Grief, Orwell and stray links
Communique number three
Let’s start with a rare recording of my voice. Here’s me, reading my poem “Grief and Buttons”.
A true story, set by the river Orwell
Here we are. Me and Pete. We're sat by the river Orwell. At least, I assume it's the Orwell, it's certainly grey and bleak enough.
We clutch tea in plastic cups, warming ourselves against the disappointment of a Suffolk summer, thermos glistening, potent against our natures.
I forget who took the photo although they must have been present, I suppose. And there, at the edge of frame, the dog sits, listening to the wind, as he always does. As he always did.
I suspect it was summer, despite the rain, despite the cardigan, despite the wind swept hair, despite the picture's appearance which must only be a few month old, which is odd, because Pete's been dead some twenty five years now and his dog before that even. And there he is, with his lopsided eyes and that patchy coat that always seemed to have oil in it.
That dog was hair ball proud to sit at Pete's feet, and it was Pete's privilege to stand guard above him. A couple of weeks or a couple of decades, it all washes into one as the Orwell draws us out into its yawning estuary, carries us to where we can still wave to shore even though it was unlikely to do us much good.
As we sat, where we are now, by the banks, the four us, two with names, two who'd discarded theirs somewhere along the way, Pete told me of a time before that time. Before I had thought to be born even.
He had no paper record of it, just a yarn. His scrawny uniform, his stringy arms cradling a sten gun. No, my mistake, it was a rifle, a long barrelled rifle which was important to his story, as you'll see.
He told me of how they'd break into people's houses, turn them over, pushing kids into corners. Crying babies, cursing terracotta grandmothers, men heads down, refusing to look the day in the eye. As still as a photograph that breathed and wept despite itself.
He told me that in those days, under a sepia sun, some of the squaddies would break open the pots as they searched for weapons, smashed in cupboard doors, burst jars onto ruddy orange floors. They'd kick the whole place over, spilling the so little everything of these families onto the earth, sowing nothing but spite, but sorrow. The guilty and the innocent shamed alike.
If there is such a thing as innocence that is. If there is such a thing as guilt.
They said they were looking for illicit weapons, of course, but really they searched for hope. Traces of it to be squashed with the instep of a regulation boot. These forgotten people, in that forgotten place, pushed into the soil for some forgotten empire that maybe never was in the first instance. Who can say?
I consider holding the photo in my hand. Letting the cool of the thermos lie still fresh upon my skin. Inhaling the vapour of it. The dry grit of Pete's voice, a tide that's long since gone out. But I don't. I'm still listening to his story.
He would take his long barrelled rifle, fix the bayonet, and plunge it into sacks, into the pots, stirring them with iron. Hunting for the clink of hidden metal, but saving them their children's supper, at least, he muttered, that he hoped that he had trod more lightly as he probed and fingered all that they were. Humbling parents at gun point in front of their children, the uniform more dreadful than any blade might be.
The Orwell is wide and deep where we are now, and our little gang of Pete and dog and unknown photographer and me cluster over on the far bank, the so far bank half covered in a mist that's only starting to swell in from the sea. As I see us on the distant shore, unpicking the stitches of our time upon this page; I am telling him, as we nurse our cups, sat in aspic, or whatever stillness is made from, that he did what he could do.
With an easy voice he said, I don't think I did, head bowed as he fed the dog from his hand, from his love, from his repentance. A dog whose name I do not recall, if he even had a name at all.
The weight of this memory within a memory within a dream sits upon us both, fusing his spine into one long piece. While the ghost of his dog sits now, listening to this story I've only half recalled, or maybe he's attentive for squirrels, or the rhythm of the Orwell as it washes us clean.
Three links to keep you going
My aim in these communiques was to share some of my work but also to point readers to others whose work I think is worth your attention. Here goes;
A few weeks ago I went to Mexborough for an excellent chapbook launch from the good people at
. I say people, I actually think it’s one person, called Mike, but he has the energy of loads of people.
He has taken a vow to promote, yes, about sixty poets - or possibly exactly five dozen eccentrics. Who can say?
The chapbook has poems from local writers John Beal, Paul Brookes, Tracy Dawson, John Wolf, Ian Parks and Frank Colley. I’m certainly enjoying it and you can follow my example if you like by buying the book here.Last month I attended the inaugural Hoyland Poetry Night and Volume 2 will be taking place May 29th, 7:30pm - 9:30pm at the Hare and Hounds pub in Hoyland, near Barnsley S74 0DQ
It’s a little bit out of the way, leading me to get off the bus at the wrong stop in the middle of nowhere. I then had to stand at exactly the same bus stop hoping the next one would get me there on time. As the picture below will show - there are worse places to get stranded.What else? Oh yeah, last night I discovered that my friend Lydia has a twitter dedicated to blackout poetry. She takes the horoscopes from the paper, discards the words that don’t appeal and is often left with beautiful “found” poetry. If you fancy having your life affirmed subscribe or follow or whatever it is you do these days on twitter here.
