“Generations of the exploited Are coming alive And whispering Their dreams.”

SALLY FLOOD has been with the Basement Writers for over three years. She has a family, one of whom is married and has a son called Darren, so that makes her a grandmother. She has been an embroidery machinist for most of her working life. Much of her writing has been done at the factory, from her seat with its window facing Brick Lane, the scene for many of these poems.

THE BOOK OF GOBBLEDEGOOK

WINDOW ON BRICK LANE

I remember

The red brick of Green and Commercial Road The grey slums of That overflowed

Childhood speaks another tongue Of terror, when the day was done Them round the stove The old folks’ tales were spun

From and Hoxton There echoed far and wide Tramping of the Jackboots That kept the Jews inside

A ghetto without walls A ghetto without doors A ghetto without meaning Between the ways.

GENERATIONS BETWEEN THE FACTORY CLOSES (Or, The Final Insult) I remember as a child Sitting by your side The green doors stood open The arrogant tilt of your face The fire escape cluttered And the special smile With things the old factory The huge overall Had gathered for years With the pocket beneath The sticky toffees Scarcely was space left Stuck to the keys The darkness was frightening And all around What if one’s footing That small poky flat Should slip on the stairs? Reminders of Home What a sad ending I couldn’t speak Russian Eviction at random You disdained the English tongue No trumpet of glory So we sat, and smiled No handshake or cheer I knew, when I went The toffees were mine On top of the rubbish I watched the smile Homeless, abandoned Twitch the corners of your lips The factory cat And knew I couldn’t follow Was out on its ear. So many secrets I couldn’t share In your silence I was never there

MELODIES LINGER

The factory sleeps Yet years were spent Amidst its filth Between its walls Pours memory When youth Down its drains Was building dreams And nothing Newly painted doors But the smell of cats And freshly oiled machines To haunt its A clock would tell us Last remains. When to come Now the flies And even Are buzzing round When to go Decomposing mice Now time sings Mangy cats covered Memories With families of lice To the one time The system overflowing Radio Has built a waterfall Chains rusted and rotted Cannot pull at all

THE BRICK LANE I SEE

Brick Lane is a mixture This is where the immigrant Of aromatic spices Looks for fulfillment , onions and bad drains This is the breeding ground Pakistani restaurants For discontent Jewish trimming shops Where the meths drinker mixes And betting shops With the down-&-out Down-at-heel workers Where workers are exploited And hopeful prostitutes And small-time drug peddlers Cars and vans add to the pollution Sell their dreams With heavy exhaust fumes This is where the thug Pavements and gutters Dons the crown of King Are littered with overspill And bullies thrive From dustbins and shops Where do-gooders Salve their consciences This is Brick Lane.

ANOTHER STREET MUST DIE MOVING DAY

The street, washed by rain Curtains have been pulled from windows Grimaces with pain Crockery from the drawers As muddy banks Bedding no longer on the beds Fill the drain But folded on the floors A small waterfall Carpets rolled in corners Collects, to overfill Lino looking grey The broken kerb Everywhere an emptiness Before the spill Today is moving day A freshly painted door Looking out of place Kids are going mad Collects raindrops Doing what they will As tears, upon its face Dogs are baking in the street A street that collects Neighbours peering still Memories, to print Echoes from the walls rebound Upon the pages Like ghosts of passing years Of frozen time So much still to be done A generation to come And I’m not far from tears. Will not know The meaning of its crime Dear street, that gave Me shelter, watched My children grow And now the Council Deals its final blow

AN EVACUEE (Torquay 1941-2) DARREN AT EIGHT MONTHS

Net curtains Small feet grip the floor And china To stand upon their own Gleaming in the firelight Tiny fingers stretch full out Each in a corner seat My baby, how you’ve grown Kindly folk Nothing now is sacred With hearts of gold As ornaments crash down Grandfer slices cheese Everything is hidden And rolls it round Now my baby gets around. The tongue

Gran watches his expression And reads approval

I sit in the shadows LOVE IS: - FOR DARREN Not quite belinging Yet knowing each move The way you smile Like a ritual When you wake from sleep Tomorrow Gran will explain You lie awhile He does more for you kids And sort of peep Than he ever did You stretch your arms For his own And gurgle deep No malice or jealously And wriggle your toes Just plain facts Beneath the sheet.

Being evacuated Was an education And I learnt.

SILENCE EVER AFTER – I BELIEVE

Silence sings a song I will think of you Of remembrance In the morning And draws me in. When I first rise From my bed And the room I will look Breathes softly As the dawn While the walls trap me. Breaks around me And feel your warmth And the boards make a sound In my head Spirits tip-toe thru’ the night While furniture moves around. I will think Of the words Cushions squeak That I read And days turn into weeks When the world And I am lost. Was younger than Eve And the promise Searching for an open door That you gave your children While the room closes in I will remember And I am trapped once more. And I will believe

TIME TO THINK BEFORE THE STORM

My mind is as grey Cloudy white As the surrounding streets Grey tinted skies And the drizzle repeats itself Crumpled sheets In my brain. With saddened eyes Too quiet, the factory stands With empty machines Heavy laden, sagging And crates As a pregnant wife Waiting to be moved That rests awhile Into another overcrowded factory. Before new life

Ghosts whisper in my ears So sets the season Of other years On the roof of man Of laughter and voices The soot splayed chimneys Competing against On the muddy span The deafening roar Of machinery. The bed of spirits Where gods ordain But now, deathly silence And earth once more Sits upon me Is swept with rain And in that silence Generations of the exploited Are coming alive And whispering Their dreams And their fears.

BACK TO BRICK LANE (LUNCH BREAK)

(1) (2) In groups of twos Lunch hour & the streets And threes Are beginning to fill They line the pavement Like tiny ants they come This is Rushing hither & thither Their time of ease Looking neither left or right Man meets man Straining to push their bodies Face to face Further than their legs Mid-day The betting shops This fight for existence And cafes come to life Where are they going? Drones emerge From darkened places And the end of the week? Bees from their hives Clutching their small brown packets Where the honey The price of their labour Is no longer sweet Is it worth it? For one short hour Freedom This mad rush Becomes a street Towards Death.

ONE AND THE SAME DREAM WEB

Love has Somewhere a dream escaped A weakness Upon a mountain side And a strength Floated high above Upon a rainbow slide It can Captured the moon Hold you And wore a veil of stars And break you Lifted me beyond The planets It can Jupiter & Mars Grow beyond Lighter than And leave you Feathered down Crazier than loon It can Round and round Be warm And round we spun It is giving Faster than the moon Lost ourselves But so In outer space Cold within Spirits of the sun Its hate Fantasies and dreams Were wove Finest threads were spun Suddenly the stars Were gone As night broke Into day Back to earth With a bump In my bed I lay.

EARLY MORNING NOT THE SAME

Failyland could offer Like the pressed flowers No better than this We used to keep Bedspread the angles Yesterday’s love is dead. Have laid through the night And as I bathe While memories In this strange Lose their freshness New white light To retain the stench of death.. The greyness of winter Has fled out of sight Tomorrow beckons With renewed faith As soft as down But youth can never be regained. The white Hakes have spread And the garden is set For a feast The dustbins are grand With their new icing band Fit for a wedding At least.

RED FOR REMEMBRANCE BIRTH OF THE RED

In Flanders Field The red flag burns in the heart of every worker A memory lies When he meets injustice or inequality Amidst the poppies And the only way to win is stick together Neath the skies And fight the fight for solidarity.

It dances between Whether it be unions or socialists or labour The grey-white stone The worker has only one thing on his side Heroes in death That he can graft and build and manipulate the skills Were not alone And he can justly look these with pride.

As so many So when a guvnor wants to cut your wages Wartime poets tell And employ cheaper labour without skills A story of On your shoulders will be the extra burden Living hell Cos you’ll have to carry them along as well.

And when we That’s when your mind must get to working Wear a poppy red On rights and wrongs and where your future stands A message engraved Then the seed is nearly ripe for breeding From the dead As resentment turns you into a fighting man.

Do we not hear And old war of the classes A sad refrain Once more will raise its ugly head Oh brothers please And very soon without realizing Not again. Brother, you are thinking like a red.

THE GREEN’ISLES BEST FORGOTTEN

Ireland, the land Somewhere, a tiny memory has escaped Of magic and fun And floats around, causing confusion The green isles of laughter It interrupts conversations Where music begun Like the slip of a tongue Your ballads tell It lodges in people’s brains Of pretty young maids Like a long forgotten nightmare And mountains that roll It dodges in and out of half-open doors Into evergreen glades Children in school have daydreams And how you fought While teachers think they lie For your home in the sun The memory attaches itself Caught the imagination To officials of Government and Commerce Of everyone. And suddenly old forgotten grievances Become real and fester Home of the Heroes Old battlegrounds become fresh Where legends were made And the memory grows out of proportion History remembers Countries succumb to bitterness When memories fade New allies become old enemies And who will it blame Only the memory survives When all else has gone To swallow reason Will some of its magic And only the memory lives Still linger on When all else dies. And the flute take the place Of carnage and pain Then peace will return To Ireland again.

THE DAIRY BRUNE ST. SPITALFIELDS

Black Lion Yard has gone Smell of charcoal from burning fires A small strip of Rotting fruit and broken panes Wiped off the map Stalls piled high ’s London knew it well With rolled-up groundsheets Grey cobblestones & horses’ hoofs Half-men squatting in the mews Not the Jewellers’ shop Nor restaurant or florist Sorry-looking mongrels Of later years Raking in the gutters I remember with nostalgia the 1930’s Scavengers are gathering As a small child Preparing for the night Descending the grey stone steps Holding my mother’s hand The water-cart In her other hand a china jug Has been & gone Uneven stones that bit my feet The lane has closed its doors And made me stumble Mooing of cows & chatter of men And only the moon looks down The strong stench of sweat Upon its open sores Mingling with the warm heavy smell of And the sweetness of unpasteurized milk Another world

RETURN THE MAD POET

The house stands empty Impatient impotent And listens for the fall of feet Rage flows like The windows look for Molten gold Familiar faces on the street Touching avoiding Stairs creak and whisper Blaspheming defaming Litter stains the floors Each thought The wind blows softly A tortuous route Thru the open doors Thru’ channels Laughter echoes Of pure genius. With a hollow ring Stirring memories Transmuting transforming Of voices raised to sing Crippling deforming Cats patrol the empty garden Its poison pen Where we used to stroll Arrows of venom While plants wither and trees decay Scarring the beauty And time has taken toll Of pure unvarnished The creeper that we planted Half-truths Still hangs upon the wall While tiles and bricks and mortar Humility & timidity Have crumbled where they fall Flee with ashen face And in the midnight hour To hide within As the church clock chime Inane inept Hand in hand together Half formed We’ll wander back thru time. Concepts of The acceptable.

ARTISTS AT WORK

An artist came But the thing that To Brick Lane today Really fascinated me He looked around Was the middle-aged woman And decided to stay Who’d crept up to see So on the pavement In green mac & boots He lay down neat Hair frizzed on top His umbrella & bag Excitedly telling him And folding seat “Carry on, don’t stop!”

And on his pad She watched entranced He started to draw As he captured the street The shop on the corner Oblivious to all With the wired door Admiration complete The owner stood And in my vanity With indulgent smile I’d just like to say Watching the artist I too painted Draw for a while A picture, today.

The BASEMENT WRITERS meet on Tuesdays at 8:00 PM in the Basement of the Old Town hall, Cable St., London El. Other collections of members’ poetry they have published include:

TUESDAY NIGHT by various members – 40p. SOMETIMES YOU CAN HEAR THE BIRDS SING by Leslie Mildiner – 20p. TALL THOUGHTS by Deepak Kalha – 25p. NO GREEN LEAVES by David Amery & Robert Hamburger – 50p. RUNNING IN by Bruch Norris – 50p.

All these books are available at the THAP bookshop, 178 , or direct from the publisher (please add 10p p&p if ordering by post cheques payable to the Basement Writers.)

Copyright © Sally Flood 1980. Drawings copyright © Patricia Flood 1980.

Price 50p.