl fronted me five pounds as I was going to Istanbul – to the road for Istanbul where I slept on stony ground. he wanted one gold, one silver ring, the puzzle types that interlock; Next day, five hours in the sun, he was flying out for home, I waited for a ride to come, a house he rented Bromley Road; the ride that would take me on to where Constantine had sat, he was just an Aussie bloke who had a job by Earls Court. where Justinian's Byzantium gave way to Sultan Ahmet's rule, I walked miles out of Athens, then Suliman, then Ottoman, my sandal broke just at dusk; had given sway to modern Istanbul. I had lost my walking boots while sleeping on Bastia beach; An English couple, twenty-odd, with their trendy hippy look now I found my sandal bust took me in their 2CV - I was barefoot hitching north. through what was left of Greece; I met two French girls and a guy and kipped beside them in the dark. we supped on bread, soup and tea, and camped off the road in peace. Morning - dirty, hot and hungry, I tried hitching with my pals; An early start across the bridge, no good came of that - one side blue, the other red, three hours on, a Greek took pity the days of fighting not long done, the tension of the past alive; and then a London couple stopped, looked at me, my dirty clothes, we crossed the frontier pretty quick my matted beard, my bare feet, and drove pell-mell on to where and muttered 'Jesus Christ British?' the roads to Istanbul-Izmir split. They went south, I went east; 'What size sneakers do you wear?' Threw me out a size ten pair. I have their London address still.

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On I went with some Swiss, donkeys whipped, flies on fruit; we arrived at six at the city; it all seems so normal now, they mucked about, darkness fell, but then - at eighteen, young and green they let me out at a hotel – I was a naive European - the Gungar, near the Pudding Shop Time teaches what tales cannot, between the city's two great mosques. and tales are nowt but idle talk until you've seen the lot yourself. TURKEY - Istanbul At last I found the factory shop, I had a wash, combed my hair, a first floor room up wooden stairs, descended to the Pudding Shop - and there in three metres square, a place where travellers going east hunched fifteen boys on three leg stools. talked with those new returned. Candles lit the tiny room, With their many tales of woe charcoal smoke filled the lungs, and stories that had all enthralled, the smell of sulphur, silver, gold, these travellers bent my young ear the tap of hammers, snip of shears, with scores of Asian city names – the grate of files on the ears; Tehran, Herat, Kabul, Lahore, the look of boys, tired, scared, a Canadian with talk of Delhi - and I amidst the rag-clothed throng, his friends about Kashmir and Bombay; a tramp amongst my own kind, I listened till they grew weary, bought from them thirty rings the shop lights dimmed, the shutters for little less than seven pounds, closed; one year's wages for a boy - I shook their hands - they were heroes! They were the knights of the road. I returned to the Gungar, washed my long flowing hair, I slept in room one-o-seven, brushed it dry on the roof in a bed - the first for months, listening to the muessin's call - but in the morning, hot and bitten, I changed my room to the roof – carried over from the Blue Mosque, one of Islam's most treasured shrines. to have the most splendid view; Saint Sophia left, Blue Mosque right, Barefoot I crossed to the mosque and in between the Golden Horn. that Sultan Ahmet built so well; I washed my feet at the fountain, I meandered through the Grand Bazaar, covered my flesh the Muslim way. searching for the gold ring shop; dazed for hours in it's maze - At the door, armed guards stood; copper urns on human heads, they turned me back, my feet were dirty; I went to the fountain, washed,

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but by the time I'd reached the door We slept an hour, then got up, dried our bags, picked some plums, my feet were dirty once more - said goodbye, then split up. the guards shook their sticks at me This is the way it is with bums. and chased me from the sacred door. I hitched on to Alexandropolous; That night - a meal of rice and beans, nine hours passed 'neath blazing sun, simple fare for most Turks, then a scooter, next a three-wheeler I was at the edge of all I knew; took me to Makri five kay further – I'd been wayfaring a hundred days, where sunset came, and I found sleep there was more to life than being alone; in a Macedonian field. in the morning I would turn for home. Next day turned out a little better, Thus began my homeward journey, some Germans dropped me off in Zanthi; fourteen days of trampish existence; three Italians - to Salonika south-east edge to north-west fringe, and on beyond some twenty kilometres four thousand kay across Europa. where I waited till it drew dark. It all began six next dawn, I pulled out my sleeping sack I bused it to the city walls just as a Swiss-reg beeetle stopped where I hitched for three hours, a Bavarian with the name of Axel – picked up by the Swiss again! took me towards the Yugo border, TURKEY/GREECE - Macedonia but he ran out of petrol.

At Terkidag, I hitched anew, He waved down a passing car, a lorry stopped to load some straw, bought some gas to reach the frontier, the driver pointed to the back, filled her up, and on we pushed he drove me six kay short of Greece. to a bar near Tito Veles.

A taxi-man took me free of charge We ate meat-bean soup with salad, to the frontier's painted bridge, drank black coffee and biscuits, I walked ten kay in the heat, put down some shots of slivovich, and just before onset of dusk and slept in Axel's car. met a Frenchman Athens bound; YUGOSLAVIA - Macedonia we shared some bread, a little water, slept the night in an orchard. It pains me now to think back on the next few days we were together; We woke at four to pouring rain; Axel - wearing contact lenses, the sky had opened, torrents fell; woke to find his eyes infected; I scrambled out my sleeping bag and as I did, the downpour stopped! he could not drive on that day,

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we spent the day in Tito Veles; Dalmatia Axel slept, while I more restless wandered that Balkan hillside town On we went to Dubrovnik, ate salami, bread and honey, that overlooked the Vardar river; toured the ancient city walls the hills were dry, the soil poor, and marvelled at it all – it's people rustic, dull-clothed, sincere. Here was a city time had loved Kosovo and left intact despite the wars.

Next day, Axel's eyes improved, Up the Dalmatian coast we drove; on we drove Skopje, Prizren, Split, Rijeka, Trieste - the West! on through Dakovic to Pec We left the East in the wet. and up the Cakar Pass we went. Stopping once for some tea – Vicenza's roughly where we slept. Forty miles of dirt track road though the forests to Murino; SWITZERLAND - Zurich this region known as Kosova, they have their problems with the Serbs; Dawn we travelled on - Milano, and sometime in the afternoon Albania's mountains to the west, we reached Axel's cosy flat past a frontier post we flashed, in the heart of modern Zurich. border guard and wilderness, on to Andrijevica we sped – Oh rejoice! what a trip! Four nights, five days on the road. dust and trees and broken road, Washed and shaved, in clean clothes, a part of Europe so remote - Axel took me on the town. though I have made it not sound so. I met his friends, told my tales, Montenegro they wondered at my nerve - to sleep in fields, live carefree At Kolasin we turned south when life cost so much these days. on Highway Two for Titograd; Tito was alive those days, Axel laughed, told them off, he was the father of the nation – they were just a bunch of snobs, he said they should chuck their jobs The Yugoslavic federal state to be like me - they all agreed! which in the year ninety-one became a war-torn ruined place. Three days I spent in Zurich, Axel and his friends were warm; We made Petrovac by dusk, they treated me as their own; we stopped for coffee and some booze; they gave me money for my trip – drunk, we slept in the car northwards home to Scotland. above the Adriatic cliffs.

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GERMANY/BELGUIM/ENGLAND

Another night outdoors, near Koln, next the boat Ostend to Dover; I got to London around mid-day, found my way to Bromley Road; there I gave Carl his rings and spent two nights on his floor.

SCOTLAND

September First, I hitched home, back to grey stone stoic Glasgow; my parents were relieved to see me, I was a shade near black - which came off with a bath; and thus I was back.'

NARR: Here, the Wanderer stopped the story of his second trip; to a point I knew the rest, three weeks later he had departed for university in England.

The candles had gone out, it was late, he showed me out. The snow had gone, I was amazed, he looked at me with his gaze, there was something strange in his face.

I felt as though I'd been bewitched, and sure enough, when I got home I found a year had passed since I had gone to see him.

How this was, I do not know, the year was nineteen ninety-two. Yet, life is too short to dwell on things that take place in the past.

I knew intrigue would have me speak with him again. When that was to be I could not say or guess.

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ESCAPE INTO THE MOUNTAINS

THE BO NNY FALLS On by bus to the foothills; [2.23am, 18th March 1991, Glasgow] on by foot into the woodlands; mile for mile along the footpaths - Up the Bonny Falls we climbed deep into the Highlands. Beyond the slums and the power, On through Mugdock, to Carbeth, And on we climbed beyond the linn, to the standing stones of Goyach; And on a crag overhead, beneath the shadow of Dungoyne - We climbed up through ash and heather, hay rounds and dry stone dykes. Beneath a pine we lay together, Smell of whiskey, pine and moss, Rush of fall and words together, through Gartness, near Killearn - Sundown raining on forever. the Endrich burn bubbling on: north - Loch Lomond shimmering. In the bracken, sky and river, Into the trees Drymen fades, In the wild, tree and lichen, the forest gobbles all it sees; We let the world go down river, silent, still, the Scots pine squeeze We let the future fly to heaven, the oaks out of existence. Forgiven not, forbidden never, In Woman's copse - Garadhban, In the new moon’s silver glimmer storm dead the past is strewn; We worded wishes to the stars, In the hot September sun, And listened to the roaring river. the hottest Scotland's ever known - Dusty leads the Western Way DEAD PO ETS FO RM NO SO CIETIES dreams and debris blown. [March? 1991, Glasgow] No fire has pyred the romance yet, perhaps one day before too long. Eliot lies in ashes in Coker yard - Betjeman rots not far from Harrow Hill; In such heat Strathclyde scorches, Thomas haunts nightly the shore of ground dry like the Gobi waste; Swansea Bay; McDiarmaid pushes daisies woodland plants limp and brittle, where thistles used to be. dwarfed blackberries hanging shrivelled. Out on the open moorland, ESCAPE INTO THE MO UNTAINS across the ebbed Kilandan burn, [7th-11th Sept 1991, West Highland Way, on past hikers puffed and blistered, Scotland] on and up steep Conic Hill. Aye! the view across such country! Ben Lomond snowless to the north, (I) Balmaha beneath in oakwood, Loch Lomond sail-lite hued. Leave the grey city streets, Across the water - Alps of Arrochar, leave the office work behind; the Argyll peaks beyond Loch Fyne, leave the sleepless nights - go! to the south the knolls of Bute Escape into the mountains. just beyond the Renfrew Heights. There! - the Clyde, distant, white,

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where Arran's sleeping giant aye rests - than any Campbell swine. where Celtic legend outlives life Thus his fame outlives his deeds in names, beliefs, and rights. despite being a cattle thief; But there, below on Lomond loch, in the Rostan trees he hid man-made islands, three thousand years; and lived his secret life. the Isle of Old Queens - built upon He knew Rochoish and Cailness burn, cranogs we'd like to know about. the gnarled root way to Inversnaid where the Campbells did their worst Our history! know we ourselves? to put the chiel in chains. Us Celts, our trust is in the past - See that rock by the road? And still - something in these woods It's a cyst for the dead. makes the past come alive - Yet, bathers swim in Craigie's waters, Loch Lomond lapping on block-rock speedboats brave Inchcailloch channel, that some ice-age dislodged. wind surfers skeet by Arrochymore, Until at last - at the Snaid, and flaunt their city manners. a bridge high above the falls - Have they have been to Mallorca? this darksome burn, horseback brown, Have they have done Waikiki? this rollrock highroad roaring down; Have they have sunned in Cancun, This coop and comb fleeced in foam and lain on Bondai beach?. to the loch falling home - takes the traveller to the Lodge Such is the drudge of urban life - for tea and morning scones. while sap seeps from a weeping pine, silence heals the shed of tears Tired, yet the legend lures in the hollow of Amair. the trekker on to Rob Roy's cave, a crevice in the fallen rocks Glimpse of pasture, grazing land above the Lomond waves. along Sallochy's oak wood path, What waves? such calm days tumbling over sheer-drop crags, man-made from speed-ski tows; stumbling over fern-crowned rocks. a blonde-haired lassie scooting on Ross Wood, Black Tarn, Rowardenan, I Vow Isle's shores. beyond - respite, human comforts - And there, watching from the beach black beer in a hostelry; beneath the Fritihich crags, and a broad bed of white linen. a lone hiker bathes himself - his lunch a slab of cheese. ( II) While through the trees the way leads on Red Robin sitting on a fence, through a cull of fern, Rowardenan left behind - burns dry to their boulder beds; through the trees to Ptamigan Lodge ten days since the heavens bled. then steep down to the lochside. The wreckless carry on regardless Hereabouts Rob Roy roamed, along the River Falloch track, his prisoners kept on a crag; and on they go for their reward he was more a nationalist to drink from Falloch falls.

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Such are the waters from Ben More, on the eve of Bannockburn. three thousand feet above - a source Thirteen-fourteen hundred years, first a trickle, then a gush, Fill's parts have healed the sick, then a roar towards Loch Lomond. now glass-cased in Edinburgh; all that's left of him is, limbs. Further north - across the river, The fate of all famous men the way meets the Military Road, is to have their parts preserved - the road that General Wade constructed Westminster kirk or some museum to bring the Southern hordes. how saintly can such action be. I will take the Highland cause, So onwards - past Fillan's well though I am but a Lowland man, where once the insane were made well, to hell with better British life until the magic was destroyed the breaking of the clans was wrong. by throwing a black-bull in. Wrong? One wrong made another wrong; Such Scots there shall always be - cruelty in the name of progress. Scots who'd have us all believe Exiled by English law, that doing good is a disease - the Highland man exiled the Redskin. Thank god for old Saint Fill. And on this old military road, trekkers now traverse the West, Past Auchtertyre, across White Bridge, on they trudge to rest the night Cononish stream tricking on - in Crainlarich beds. through the fields of Dalrich where McDougall beat the Bruce. (III) In the woods of hewn timber, along the banks of Crom Allt, Through Herive wood from Crainlarich, past the bridge of croft Glengarry the morning dew still on the ling; by lower Tyndrum's walks munros peaking through the mist: Where Wordsworth walked in a storm, skylarks, swifts and swallows. crouched on naked rocks rain swollen, Sun breaking out on Fillan glen saw the cloud sequestered heights up the strath to Tyndrum's gold - and marvelled at mountain life. If there are other lands like this Still not a town, a village yet, they must be up in heaven. big business now is moving in, tourism fostered on the back Down the braes to Fillan's side, of the gold mine boom. shallow, clear and flowing south, banked by the old lead mines: If this is Scotland here and now, there's gold in Fillan's waters. a Scottish accent hard to find, Celtic history is all mounds, then Scots must ask themselves - more ancient ruins oak-tree bound, Can we call Scotland ours? where Saint Fillan, Ferdach's son, What have we lost? Our history? built his chapel by the burn. Our lochs now lakes? Our bens now Five relics of that holy prince, peaks? five durach held his holy parts; We are a nation of three kinds - Bruce sent for Fillan's arm Celt, Pict and Anglophile.

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Too few can claim Pictish blood; to a mound goes the road. Too few wholly Celtic thrive; A shot rings out from the woods, Too many now of Angle tongue a gunman stalking his wild prey; buying-up and selling. past the Forest Lodge and up Yet, still the munroes tower above, towards Black Mount and Little Beag. impulsing those far below Towards An Torr, then Ben Toiag, to climb into their shrouding clouds, Wade's old road twists and turns wild about them churning. until it crests the watershed Till pangs of nationalism ease, to cross the Rannoch waste. the world beneath beyond control - Few men have ever made a home the rain lashes down the glen - Though out the world on land like this, God has no existence then. where in an instant mist is down and summer turns to howling gale. And on the trekker treads his way Deergrass, sundew and tormentil, along the route by Ben Odhar; bog pondweed and cladonia spore; along a way time has passed this is the world of Rannoch Moor and left it's scarring mark. ringed by rugged bleak munroes. Dorian shades the whole terrain, To the east - Schiehallion, the larch of Auch to the west, sacred peak of the Pict, Horseshoe Bend across Auch glen towers over a small yew wood and the Allt Chonoghlais. containing Europe's oldest tree. Dorian's crags roll with scree, to crash into the Coire Chailein, No trees stand on Rannoch Moor, and climbers with their mutton feet bog, bog, peat, peat, peat; descend the leacann side. water flows in off the hills to saturate brooding fen. And on towards Bridge of Orchy, Hence, The Moss and the Ba, The Clach-a-Ben on its own - where Wade bridged its raging burn, a rock the size of a house a few rowan in the lee in a moor of bleached sheep bone. or on the rocky brink. And on, in cold to the clachan, And there upon a sheep-gnawed knoll, Twilight on the western sky, trekkers rest, make their tea no stars out above the bunkhouse; until the midges drive them on rain to come before the dawn. towards windswept Chaorach. Past Raven Crag and Wailing Knob (IV) where deer rut in the booru winds, where cairns stand for the dead Mist hanging on the Tulla hills that death stalked on the moor. of white-beak sedge and clubmoss - And on towards White Corries tow, the smell of myrtle in the air into the valley of Glen Coe, by asphodel and sphagnum bog. into the shadow of Shepherd Mount - Between Mam Carraigh and Doire Darach, the black rock face of Etive Mor. the rock-cliff pap and wood of oak, And those weary of the wild - down the hill to Inveroran shelter in the Kingshouse Inn

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until they gather up their strength they have never known such heat and march towards Ben Beg. in this end summer month. Until the Moor of Rowantree Hill Up the slope of Rocky Hill meets the Loch of Wooden Quern, to reach the Cliff of Extent the way in line for Callous Cleft down which seeps the Boggy Loch beyond the round of Hollow Ridge. from off the Little Ben. Down this road fringed by ling, And once again on Wade's road down the banks cross-leaf heathed, across the West Highland hills, down the way bell-heather lined snaking up the steep cliff side to where the cinquefoil gives. of the Devil's Staircase. And there, above, the highest crest The way climbs MacMartin's Stob, Ben Nevis broods with cloudy eye descends towards the Sallow stream, as trekkers drop through pine and spruce rounds the nose of Odhair Beg below Tuft Pin' and Eagle Peak. and on towards Loch Leven - And there by the banks of Nevis burn, Down to where the myrtle's tall, the journey ends for the few - where rowan's fruit, heather crawls An Garrisan looms tourist bright down to where the waterfall and the seals of Linnie sing - washes Kinlochleven. 'You who've trekked the Himalayas! (V) You who've climbed the High Alps! You who've hiked the Central Andes Is there land like this on Earth - Welcome to Lochaberside!' Loch Leven in the morning sun, birchwood giving out to ash And there a hundred miles on - beyond old Mamore Lodge. and a hundred more after that, The wheatears chatter up the glen lies Knoydart, Assynt, the Gaelic Isles where Lairig men had their crofts. where few are want to wander far, Ruins now - a silent place escape their inns for the wild - where Lairig stream trickles on. the wide beyond the city grey What clan of men homed the mor? far beyond the Highland Way. Stob Ben as their high munro - where have all the children gone? THE WO RLD FREES BUT WE ARE Mamore ridge no longer crossed. CAUGHT The house of the mountaineer - [2.37pm, 18th Sept 1991, Banchory] Ben na Caillach - Old Woman's Hill; the Great Pass between the Ranges There is no quiet, only storm is quiet and deathly still. And gale where peace was found; Time moves against those who try A place where tranquil calm hung out to tame the land for their needs; Is but a sphere of violence now. the ruins of Lairigmor are stones - For shifting sands and changing tides stones once more the glen's. And dunes all drift with time - And over these stones, trekkers go Waters frozen on winter's lakes in the burning Highland sun - Thaw to turn winter out -

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And where silence held supreme NEW YEAR’S EVE Chatter echoes through the trees; For the Lyons of Hull Stillness in the undergrowth [11.30pm, 29th December 1991, Glasgow] Stirs awake and loudly breathes. Oh where can rest now be sought? I am old beyond my years, The world frees - but we are caught. I’ve seen time pass me by, I’ve seen many left behind. LYNDA I’ve seen the road many trek [11.26pm, 23rd October 1991, Glasgow] Without a look or backward glance – Yet here you see, I stand! Oh sweet gentle sniffling faun, Winter comes as Autumn falls Older still I am by years, Into the future no one knows I have lived through war and peace, Or where or when a cold goes. I’ve gone through famine, feast; I have thirsted, I have supped, We are left with tissued days I have praised and I have cursed; That leave us duvet-sofa bound - I am as you see me, thus! Ah for perfect summer walks And sweat upon our brows. Middle in all things I am, Neither one nor other thing – For now we itch, scratch and flake, I have steered a centre course, Our noses stuffed - we are weak, I’m neither young, nor old, We cannot work, we cannot sleep Neither small, neither tall, And soup is all we eat. I am between and halfway so!

Oh is there some answer to it all? I have all things recent done, Why those we love bug us most. I live for now, for the present – A kiss upon a cheek - then woe! I have no use for the past, Their germs strike us low. The future is beyond my grasp; I take all things as they come, Yet we brave a smile and sneeze Take me now, as I am! And break a laugh before a wheeze. We will not give into the foe! I am young, bright eyed, fresh, We fight until it goes. I am full of life’s full breath – Give me sun and wind and rain, And so sweet dear Lindy love, Give me hills and lashing waves; Kiss goodbye your sniffs and bugs. I’ve no time to waste or lose, Greet the world with all your must I am free to pick and choose. And set about your stuff! Younger still, I am growing, Work! I am sapling, supple, lithe – I will bend, I will flex, I will make many friends; Tomorrow will be better still.

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Better that, if you will! Until the coming of dawn and the first light - Soon the old will be the new, Then up she got without saying goodbye Soon the recent be the past, Picked up her case and lit out. Soon the present will be recent Soon the now will be the bye; I watched her get into a cab for Palma, Soon the future will be here – She looked up, and then she was gone - There will be the new year come! An hour later, I saw a plane pass over And recalled the first words she had said. MY NAME IS MARY [11.59pm, 10th Jan 1992, Santa Ponca, “My name is Mary, I’m alone and I’m Mallorca] lonely, Do you think I could buy you a drink? I went stand-by to Palma, to buy me a I’ve left my husband and kids back in beer bar, England, I wanted some sun, sand and air - I don’t know if I’ll see out the dawn.” Instead I got lonely, went on the bottle And reflected on all my lost years. VALDEMOSSA [8pm, 14th January 1992, Santa Ponca] Then one night, on a bar stool in Paguera, Alone I sat counting my change - Bitter is the olive flesh, A voice at my shoulder asked for a vodka Tart the orange and sour And I turned to look at her face. In the terraced fields and groves Of Mallorca winter time. There what I saw I’ll always remember Was a lady with a suitcase and coat, Rotten is the almond nut, She sat down beside me, lit up a menthol, Dry the black fig fruit, And these were the words that she spoke. Shrivelled the Valdemossa vine And pomegranate seed. “My name is Mary, I’m alone and I’m lonely, Yet never have I seen such Do you think I could buy you a drink? Sweet melancholic beauty - I’ve left my husband and kids back in I close my heart and die England, When I think of Glasgow’s grey - I don’t know if I’ll see out the dawn.” Walnut, date, palm, lemon, We went down to the beach, sat on the Apricot, rose and elder flower cold sand Where green oak, carob, pine, And spoke of the partners we’d loved. Poplar, cypress, all entwine. After awhile, we went to a hotel And took a room for the night. Varied hues in leafy tangle, Perched above the deepest chasm - We lay together sharing a bottle I will chew the olive flesh And smell the almond blossom.

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SON MORAGUES THE LADY IN THE FUR WRAP [8.50pm, 14th January 1992, Santa Ponca, [16.24pm, 4th April 1992, Pollok House Mallorca] Library South Window, Glasgow]

Ancient walls, ancient trees, In a fur wrap by the fire, Lined ancient roads to ancient ways; April rains on the green chestnuts, Almonds in the valley bottom, Wooden beams masked by casts, Olives terraced to the sky; Bare floorboards worn by hordes. Mountains rearing into void, Tumbling into wild ravines; As they tiptoe through the par terre, Secret paths, secluded parts, Through the window bays they pry, Shaded regions beneath ramparts; To see the lady in the wrap, Cellars, tunnels underground, The coy Goya of Pollok Park. Earthy soil, ancient footprints Of soldiers long departed. She listens to their shaking steps, Their creaking flirting with the past, SANTA PONSA Their whispers knowing not what is, [15th? January 1992, Santa Ponca, Claims for this, or that, all false. Mallorca] Four hundred years of vigil thought Who would not winter wisely Of viewing backs from other lands, Where wind and wet are winkled, They gather ‘neath her sneering gaze, Where weather will not wicked be They know not who she is or was. Or women need wear wrinkles. Silence never comes ‘till five, Santa Ponsa - you have rescued me, After which the park owl howls, I see the way life should be - She looks at them, and I at her - Not a head of greying hair She’ll outlive all of us. But a life of sand and sea.

Grey city life wears man down, Makes him chase the buck - Leaves him sleepless every night And further into debt.

Money! Root of death, decay, Wasted lives led astray - He who has - has all the say With those who want the same.

In this place, ice-plants droop, Date palms hang the squares, Eucalyptus line the roads And pine tress hem the bay.

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THE WANDERER - 3

THE THIRD JO URNEY O F THE Spring had come, banished winter, WANDERER hither came the songbird quiver, [Composed 6th April 1992 - 20th March I heard the murmurs of the river, 1994] saw the last hint of a glimmer –

The Narrator, taking a walk in a park in which he before the evening star's faint glitter. spent much of his childhood is surprised when The Wanderer emerges from the bushes and greets him. His appearance is changed and there Then I heard a crack! a break! is something in his tone that suggests that all is not well. the rustle of a laurel bough; in a spin I turned and saw SCOTLAND a hand, an arm, then a brow;

NARR: Two nights before Election Day, and with a shock that took my breath, I took a walk through Pollok Park, the twilight catching his wild eye saw narcissus 'neath a beech, that gave no flicker of surprise - my name carved in it's bark. there before me stood my friend.

Red rhodos edged the path The Wanderer! that led down to the River Cart where crouched beneath cherry blossom His handshake firm, his greeting short, I watched young anglers cast. we quickly fell into talk; he brought me up to date with life - My eye carried to the west he had moved to the Southside. where grey cloud merged with red; I wandered through the par terre; WAND: I'm living with aging parents, paused by the beggar's tree, sleeping in their small front room; I cannot say that I am rich, then broke upon the Highland cows nor say that I am poor – head to head in youthful play; heavy drops of April thumped my mother cooks every meal, upon the fresh hoofed clay. my father slips me cash.

Images from movies, destruction, war, Times are hard - not just for me, Eastern Europe still in turmoil, it makes me sick to see the gap I'd crossed that dung-filled field before, between the have's and those who don't the year Armstrong took his leap. bridge the shark-filled gulf.

Now, I leant upon the fence, So I have been to George Square a fresh-leaved chestnut overhead, with my saltire and my voice one with all, and all forever, to fly a flag for our Scotland, no winter chill, no winter shiver. for common cause and freedom!

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I have been to Calton Hill, I bought the drinks, for he was skint to meet the six who came from Syke; though he was doing puppet shows I have clench fisted raised my arm for kiddies groups - for forty quid and held aloft a burning brand. schools and parties where he could.

NARR: For what? For who? I asked; ENGLAND after all this time a Brit, had he awoken from a sleep WAND: I wish I'd stuck with Civil Eng to find himself a nationalist? and got my degree at the uni - but when I quit, I'd had enough; He would not look me in the eye, seventeen years of education, and hung his head as if the world nineteen years, four months old, had passed from others' troubled backs I couldn't wait to see the world. to rest on his. My tutor said I'd have to change, WAND: At last I am for the cause! switch to Mining Engineering - I said 'No way', I wasn't daft, NARR: What cause is that? I replied, 'Two years down the copper mines! I could not quite grasp his drift – Get someone else out to Lusaka. I'm a Scots boy, not a mug!' A cause that frees us from oppression? One that redistributes wealth? Looking back, I blew big bucks, One that makes our children strong? I'd be living high by now - One that makes us one with God? but money's not the only thing, I made sure I lived while young; We walked the drive from Pollok House, for all the money in the world up the slope to Bluebell Wood, cannot make youth return. o'er the brow into the Field where now the Burrell broods. A drop-out, unemployed. I signed on, shared a flat with Barnsley Steve, WAND: Man preserves the things he Barnsley Tony, Barnsley Nora, makes, ended up with Barnsley Mo. yet cannot store the cherry blossom, I fell in love, I met her parents, nor the harebells, nor himself; but she ran off with a sailor. in my own way, like the rest, I keep mementos of the past Renamed Maurice, she had his baby, I hope that will survive - it broke my heart. I needed saving. for memory is a flickering film with a live sound track. Oh transcendental meditation! it raised me to another station; NARR: My friend, obscure as ever, self awareness, one with one; took me down through Nether Pollok two was a crowd, three a mob; and out upon the south by-pass, Om became a sacred word into the Old Swan for a jar. that promised me eternal love.

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Soon my troubles blew away standing there with all our gear. like balloons in a gale. We waited on the old A1, It came to me as a vision - ten hours later arrived in London. India - the land of wisdom; Tubular Bells in Petty France, I would seek my fortune there; Maggie clipped her long toe-nails; to hell with the English way, We stayed in an M.P's flat - for I was not an Oxbridge boy, James Whyte, the Pollok Labour man; I was a Scot fae the Shaws. I read the Anti-Room that night, I'd reached lesson thirty three; chewed my toothbrush thoughtfully. I was earmarked for their ranks, they'd booked me for their Zurich class, FRANCE summer season in the Alps - a disciple of Lord Krishna. Next day on the Dover Quay, with some francs from a bank, I quit the Transcendental school, we put ashore in Calais, France; forewent the rules of Natural Law; we hiked out, and near Arras they were sorry when I went, I took my stinking gutties off yet what knew I of yoga life, cast them in a field of corn. how could I take the path leading eastwards to the Alps? I ripped my shirt off my back, I was white, but France was hot. I'd been there! Twice and back! Maggie bitched. We walked a lot. on my tod without mishap. Two days later, Marvejois, No, I had to find my own way, stuck out on the Massif Central - head out East all alone, the air was clear, the water fresh, turn cant dreams into knowledge, but hitching was a nightmare. go in search of myself, not in search of a guru; Next day, Pezanas, Cote d'Sud, for many lead, few guide, Maggie felt like getting drunk. and fewer still get on with life. What an alky, what a pig, she sipped, then took to swigs, Oh Maharishi Mahesh Yoga the vino ran down her lips. are you to blame for my roving? We spent the night in a ditch. Not at all! I am Scottish! I was meant to see the world. SPAIN

So, eleventh August, seventy-four, Vive Catalonia! Barcelona - six months conducting on the buses, in those days under Franco's power; off I went with Maggie Slack, the city was an army town a clippy from the Fenham run, and not a tourist haven. hitchhiking south from Low Fell,

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On towards Madrid we hitched; Now much older, Maastrict rules a truckie stopped, took us west, my head and chokes my national voice; tried to get in Maggie's vest, while across the blue divide her pants and all the rest, Clinton takes the purple robe. but I declined his money. Time moves on and freedom stales; We had ourselves a room that night, things of conscience get in the way; Hotel Espana, in old Lerida; clashes against our rulers rise floors tiled, walls white, and wither, then remain as pain. beds mattressed, sheets pinstriped; Maggie smiled, joked and laughed, The seasons change, bring forth rain; she was happy, so she said; life falls brown on potholed roads; we slept sound till midday. those who’re rich splash the poor and the downtrodden sleep all alone. Madrid Their are no answers in revolutions, We reached Madrid, went to stay no happy smiles on history's lips; with some Divine Light Mission folks; caught in the maelstrom of hurricane time we weren't allowed to drink or smoke, we perish to rebirth again. eat meat, fish or dairy produce, or wash our clothes with washing powder, Travelling in circles, passing through or have sex within their walls. hoops, You have no answers, nor do I; Sex? As if we would - you follow my journey, I shadow yours; with Ma-Jee watching us? someday we'll meet down the road - He was the Lord omnipotent; we were guests at his lodge. you will be me, and I, you of old, Oh praise the Maharaji! and between us we'll make the same mistakes. I'd heard it said on T.V., he was a dwarf who'd kidnapped God, Soup kitchens open in our towns but there was good in Ma-Jee, as more and more die of cold - that's why he had such devotees is it fair to feel self pity who were too good for me. when Major's world makes us old?

I little knew ten years later The youth within me, shrivelled, wan, his wayward clan would woo my wife, the sun has left this gloomy land; whisk her from the family home I find that only in the past and make her see the Light - did dreams come true (though did not last). This is another tale itself, for in Madrid I was free, NARR: The Wanderer was on a tangent, I could stand back, pick and choose we stood beneath the Shawlands bridge what I thought was good for me - on 'Shaws Road, and cleared his chest.

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Winter, yet again, had come first you'll burn, and then you'll sink. and bonfires lit up the sky. A firework knocked out a star, NARR: The Wanderer in his own void, it fell at our feet and glowed. making light of my turmoil, We stamped our boots, rubbed our hands; driveled on about the rain Guy Fawkes night, I was sad. that fell when he was in Spain.

That afternoon I'd been to see WAND: Britain seemed a long way north, a girl in Greenhills, East Kilbride; Scotland, Glasgow, Shawlands Cross, her house was filled with warm sunlight, the rain brought back many thoughts healthy plants on every sill; of youthful times I'd forgotten; we talked intense one whole hour, the days when summer came and went I could have talked into the night. and winter passed on to Lent.

But with her husband due home soon I had no cares, gave not a toss she was anxious she'd be found if it rained or if it poured. and took a harshness to her voice The rain always cleansed the streets; that made me ask her the time; I'd tramp about them with wet feet, we both agreed I should go Mum tried to keep me indoors before her husband found us so. saying I'd catch my death of cold;

What now I asked as I left, I'd disagree and off I'd bolt, not of her, but of myself; a thing I'd later much regret had I invaded her fine world when Dad cuffed me on the head. to covet someone else's wife? Kept in, I'd have to pass time Had I transgressed the tenth law? by the Burgh Hall quarter chimes; Would I try to break their bond? I'd watch the rain-drops steady fall.

Knowing what I did was wrong, Ripple puddles, pools and holes; Oh god of Gods! I needed help. the steamed window my artist's pad Did I turn my back on love? where I drew pictures of our dog; Was there better judgement found sketching the world of an infant in making friends, and not divide? which I believed unimportant, but prepared me for the world. For he whose anger unjoins vows can find no peace in return. The rain stopped, childhood faded, I found myself back in Madrid; WAND: Love and bible clash like steel; the sun eased through heavy cloud like red and green do not mix, and splattered rays upon the sands. like oil and water ever split, Once more free to move outside, like two poles that never meet; I chose instead to stay inside. the heart warm, full of fire; the head cold like icy water; I read about Gerald Ford - and in between, accused of sin; Nixon barely gone, resigned.

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Now nearly two decades on, full of life, a lovely smile. Bill Clinton in the Oval Office, no doubt there sits in wet Madrid, Her hair was black just like night, a Scottish guy mulling over – her eyes a rich chestnut brown; her nose petite, her skin milk-white, all that has and been before her mouth sensuous, straight-toothed, and all that will become in time. wide; her chest broad, her breasts round, Ibiza her waist slim, her belly tight; her buttocks curved, her hips broad, When we sets eyes on the Med her legs and ankles like a horse. which we saw from Valencia's shore; where young Don Juan's ship was wrecked; A horse! I can hear her voice now, where Twelve Night left Shakespeare's the high-pitched lift of Eyemouth town. head; And when I think, just twenty then, we met Flock and Hanni, she must be all of forty now. two frauleins from the High Tyrol; We landed on quaint Ibiza, They had come from Algeciras, crashed out drunk on the beach. escaping from Moroccan thieves. In short - Ibiza was a dump, Their tales of woe were so exciting, a place where all the hippies went sex, and drugs, and near death misses - out to swampland Formenterra. Maggie sat with open mouth; We hung out on Sabana beach. I let the sand slip through my fingers. I wouldn't give a fig for it! In Spain I was eager for the morrow, It rained, it shone, it rained, it shone, I knew nothing much of sorrow; it rained, it rained, it rained, it rained; big the world, big it's fortune, we spent the night cold and damp small the problems there before me. and in the morning - the cops arrived Simple needs, simple life, and told us all where to go – and Maggie with her simple smile. a hundred poor bedraggled souls, We shipped out for the Ibiza, they shipped us out on a boat out to the Balearic Isles - back to Barcelona. for we had enough of guards, of Franco's strong-arm bully boys, NARR: The Wanderer droned on and on, for we had tried to share a room, my mind was many miles away; we were shunned at every turn. for suddenly, I had recalled an evening in the Fintry Hills - Perhaps if we had not slept rough, fireworks, bonfire, drugs and booze love with Maggie might have blossomed; on a farm near Carronbridge. yet we sensed we were friends who felt our friendship near it's end. There I met a gymnast girl She was such a pretty girl, with whom I strolled beneath the moon,

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we kissed, embraced so tight I never had such sound sleep. her body stretched to equal mine before her toes left the ground How months pass with no recall. and we went spinning round and round How seasons fly, do not return. until the cold conquered us How lives exist, then cease to live. and we once more went inside. How all that’s known, repeats itself - for few can understand, or see WAND: What is there to life but giving What is now is all there’ll be. love? What is worse than none at all? Which rivers did I cross next day? All the travelling in the world Garonne? Lot? Dordogne or more? cannot make life love more. Towards Limousin I hurtled, twisting through cobbled villages NARR: And with that quip he passed on to wait in Brive, to wait in Tulle, to talk about his wandering world. for a ride - that ended in a ditch.

Perpignan I should have left him to his dent, I helped him change a tyre instead. At Perpignan we said goodbye He bought me a meal in Ussel sur Diege, I put Mag’s on a train for Lyon I spent the night in the Auvergne - accompanied by two German boys - beneath the shadow of Mount Dore, Andy Steiber and his friend. I slept on stone in a tenement close. I waved her off with no regrets Though Maggie didn’t want to go. Next morning I met Phil from New York, we jumped a train to Clermont Ferrand - But I had plans of my own - hotfooted it out at the terminal station, She was already short of cash, showered and washed at a hostel. and unless I set out alone I wouldn’t get to Istanbul, NARR: The Wanderer gave me mundane to start on the Hippy Road., facts, and the long miles to India. I tried to keep my thoughts on him, But I could not concentrate that well, Focused and selfish, both are true, I dwelt upon my gymnasts woes. my dreams were made by lonely choice, The night before, at her small house I started north upon the road two bricks came through her front but found myself going west - window. a couple in a Citroen bedstead took me to their Toulouse home. Passion driven, chard glass flew, showered us both on the sofa. A tenement flat, sun-washed, old, The police came and took away they gave me cheese, bread and meat. the two bricks marked exhibit A. Bad luck! I broke a china cup but spent the night in a bed, How did such a thing come to pass safe in France as August went; in sleepy little High Blantyre –

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where fog hangs on the lights WAND: On by Lyon, north to Thiers, and people huddled move about. up the Rhone alone to Geneva - to sit upon the hostel steps Was it something in the sky? with two young Welsh Medeas. Was it Venus sectoring Mars? Chit as chat, and chat as chit, Was it the Moon on the wane? they talked about planting mint – Or the cause a quart of Ballantines? about the garden they would grow, No excuse is good enough about work permits, things like that, that scares a woman to the quick, and books in vogue - Catch 22 - the hidden hand of a beast I promised them I’d write a book quick to chide and slow to cease And put them in it! the torment of the poisoned tongue twisting every decent thing - They laughed and kissed me on the cheeks, no good comes from such words, I blushed and read aloud to them evil eats all honest love. From a book I carried with me - Jonathan Livingston Seagull. And when insults no longer whip, the hand becomes the spoken word, NARR: There I had to interrupt, it wraps around a fragile neck, he was out of touch with people: chokes resistance, gurgles up Europe was much different then? two dead eyes, a lifeless stare Now revolt is everywhere, giving into all but faith – we have the wall at our backs. The Maastrict Bill stumbles on. a faith that keeps the mind intact after each cruel attack. They listen not to countless calls to dump the old dead ideal Hate, the product of blind faith, of Europe one, and one for all, how are such things resolved? new times have come these thousand days since they took down the Wall. In dead of night, evil lurks - for when the police were finally gone, East looks West, and West looks on And all the glass was hovered up, as Europe prepares itself for war. with the windows boarded over, the door locked, a silence reigned - WAND: Not then. every sound become a nightmare. NARR: He smiled smugly, made me angry, Every creak a shot of fear, I had to give him my own view. every trick of ear, a terror - Until the grey of dawn appeared. Time becomes Time that halts, I bared my worries to my friend for still the politicians stumble on - but the Wanderer, he was ranting on, their power crazy fool ideals without a clue about my world. leading us into Europe,

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when we an island people, different, Frau Steiber took one look at me, have no borders to contest. eye brow arched as if to say - ‘You young folks must always win, The cliffs of Dover are our frontier, have your way and pay no dues’. the Cape of Wrath our last domain, the white sea waves bounding us, And with a wink of an eye, we know the lands of our birth. She led me to the grand bathroom, handed me a spotless towel, WAND: When I left Geneva for ran the bath - I got the message, Germany- while I soaked in the suds Crossed the frontier near Lorrach, she threw my clothes in the twin tub. did I think that I was European? Not I, a young Scottish guy Oh such was life in those days - in a town where people frowned, who would wish them fade away. the old looked rather trodden on. In reflection my weekend stay A Germany not yet awakened, at the Steibers of Ammersee, non-one idle, the young polite. merited my best behaviour, I could not see a driving spirit, brought out in me my finest nature. work was the only guiding light. We went to Munich in the rain, Munich sat in a nice clean restaurant, drank coffee, ate choc-cake, Once more I came to Munich, listened to a jazz quartet twenty seven years after the War, playing fine Dave Brubeck, took the S-Bahn to Ammersee. made pleasant conversation. Andy Steiber - at the station drove me to his Hersching home - We went to Andechs Monastery, his parents were such perfect hosts. where the monks brew black beer - and there we saw a nun, I stayed three days in Schillerstrasse, ambling on the verdant grass, with Bach playing softly in my ears, a monk on her arm - Her Steiber set out his onyx chess and smoking a long-tipped fag. and badgered me to play my best. Somehow I tried too hard, Geoffrey Chaucer would have smiled I beat him with such success – At the halo round her head - not from doing pious work, he took huff and puff with me, but from the tiny little puffs demanded a rematch immediately, emitted from her pink pursed lips; but I feigned tiredness, fatigue, flirting with her courting monk - in truth I lied, was selfish, yes - and he with Bavarian pique fingering her necklaced cross, took himself off to bed. her rosary dangling from her belt.

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This is the way of the world! I dreaded another awful wait, Let no-one think it is a lie. Contemplated taking the train, Andechs beer-brewing monastery - Then to my joy, a Jordanian stopped, I could not quite believe my eyes. Offered me a driving job; He had eight cars for Amman, I bade farewell to the Stiebers, A driver short at Istanbul, I left Herrsching, set out for Salzburg, I could drive to Ankara – Took a lift that carried further He waved down a passing car. Deep into the Austrian night. Paired with a Turk called Yas, AUSTRIA He’d been picked up in Bavaria, He said the Chef was a big-shot The driver said I could stay with her, Who bought cars at German auctions, I said yes, then found out Ran them to Amman for resale She wanted ten marks for that right – I said ‘No way’, got out the car, Was he a crook? I asked the Turk, Found a haystack, crawled inside. He smiled weakly, shrugged his shoulders, And on we drove, Belgrade, then Nis, At dawn I woke to driving rain All night we drove towards the Orient. As through the hay, I poked my head, Read a sign - Bad Mittendorf – BULGARIA A scant peopled, rural place, I slept a few hours more, Across the frontier, into Bulgaria, Then rose, got wet on the road. We drove until the sunrise broke, Brought us to the cobbled streets The rain drove down, cars were few, Of Sofia – dead to the world, I took shelter from the storm, Across the main square we chattered, Stood close against a log-hut wall, Soviet flags on every pole , Huddled, watched the mist roll down Thirty years of Russian friendship The steep Alp-sides, to flood the vale Since the Soviets freed the Bulgarians Just like a Highland morn; From German occupation. I waited hopefully for a lull, Three hours passed, I huddled on. Two hundred kay from Istanbul, The Chef’s car caught us up – YUGOSLAVIA Eight vehicles once more grouped, We set off for the Turkish border. Evening saw me in a hostel Close to the Yugoslav border – TURKEY Next day a lift from Graz to Zagreb, Left me where two years before And there somehow I found myself I’d waited more than one whole day, With the car stamped in my passport; Burnt, eaten by mosquitoes, I wondered why this was so, Ignored by the Croat people. The Chef told me not to worry, I could drive on to Syria –

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He’d pay me once we got to Jordan. I sat there stunned, miming prayers, God had watched over me, Jordan? That was not in my plans, Then in a flash I felt my breathe We reached ‘Stamboul, two hours past Leave me with a gasp of air, noon, And there, leaning through the screen, And there Yas left me with the car, His hands about my gasping throat, Wishing me the best of luck; The Chef with his popping eyes, I nearly died from utter shock, Trying to choke me to death – Right there, at the Golden Horn. All the while with his foul breathe, Cursing me in Arabic. What had I let myself in for? No one had asked if I could drive, Well, what a do, I must admit, I had taken fifteen lessons, I sat and let him choke me dead – But hadn’t yet taken my test – I could not believe I was alive, And there I was at the Bosphorus, I’d been to Hell and back again. The strait between the West and East, I had cheated certain death, Trying to second gear a BMW, And seconds later, death again. Across two planks on to a ferry! The crowd pulled the Chef off me, Checked to see if I was injured – Oh woe betide the weak of heart They carried me from the car, Who take to the travelling road – And marvelled that I had not a scratch. For cheap is the price of life I was still in deep shock – When your neck is in a rope. I couldn’t hear a word they uttered, They put me in Chef’s own car, I crunched the car off the ferry Drove me to a cheap motel, With alarming jumps of jerkiness, A seedy joint by the highway. I’d had no time to meditate, He checked us into a room, I was in Asia Minor now – Had a man bring us food. The Chef’s face was thunder clapped; I waved, and stalled the vehicle twice. I lay on my bed, shocked, exhausted, Until a hand reached up my leg – We convoyed slowed out the docks, The Chef was having his revenge The noise and smog left behind; By trying to have some of my flesh, We reached the open Ankara road, I fought him off with all my strength, I hit fourth gear, cruised till dark. The greasy toad ran out of breathe, Then WHAM! I ploughed into a truck, Rolled over on to his own bed, SMASH! The windscreen went down, And lay there panting in the dark. I blacked out. Surely I was brought up right When I woke, I found two iron rails To put up such a manly fight? Lodged either side of my head – Six inches, left, five inches right, I feared the Chef would slit my throat, And I would have been decapitated. I gripped my knife beneath the sheets, Stayed awake till first light broke,

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Prepared to tip-toe out the door, Spewing oil upon its shores – But Chef awoke, coughed and spat, Sumburgh Head to Ninian’s Isle, Said it was time to hit the road. Shag and salmon, otter, seal, Poisoned by the killer slime. My battered car brought up the rear, We stopped five hours short of Ankara; The Wanderer was in his own world, The other drivers and the Chef The blizzard but a small diversion, Ate lunch together, I was shunned, He still talked of Turkish sun, They spoke with vile contorted mouths, The swish of dust in his throat - Spat their words with crooked smiles, Then finally, their huddled heads Ankara together, Plotted my imminent murder. WAND: I arrived in Ankara, I was going up Cankaya Hill, I left the keys in the ignition, A stranger, stopped me in concern, Took my pack, started walking, Asked if I needed help – The Chef shouted – I ignored him, He had sensed my distressed state, We were in a Turkish tavern garden, Took me in a domush taxi, A public place, with many watching, To his parent’s plush detached house. I kept walking, hit the highway, Not once did I look back, out of fear Haldun Ozen, an Ankara boy, In a sweat, under the blazing midday sun. Went to school in McLean, Virginia – He was studying economics, Five kays I walked to forget death, Planned to be a Turkish big-shot, All the while expecting Chef, His dad connected with the government, To chase me, have his way - His mom stayed at home all day. Instead I found myself free again, Free now to embrace the East. He smuggled me into his basement, His play-room out of bounds to parents, Will I forget that Friday, thirteenth day, I could stay the whole weekend, ninth month of the year, seventy four? His dad had gone to Istanbul, Hardly an auspicious time – Left him as the head of house. Yet I lived to tell the tale. I met his sister, she was nice.

NARR: The Wanderer broke from telling With Jimi Hendrix on his stereo, me Blasting our Star Spangled Banner, About his Turkish misadventures; He told me about D.C life, By now, we’d sheltered in a pub In a Maryland hip-jive voice, To escape the torment of a blizzards – Showed me how to play tabla, Gale force twelve battered hard Backgammon till it went midnight. Every window in the nook Where friends together mulled events, He set out a canvas bed, Shook their heads about the Braer Said goodnight, went upstairs, Breaking up on Shetland’s rocks, And in the dark, tired, worn,

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I could hear the scratch of rats – Too late, the lady returned home, But it was Asia after all, A bulky, well worn, swell of flesh – Where man was closer to the wild. Her hair was matted, her breasts huge. She came at us like a tank, Half-nine, a servant brought me breakfast, And even Haldo turned and fled, Then I headed for our embassy – Escaped the thrust of her embrace; A journey full of winding turns, We returned to the basement, A long trek of sun and dust; Smoked some hash, played chess. No visa needed for Iran, Yes, one needed for Afghanistan, Next day, for the Afghan visa, And Nepal, not Pakistan, I tried to pay with Scottish pounds – Nor India where I could stay The Consul simply shook his head, Ten years if I wished. ‘Bank of England, marks, or dollars.’ A Danish guy helped me out, Not so now, and rightly so, Bought two from me as souvenirs. Three months your wack all told. He was one of forty kids Next, I dolmushed to the station Travelling east in six old buses To buy a ticket for Tehran – Some Afghans had bought in Munich. The train went once a week, Their plan, to start a bus company, And four pounds second class. To run a service Heart – Kabul. Four days, two thousand miles - Baba bar! Tesekhur Allah! They’d got aboard in Istanbul, That was what I called value. Some paid less than the others – Ten pounds to get to Kabul, I returned to Haldo’s house, They were on the Magic Bus! Sat outside, watched the day – Freaks from around the world, The trees swayed in the wind, Stockholm, Dublin, Rio, Texas, Too few birds to make for song. Drop-outs, students, and Nam dodgers The children’s cries echoed loud, Like James Ballou, Keene, New I fixed on the distant clouds, Hampshire, I watched a man hose his lawn, Or Retta Ratts of Weather Ford, The sun still warm, going down, Or Jeffrey Jennings from California – People strolling past, heads lowered, Like me, they were on the road, Caught up in their daily chores. Heading East full of hope; The world seemed a better place Haldo made me take some pills, Going east than staying home. Off we went, out on the town, He took me to a whore’s house, Next day was start of Ramadan, But she was on her business rounds. The month of fasting, dawn till dusk, I felt sleepy, awkward, shy, Seven a.m, till seven at night, I did not want to wait around – Few would pass food or drink. I was desperate to read a book, But being a heathen Christian boy, To fill my empty Scottish mind. Not prone to Muslim ways,

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I ate bread, drank tea – As I sipped the fresh brewed tea, I was young, knew not how Ate a chocolate coated biscuit, To respect the fine Islam faith, The Wanderer picked up where That wiser now I can accept, He’d left off, some time before. And not abuse like Rushdie has, Despite the flaw that woman’s worth WAND: When I reached the Iran border, Is not the equal of a man’s. I was taken off the train, My passport was not in order. Carsamba went, Persembe came, Where was the car? Sold for profit? I said goodbye to Haldo Ozen – He was off back to school, The guards marched me up the hill. Is Haldun Ozen a big shot now? I watched as the train departed, Who can say if he thrived? My heart sank as it went – Or got himself a Yankee wife? Bare hills and open wilds, There was I in Kurdistan, I got aboard the Tehran train, Facing years in Turkish jail. Found a carriage full of Freaks ….. They took me to the Kommandant, A captain – he spoke good English, NARR: The Wanderer rattled on and on, His lieutenant fluent too – But I had drifted off myself – Listened to my woeful tale I heard a voice on television About the Chef and his car, Talk as if the world were fine, How I’d wrecked it, nearly died, That all the ails of our day And how the Chef in his anger, Were not the faults of politicians? Tried to strangle me to death – He said the poor held us back, How I’d escaped the evil man, The unemployed must do something, And spent six days in Ankara. No longer can the state provide For those who live on state handouts. They asked if I could find the car, I said it’s probably in Amman. Not yet a bud on a tree, The scratched their heads – Nor green shoot signs of recovery. Talked, low in Turkish I cannot help but think that I Called a guard to take me out, Failed to grasp John Major’s sense. While they discussed my situation. Was I alone in my world? Or did I share it with my friends? It was midday and baking hot, It was the autumn equinox - While I thought on this matter, I kicked up dust in the compound, My friend made a pot of tea; Baked hard earth, top layer cracked. We were in his mother’s house, It was the tenth of February – It was a well manned army post, Time had skipped yet again, In all, perhaps forty soldiers, Spring was but a month away. Out on patrol most of them, Keeping a watch on the Shah’s men.

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Who would have guessed five years on, The lamp turn’t out, there I lay The Shah, the richest man on earth, With half a dozen Kurdish folk, Would flee Khomeni’s black-clad hordes, Exhausted by the day’s events, And quit Iran to Shi’ite force. The smoke-hole gaping overhead, The sky aglow with unknown stars, Called back into the see the Captain, That filled the emptyness. We drank mint tea, mulled things over – If I could somehow lose my passport, Too many stars in my life, How would I get another one? Not enough bright moonlight, Well, I said, I am British, Dark is the universe to its end, Its not that hard to get things done. A bit like life in old age. I’d go to the British embassy, And ask them for a brand new one. Next day, the Captain drove an army jeep, They were astonished, no, impressed, across the dry, wild terrain, Clapped their hands, patted me, Took me west to a village, Poured arak, we all took sips - Warned me warmly - don’t return by And that was that, I was free. train. He bade farewell, and I caught And all the while I thought back a mini-bus on to Van - To Mr Q, lately of Mauritius, where by the shore of the lake, Who two years before in Petty France I caught the ferry on the run. Got me a passport in twenty minutes! Ten hours across the placid lake, Not so easy this time round, Night fell as I reached Tatvan, The embassy sited back in Ankara, The muezzin called the end to fast, A two day trip by bus and ferry, The faithful broke from their Orug, Across Turkey’s hinterland – Ate like no tomorrow mattered. But I was cheerful, only slightly miffed That I would be going back there. The bus horn sounded, all aboard - The bus for Ankara heaved with folk, As dusk fell, the post flag lowered, Filled with smoke, loved ones embraced, I was well advised to keep Made farewells, parted sad. My backpack, money, and my goods The luggage creaked in the racks In the Captain’s safe for safety. As we waited, as mothers cried My boots were put in there too, And sons declared they’d be back; Perched on a stack of papers. Until at last we departed, and Tatvan’s lights turned to black. So it was I spent the night On some ancient Kurdish rugs, Eighteen hours, through half of Turkey, I slept as sound as any might, We reached Ankara next afternoon – Between the walls of Kurdish daub, I hurried to the British embassy, Beneath the roofs of thatch and wood, A consul clerk took my details, Cold the night as hot the day. And in a polite official tone,

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Said come back tomorrow morning. Fertile, green, with long straight roads, The land of Shah’s Palava, oil Outside, I clutched my old passport, On which the Persian lion roared, Should I throw it, burn it, what? While all around her, Afghan, Iraqi, I scratched my head, then remembered, Ran before its mighty claws. A week had passed since I had washed My hair - I needed respite, Proud Iran, how it has fallen Instead of agonising over tosh. From mighty power to friendless nation; If there is hope for its future, I met a French Canadian freak, Its in the history of its people – Who led me back to his hotel, Where we talked dope and girls, Allah has found his disciples, ready About our days still to come. To spread his teachings and the life, But failed to quell their warlike-minds Life. What is it without hope, So Aryan, so like ourselves – In between the booze and dope? Let not us not judge them bad, The British are by far much worse. New day, new passport issued, And safely put in my neck pouch, NARR: I thought about what he said, I got on a bus to Erzerum, Our country now, suffering under Major, Trundled east hour on hour, The selling of our forest lands Saw a flag draped coffin pass To privateers and speculators. Sticking out an old car boot, I was angry, and rightly so - The way a bodger carries wood, But powerless to find a voice. No end could be less becoming than Travelling luggage class to heaven. The bad summer was almost gone, The worst for well on fifteen years, Dogubayazit, beneath Ararat, The sun had barely shone at all – Where Moses docked his home-made Ark, It had rained all May and June, Cowes idled on the road, July cloudy, cold and grey, Ducks waddled where they pleased, Most of August much the same. Goats gnawed at all things green, Trucks ran horse-carts off the road. Now the kids were back at school, It grew dark by nine o’clock, Day and night they merged as one, Every day seemed the same, As on I travelled to Iran, The Wanderer had moved to Garnethill, Eastern Turkey, dust and chaos, Two up, left, in a slum, Barren land and stoney fields, The windows rattled, floorboards creaked, So poor a man may sell his soul But with a view from the lounge, And receive a bill for his labour. The Campsies, the spired West-End, The sun going down every night, IRAN The way it had four years before When I’d met him in Kelvinside, Oh what a difference in Iran, Staring into the Kelvin Water.

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Not now the hottest summer of the I began to feel he was right. century, I shivered sitting by his window, WAND: I mean, man, in Iran Watching the motorway traffic chug No sooner was I over the border, Nose-tail through the rush-hour. Some kids stared hurling rocks at me, Like something straight out the bible – I had come to talk of Sarah, A stoning! And I the victim How we had parted, gone our ways, Because I was a long-haired Hippy? How she as one of many lassies, Was now just mere history, Yes, it was. They screamed at me But he did not appear to listen - ‘Two Metre Man!’ I was a giant, He was busy pouring vodka. to those titch-sized stunted Kurds, I towered like a Goliath. I talked to him about the house I was trying to buy in Dunoon, It was just another happening, It was all of half a villa, Four thousand kay in a week – On Cowal shore, at Sandy Beach, Army camp, Ankara and back, That overlooked the Ayrshire coastline, I survived, went on my way, The Bute and Arran ferry passed; Travelled on by bus to Tabriz And in its big grassy garden, Where I saw a herd of camels. Stood a giant Californian Redwood – Dear pal, what a thrill to me, The largest thing I’d ever seen. A young man from Pollokshaws, Finally in the Middle East With the mention of California, Like Lawrence in the movies. The Wanderer took a sudden interest, He had spent a year in San Francisco, I took the train or Tehran, viewed the Sierra Nevada peaks, Eight of us in a carriage – he had strolled round giant sequoias, Trundling across Qezel Owzam, and felt their sweet sap seep. Through Zanjan and Takestan, Shadowed by the Rashteh Mountains, WAND: A redwood in your garden! Bloating out the Caspian Sea. Buy it, man, I’ll move in! I hate this grey shit-hole city, At Qazvin, as the train pulled out, Where everyone is so insincere - An Inspector climbed aboard; It’s the worst town in the world, In our carriage, a ticketless youth, All you meet are wasted dead-beats. Hid beneath the seat duckboards, We all shuffled, sat up straight, NARR: I dismissed his observation Draped shawls across our knees. As that of a man without a wife, Or more, a traveller without a reason The Inspector, with an armed soldier, For getting off his boring backside. Peered into our smoke=filled void, Or was it now, close to forty, Drew back the door, entered, He was having mid-life crisis; One by one, checked and scored Though once I’d downed two voddies, Our third class ticket stubs.

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But woe, he dropped one on the floor, Her three-man crew hauling chain, Stooped – but just in time, Pulling, on their drift net weights. An old man stamped his foot on it, The Inspector straightened, frowned – We met friend Kenny in Ardpatrick The doyen held his ticket up, Who toured us round his laird’s estate; He inspected, ticked, returned it, The house walls cracked, sashes wormed, Backed out, slid the glass door shut. The garden overgrown, forlorn – We walked upon a broken road, Just in time, the youth coughed, By broken walls and broken posts, Came up for air, dust in his throat, We came to the fishing shore We banged his back, offered water, Of broken sheds, huts and boats, He would drink a single drop – Doors flapping in the North-East wind, He’d rather die than offend God, Decay, neglect, and nature winning With Ramadan just halfway gone. Over all that man had built.

NARR: My friend went off on a tangent And there upon the swelling loch, About religion, and all that stuff – A yacht, moored to an orange buoy – It was now mid-Septeeber, The third son’s toy anchored there, And in my van with him along, Awaiting some mighty gale, We drove around mid-Argyll, To wreck it upon the shore, We travelled up Loch Lomondside, Now people-less beyond his know. In the dark overcast night, Parked the van in a lay-by, That night we stayed with our friend Had some hash, then we crashed. Loyal to the cause of freedom – We talked into the early hours It’d been months since I’d slept well, About the fight for independence, We didn’t rise till ten o’clock. While on the elderberry wine, We set off down the Loch Fyne road Our passions ran and never dried. To take breakfast at Inveraray. I made a call in Lochgilped In the morning when we left, To the lender for my house, We were neared such an end, All the way down to Tarbert, The sky was clear, an azure blue, I talked about my move to Cowal; Except for one cloud above – The Wanderer listening, staring out A white cross! Jings oh, Lord! Across the choppy tops of Fyne. Of us three, who was the prophet? Our friend, the Wanderer, or me? After coffee and a snack, An Argyll man, two Shaws boys, We trundled down to West Lock Pier. We looked for another sign – Their catch packed in a Spanish truck, There were none I could see. We watched the fishers stow their nets Aboard their battered west-coast ketch, We travelled north to Dunadd, No name upon her rusting bow, Clambered up its mossy ramparts, White number-letter on her side – Put a shoe in the footprint, Tee Tee Two Seven, was her mark, Declared myself Kings of Scots –

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The Wanderer killed me with a look, Rathlin and the Giant’s Causeway, Declared himself my overlord. Ireland but a stone’s throw distant, We upon the Kintyre sands, Onwards north to Kilmartin, Cooking simple Scottish fayre. Sacred place of ancient time, Standing stones and bronze-age cysts, What then of the well known Mull, Cairns of quartz, white in the sun, Made famous by the Beatles boy? Stones on which no moss grows, A lighthouse midst a barren waste, Unlike the crosses in the church, The ruins of Balmavicar shore, Broken, mismatched, spiked together, Now just lines, rough hewn stone Recalling Reformation hysteria Where wind was once a source of power; and anger with the Celtic Church Fish and wool a crofter’s life, And the view – the Emerald Isle. We made a fire by dark Loch Awe, Cooked fish, made some tea, Further up the coast we stopped, The Wanderer took a pipe of hash Stretch our legs, watch the seals, And floated off to other lands - Parking on a private road, Left behind Loch Awe and me; Towards us with a dog, approached He was back in Tehran. A man who shout at us thus – ‘This road is private, do you know?’ We came into Carradale, Took some tea at Izzy’s van, I said to him ‘This beach is Scotland. Listened to the old wife’s tales Are you going to make us move?’ Of fishing in Kilbrannan Sound, But he was a Dalmarnock man, Her tears rolling down her face, And couldn’t give a toss ‘You see, Reliving the Antares drowned, This road is owned by a Brum, A nephew lost, son’s friends gone, I can’t stand his English ways. Pulled down by a nuclear sub – Destroy the signs if you want, Oh such waste of life for nowt, It would make me more than pleased.’ In Carradale the wound was raw. Eddie was ex M.O.D, South upon Campbeltown Loch, Told us all about his world. The shellfish gatherers, waders on, He took us to his house for tea, Accompanied by their joyous dogs, Told us of the owner’s paln Dug into the sea-pool sands, To build more houses by the sea, A harvest in their honest hands, And turn this little spot on earth Cockle catchers stretched their backs, Into a rented village dream. Shivered in the autumn blast, Turned towards the town near dark. Oh wild west sea, waves of seals, How many dreams have you wrecked At Land’s End, Columba’s caves, On your barren, rocky fringe? His footprint left upon a rock, How many came to rue their ways Seals basking in the setting sun, In the grave, and left behind Beyond the break - Malin Head, Deeds of Ozymandias kind –

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Desert sands, but for a sign And crossed the Styx, back to bedlam, ‘View my works and despair’, Crime, deceit, and urban betrayal – nothing left but sandy waste Goodbye again to good intention. of Private, Keep Out, and Beware. The Wanderer lost his radiant look, Turned his back on the future. Back upon the Loch Fyne side, We waded through the Clachan stream, WAND: On a bus to old Mashad, Made a fire on the drift, And onwards more towards Heart, Watched the oyster catchers home, At the Afghan Border post, Viewed the twilight coming down The Customs Man handed over On Drisaig’s dark Ben Buide shore. A lump of hash to this guy Bob, Who’d been down that way before. WAND: I am Home, here at last, I’ve refound the land I love. AFGHANISTAN These past few days, I am whole, Once more Scottish at my core. Welcome to the land of hashish! How could I have been so lost, Party time! Goodbye Iran! To lose such a wonderous thing. We smoked out way into Herat, This is the home I left behind – Where Alexander built his fort, I can now forget the past. The walls still standing, mud and clay, A score and three centuries gone, NARR; The Wanderer let some tears Standing by the Silk Route trail. escape, Went down on his knees, cried – The next three days I got smashed With Bob and Minnesota Doug McCoy, WAND: What can I say of foreign lands, A frontiers boy from St Paul, I’ve been a fool to go away. Checked shirt, jeans, and hiking boats, What use has all my roaming been, A backpack bigger than a moose, When here before me, in these hills His mind fixed on the Himalayas - Is all there ever was for man. The Everest trek from Katmandu; His blue eyes dull, his speech slow, NARR: I could not see what he could see, The nicest guy you’d ever meet. I did not have his worldly vision. He rose and put the fire out, Sometimes niceness breeds plainness, Bade me pack all our things. Produces awful boring folk Who make you want to grab them, We went by Luss, where at eighteen, Shake some sense into their brains; We got guttered as wild boys – For what is worse than a Mr. Nice Guy, Beer and girls, and naked joy, Whose niceness makes you want to sleep; We’d go swimming in the loch. What is worse than a lovely fellow Who cannot swear, does not scream? As we hit the Glasgow lights, I found out too, I’d been lost – Oh yes, we all seek a nice life, Now I knew – we’d left Heaven – But Jesus! Take some names in vain,

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Curse the world, act insane, In their cotton pants and lungi skirts, For every hour is not the same, Modern-day Christs, in latter-day robes, We take our knocks, soak up pain – Rings on fingers, bells on toes, What goes in, comes out again. Hearing music in the singing of birds, The rustle of leaves, barking of dogs, I’d rather hear a lover rave Flying higher than the circling hawks, Than have her stare into space. Dowsed with pure jasmine and musk, I’d rather have my friends go nuts They placed their movements, every Than have my friends say they love word, Everything and everyone – Passing round chillums with a Dum Dehra For he who loves all the world Dum! Sees none of the world’s flaws. Muttering Boom Shanka for the world lost – Doug McCoy was so perfect, India behind them, return westwards, He was fruit for every con-man. still to come. Yes – he could climb snowy mountains, He could kayak down white rapids, McCoy and I entered Kabul, October He could hunt and trap wild animals, Fifth, He could light campfires - matchless, To aggressive dogs in barking bouts, He could lumber with an axe-blade, Woodmen chopping, their axe-echoes He could fight fires barehanded, Bouncing back and forth across the mountains. He was Minnesota Man – Big and strong, tough and Spartan! I re-met Jacques, Bob and James, And there he was. Afghanistan! And many others on the trail, Desert waste and rocky nothing, The way that stretched from Istanbul Not a tree, a stream, or cabin. Onwards forever around the world – He was Minnesota Man – There seemed no end to the road Defenceless without his gleaming axe, Each morning we faced into the sun, His kayak, and the moose outback. For though we knew where it slept, We knew nothing of where it rose. Flaked out on the bus going south, The Hindu Kush always to our north, Green grass, and calling birds, He slept and dreamt about Nepal, Acacias swaying in the wind, The temple city – Katmandu; I mounted a camel in the bazaar, Afghanistan, so dry and barren, An Afghan joke, they slapped it hard, For him was not the real McCoy. It bolted in a fit, and with a spit Threw me, and I crashed to earth. Across Registan to Kandahar, We lodged at the Peace Hotel – there, They laughed! I was embarrassed. Those heading West draped in beads, Covered in dust, they offered me tea, Like Gods in their wisdom and daily deeds, a smoke on a shish. A boy from the No longer travellers on the road Shaws, But the children of Shiva and Krishna They were men of the Hindu Kush,

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Tall, good looking, erect and proud, But most were polite, glanced away. They held their heads high like warriors. As Doug drank tea, hubbed a pipe, Bowing to those who were their elders, The air was thick with petrol-cide, There was not one beggar amongst their The fumes of stoves used for cooking, number, Three-wheeled taxis puttering for custom, No man so poor, he had no rifle, Night upon us by half past five, No boy so poor, he had no sandals – It was Pakistan, an October evening, These were men from Bamian and Kyber, Men from the Pamirs, Hunza and They say first sight forms opinion, Wakhan, but what I discovered of that great nation, Men from the hills and valleys of I learned when I returned eight months Helmand, later, Men from the towns of Sharif and For I was in a rush to be in India, Baghlan. By bus, by train, towards the Punjab, And ancient Lahore in all its squalor, I, the lad from the Central Lowlands, The last of Pakistan before the border. Drew breathe at their colourful clothes, Their flowing beards and Afghan caps; NARR: The Wanderer stopped – as if They were heroes from my boyhood past; reflecting They were the sons of Kubla Khan, Upon his experience of that far place. In them flowed Iskanda’s blood. I meanwhile, looked towards my future, I’d bought my coastal house near Dunoon, A camel, the price of two ugly sisters, Called Hazelbank – on the shore road, Four whole days in Kabul gone, Where now we sat by the window Down into the Kyber Pass we headed, Looking out towards Wemyss Bay. Down past lairs perched on high, Slits for windows, fortress built, The January winds howling wildly, The Kyber Gorge was a fortress still, I nursed a coffee ‘neath my chin Every home an eyrie post, Listening to the Wanderer’s wisdom, Every bend a bottleneck, Though thinking about my lover in Every twist a dice with death Kilbirnie. As down into the plain we went. You see, I was to be married that Spring, On the morning of my fortieth birthday, PAKISTAN We were to be blessed by Reverend Conkie, There beyond the sheer cliff edge, Have our reception in the house. The desert fringe of the Indus Valley, A grey-black smog in the distance – It was to be a modest do - Peshawar! Den of vice and virtue, Fifty folk with a sprig of heather, The Mecca of the hashish business. Kilts, some whiskey, and a blether, And there, awaiting the Rawalpindi bus, Escape to Rothesay by ferry I watched the Peshawari melee – For our honeymoon in Bute. Now and then someone would stare,

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But there I sat with the Wanderer As I lay in the Temple refuge, Droning on about Amritsar – Shared with a hundred pilgrims, He was twenty in India, I fought the sweats for three nights, Searching for a personal guru. And on the third dawn I rose, Went with the multi-pilgrimed horde, INDIA Sat cross-legged upon the marble, Banana leaf laid out before me, WAND: Of all the places in the world, I took my alms from the Sikhs, There is none to match Bharat. A little rice, dahl and chutney – I have been to the furthest parts, Had my being filled with kindness I have seen many mighty sights, Before the shrine of Guru Nanak. But deep set in my heart is the jewel – My treasured India. I’d been deserted by my own kind, Six thousand miles, far from home Indeed, what I’ve told you to this point, I had found a greater friend Is a preamble to the misty months In faith, and hope, and in mankind – I spent in my perplexing quest In all the world, ne’er again To find myself in India. Would I believe I was alone.

Is there a need to tell tales My illness gone, my hunger stayed, About the daily toil and trouble I travelled on to the north, Surrounding me every hour On by bus to Chandigarh – In painful heartache India. Stretching fields of wheat and rice, Until the bus, with a BANG! Or the bliss, the days of joy, Shuddered, veered off the road, High, or in the deep abyss Came to rest on a grassy slope. Of meditative happy thought In carefree sunny India? We disembarked, and as the crew Threw a tyre from the roof, There – I undid twenty years, I sat upon a little knoll, Rewound to my infant days, Watched them labour in the heat, Recalled the moment of my birth, The punctured wheel, thumped and While there in holy India. knocked, Sticking fast despite the kicks. But it took time - in Amritsar I was down three days with the trots, I saw an old man pick some leaves, Holed up in the Golden Temple, From some tall plants by the road – Deserted by that weasel Doug – He had found a ganga patch, He was Minnesota Boy, So I likewise helped myself, He wasn’t going to be a nurse. Filled up my woolly hat.

Illness shows us all the truth – A woolly hat in such heat? I lay fevered in the heat; I was just a big Shaws boy But I was young, strong within, Who knew not what was right to wear,

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Who knew not where to buy such gear The Himalayas! Oh so beautiful, Without at first feeling silly - Monkeys in the hillside trees, I learned to discard it quickly. So much to see, say and do – Tibetans, sacks upon their backs, Then it rained! What a miracle, from truck to shop, shop and back, The first since leaving Austria; up and down steep rising streets The tyre changed, on we went filled with chanting army squad. To Chandigarh – till stopped again Merchants crowding Grindlay’s Bank, Outside a town, protesters chanted – sun filtered through sublime cloud, Power Workers! Stand United! a road down that turned upon a dime, A doctor strike. A student strike – six thousand feet above sea-level; Half of Chandigarh was out, I looked up, saw twenty thousand more, The other half without lights. There beyond in brilliant snow.

It is the same the world over, I had thought Ben Nevis huge, It was the Heath years afterall – The Swiss Alps sheer colossal, Half the world for worker rights, But now I knew, nor surprisingly, Indira Gandhi taking on the workers The Alps were small by comparison – Ben Nevis a lump on the horizon. Simla Himarschal Pradesh On into the Himalayas – The night sky hemmed in by shadows, Through great chasms of space, Chevron stripes marked the edge And into Himarchal Pradesh – Of plunges to the deepest chasms; I came upon the market town of Mandi, Until at last the Tata stopped Perched upon a hilly, exposed place Upon the crest of Simla town beneath the shadow of the Swalik chain; Where once the bastards of the Raj there it rained nearly every day, Had escaped the summer drought – torrents from Swarga filling Bhakra, Built a hilltown for themselves mixing with the water fallen from Kailas. And lived upon their Indian wealth. Drenched by the vapours, I sheltered Colonial patronage, racial power, In the cold of that cloistered market They gifted snooker to the world – town, The white ball struck coloured balls, Then ran for shelter to a nearby hotel, A metaphor for all that’s wrong paid six rupees for a sick-pink room, With Empires throughout the ages, the crummiest room in the whole world – Thank God, Britain’s shame is gone. Biled window shutters, puke blue door, Scraps of food on a dust thick floor, I spent the night at Lord Grey’s, A room alive to kitchen sounds, Woke and went into the world, Clattering dishes, chattering staff, I had not then such fixed views The waft of a culinary aftermath – For what I saw was not a system, My stomach turned, but I was well, But mountains beyond all description! Fit and whole, despite all else.

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From that Hell, next day I entered The nights were falling bitter cold, Paradise in that land – We burnt a fire with windfall wood, The Kulu Valley, apple heaven, We rubbed and took the ganja weed, Green and filled with ripening orchards, Comatosed – each evening stoned The scent of blossom in the nostrils, To wake upon the golden sun The clear, sweet air through my hair Breaking through the shutter slats. As on I sped to Manali. We’d boil tea, have a toke, NARR: And thus so, my friend prattled on Then wander on the valley slope, As we clear-cut rotten wood, Through the terraced paddy fields, The ides of February gone – Along narrow hamlet paths We were now at Hazelbank, Where children barefoot played with us, Burning stumps and severed limbs, And adults called out Namaste! Stacks of sycamore just felled, Briar and holly on the fire, We roamed and wandered where we could, It sparked and flew into the sky, Took our baths in a stream – Hazed and humid from the snows On days when overcast or grey, That lay upon the seaward grass. We’d trek, and bathe in a hot spring, Inhale the hot sulphur airs, Driven in the day before, Emerge pure and chaste again, Blizzard fashion on the shore, The weariness of life washed off, We had stood on the Point, The mosquitos and the bed-bug bites, Counting seals in the blast, Gone but for small red marks, Sipping coffee from a flask, Soon faded in the bright sunlight, The Rothesay ferry ghosting past. As we wound down the mountainside To eat fruit or go inside Stormy days at their last, A little hut full of smoke – Spring a month away at most, Be served a bowl of noodle soup, The Wanderer spoke more of India Prepared by an old Tibetan man, While I gazed out on Inverkip, Exiled from the Forbidden Land. Scanned the long Ayrshire coast, Cumbrae and Goat Fell’s white slopes. Back at our own humble abode, An old haggard crow sold us milk; Manali She was the owner of the shack, We bought her dood every morn, WAND: In Manali, high on hash, Every night took the can back. I met my Minnesota buddy; In exchange we gave her cash, He had rented out a shack We listened to her biting bark. In the pines high up the valley, Was it Punjabi? Hindi? What? Shared the space with two travellers, Yet we understood what she meant – New York Jack and Bernese Klaus. We were four backpacker boys I joined them in their rustic board Who made a mess where’er we went, Where we all slept on the floor. At the stream, out the back, Where nature called, which once used,

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We ne’er left the same again. And I, just two weeks short of forty – I could not sit any longer, We cleaned our act up very quickly, Listening to my friend the Wanderer. We learned about their social order; I had to act, go in search, As guests upon their terraced slopes, Of my frightened, lost fiancé. We used no soap at the stream From which they also drew their water, But the Wanderer carried on, And used no tissue for our toilet. Described his journey south to Delhi, But cleansed ourselves, again with water. How he fell –in with some crooks In the throng squalled Paharganj; We bought no tins to leave lying Dodgy deals and crooked barter, Where animals might snare their tongues; Three weeks of selling student cards, We cut no wood from the trees, Arranging con-man kilo deals, But burnt twigs to make our tea. He could not bear to see go through. So he took a bus to Katmandu Such simple things thus observed, ringed himself in snow-capped mountains Made life simple there for us – In the Valley, close by Swayambu. Our Old Hag began to smile, Left the milk-can overnight; I could not comprehend the beauty We smoked our dope, twigged our fire Of such a foreign, far-famed place; And lived as rustic ancients might My thoughts were all for my Jean Have lived if they were living now. On the Heights of Glengamach Way. I had to rise! Leave the Wanderer|! One whole month in that Nirvana, Go and see her right away. Passed like one long Summer’s day …. The Wanderer said I was foolish, To chase someone who had escaped, NARR: The Wanderer, lost in Time’s But on the phone my brother said mists, If I loved her, I should seize the day, Brought me back from despair; Not to give up just because For my marriage now – was off, She’d lost her will to say I do! The girl of my dreams, unsure – Go after her! Take some flowers! Had packed her clothes in poly bags, Tell her you love her just the same. Left for her small Ayrshire town, Moved back to the council house So I rose, the Wanderer with me, Her Mama kept in old Kilbirnie. Caught between Nepal and Bengal, We took MacBrayne across the Clyde, Listening thus to the Wanderer, Drove through rain, sheets of sleet, Sitting now in her best chair, And crashing waves Skelmorlie way, I thought of all the things I’d said, Until we reached the lights of Largs, The many things I’d forced along, The icy bends above Largs Bay, The silly things I had done, As on we headed beyond Kelburn, Knowing not where I’d gone wrong. Snow hemmed-in by roadside banks, Into the mists of Muirhead Dam, Gone! Two weeks before the nuptials, Then down into Kilburnie town,

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Where I screeched through the narrow In honour of the three great Gods – streets, Brahma, Shiva and his favourite, I turned into Bankfauld Estate, Vishnu, lord of all creation – Halted outside Jean’s Mamie’s gate. Krishna, and our Jesus Christ, Avatars like Rama, born as man. All this while the Wanderer rambled, The journey made his tongue wag, Texts tell of Vishnu on our earth, He spoke of reaching cold Darjeeling, Though some would say these are lies; Eating Christmas dinner there, Tell us God may never enter Man, Tucking into turkey roast, For Man is godless, sinned from birth; Fruit pudding and a whiskey toast, He cannot be a God within, Which made him ill, made him boke. But must instead let God in.

I knocked on Jeanie’s Ma’s back-door, As the Wanderer travelled south in India, And fell into Jeanie’s arms, I along the Clyde Coast road, We hugged and cried, cried some more, I the Wanderer, or I as poet, Declared the fighting now was over; Conclude – there is only one world, I took the ring, clasped her hand, And in this lifetime, we live but once, Slid it on her third finger – However much we are told I put my hand upon her breast; About the void beyond the whole We kissed with such tenderness. About the quasi mass of holes, No words would give full expression Like caves in the cosmic glow – Of what it meant to be with her, We know nothing at all. Instead of with my Wanderer friend – Who of us will ever go?

I left Kilbirnie all alone, Yes, I may dwell on India, For now I’ll finally tell you that, Dwell upon my learnings there – The Wanderer is not a friend, A boy, all of twenty years with He is but part of myself – A rolled up mat as a bed, canvas bag beneath my head I am the Wanderer! Inside me containing all that I possessed, He shadows everything I do, except my money round my neck, And on the way back to Dunoon, resting against my bare chest He talked to me about Calcutta, in a purse beneath my shirt. The squalled filth of Sutter Street Where he had stayed for a week, And there, heading back to Dunoon, Toking hashish, eating opium Almost forty, greying, balding, Before going on to Puri Home, car and own employment, To bathe in the Indian surf, Time to spare for enjoyment – To lie about getting burnt, I felt empty, lost and scared Eating peanuts, sucking melon Of life without someone there, Outside the gates of the Temple To share my days, and my nights, Where Jaganath, lord of Heaven, The lover I had left behind, Hauled juggernauts in procession, Jeanie Boyd of Old Kilbirnie,

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Who had awoke, run away I saw what Siddhartha saw Across the bonnie banks o’ Clyde, In everything, and chided myself To say her love for me had gone, For having been where I had been That I was now to carry on And having not put aside Without her smile, without her eyes, The torrents of the inner self - Without her in my daily life, I had lost myself to perfect love, While all the time she would not say Found myself in Jeanie Boyd. She loved me dearly – she was proud, So proud she’d rather go to Hell I knew then, the time had come Than say she needed any help To bury all my pasts for good; With all the things troubling her. I said goodbye to the Wanderer And cast him down into the Clyde, Oh God! How love hurts, Watched as he bobbed, then drowned. How love is blind at times, How clear it all becomes, And as the ferry decked at Kirn, How murky it can turn. And I drove towards Innellan, I knew he was gone from me – Not so in India, in Madras, At last I was once more free, In Pondicherry, then Madurai, The weight of my past, now gone, Where on the twenty fifth of March, I looked towards a new dawn – My twenty first year arrived; I’d fight to win back Jeanie Boyd, I celebrated with a flight Talk not of my wandering days. From Truchi to north Sri Lanka, Landed on the Jaffna airstrip, I was finally home to settle, Happy to be alive – To take my place, pay my taxes, For I was full of joie d’vivre, Spend weekends in the garden, Enjoyed all things Ceylonese. Have my Jeanie make me weans, Have our home full of friends, The world was an uncut jewel Take long strolls on the sands, As I went about that Garden Isle Climb the hill behind the house, From coral coasted Hikkadua, Look out upon my native land – To the misty heights of Adam’s Peak – For home now was the Wanderer, Here was a land steeped in culture, once a boy, home to settle as a man. Painted caves and sculpture rock, With the oldest man-planted tree – Buddha’s boa; brought to that spot By the wandering saintly man, That so many speak of as divine, Though he declared he was mortal, That God was in everything, And everything was part of God.

As I crossed the brooding Clyde, Looking over the ferry’s side,

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THE LAND WE LIVE IN

FRANKIE BLACK (kids song) PRIDE [15th June 1992, Glasgow] [3rd February 1993?, Glasgow]

Frankie Black went for a walk, Fair is the lily gilt … He could barely even talk - Fair sweet the wild rose. He saw the gate wasn’t shut! Napoleon on a beggar’s horse? Now he’s in big trouble. Hitler cross-armed posed? Too few like Garabaldi, Gandhi, Frankie Black the tiny tot Descend to sing the small man’s song; Escaped while his sisters fought, Too few with humbled hang-dog looks Sitting on a tip, he coughed! Stoop to conquer all. Now he’s in big trouble. Nay! Who would be in servile chains! Frankie Black the bully boy Who would drain their every vein! Liked to make the girls cry. Who would kiss the hem of Cain He didn’t have pals at all. Unless they were a saint. Now he’s in big trouble. The modest violet shadows the rose:- Frankie Black was rather wild, With bashful blush it finds its fame He liked to swing through the sky. In the shade beneath an elm He couldn’t sing but he could fly! Where timorous lovers play. Now he’s in big trouble. But oh beware! Also there The pansy in self-love - in bloom! Frankie Black was really tough, Conceit and swollen cockiness He liked to jump, kick and run. With the itch to please a fool. He didn’t listen very much. Now he’s in big trouble! Braggarts their trumpets blow Louder than the big-talk daffs VIEW FRO M THE BRIDGE Along the shore Wordsworth strode - [8.45-9.00pm, 10th Dec 1992, Pollok Butting the windy blasts. House Bridge, Glasgow] Chatter, chatter, June to May, They rave and rage, fuss and swagger; Gone are the fishers, gone are the visitors, They are bound, yet sway free; Gone are the lovers, blossom and west Bluster, bluff and fury. wind - Instead runs the river, northwards in Let he - whose arrogance values pride winter, And all false traits so admired - Wearing the weir-stone and walls of the Let him ride his high horse home mill. Eight hands above the mire. And he - whose insolent reply Gives the world a curled lip - Let him be the rose, the bud

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And not the prick of it. our nation lives – the winter sun warmer now that springtime comes RIGHT, MATE upon the echo of the birds, [3rd February 1993?, Glasgow] punctured by a Piper Cub.

What is right or proper, mate? In the past repeats our future – The seemly thing’s not always decent. On which side the Langs and Stewarts? Some will steer clear of scandal, For whose rights Forsythes and Frasers? And some will have no shame. Is all mankind doomed to failure?

The right of suffrage - that’s justice. In the land is our deliverance – The defence of sex - that’s indulgence. Take it back from individuals? Some men knock their girlfriends up, Divide it out to politicians? Then sure enough, they do a bunk! To their friends and their minions?

One must reap where one has sown! On Bannockfield, alone in February, Do you believe this? Not me, nope. Back against King Robert’s statue, All that comes our way is Fate, The white granite feels not cold, And Newton’s third is Karma, mate! No wind blows, the sky is gold In parts where silver cloud BANNOCKBURN Catches the last rays of the day. [4.40 - 5.30pm, 7th Feb 1993, Bannockburn] A mackerel sky to the west, The north one large school of whales, Oh much is the woe in our time, The east herring-boned and blue, This land one hand above the mire – The south a deep ocean view. We’ve laid our future out with fools. Citizen John! We cannot laugh, What ails our sick land? Our train sets run right off the track. When we have skies as rich as these. I’m too disgusted to express Our bare hills weep their snows, The way I feel about our times, Pine-sap zaps the peaty floor. We live in a free-for-all, Where the weak get trodden on. Children – not in servitude, If this means that to survive, Ride their bikes up Bannockfield, We have to draw in our horns, They may smoke a fag or two, Then Scotland rise! They have hopes, all children do.

At Bannochburn, Bruce’s statue, Yet can I, an aging man, against the skyline, facing south, Tell them that all life is fair? modern Scotland plays football, That they will stand an equal chance girls in jeans, four-a-side, Of being equal in this land? snow upon the western bens, coal smoke ringing Stirling town, Forgive me now, the wall grows cold, the castle there in our times, The sky grows dim. It is an omen,

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The future for our raped land, Running west to the Atlantic, Is in the sword, not the tongue. ‘Cross which half of Kerry parted. No talking now will change minds, The gun, the bomb, the knife – Two girls born to every boy - Neckers in the burger bar, They too can have no effect, Petters up against a wall, For we are infested from inside, Snoggers in a glass call-box. Diseased, a cancer eats our nation, Our intellects, our men of action – Goodnight to the Western World Infiltrated by good souls Upon a quiet November night, Who fool us long enough to finish Sleeping in the county town Our resistance, eat our thoughts, Beneath those famous mountains. Undermine us with their talk. THE OLD PUPPETEER (fragment) The enemy remains the same, [1.45am, 1st February 1994, Hazelbank, We have one border with the world – Innellan] Across the border comes disease, Unless we cure it, we will die. Once upon a time in our land, When times, like now, were very hard Mister Bruce – you did your bit, And life most times was very sad, Where shall we find the likes of you? A kind old fellow with a good spouse Across the seas in Ontario? Who’d lived all his life in the same house, Or in a village in Lochaber? In the same bed with the same wife ….. Where is the new Scots Messiah? Is he a soldier or a minister? GEORGIE Or must we find a foreign general 7.42pm, 5th Jan 1994, Hazelbank] Like Bolivar or Che Guevara? She came to me in her red clogs, TRALEE Took me by the hand and led [1.30am, 10th Nov 1993, Tralee, Kerry] Me off into her velvet bedroom, Laid me down without a word, The streets were empty, Stripped me of all my raiment, (The bars were full) Took me on a lover’s voyage On a chilly Tralee night - Across the wildest seas of anger, Talk was of the fair Rose Through gale and fervent storm, Etched on The Green stone. And out into brilliant moonlight Where all about was utter calm. In search of a Kerry wife, An old boy thick with the brogue CLAUDIE AND ME Laid his wealth on his tongue [6th July 1994, Hazelbank, Innellan] For a lass from Barrow. In Oban and in Inverness, Beneath James Street the river flowed me and her were best of friends. Whispering tales of ancient Ireland, On the gold Lochinver sands

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we bathed together, stood upon or do a single thing of harm, Clochtoll broch, walked the strand, we embraced the whole wide world hand in hand through the land and it became part of us, we travelled where no other had I became some part Swiss, thought the thoughts we two shared and she became part Scots. in Smoo Cave's chasmic depth This was love. or on Edinburgh's Castle steps we meant all that we said IN THE RAIN in Lochalsh or in Durness [8th Sept 1994, Sissach, Switzland] or by Europe's oldest tree. In the rain the world stops, We were not Swiss, were not Scots, it doesn't pour out it's heart, we were lovers first and last it dries up like a desert, at Inverewe or Fort Augustus sand blows across the land, we entwined, exposed our hearts all that's living hides, to the Scottish summer sun all that's open cries. thanked God for being young and whole enough to take our fun In the rain the mind closes, through the glens, up the duns, it doesn't hear the singing, to laugh louder than the rain it cannot smell the roses, to take joy from the grey - petals drop upon the floorboards, the grey wet of Inveraray, all that's pretty's covered, where we first fell in love all that's beauty quivers. more quickly than a hungry gull can swoop upon Kylestrome's waves THE WOODEN BRUCKEN more swiftly than fleeing deer [12th Sept 1994, Luzern, Switzerland] can cross the East Ross moors. Bats on the black night waters We came to test ourselves beneath Luzern's wooden brucken; as we passed Dalmally by a bum drinks his budget beer renewed ourselves in Dunoon waiting for the swans to come and in Glencoe's Clachaig Inn with their white angel-wings, went onwards out into the wild, to carry him carefully up sharing all we had to spend, from the cold concrete quay meaning every word we said, to a bed made in heaven. knowing that the past was dead for we had just begun to sing What hope has he in hell on earth the song of the Toward seals, as the rain runs down his face; the tunes of the doodlesack his bottle empty, made from sand, we heard in every street - he throws it wilfully at a swan - but with a splash the waters part, This was mine and Claudie's Scotland, all is lost, his hope departs, a time so lovely we did not cry, he flees his wet worthless life we did not pass one bad word across the ancient brucken spars.

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DOWN A DUSTY ROAD the beach is all empty [11.45pm, 16th Sept 1994, Grez-sur- where once there was fighting. Loing, France] Beneath the clods of drowning clay Down a dusty road the way all travellers bones still fresh from yesterday go, the sky moves like shifting sea That's how I saw life in Grez-sur-Loing - but the earth spews it's history. Off the beaten track, no back-pack on my back, What do we know I was on the slippery slope and didn't care. of the land that we walk on the burnt open heath I had beer to my lips, I was tobacco the wilds of upland? finger-tipped, where forests took fire I had the stars above as my light - where oceans ran dry It was Friday night. Should I dress for where seed on the wind town? fell on our future? - No, be damned! To hell with Fountainbleau! I hear a voice growing much louder tongue of the Gael The moon peered thru trees like a big song of warm welcome French cheese, pipes and drums gone to the grave I ate it up as if I were Ben Gunn - drone of the pibroch I was happy having fun, singing out my rap of the snare lungs the hills are all forests Down that dusty road all on my own. where once they were bare.

THE LAND THAT WE LIVE IN The worms traverse the embalming caves [4th - 8th Oct 1994, Hazelbank, Innellan] rabbits warren where badgers lay the rain descends upon the raised What do we know walking and sharing the invisible. of the land that we live in of the soil that we turn What do we know the earth of our ancestors? of the land that unites us as we dig with our shovels of the boundaries we guard as we scrape with our fingers the mainland and islands as the leaves of the trees what do we know ...... ? drop on our dreamings? - TA, DA, TA. I see a ship sailing this way On The Occasion of My Father's Sixtieth sail of the Dugall Birthday, 18th Oct 1994 shield of the Fingall [11.08am, 16th Oct 1994, Hazelbank, an island offshore no longer there Innellan] washed by the tides swept off by gales I have a dad, a great dad,

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This poem is for his sixtieth birthday - THE KARAO KE SINGER For when I think back all the years, [12.47am, 24th Nov 1994, Hazelbank] The things he's done to make me - me, I cannot help but smile and say Sing into the rafters, mate, 'Ta, Da. Cheers!' No-one knows, no-one cares, No-one guesses you are sad, He taught me how to kick a ball, No-one sees that you are down, How to fight, how to swim, All about them's in a dance, He even showed me how to row, You are but the moment's voice To use a hammer and a drill, Belting out cheap romance - How to mend a leaking tap - A tune that makes someone cry, 'Ta, Da. Cheers!' A song that makes someone laugh - While in the backroom of your mind So many things come to pass You are taken through a door Between a son and his dad - Leading out into the past, Too often son with outstretched hand Where you once stood in light, Has his dad rescue him Where someone once held you tight, From hunger, debt and foreign places - Where you were once left behind, 'Ta, Da. Cheers.' Left to get on with your life -

So here's to you, Da, thanks again, The crowd may not know it so, Without you here I'd be lost ... Your song is not a string of lines, Oh by the way, my cistern's leaking Your voice is from another time, And the bank are on my back - Your thoughts are sunk in your sublime, You couldn't just help me out ... That place where all your memories go, 'Ta, Da. Cheers!' The sad, the bad, the untoward, That guilt has hidden far within, THE CROWN COURT KARAOKE Where pride has covered up the sins [Friday, 21st Oct 1994, Crown Bar, Which each of us will not admit Dunoon] Except through songs others wrote -

This is the place for karaoke – So sing, mate, without reserve, Try and tell a simple joke Sing your tears without reproach An’ people break into song. While the world about applauds How can a man compete Your song - dredged up to mask your With women singing ‘Baby, baby’ voice, Or guys like Perry crooning ‘Rock-an- Your misplaced thoughts in a song roll’? Upon your lips in the pub! Oh God, put me out on the road Where I can find stars above me You are alone before the world, Before I reach another pub. No-one knows, no-one cares - All about you's in a dance Listening to your cheap romance, Inside you are a mixed-up mess -

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What'd you mean it's my turn next? For I would feel your soft skin Against my face, upon my lips, O UT O F LO VE And I forever smote by you [3.58am, 26th Nov 1994, Hazelbank] Would never kiss another then.

Out of love, no special one, I would for all time be charmed, no girl to keep the winter warm, Bewitched beyond a heavenly earth, no tressed-head upon my chest I would softly kiss your brow, no sweet lips pressed on mine Your eyes, your cheeks, and your nose, no whispered words willing me I’d gently kiss you to your toes, to do what I have not done - And whisper through your scented hair, Then listen for your whispers back I sleep alone, content and sound, Like drifting smoke upon a gale. I rise and naked go about all the things I might hide SHE WAS THE AGE OF BYRON if I were in love again - [10.12am, 27th Dec 1994, Dunoon] I may miss the warm caress, I do not miss the arguments. She was the age Byron died, Burns too when he went MRS HAUSER to that happy land of bards [1.03am, 1st December 1994, Hazelbank] where poetry’s never dead.

If I were to say to you I must admit she wrote no verse All the things I felt inside, that we might view now she’s gone, All the beauty that I see she left no marks upon a page In your eyes and in your smile – we might judge her for. Then I would talk about the stars, The bees about the honey flowers, Her poetry was in her touch, I would wax about the moon the way she reached out and loved; And wane upon the changing tides; a single word whispered low, barely more than a moan. I would chase the free-born deer And run upon the linged brae-sides, Yes, now she’s gone – up to I would catch the breeze-borne seed get the kids dressed for school; And dwell beneath the towering pines; she’ll be back at five to nine I would swim below the linns with poetry in her hands. And come to shore on lochan isles, I would touch the spreading fern, FRAGMENTS O F TIME (1995) Inhale the breezes from the south. [11.57pm, 15th Jan 1995 Dunoon – 10.36pm, 29th Apr 1995 Hazelbank, For if I were to kiss your cheek Innellan] And tingle as I surely would – All the troubles of the world Let no man say he’s found Would melt and never freeze again, God in the eyes of his wife –

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nor any wife declare aloud the wisest men are also fools. that her spouse despises love – too few are here a hundred years, Susan laid her tarot cards upon too few are wise enough for us. the carpet when the light went out – and by the candlelight she read Ten years ago Roderick announced the future through the night. that he was free from his bonds; The wild wind blew gale force twelve, he was done with family cares, the river broke the sea-wall front, free of all the twosome ties. cars washed over the watery edge, The time had come to finally live their headlamps, to the turmoiled depths to do and try the yet undone, sunk into the briny waste yet none of those he’d befriended while Susan dealt out Death. liked or shared his new lifestyle – they abhorred his evening jaunts, Know we nothing, nothingness – they discussed his fickle wants, Empty is the human head. they whispered in the lowest tones Stand upon the highest hill – behind his naked back. See you the distant universe?

The bells still ring every Sunday, Maxwell smoked a cigarette, and every Monday sure as rain, tossed it half-done in a bin, the children pull on their black tights, gulped his coffee, rushed his lunch, tuck their blouses into waistbands. burped and paid the hotel clerk. All those sleepy puffed eyed faces His brief case sagged in tiredness, splashed and made bright and shiny – his suit hung like Frederic West; there goes the future up the hill, he crashed through the one-way door lunchboxes swinging in the wind. out into the wilderness. Ba ba blacksheep, Jack and Jill … no man can sing such honest tunes; Tuesday always brings the same – time passes like a speeding train children staying home from school; across us lying on the track – mothers take their headache pills, we lose a limb, perhaps a hand go screaming through another day; until we are beyond repair. while on the phone officials moan that they’re hated by their peers, Lord! If you are out there somewhere, that they are grey, as others spend Don’t hide away like some recluse; the tax they should declare – There’s folks down here need some help, such envy in their petty words, who haven’t had a chance in hell, malice in their righteous airs. snatched from the void of birth, thrust into the dark of life – Who is honest now, dear John, who knows where to find light point him out, or her, and croon when all about is deathly pale. that out there - who’s never tried Mystics, yes, but missing too; to cheat, nor steal, not told a lie gurus, yes, through and through, in this land of broken numpties, knowledge enters, knowledge leaves – where broken things are never fixed.

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On the ghats of old Benares, the Moon denies night at dawn; bodies for the pyre await – for when the morning rays come over the flies are warded off by incense, the hills beyond the ebbing tide, harm is bayed by mantric chant, the evening sinks into the waves pensive mourners cleanse their ills beyond the other side of life. as holy helpers beat on drums. Meanwhile on this side of time, Mr.Watson packed his bin-liner, Bobby rubbed his pot-marked nose, left behind his pile of bills, Daphne laid him on her bed, he ran off to a Russian mistress, wrapped a towel about his face, promised her he’d go straight – made him lie still and quiet, but time repeats itself like Accurist; squeezed his blackheads one by one. he ripped her off, fled to Spain. He cried in pain, thrashed his legs as she cleansed his filthy snout, Such episodes are all too common, wiped it raw with a cloth, we shall not speak of him again; then daubed his agony with ice, life is shorter than a toothbrush, eased the hurt with natural oils, a little longer than a pen – kissed him softly on the mouth – toothpaste tube squeezed, discarded, made love to him for an hour, ink running dry before the end. then made lunch while he dressed and went to look at himself – Lovers know what others don’t, skin gleaming, face now cleansed, that time is short, running out – his beak a beacon, totally red. they cling despairingly in tears, count the hours they are apart, Beauty in the seeker’s eye, send intruding friends away, mirrors rarely every lie – walk in wind and rain, and go what you view is what you know where few seldom make a path about yourself however dark. upon the edge of a cliff – a ledge above a violent gorge Children never know themselves, beneath a pine by raging falls. they change, grow, daily learn that what they were yesterday Lovers know the fruitless aims of man, can be altered on a whim – they give themselves no false hopes, a few tears shed undoes wrong, they breathe, the wind, the rain and laugh, a sideways look defeats authority, catch time in their clasping hands, a simple ‘sorry’ earns more love pass their eyes across the sky, than any adult lover claws across the wide world expanse, by care or service to a mate. they return to walk and move For children are raw creation, from wooded wild to windy moor. animals born to be instructed with all our foolish human traits - Time makes all drift apart, we take their wildness, break their will this is the way all things – and substitute their good with guilt. the Sun deserts the day at dusk, We were once children too –

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we know what was done to us; lacking carpet, curtains, chairs – we need not dwell on such things a simple life is all he craves, for it makes us mostly sad. and so he lives day to day. For sad are many folks always, never shown or offered joy, Meanwhile in far Macedonia, lost in some murky past, Trevor teaches what he can; they through life stagger on – eager eyes and cocked head kids some waiting for a Prince to show, listen to his English words - or fearing a knock at their door. for he could not speak to them in Greek or Serb or Albanian. There are those in fitful sleep He is there ‘cause no one else receiving visits from the dead – wished to work in distant Skopje, a grandma’s scowling angry face and now in all his thirty years scolding them for guilty deeds; he’s never been quite so happy – its little wonder they are ill he is free of all his past, and fear the coming of the night he’s got himself a Veles lass, when every sound is a ghost he has plans to let time pass come to haunt, rob their rest, in love in Macedonia. leave them useless in the day, wracked with pain, terror ridden Walking to the beauty parlour, they cannot function, smile or laugh, swept before a north-east wind, they are tortured every thought, Madge has made another boob – brought so low they crave love she’s dyed her hair shocking blue. to save them from pointless death. Quick rinse set from a tin, she pulls down her floppy hat, Not so James with his hammer, and ‘cause she is a size eighteen making shelves with his toys, her mink coat bulges at the hips. tools that boys dream of owning, She really must get rid of it, electric drills, saws and sanders, place an ad in the Gazette, cleaned with care, love and thought, exchange the beast for a car - used to hone and dress hewn timber, she’s had enough of taking cabs, endless hours in his shed she’d rather risk a heart attack shaving down boughs of lumber. than have a cabbie make a quip. Each piece is James’s Mona Lisa, or products of his misty faith, Then in a gust, her hat blows off, such as a Christ on a cross; tumbles down the crowded street; for James is sick of facing life, all the world turns to stare … so he hides in his shed – poor Madge in complete despair enjoying the rest, his quiet pursuit runs into a baker’s shop shaping bits of forest wood throws some flour in her hair. that harms none, so no one cares he puts his shelves up, places there Now she looks more her age, all the artefacts he’s made – white from years of toil and wear, while all the time his house is bare, a pensioner lifts his hat to her

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as she wobbles on her way In tranquil, quiet, sweet Argyll - a block or two to the parlour Where horses pound along the sands to have her hair re-dyed grey. Where seals bask upon the rocks Where redwoods tower to the sky Time shows on our faces And garlic grows upon the cliff. Time leaves all its traces Time cannot be evaded Instead, I had picked Piraeus Our time is now. To spend a lonely night in Greece In a spartan Attic room DEAR LO VED O NE Waiting for the time to go [Spring ?1995, Hazelbank, Innellan] Recalling slowly all I’ve done To bring about all that’s passed A thousand kisses on your lips, To make me leave the perfect dream A thousand hands upon your hips, Of life in an idyllic land. A thousand thoughts when you’re missed - I am yours, oh loved one! Hazelbank! My cottage house Where every day is happiness THE ALBANIAN TRADER Gazing out upon the sea [10.36pm, 22nd March 1995, Piraeus, Out across the Firth of Clyde Greece] With the kids and their mum Who I loved more than Greece. Cold blew the wind across Attica North-east down from frozen Russia I always knew I’d come to lose The coastline grey and uninviting That which I knew I had The sea cruel, the tide-line garbaged When at home in the garden As evening darkened the horizon With the children in the mud The ill drove to buy their medicines Trying to tame the mountain burn Taverna owners washed their salads That gushes from the rocky cliff Widows mopped their floors of marble That we hoped to bring to flower The lonely clenched their packs of To plant and make work for us Marlbros Which in our hearts we did not want Curators locked away their statues We were doing it for the fun As I flew into dismal Athens For in Argyll, nature wins. On my way to far Tirana. And now, discontent with happiness, I missed the kids and their mother I had come to the Balkans I remembered all past horrors; On some wild business scheme Life upon the road is empty Some mad idea to make a fortune. When love is traded for a hotel And if this meant a night in Greece And the whine of cars and buses In some wayward room in Piraeus The pain and shudder of the city It was not for myself, but for the future I could not hear the lapping waves So we might someday tame the burn Nor the gulls I’d left behind Girth with rocks, guide it seaward At my home, by the sea Make it gurgle, sing and sparkle

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Make it babble over stone Tirana spread out below Let it travel fully noticed Like Katmandu or Managua, Let it not seep and leach Nothing big on the horizon Into the earth of Argyll. Ringed by mountains, grazed by goats, Third world housing in construction Too many men seep into the unknown In a nation long cut off. Lives lived that never sparkle Europe where is you compassion Existence sinking without trace For a people few of us know? Seeping in and never running. Therefore, a night - a Greek hotel Here a people poor and hardy, Was a journey to the beach Here a nation hungry cold, To gather up, carry stones Here a people warm and friendly Over which I might run. Like the Afghans and the Poles. Here a nation with no tourists, If not, it was with the knowledge Here a people badly clothed, That I did not desire change Here a nation full of smiles But had to prove to myself Despite the Hoxha years of old. That what I had was beautiful By the shore of the Clyde In Albania on my birthday, Far away in far Argyll. Far from my own wealthy land - I have money in my pocket, TIRANA URCHIN One year’s wages here at least. [Midnight, 24th March 1995, Tirana] Is it right that I am rich In a land, dusty, poor? In the folds of the mountains Europe, where is your guilt? Neath the peaks of Dahti high, Albanians are one with us. An urchin slept in a doorway Nowhere home, nowhere to go; All through time, Greek and Roman, Left behind his childhood dreams Turk, Italian, German too Beyond a distant mountain pass. Have trudged across Albania’s soil Taken what they wanted, gone. LO ST Communism gave them nothing [10.22pm, 25th March 1995, Tirana] But a system doomed to fail; Where now Albania? What future I am a child in search of a mother, With your new dawn? I am a boy in search of the child, I am a man being a father, Here in Albania on my birthday I am a father being a boy. I have no answers to the past, I have some questions for the future, HOXHA’S BUNKERS Man is never equal born. There is no succour in religion, [2.27pm, 25th March, 7km from Tirana] There is no faith in politics, Yet I can hope for better times Sitting on a Hoxha bunker Though many doubt an optimist. On my birthday in Albania,

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Oh Albania, free of Europe, NAPPING Perhaps its better to be lost [10.52pm, 29th Aug 1995, Hazelbank] In your mountains, on your beaches Which still yours, are not yet sold; Let no man know a single sound For once the sharks, the piranha That he has not some knowledge of, Arrive from Europe with their bucks, For if he comes upon a crash, A few of you will surely profit A bang, or some unprepared smash, But most of you will suffer loss. His heart will jump and fain attack At having thus been caught out. Loss of what? The open question, Time has shown you are naïve, LOOKING FOR A DIRTY WORLD A nation open to suggestion, [11pm, 29th Aug 1995, Hazelbank] You’ve fallen foul of foreign greed. So beware the Anglo Saxons, There is more than I can say herewith The Italians, French and the Greeks, About the months I’ve let pass – Remember Hoxha’s concrete bunkers I have left the ink pen down … And why there was once a need. Instead let my fingers type A novel spanning twelve decades STOLEN LO VE In which I barely reach the truth [12.41am, Easter Monday, 17th Apr Of all the things I want to clean 1995, Hazelbank, Innellan] From my cluttered inner cave.

Too soon in love, yet not quick enough I have not missed my verse, I fell in love with a lady – Thought or pined for its loss. On the arm of a man abusing her charm No! I am free to fictionalise, Without any qualms, without a delay Break from true poetic mood; I said to myself ‘She is for me! For who has want of trite confession I’ll set her free!’ and hatched a plan When there is sex within a book, That only a man in love understands. Who would not read of murder, Deceit and fortunes made from war. For there before me across the floor At a table she sat, unable to laugh Poetry’s for corrupted spirits, With the man with his hand on her wrist. Cleanser of the wild debaucher; With a twist, he took the blood from her Prose is for the clear of conscience face, Looking for a dirty world. Blackened her eyes with a snide aside, Made her lips colour like an icy river THE SECRET WATERFALL Forever shivering over a frozen weir. [1.56pm, 12th Sept 1995, Hazelbank, Innellan] I was right in deciding to fight – A beautiful woman being slowly destroyed, There is beyond my house a hidden glen A toy in the hands of a childish man. Down which a tumbling stream cascades, With sides so steep it takes a man From brink to brink of gaping death.

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RUNNING FRO M THE HURRICANE No fool would lightly scale down there [1.36pm, 14th Sept 1996, Mile 77 (84) With outstretched arms descend by southbound, USA] choice, Except in search of what he’d heard, Boston to New York, the green slips by, But what as yet he had not found. The scoured bedrock blasted by time, The pre-autumn trees touching the hem There is – so village folk recount, Of the hurricane clouds marching by. A secret pool below that fall – An enchanted lair of ages past What is beyond the grassy soft shoulder Where lovers hid and murderers drank. Edging existence mile after mile? Signposts hint of satellite cities I descended, found that pool - Beyond the aspen, cedar and pine. Stood mute beneath the thunderous spray, Half blinded, saw the cascade foam Rolling black tarmac bridging brown And curdle all my senses. springs Flowing from sources still not found; NEIDER SACHEN Out of the green New York rises For Nadine and Vanessa Into the grey of the hurricane night. [15th September 1995?, Hazelbank] WASHINGTON CATHEDRAL When the days were not right, For Maisie Gordon Whitman We crossed the sea, we three [17th September 1996, Washington DC] Drove into the night, six days We slept out upon the moors, There on a hill in the white water rain Turf stacks, across the fields; flooded in light, the evening song - Deer hid in the aspen. the swish of a tyre, the pull on a brake, a cut of an engine, and a headlamp fade. NO ONE TRAVELS ALONE [1.07pm, 14th Sept 1996, Route 90(84) High heel upon limestone steps circa Sturbridge, Mass] beneath vaulted arch and buttressed nave - beyond the trees on Capitol Hill, No one who travels alone, travels alone, Congress wrestles with the devils's ways. There’s always someone to meet on the road. Conscience weary and heavy souled, Speaking in Spanish to grey-haired shoulders wet and hurricane blown - Italians, as the choir recants a godly tune, Or listening to Yale grads talking in a lost soul prays by Wilson's tomb. Gaelic; Bussing from Mass, thru Rhode to Conn. Embalmed in a mantle of cathedral stone, If you travel alone - its inside your head. shed of sins and skinned with hope - presidents seek and senators uncover a higher law than the laws they order.

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There on a hill in the spiraling rain, Out of Barrhead, drops Brock Burn, tail-end to another hurricane, Draining Barrhead, Nitshill and Darnley, above the flood and Washington's ways Its shopping trolleys rusting in its mud. a whiter house prevails. TOWARD POINT SILENCE [12.49am, 24th July 1997, Hazelbank] [1.03am, 4th April 1997, Priesthill, Glasgow] Sand through the hands on a rocky shore, Altars for prayers near standing stones, Never is the quiet moment so silent, Crystals of coal washed by the sea, So still that life is stagnant; Sharded clay icons on black feathered For always there is a stirring, scree. Somewhere there is a movement, Somehow there is always something Breaking of boulders lodged by white ice, Not quite settled, nor married Mountains of pink cliffs atop of debris, Enough to tarry, or stay. Walkways of paving, child like created, Below strong lights shadowed by techno. POPPING OFF AND LOST [10.54pm, 16th June 1997, Priesthill, War in the distance on a ferned slope, Glasgow] Cone gatherer silhouetted under Welsh slate cope, Waiting for tomorrow in the twilight Hatless cyclist and coatless barefooted hour, wife Summer on us now as in younger days. Search the seal-less water for signs. What becomes of time in the silent fall; Heavy dyed clouds heading this way. DOON VALLEY - DUNASKIN [3.29pm, 14th September 1997, Dunaskin, No one can remember the minute just Aryshire] gone, Who will have recorded it all anyway? The legacy left by spirits now gone, Life’s a button hanging by a thread, Pit-rows demolished traced by moss, Popping off, and lost on a rainy day. Wind mixed music scraping the rust Of machines and structures abandoned. SHOPPING TROLLEYS [Near midnight, 23rd Jul 1997, Hazelbank, Deep in the dark of watery faces, Innellan] Deep within the empty brick kilns, On the slag slopes overlooking vast acres, Near the Auldhouse Burn near Newlands The waste of man’s labours remains. To Levern Water, just past Crookston, A dozen little streams feed and nourish Hot are the hills steaming in winter, The River Cart edging on to Renfrew. Owls nest snoring in craters of flux, Green is Doon Valley hedgelessly gardened Somewhere between Pollokshaws and Out of the ashes of work. Paisley,

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NIPPED AT seas and lochs and tumbling mountain [11.12pm, 1st October 1997, Priesthill, chasms Glasgow] do not erase an old year, and bring another - Lost in the anger of unfinished business, time is mindful, minds are full of time, Left to the torment of bitter exchanges, times of failure, times of doubt and Red-faced and tempered, over-extended, sorrow. Reaching for objects to signal distress - Such is the outrage of patience that’s A fish box grinding on the lochside gravel ended, by shore paths tread for centuries, now Such is the outcome of lovers at odds. uncharted; mated herons skimming outbound, EL NINO’S YEAR homeward going, [15th January 1998?, Hazelank, Innellan] carrying the crofting ghosts of Ardentallon. Marked by memories, turns another year obscured by cluttered recall, void of Sleep contains no cave to hide from resolutions. history; closed eyes hold visions worse than living; Gales lash south of wild isolation, faces rising out the night marsh, gatecrash sandbags discarded, lie in doorways; oblivion. the Little Bay calm, swans in ceilidh; second-hand shops empty of all rainwear; Grey rising dawn, grey falling evning; mist halfway down the snow-topped ridges wet scud morning, wet dreary gloaming; ice-aged and scarred by all that’s passed. the driving drench of Western kenning.

Lerag Cross shattered in three pieces Bridges built to belittle mighty oceans stands iron girded guarding Kilbride glen; cannot save the damned from Christian moody vapours swirl the crippled chapel; forces; the roofless tumble stoned MacDougal rock wracked slatey Easdale is St.Helena. graves stacked so high the churchyard gapes No escape from destiny by moral action; upwards doomed to failure by a labyrinth of to engulf the overtired blue Argyll sky. choice; New Year brings no new beginning. Near to distant whispers reach the ocean travelled by those dispatched by angry Kilmelford churchyard shuttered, fenced, hands. locked; salvation in the ran there shall not be. Time offers no escape nor solace in this landscape If there is hope in the wail of winter from city life’s grubby deals and money within the shadow of black mountained grabbers; Mull; if there is faith in the fists of Morven

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or the fissures of Ossian’s fabled world - oak and larch, and one lone red Scots pine ruin stands between ambition and fortune - in the shelter of Kerrera’s horse-shoe all that’s left from Bonawe’s charcoal coves. smelting, pig iron for the ploughs, post Culloden. If darkness ends in the caves of Olaf, respite must ripple back from Lismore; January blows and spring has passed - Dunollie bleak, broken, haunts the Sirocco breezes buffet as El Nino comes. treeline; Dunstaffnage black and barren haunts the Falls of Lorn, silent running, black and shore - brooding; it’s bleach barked beeches limed on buried Linn of Avich, cascading, raging bone. lochwards; crannogs and causeways long since out of Sunlight breaks through on Ben Cruachan; usage; Ardchattan repels the wrack and fuming drover roads traversing Loch Awe clachan loch; strewn; in a near-by glen, a white spate falls. Carncassie Castle tower, a virtual ruin; Kilmartin’s cysts and cairns stripped of Out beyond the mainland, island driven treasure; the future runs between Aros and ring and cup marks, on the march to Tobermory; Dunadd. cliffs of road, and crags of single highway, plunge and rise double-crossed by In the landscape, only ghosts can hunt - tomorrow - in our time, the dead are large in number. Christ-crushed by Columba of Iona. There in the fields with their tumbling Rock-wrecked smack at Creuig Point, dykes; broken pier and derelict houses rubble there in the streams, in the forests, on the ruined, lochs; minor shadows flirting in the lichened there in every boulder, stone or rock - oaks, there in the past where our ancestors sirens screaming in the wind by dwelt; Dutchman’s Cap, the living and the dead jointly walk. deadly pools and eddy’s round Staffa’s stacks, LEAVING HAZELBANK deserted Ulva haunted by Kilninian’s [1.22pm, 18th March 1998, Dunoon- ghosts - Gourock Ferry] wailing for the return of the young. A house where laugher rung, Sleep is no escape from weary winter, Empty now with death is hung, upright standing sentinel guarding Lonan, A garden filled with children’s singing, ancient birch and alder ripe with catkin, Now’s overhung with brooding laurel - Sands where lovers took long strolls,

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Now are strewn with wrack and litter.

Time puts its hand upon my shoulder, I dare not turn and look behind At all that’s withered during life; For still ahead lies the hope That what I want is still to come, And that which comes will bring me joy.

FAR AWAY FRO M THE FUTURE [8.20pm, 16th July 1998, Cayton Bay, Yorkshire]

Why fret away the future before today is gone? All about is finer than it was … My house of ill-repair is rightly sold, I stand upon the threshold of a new abode.

Welcome friends come bearing lucky charms, The composer, countess and banker laugh - My duchess lover climbs the stair to bed; I linger on as master of all past debts.

Fortune winks at me in the evening sun, Warm winds flow through favoured haunts; Children’s laughter covers all my cowering doubts; Today is with me now, and tomorrow walks.

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GLIMPSES OF THE NEXT QUARTER

AELLE’S PO EM [9.50pm, 30th November 2001, Tyndrum, Argyll] LEAP NO WHERE [12.17am, 1st October 2008, Crick Bung, Wounded by warring, worn with walking Denham] High in the hills, hankering for home Wrestled from women, wrenched from Leap nowhere without faith wenching And never look back The weary warrior stands alone. On the deeds of the doer Or the sins of the pack. Blooded by battle, axe blade broken Spear shaft smashed, helmet hewed THE RO AD O F NECESSITY Chanting war cries, stirring the sleeping [10.01am, 4th April 2009, Crick Bung, The warrior waits, bereft of brew. Denham]

Thirsty for fighting, hungry for hunting The road of necessity is the way of Slinging of shields, singing of swords despair, Proud in his posture, brave in his bearing The need of the poor is the want of the The warrior wishes to fight his foes! rich; From heaven to earth, mountain to sea AERIC’S PO EM The traffic is heavy on the path to the [9.03am, 3rd May 2006, Camden Market, cliff. London] SHE LIKES TO RUN Sailed from shore, shipped from storms. For Suzie I sought and slayed my kin’s killer [11.19am, 4th April 2009, Crick Bung, avenged in anger, Aeric’s axe Denham] fell foully on Aeric’s foes, cruelly cleft Fingal’s naked neck She likes to run in beautiful places claimed his land with Woden’s word. Far from the cry and hue of the city, Where she can be ordered and perfect, NO T TO BE SEEN Her breath the wind wed to the wild. [12.13am, 1st October 2008, Crick Bung, Denham, Bucks] QAWRA [1pm, 2th April 2009, Qawra, Malta] Not to be seen, not to be heard, The voice of the naked, the face of the Free in the sun to swim and run, child, To pound the sand, brave the surf, Wandering the alleys and lanes of the Take the shade in the terrace trees, West, Stare at the stars in the midnight breeze; Straggling the roads stretching no end. Find the dawn in the rising east, Kiss your lover and feast till lunch.

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SEVENTH DECADE [10.15am, 3rd Jan 2010, Crick Bung, Denham]

Each decade turns the pages of time Between the sheets the sun revolves; The heat of the day, the ice of the night I wake to eat, I wait in line, I walk the moors, I wade my brooks, I whittle every passing hour - Watch the waves turn the sand, Wish and want my fading child To turn, retrace the wandering road I first trod so well alone.

SUZIE [7.54am, 7th July 2011, Estonia]

I am an island in a sea of dreams Caught in a storm - harbour with me. I am fresh water, shelter and calm - A rock in an ocean of wild drowning fear

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TIMELINE TO THE POEMS writing went into that, so the poetry does not reflect the true scale of that To put the collection into a context, the continent - the people, the landscape, the following pages will give the reader an teaming life. idea of the underlying events and references to the works that appear in ROAD TO SOUTH AMERICA [1977-78] this collection. I made this trip with Charlie Bado from IN SEARCH OF A GURU {1974-75] Newcastle. I was twenty four, he was nineteen. I had done various jobs before These poems are my earliest, and as a setting off - as a librarian in Newcastle result they lack technique, contain forced Poly, a three month non-destructive rhymes, but they reveal something of my testing course in Stockton-on-Tees, a journey to India as a twenty year old. I industrial relations worker for Tyne and had saved up enough to be away for a year Wear Transport Executive interviewing by working in Newcastle as bus conductor. bus drivers as potential train drivers for I had dropped out of university the the new Metro system. I was having previous summer, found myself a bit lost, endless affairs that weren’t working out. I shacked up with a Barnsley girl, had my moved to London (Kentish Town Road) heart broken, got into transcendental to be with Diana. I lasted five days. I was meditation, got employed on the buses (I not ready for London. South America was too young to be a driver), then went seemed a better option. The journey of to India in search of a guru. ended with Charlie and I repatriated from Panama, and our passports retained on CAN’T FIND THE BEACH [1975-76] arrival back in the UK.

Twenty one and itching to be off again. I ROAD TO THE AMERICAS [1978-80] moved to Edinburgh for three weeks and worked as a pot washer, then went back to Back from South America, broke and with Newcastle, signed on for six months, then a second novel to write up. I moved into a got a job car cleaning. In April I got squat in Akenside Terrace - well, the place employed by the Parks Dept. It was the was deemed uninhabitable but I managed hottest summer of the century and I got to make it into a home of some sort. bust for having three roaches in my bin When I finished the novel, I travelled to (those were the days), but I’d saved Aberdeen and got a job on the Brent Delta enough to be off to Africa. oil rig as a roustabout. They were still drilling back then and it was a tough job. ROAD TO AFRICA [1976-77] By coincidence, a Brent D barrel of oil is still the benchmark for all European oil This was quite an adventure. Desert, prices. Once done with the rigs, I got my swamp, more desert; disease, quarantine, passport back from the FCO and flew to frustration. I learned patience in Africa. I Seattle. The poetry sort of gives its own started my first novel while in quarantine account of what happened for the next in northern Kenya and most of my

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year. There is a more detailed account in and parts of Ireland where it remained my third novel. very much alive as the main poetic form. When the Scots / Irish moved to the FROG (an illustrated collection) [1980] Appalachians, they took the form with [22nd Jun – 25th Jul 1980, 2 Victoria Sq, Newcastle] them where it melted with African rhythm and became the Blues. American This collection of poems is omitted from County music is traditional ballad 4 x 4. this edition as the original text published The early Beatles music is the same ballad in 1980 is in illustrated format. However, form. Note - not all of the poems in this a number of the poems that form the section are ballads. basis of the tale can be found including the original Froggies poem composed in May PARADISE AND HELL [1981-82] 1975. We had to get out of California, it was SIX MONTHS IN ENGLAND [1980] driving us crazy. I was just another immigrant and just seemed to be working I had returned to Newcastle with Laura to eat, pay the rent, and smoke pot. and her son Chris. It was not an easy time Everybody smoked pot! It was like there for us, after all the travelling, I felt caged. was no tomorrow, no yesterday, and no However, I did put out my first poetry today. Ambition seemed to be something collection SWEET SURRENDER. Laura’s that other people had. It was a fine place grandfather was a bookbinder and he had to be if you were healthy and from the taught her how to make books. This Third World, but if you were sick, Black information was enough for us to set up or in a brush with the law, it was a fascist Palm Tree Books to publish my work. state. The poetry reflects this - it dwells on crime and wrong-doing. I’m not a BALLADS FOR THE PACIFIC BEACH moralist per se, but the things I saw going [1981] on in California did not make me want to stay even though I had a Green Card. We moved to California in Dec 1980. Something clicked with my poetry. I was THE NORTH COUNTRY [1982-83] warmly welcomed into the Bay Area Poet fraternity by Mary Rudge and Laura, Chris and I moved in a two performed at a large number of poetry bedroom flat above a cafe on Shields readings. They seemed to like my work Road, Byker, Newcastle. We were worse and were immensely taken by my ability than penniless and unemployment in to move around the world like a hobo. For Thatcher’s Britain had hit four million. some reason I seemed to be stuck in the Signing on was the only option - it paid ballad form - perhaps because it came the rent and gave us enough for food but naturally for me. I found out why - the little else. I got on with typing out my ballad form introduced into Britain in the fifth novel - Mungo. I still was not twelve century from France, died out making a penny from my writing (it almost everywhere else in Europe except would be another nineteen years) but I was the Borders of Scotland, Northumberland artistically content. The poetry reflects a

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gentler life , a family life, though it is not and reading for my language and literature a very conventional one. During that degree, I wrote five plays, put together a time I decided that I would like to go back two hundred page guide to the works of to university to prove to myself I was not C.P.Taylor, and despite myself, half a quitter, that I could get a degree, and wrote the novel Christine and the Tea- that if I could do it, so could Laura who’d Chest. Much of my energies also went had Chris the month after she had turned into the Diary of an English Student seventeen. which I typed out at the end of every term which I photocopied and THE CANDIDE OF A YOUNG anonymously slid under my tutors' doors. SCOTSMAN IN ENGLAND [1983] By Week 52 my anonymity had gone and I was given a lot of negative criticism by Started on 19th Feb and finished on 24th Anne Stevenson the resident Northern July apart from the last fifteen lines Arts Literary Fellow based in the which were added in Dec 83 and Jan 84 department, and by Robert Woof, later during my break from Newcastle my final year tutor, who was at that time University. The poem partly addresses chairman of the Arts Council Literature the cultural shock that awaits a young Panel. They told me to keep my work Scot in England. Whether it is Newcastle brief and the poem of Week 52 is the or London, England is culturally very result of this advice. It is the shortest of different from Scotland. The needs of the all the Weeks, and having kept the people (sex and drugs) might be similar, previous Week so short, I promptly but the way in which Anglos and Scots go ignored their advice as I felt I had to say about getting these things is very something about a trip I had made to the different.' The work was first performed Lakes. Thereafter, I stopped typing and with music at the Edinburgh Festival distributing the work in the English Fringe in 1984 and received a brief line or Department, but carried on composing two of review in the Scotsman (25th the Diary just the same. Aug). The recording that co-exists with this poem was recorded in Banchory in Manuscript Notes 1988. WEEK 1 –16th Oct 1983 WEEK 2 – 23rd Oct 1983 THE UNDERGRADUATE - DIARY OF th AN ENGLISH STUDENT [1983-86] WEEK 3 – 30 Oct 1983 WEEK 4 – 7th Nov 1983 Original entitled Ninety-Weeks, then The WEEK 5 – 13th Nov 1983 Undergraduate, and also the Diary of an WEEK 6 – 20th Nov 1983 English Student. WEEK 7 – 24th, 27th Nov 1983 Returning to Newcastle University as an th undergraduate for the second time WEEK 8 – 4 Dec 1983 (unknown to the Registrar, the first WEEK 9 - 12th-13th Dec 1983 having been aborted in 1973), I put aside WEEK 10 – 14th, 17th Dec 1983 my prose fiction writing as it was too time consuming. Between essay writing

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WEEK 11 – 22nd Jan 1984. This poem is Stanza - 6 line blank verse. (Orig.Text, in Chaucer's Rime Royal 7-line stanza 5/6/84) form. The content as can be read, deals with the snow falls that had come heavily WEEK 15 – 19th Feb 1984. Inspired by in January 1984. The mention of the the Winter Olympics in Yugoslavia which Royal Shakespeare Company is due to the triggered me to recall my own experiences fact that every year they came to in that country. The small rural churches Newcastle and the leading actors were of Yugoslavia are very old, and I usually invited to the University English remember visiting one that had department to talk about their roles Renaissance religious paintings covering (Orig.Text, 5/6/84) the walls. However, the religion aspect of the poem comes from a number of WEEK 12 – 28th-29th Jan 1984. The first different experiences of Catholic churches three stanzas deal with the genres poets throughout the world (St.Francis Xavier, has at his disposal when composing a Goa, in particular for the relic aspect), poem. in this case, the poem is written in and three lines come from a work of Sir imitation of Donne's eleven line stanza Richard Burton, before ending on the ABCBDEFGHHH, though I haven't been inevitability of death. Stanza - none. Free clever enough to maintain this Verse. (Orig.Text, 5/6/84) throughout. The latter part of the poem deals with two lovers in bed, rising, then WEEK 16 – 4th Mar 1984? The diary separating. The last stanza is merely a approach was to show a week's reminder of the texts I had read in the happenings in the life of a first year week (Orig.Text, 5/6/84) undergraduate English student. The idea and style is my own, though the initial WEEK 13 – 5th Feb 1984. An escape short line form is an adaptation of the from the heavily academic composition latter part of the Wakefield stanza. of the previous week. It celebrates the Stanza - irregular ABCDB. merits of smoking marijuana and drinking beer to clear the mind of worry, overwork WEEK 17 – 4th Mar 1984. A spoof on a and despondency. Stanza AAA+0.5B. student-tutor conversation which would be (Orig.Text, 5/6/84) highly unlikely to be quite as patronising. It covers the work I had been reading or WEEK 14 – 13th-14th Feb 1984, Glasgow. read for the week. Stanza - AA+BBCCDE. Each of the stanzas allude to a number of (Orig.Text, 5/6/84) places in the world, most of which I have experienced for myself. The idea is to WEEK 18 – Date ? Commences with show the world beyond life as a university mention of my play (The Heatwave student, and a reminder of the fortunate Lovers) and the reason why I had done no ten years I had as a traveller. Written in work for the week, before going on to Glasgow in by brother's flat during Reading talk about late-night writing and the folly Week, hence perhaps the change in tone. of such exercises. Rhetoric. Stanza - free verse. (Orig.Text, 5/6/84)

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Cathy. Stanza - 4 line couplets and ABCB WEEK 19 – 18th, 20th Mar 1984. I was variants. (Orig.Text, 5/6/84) incensed about the Conservative Government's squeeze on civil liberties WEEK 24 – 28th May 1984. This poem is and social services. Stanza - rhyming a compilation of modified extracts from couplets. I read this poem at the Tyneside Leech's 'A Linguistic Guide to English Writer’s Workshop in March 1984, abd Poetry', though what emerged was a story at Castle Chare Arts Centre, Durham 18th about a man jilting his lover (younger May 1984. than he). Stanza - 4 line blank verse. (Orig.Text, 5/6/84) WEEK 20 – 26th-27th Mar 1984. Written at Lumb Bank, Yorkshire, the poem WEEK 25 – 5th June 1984. The first readily reflects the change of stanza is an attack on Empson's 'Seven environment. Term had ended, and it felt Types of Ambiguity'. The remainder of good to rest in the quiet Dales. Hence the the poem is a play with alliteration and way it is. Stanza - A(+connecting word stress, the content being centred around a B)CD (Orig.Text, 5/6/84) wet June evening and my strong desire to go to Spain for a vacation after my exams. The reference to the workers is WEEK 21 – 6th-7th May 1984. The meant to infer the miners and their wives beginning of this poem is about Laura who who have been out on strike for almost went to the beach for the day with some three months. Stanza - 3 line alliterative. friends while I had to stay home and write (Orig.Text, 5/6/84) an essay 'The Concentration Camp'. The poem then spans a few hours of thought. WEEK 26 – 14th June 1984. This poem started as a ditty I composed orally during WEEK 22 – 13th May 1984. This poem is a birthday party. I continued it as an initially a translation of a Lorca poem attack on the wealthy, but I soon dropped (Poem del Cante Jondo), but developed off back to the lifestyle that I was once into a compilation love poem about two more familiar with than now. Stanza - 5 lovers under the orange blossom. I line AABCB (Orig.Text, 16/7/84) composed this in Heaton park while lying in the grass with my shirt off to catch a WEEK 27 – Dated ? I was feeling lazy sun tan. Despite being late spring, it has a this week. Exams were over and I didn't sense of summer about it. (Orig.Text, give much o a damn about anything. 5/6/84) Stanza - 4 line ABCB (Orig.Text, 16/7/84) WEEK 23 – 27th May 1984. Written keeping in mind 'The Heatwave Lovers' WEEK 28 - 25th, 27th June 1984. Set in which was being performed the 23rd/24th Spain, and written on the beach of Nerja, May. At one stage I felt that the play had the poem is self-explanatory. I did in fact corrupted the morals of Alice, the rather have a group of players come and innocent girl who played the part of rehearse under the same olive tree while i

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was writing this poem, and it turned out that they engineer; and the second part, they were from the E15 method school of tries to show the idleness that exists for acting (London). The poem breaks about today's youth due to unemployment and two-thirds of the way through, and picks lack of opportunities. To big business, up two days later with me lying on a sun- today's youth are ready slaves of the war bed in Burriana Beach, Nerja. Stanza - machine, a sad and pitiful reflection on a mixed free verse. (Orig.Text, 16/7/94) mentality that may find support amongst the most right-wing thinkers of society in WEEK 29 - 3rd July 1984, Granada. I sat the not too distant future. Stanza - 4 line at the foot of the Albaicin astride a wall ABCA, ABCB, and AABB plus variants that banked the river that runs through and interceding rhyming couplets. the old part of Granada, and composed (Orig.Text, 16/7/84) this poem. The city is rich in imagery, and most of what appears in these ten THE NORTHUMBERLAND PICNIC – stanzas are direct observations. The 29th July 1984. This poem was written simple style of the poem reflects the after returning from a most beautiful day relaxed mood I was in, and perhaps out of at Rothbury Crags near Cambo, the whole Diary of an English Student Northumberland. It was Laura’s 33rd sequence (to date?), it has been the easiest birthday and in all there was about twenty and most enjoyable to compose. It of us in the picnic group. It was reminded me of my many years wonderful, the weather was slightly breezy travelling, and the fact that at one time, high-summerish, and the moors were bone much of my poetry was composed out of dry and fern high. The ‘lady of the lake’ doors or in public places. If I were to is Sarah McCarthy (video maker), and the criticise this whole academic sequence, it artist Al Davison. (Orig Taxt 29/7/1984?) would be for the stifling atmosphere of books and learning that it imposes on the BECAUSE I LOVE YOU – 29th July reader. I blame the English weather. 1984. Original called ‘To Jane’, this Stanza - 5 line end rhyme with the poem was written for Glenn, 88 Stakeford occasional blank last line. (Orig.Text, Crescent, Chopwell, N/Land, after he had 16/7/84) read the ad I’d placed in the Sunday Sun which stated that I wrote pomes in return WEEK 30 – 15th July 1984. I had just for donations to the Tyneside Writer’s read C.P.Taylor's play 'Lies About Workshop. Cost of poem £5. (Orig Text Vietnam' (1969) when I came to compose 29/7/1984) this poem and somehow I wanted to put on paper what I felt about war and killing. WEEK 31 Prologue – 7th Oct 1984. I really wanted to attack the media, but big business came out as a greater menace WEEK 31 – 18th Oct 194. ‘Where than newspaper proprietors. The poem is ploughs the cofter?’ is a reference to a in two parts (plus a tail-end piece to wind poem of mine Wild Hebrides written in the first year (Thirty Weeks) of study, 1981. ‘In terror, desolation and dismay’ is the first part dealing with the callousness referenceing The Prelude Bk 10, line 20. of war profiteers and the death of men

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impossible to ignore that Britain is an WEEK 32(i) – 20th – 22nd 1984. Inspired island with it's own insular outlook on by concern over my growing brotherhood enforced upon it's people by estrangement with Laura during the the government in power. (Orig.Text, running of the Newcastle Festival Fringe. 26/11/84) The first stanza is how I felt about myself. The second stanza is about our WEEK 33 – 28th & 31st Oct 1984. arguments, though by the third and fourth line, I have begun to move away from WEEK 34 – (i) 2nd Nov 1984. (ii) 5th reality, and move into a creative, Nov 1984. (iii) 6th Nov 1984. illusionary, imaginary world. The third stanza is totally unemotional, it was th th th th composed with calmness and thought that WEEK 35 – 7 , 9 , 12 &13 Nov wished to twist away from conventional 1984. 1- 'Prufrock' was a very frustrated sop. It reminds me a little of the speech man floundering in the dilemma of sexual Frog makes to the Girl Frog which I wrote inaptitude. 2 - 'Making out ....' A New in the spring of 1976 [See 'Frog - A Tale Zealand girl I met in Isla Mueres (1980). For Adults']. However, as a piece of A French girl in Madras (1975). A South biography, the third stanza is not how I African national who seduced me on my feel, or even how I felt about my 23rd birthday (1977). 3 - 'Hughes or relationship with Laura. (Orig.Text, Heaney ....' Poetically they have 26/11/84) succeeded in finding large publishers to print their work. 4 - 'As the tone .... ne'er knows thirst'. The double talk language of WEEK 32(ii) – 22nd & 25th Oct 1984. T.S.Eliot in the 'Four Quartets'. This section of the Week concerns itself (Orig.Text, 26/11/84) with the political upheaval, and the rise of a militaristic government. The first three th stanzas allude to a dictatorial government WEEK 36(i) – 18 Nov 1984. Searching deciding to use force to settle an for a source of melancholy without it international dispute. In this case, the being my own. More a pastiche of past Falkland Island War with Argentina ' a and present sensations. November has sinking puddled nowhere' being the been a record-breaking wet Falkland Islands. The next three stanzas month.{Orig.Text, 26/11/84) (ii) – 18th try to convey the loss of human life in Nov 1984. Taking Meissener's 'Latin any war, and harks back to the age of the Phrase Book' (trans.by H.W.Auden), I Anglo-Saxon warrior ('Seafarer', 'The composed a very rough poem using Wanderer') where it is believed that the phrases from Section XI - Religion- spirit of a slain warrior returned to his Scrupple-Oath-Vows. (Orig.Text, homeland over the wave tops. The gannet 26/11/84). I studied Latin for two years at and the whale both possess sad soulful Shawlands Academy. I used to hate being cries that symbolically are the voices of belted by Mr.Cowan the Latin master and the dead. The last three stanzas indicate a Deputy-head. So did everyone else. return to a wider commonwealth of (Footnote 29/10/94) (iii) – 18th Nov nations (EEC) yet show how it is 1984. This poem is a reaction to the

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previous over-bearing Latinate and the narrator's voice turns to summer composition. Literally out of my head, it memories i.e. 'summer beach'., Spain is an attempt to merge the classical with (WEEKS 28-29), 'mountain lake' (see the popular. If my knowledge of poem Northumberland Picnic 29/7/84). iconoclastic relationships was more My flesh does not sag like the narrator's, extensive, the ballad could be made to the aging analogy is taken too far, but the carry more allusion. As it is, it is rough, idea behind it is universal - age though the love affair of Venus Dove and overwhelms us all. Yet while the narrator Mercury Mar is an eternal love. In the suffers the inclement of Northern life, he third last stanza, nature description knows that somewhere else on this planet conjures us 'wilderness' or attempts to, the ‘goddesses and princes' make love in his loss of all, i.e that emptiness that they lost paradise. (Orig.Text, 26/11/84) have fled to out of apparent misery through love for one another.(Orig.Text, WEEK 38 - (i) 30th Nov 1984. (ii) 3rd 26/11/84). (iv) & (v) - 18th Nov 1984. Dec 1984. This poem ran around my head for a week before I finally put it down on WEEK 37 – 22nd & 25th Nov 1984. paper. It is more lyrical than poetical i.e. Three sonnets. Very loose indeed, but meant to be sung. (Orig.Text, 3/12/84) I they capture the melancholy which has remember that this was about two women turned to depression. The first stanza I who came into my life – the singer was wrote with an inner anger, i.e. I actually Penny, and the dancer Emma of later felt the emotions laid out in the fourteen poems. Emma Ellis had just moved into lines. The second stanza which I wrote the flat downstairs from us (171 Helmsley after reading Dryden's 'MacFlecknoe' and Road). (note 24/01/2014) (iii) 3rd Dec a chapter on the Restoration period whilst 1984. studying in the library - in this stanza I try to continue some of the thread I had WEEK 39 – (i) 7th Dec 1984 (ii) 9th Dec developed three days earlier. The opening 1984. The end of my marriage to Laura. line however was something in the hope The poems are pretty self explanatory, of breaking away from the reflective its how I felt at the time. I was pretty cut inward looking poetry of the last three up by it as I really loved her, and she me. weeks (ever since reading Wordsworth It probably took me about seven or eight during Weeks 34-35), partly due to the years to get her. (Note 24/01/2014) Norton Anthology biography of Dryden which stated his surface (neo-classical) WEEK 40 – (i) 10th Dec 1984 (ii) 10th & impersonal view of contemporary life. th However, I failed to break away from 20 Dec 1984. I have to comment about ‘serious brooding' and explored further this poem. It was in the Highbridge Hotel depths of loneliness in a creative zest that back bar overlooking the bridge and the is chilling rather than warming. I'm not Tyne during the Miner’s Strike. There really like this at all. By the third stanza, were two poetic factions – the Lefties led I'm back on the reality of weather, the by Keith Armstrong, and the small group process of aging. Another day has elapsed, of Art’s Council luvvies headed up by Neil the November winds are up to gale-force, Astley. I was running the Tyneside

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Writers group with Keith at that time and not refer to his text very much, and I was we had done a few readings during the half-way through part (iv) when I realised strike. The bar was full of pickets in their I had one stanza too many in (ii) and (iii). donkey jackets and yellow overvests that In total, the poem must have taken three marked them out as pickets. Anyway, hours to write, some of that time very when the poets kicked off at one another, painfully. I'm not my happiest at the I thought it was time for me to part ways moment, I feel a great loneliness since with wine drinking politico’s and Laura and I separated. I have received no malcontents. The poem is a reflection on visitors for a whole week, which that Saturday afternoon? NB. Armstrong, considering the railway station our house Astley and Cleary are still writing poetry (173 Helmsley Road) has been this last today (2014). I have a lot of respect for year. is a sign that our split has radically Keith, he’s been true to his following. reoriented our friends' attitudes towards Neil, of course, is the owner of Bloodaxe us. I feel slighted and a little used, I can't Books, and if you know anything about remember the last time someone invited British poetry, he has made many careers me for dinner. I'm sure things will change, with his publications. Brendan is still and that winter has a lot to do with writing poetry and is based in Brighton. everything. One thing for certain, I've Paul (Beadle) was an English teacher who managed to shake off the melancholy dabbled with poetry. The poem, when that descended on me a few months ago they read it, particularly upset Paul. In [Weeks 31-38]. I'm starting to feel old, hindsight, the invective was unfair, but it but the girls still seem to like me was meant as a lesson i.e. don’t put (Orig.Text, 20/1/85) people down because they have a different point of view. (Note 24/01/2014) (iii) & WEEK 42(i) – 4.13pm, 20th Jan 1985. (iv) 21st Dec 1984. 'Stella' was girl I met Friday night (Jan 18th) at a nightclub. She had seen me FIFTH TERM, PROLOGUE – 3rd & 13th perform 'Frog' at the University Fresher's Jan 1985. Inspired by the vocabulary I Conference. I think it was the green tights picked up reading a dictionary of that did it. As a first year student, she has architecture. (Orig.Text, 20/1/85) just completed her phonology exams and is very self-conscious about her articulation, and thus speaks with refined WEEK 41 – stanza (i) 19th Jan 1985, vowel intonation. I'm sure it will soon th stanza (ii-v) 1pm-3.20pm 20 Jan 1984. wear off, as it did for me. She now attacks Inspired, or should I say, provoked by my syntax. (ii) – 25th Jan 1985 Composed Shelley's 'Ode to the West Wind' (1819), in about five minutes during a lecture on a poem upon which I have to write a Byron (given by John Saunders). It has no seminar paper. Naturally, the paper has real poetic merit. (Orig.Text 28/1/85). not been written yet, all the time I should For some reason Ken Robinson have been spending on it, has gone into (Newcastle Literary Festival coordinator) my 'Ode to the East Wind' (1985) instead. my second year tutor, at the Easter break, I don't think this poem is as fine as told me he thought it more the type of Shelley's, but I think it is different. I did poem I should be composing. (Footnote

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28/10/94) (iii) – 4pm, 28th Jan 1985. of the executive of the Federation of Nothing like a bit of nonsense. After Workers and Community Publishers). I writing an essay on Swift's 'Tale of a Tub', resigned five days later, and cancelled my it is easy for the imagination to fly off place on the Irish Tour in March. into realms of excrement and anal (Orig.Text, 11/2/85). I went on the tour fixation. However, beyond the first after all (Footnote 28/10/94) (v) 3rd Feb stanza, it is meant primarily for the ears 1985. A tribute to Keats, or should I say, of young children. (Orig.Text, 28/1/85). an imitation of Keat's stanza form and Interestingly enough, just as an subjectivity as demonstrated in his Odes. I afterthought, I briefly skipped through was going to add a few more stanzas, but I parts of Joyce's 'Finnegan's Wake' was drawn away into other things and did yesterday. Is this the reason for the not return to it. As it stands, it is nonsense? (Orig.Text, 29/1/85) (iv) 28th complete. (Orig.Text, 11/2/85) & 29th Jan 1984. A short attack on the new disregard for the environment that WEEK 44 – 10th Feb 1985. Not government legislation encourages with melancholy, but an attempt to put my life it's grant cuts and 'cross my hand with into perspective with student life. I had to silver' concessions to big business which look in the mirror before I could write doesn't care a toss about health and safety part of the poem. 'Less than twenty kilos hazards to the public. First and foremost, ...' Literally true. Laura, Chris, and I they care only for themselves and their returned to Britain from Asia with only shareholders. (Orig.Text, 29/1/85) the clothes we wore and a few small personal items we each carried in our own small shoulder bag. Chris also had a guitar. WEEK 43 (i) 29th Jan 1984. The opening 'I have lost ...' The loss of eastern lines are from a conversation I had with a spiritualism for western materialism. 'A fellow student (Karen) that poetry is son ...' Chris, at sixteen, is trying to about love and death and not much else. make it on his own, but it is difficult. nd (ii) 2 Feb 1985. More about my There is no employment, and he makes separation from Laura. She visited me for what money he can selling drugs. 'I have a few hours after a gap of ten days and we ... a girlfriend' is Stella of Week 42. made love. But our differences were not (Orig.Text, 11/2/85) resolved, and she left with my emotions safely wrapped up and stored for her to WEEK 45 – (i) 11th Feb 1985. An play with. She has left me, and who can adaptation of Blake's form in his poem say if she'll ever want to be back with me. 'The Tyger'. The subject, however, is She doesn't know herself.(Orig.Text, contemporary, the emphasis on 'will' nd 11/2/85) (iii) 2 Feb 1985. Written on rather than 'what' as in Blake's poem. i Newcastle - Liverpool train. (iv) 2nd Feb, mean no disrespect to Margaret Thatcher, Liverpool. A crap poem I wrote while but I honestly believe she has no idea of sitting in Lime Street Station waiting for what hardship she is causing amongst the my train back to Newcastle. I was only in low paid and the unemployed - the Liverpool for five hours, four of which I majority of the country's labour force if spent in a meeting (I [am] was a member

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we talk in 'real' terms instead of the P.M's WEEK 46(i) 18th Feb 1985. A girl I met 'real' which has come to mean 'middle- at the Cooperage Nightclub on the class and upper-strato' society. (As a Scot Newcastle Quayside (15th Feb). She had I consider the notion of class distinction recently separated from her husband after as a purely English hang-up.) Today, six years of marriage. She had a three year Mrs.Thatcher, on the tenth anniversary old daughter and lived in Blaydon, a town of her leadership of the Conservative some miles up the Tyne Valley. She came Party, announced she would be running into Newcastle most weekends and stayed for a third-term of office in 1988. She has with a friend she'd met at college a few become a megalomaniac who will hold on years before. Her younger brother also to power as long as she can so that she lived in the same flat. She had beautiful will go down in history as the longest long auburn hair and a slender well- serving P.M. this century. Yet, the proportioned body, but as yet after country is against her, and she is probably marriage, she was still a little shy about the most hated person in this country this taking sexual initiative. Yet when she century. I no longer believe in the term caught my eye when I first entered the democracy, we are close to totalitarianism nightclub, I knew she had spotted and the complete exploitation of the something in me that immediately 'working class' who wish only to work and attracted her. The rest is history, though i be happy in their leisure. This country is must admit, it even surprised me that we sick. If I were not a student bound to my ended up at a party together and that she studies, I would not be living in the United took me home to her friends' flat, one Kingdom. (Orig.Text, 11/2/85) (ii) 15th who had gone away for the week and left Feb 1985. Partly based on a story Kevin her large double-bed vacant. I never had told me about a Kiwi girl he fell in love to press her, it was all so casual and with in Israel. They were engaged, but pleasant it was like a dream. (ii) 19th Feb seemingly the girl was a little unbalanced, 1985. A word play poem that evolved and when Kev took a party of people into a message about the fruitlessness of from the kibbutz down to the shores of resistance against a foe who tortures to the Galilee for a couple of days, the girl break opponents of their imposed system. took an overdose of pills and died. It is The experiences of a prisoner and a quite a sad story; both of them were only martyr combine to give the poem a sense eighteen. (Orig.Text, 24/2/85) (iii) 15th of the horrific, but the crux of the piece is Feb 1985. (iv) 16th Feb 1985 (v) 16th Feb that people wronged do not turn and flee 1985. Inspired by watching the movie but remain to see justice done even if it 'American Werewolf in London' which means the death of the whole community. opens with scenes in the Yorkshire For in reality, few people have the option moors. After that initial imagery, of running anywhere in the face of political undertones creep into the poem, oppression. It may be foolish, but most the eagle and the hawks the present times there is nowhere to run. (Orig.Text, predatory government. (Orig.Text, 24/2/85) (iii)20th Feb 1985. Keith 24/2/85) Armstrong mailed me. Of late I've been trying to terminate my relationship with

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the Tyneside Writers Workshop after all the work I did for it and got nowhere and WEEK 47 (i) & (ii) 27th Feb 1985. (iii) won no friends worth having. A bit & (iv) 1st Mar 1985. (v) 2nd Mar 1985. cynical, but I've just got to the stage of being so overworked I can't continue at th this pace of involvement in so many WEEK 48 – 11 Mar 1985. Holyhead- things without going do-lally. The poem, Dun Loughaire Ferry. I suppose, acts as a sort of release. th (Orig.Text, 24/2/85) (iv) 24th Feb 1984. WEEK 49 (i) 12 Mar 1985, National Thurs 21st went to Fran's (STELLA) Gallery, Dublin. (ii – v) 12th Mar 1985, brother's place in Whitley Bay and got Trinity College, Dublin. (vi) 16th Mar absolutely blotto'd on six bottles of home- 1985, Queens, Belfast. (vi) 16th Mar made rosé. Naturally, we had to spend the 1985, Belfast (viii) 17th Mar 1985, night as it was after two o'clock before we Dublin collapsed. My hangover in the morning was one of the worst for a long time. I nd had to use the North Sea like smelling WEEK 50 (i) 22 Mar 1985. (ii) & (iii) salts, but what a beautiful calm and sunny 27th Mar 1985. Purity was a girl (Elaine) day it was. (Orig.Text, 24/2/85) (v) 24th who was on the FWWCP Writer’s Tour Feb 1984. Thought it up on the way back of Ireland with the Federation. She grew from the pub on Saturday night (23rd very friendly with me on the train from Feb), the first four lines anyway. The Dublin to Belfast but I never thought subsequent verses still reflect my beyond terms of companionship. It was a unrequited love for Laura. I still have great surprise (and pleasant delight) that hopes of continuing our relationship, for impulse made her jump on a bus from the longer we are apart, the more I realise Manchester and arrive unexpected in how happy we were together. I still don't Newcastle. She was only twenty four and a fully understand why she left except that sensitive British black girl who had spent she was under too much stress from the the last three years of her life on the gay Fringe, her course, her grandfather's visit, scene. However, she came with a Chris's problems etc. We're going out complete desire to give herself to me, and together Wednesday (her suggestion) and told me this much by giving me a letter I'm looking forward to it. If only we could she was going to post to me. I like her come to some compromise to settle our very much, but her love is greater than differences. I know the onus is on me to that I can return. However, she is a sweet convince her that i am worth having, but girl, and it was a great pleasure to awake for the time being it is more important on my birthday with such a warm giving that we continue to like and love one companion. (Orig Text 27/03/85) (iv) another. I'm sure she is full of fears that 27th Mar 1985. (v) 30th Mar 1985, she hasn't told me about since she left. Newcastle – London train. But then again, I've only seen her three times. I know we could work something JUNE – A wet Tuesday afternoon in out. It's going to take a long time, but I'm Gateshead with June (real name Julie), a very patient. But back to the poem – writing girl. (Orig Text 9/7/85)

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thing. (iv)12th & 13th May 1985. I did in WEEK 51 (i) 28th Apr 1985. A poem for fact shave my moustache off. \this is Basil Bunting who died that week. I didn’t only the second time since I was particularly like Bunting’s idea of poetry seventeen. The other occasion was in should be. I never met him though I had Johannesburg in January – February 1977 the opportunity to do so many occasions. when I fancied myself as a clean-cut I think he has inversely damaged poetry geologist working for De Beers Anglo in the North East, and has misguided American. It was laughable, I looked more many of the the poets of my own age, like a convict than an executive. and slightly older (Pickard, Astley etc) who viewed him as a god. But the man is WEEK 54 (i) 13th May 1985. (ii) 15th dead now, and was after all a friend of May 1985. In retrospect this poem seems Auden, Eliot and Pound. (Orig Tect like a fore-taste of what I was finally to 9/7/85). (ii) 28th Apr 1985. ‘If a man grasp in MacHack (Week 57). The have not order within him, he cannot success of MacHack lies in its less spread order about him; and if a man have personal tone than this particular work of not order within him, his family will not Week 54. (Orig Text 9/7/85). act with due order’ – Ezra Pound, canto xiii. (iii) 28th Apr 1985. Wordsworth style WEEK 55 – 26th May 1985. This poem is amble upon the weather. fairly autobiographical. Fanny is my wife Laura, and Dick myself. It is a little WEEK 52 – 6th May 1985. I was given a stretched in places, but gauges my feelings lot of negative criticism by Anne while wrestling with Old. Thank god, that Stevenson (Northern Arts Literary is all behind me. (Orig Text 9/7/85). Fellow) and Robert Woof (Chairman of the Arts Council Literature Panel), one of WEEK 56 (i) 3rd Jun 1985. (ii) 4th Jun my tutors. They told me to keep my 1985. Rachael’s real name is Sarah Stone. work brief. The poem of Week Fifty Two (iii) 8th Jun 1985. is the result of this advice. It is the shortest of all the weeks. (Orig Text WEEK 57 - 10th Jun 1985. I published 9/7/85) 500 copies of MacHack on 28th June 1985, the last day of term. I sat down and WEEK 53 (i) 6th May 1985. Having kept th the previous week so short, I felt I had to wrote the poem (on the 10 ) in just under say something about the trip to the three hours. At first I thought it was just going to be an other preamble, but I Lakes. (Orig Text 9/7/85) (ii) 8th May imagine that all the hostility I had been 1985. A translation of Caedmon’s Hymn carrying in me for all the other poets I’d from the Northumbrian rather than the rejected or stopped associating with in the West Saxon version which seems highly last six months, prompted me to produce corrupt (Orig Text 9/7/85) (iii) 9th May MacHack, a satire on the State of 1985. Ofermod is taken from the Battle Poverty in England. Anyway, this note is of Maldon, and means ‘over –pride’, a little incoherent and does little in ‘bravery before wisdom’ – that sort of

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explaining the underlying sentiment of inspired, but quite often my skills are not the poem. (Orig Text 9/7/85) up to the occasion. Of late all my best writing has gone into my stage work, and WEEK 58 (i) 15th Jun 1985. (ii) & (iii) perhaps it is there that I now find my best poetry. I am being corrupted by the lure 20th Jun 1985. of money, my writing is becoming less and less timeless and more and more rd WEEK 59 – 23 Jun 1985. immediate.' (Diary: Cothelstone 30/11/87) WEEK 60 (i) 24th Jun 1985. (ii) & (iii) 'For the first time in eight months I feel 30th Jun 1985 as though I am home. Yesterday I spent Christmas with Pete Goldfield and Susie Dyer and it was very nice, a true yule-day. NORTH SOUTH DIVIDE [1987] At present I am on my own in the cottage and have been so since my return on the Started on the 7th Dec at Cothelstone, 19th after my two-week jaunt around Swansea 9th-12th, Monmouth 13th, Northern England researching for the Leeds 13th, Newcastle 14-16th, Bradford North-South project.' (Diary: Cothelstone 17th-18th, finished at Cothelstone 22nd- 26/12/87) 27th Dec 1987. Part of the work written for a North-South project funded by the PILLOCK [1988] Arts Council of Great Britain. The idea of the project was to discover the cultural Begun on 18th March in Ko Pee Pee, differences between the people of the Thailand, continued at Lake Toba North of England and those in the South (Sumatra), Jakarta & Joygakarta (Java), of England. As I belonged to neither extensively composed by 16th April in peoples, but had lived with both, it was Ubud (Bali), and typed May1st in Moscow reckoned that I would not carry my during a fifteen hour stop-over. 'I was prejudices on the tip of my pen. This was hurting the whole way through writing not the case, but I did my best. Meant as this poem. I had ten very agonising days songs to accompany the 50 sketch in Ubud before I met Debbie from New Playmenu I wrote in three weeks for Gog York who was on her seventh day of Theatre Company. In the preface to the suffering from the same malaise. As it Playmenu, I wrote 'Please do not ignore happened she was in the bungalow next to the lyrics, as one good song might have mine, and we cured each other by going to better effect than five mediocre sketches' Lombok together for a week. Life is very (3/1/88) strange, but wonderful.' 'Over the last six months I have not been in the position of full-time writer as PREFACE TO FIRST EDITION my job as administrator of the Swansea Festival Fringe left me little time for In recent years I've spent too much time anything but worry. 1987 has not been a pursuing the life of the dramatist. As a good year for my poetry. I have lost poet, I wrote my first verses in 1969, but direction and purpose. I feel occasionally it was not until I left England for India in

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1974 that I began in earnest. In later (2010) and I Know What I’m Doing journeys - Africa (1976-77), South (2012) . America (1978), North and Central Using the language of Roget’s Thesaurus, America (1979-80) - while writing my it covers the English lexicon - not all of it first three novels, I kept developing my - but a fair amount of the words and poetry. expressions that make up our limited way In summer of 1980, I published SWEET of expressing what we see, hear, feel taste SURRENDER in Newcastle, which was and touch in our attempt to make sense followed by FROG later in the year. In of God’s world. 1981, just prior to leaving California for Hong Kong, I issued a another collection MOSQUITO [1988] BALLADS FOR THE PACIFIC BEACH. Back from Asia, my POEMS OF THE Begun on 5th October in Coventry EAST (1982) never got to press, though Cathedral while working on Space and some of them were issued on a cassette Place of the 2nd Lexicon of the Universal AFTER THE ELECTION (1983). In Being 1984, POST POEMS were published, and in 1985 MACHACK, a satire I published THE WANDERER [PART 1] [1989-90] anonymously. I completed THE UNDERGRADUATE in 1986 which Begun on 1st Aug 89 and completed at consisted of over two hundred poems of midnight 6th Nov 1990 and thought to varying length and quality. have been written almost exclusively in This was the extent of my poetry credits Glasgow. 'I was nearly finished with the when I came to write PILLOCK in 1988. Universal Being. I had the idea to create a I cannot base any claim to being a poet poem based on my travels - something on the strength of such produce, and once along the lines of Don Juan. Initially my you have read PILLOCK, I dare say you character was going to be called Tam will conclude that I should give up trying. Tartan and I began with a modified Perhaps I shall, for I have heard that I am Byronic verse form (octava rima with 5th to be bought off with an Arts Council line free of end rhyme). However, I found grant. the stanza form inflexible for my needs - the metre and rhyme made a mockery of UNIVERSAL BEING [1988-1989] the content. Although this was something I wanted to begin with - having put aside This poem ruined my eyesight. It also the work because I wasn't happy with it - I took twenty five years to correct and put realised that I had to find a different form into its present form. I did publish a for the story I wanted to tell. And then, couple of copies in 1989 and make by sheer fortune, my collected works of several attempts to format it in 1998, and Wordsworth fell open and exposed The again in 2005, but it always seemed too Excursion! I was saved - there was the large a poem to do anything with. I model for my own work - The Wanderer. recorded Parts 1-5 in 1989 and I still have I abandoned Tam Tartan (begun on 19th this recording. Extracts of this poem have May) and commenced with The Wanderer cropped up in my films Nudes In Tartan

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The author was born in Glasgow in 1954. He studied at Newcastle University. At the time of this publication, he is living in London. He has been prolific film-maker but is his poetry and prose works are still relatively unknown to the wider public.

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