Mother

You were like a little bird

and you lived inside your bed,

and the sheet was yellowed under your feet

and I wondered if you were dead.

You rarely made me breakfast

but you sometimes made me lunch.

I’d no idea what depression was

but I guess I had a hunch.

From a young age I’d hated him

for how he spoke to you, I cried

and tried to get between,

I wanted to rescue you.

And yet you’d never let things go

and that really made me sad;

I guess it made me angry,

and I sympathised with dad.

He’d sometimes pick you up from work

and I’d be next to him.

If you were late getting out, he’d wait

spot you, then drive off in a spin.

And he’d call you fucking useless

and he’d call you nasty cunt

and I heard he told the girls you were a dog,

which confused them - they didn’t have one.

As a girl you were a beauty;

you could have been a model.

Dad was nineteen when he met you,

you sixteen - it was a doddle.

You were a stunning young mother,

with your eyes open wide.

And dad was good to you,

until the day your father died.

Then your blue sky turned thunderous

and your protector turned to captor.

And your flat became a prison,

and your bruises were redacted.

And the family kept secrets

And you were too scared to tell,

for you’d probably have gotten the blame,

you were terrified of him as well.

And so you put up with his shit,

and his lack of passion became the norm.

And the flies that dogged your window

now had turned into a swarm.

You lost so many teeth;

you lost so much weight too.

Your stomach was in pieces,

you struggled on the loo.

And though for so long I blamed you

for preserving me in that mess,

I know you loved us deeply

and I see you tried your best.

I learned so much from you,

and so did my own wife.

I learned that love’s not a weapon -

not something to weigh upon another.

it takes courage to put down the knife;

it takes more strength to lift your lover.

And here’s the simple twist of fate:

if your heart’s true, then 
it’s never too late.

Kathleen/Woodingdean

You’d pick me up from school

every Friday 

and we’d walk all the way

along the backtracks

past the horses and brambles and nettles

to Woodingdean.

Friday evenings
we’d go to Vesuvios
and have dinner by Tony -
you, egg salad; me two sausages and chips -
the BEST chips -
and ice cream drizzled in cream.
Auntie waitressed there,
and it had a timeless sense;
‘Take My Breath Away’ would play;
it had an 80s bent.

On Saturdays we’d get the bus into town

to see your sister. You’d treat me

to nuggets and chips in Maccy Ds,

the toy of course

always the best bit.

And then a small ice cream each -

no Flake.

Your sister’s house was a bit old

and dingy,

and smelled of old grease.

Her partner would watch old westerns

or Carry On films

whilst I would read

The National Enquirer -

what a strange situation!

Then we’d go back to yours

on the bus, and I’d whisper in your ear

just loud enough for the people behind to hear,

‘Did you get my CDs?’

That was code for ‘chocolate desserts’

with the delicious cream on top

always to be eaten first,

but the people behind didn’t know that!

I loved those bus rides.

I loved your garden.

I loved the fields across from your house

with their long grass.

Sometimes we’d venture into the downs

and I’d count the burned-out cars.

Then one day, you had to leave;

you were being terrorised by young children

who egged your house, broke

your window, hurled abuse.

The Beast of Woodingdean, with whom

nobody would fuck, was now seen

as a lonely old dragon

who was down on her luck.

But not to me.

You were a fierce lady

who loved her grandson - fed him

burned pizza and overcooked homemade chips,

and your house was like a relic -
I mean, who the hell still had a larder!?

You have mellowed through the years

and I take great pleasure

in showing you the music I love

and the photos of the great-grandchildren you adore.

Your husband died in 1979,

but now you talk to Les every day.

I just hope you live out your days now

in peace - I hope it stays that way.

Yvonne/Bevendean

You were my sanctuary

in the storm of my youth;

my mum’s sanctuary

in the storm of her marriage.

You would send me off to school

with luncheon meat sandwiches

and a small box of teeny smarties.

I would save up all the blue ones

and give them to my friend

who had ADHD,

curious to see if they’d send him off.

I loved watching Mortal Kombat

on Fox Kids, and Goosebumps.

I would lie on your floor

and pencil endlessly

sketches of Jax,

my favourite character,

with his black skin, thick cool

black sunglasses, and metal arms.

Your husband would show me

catwalk women on Men and Motors

and make me toast triangles

with lots of butter

and strawberry jam,

and say, ‘If you don’t eat it

you’ll wear it!’ or

‘I’ll shut your fingers in the door...’

It was a place to escape the

constant misery of home,
the constant sowing of bad seeds.

Like a hotel in the desert -

Hotel California, perhaps?
Maybe we felt we could never leave.

Is that why now, 

at 31, I’m back here again?

Escaping the storm that I have made?

Only, Ian is long since gone.

You are still a lion,

only slower and not so much

in your prime.

The only difference is

I can see clearly now

what was oblivious to me

as a child - what was only

a fuggy swirl

of intoxicated feelings.

So I guess it’s time

to get on healing.

Nana

Nana, I remember your house.

I’d enter through that wooden door,

through rainbow beads, and smell 

the cat food you kept in your larder,

on the left.

And above the stove

which smelled of dry heat

there was a tray about

footprints, and how

God was carrying you,
and that plate that read,
and I’m paraphrasing,
‘When mum and dad say no,
ask Nana’.

Your sofas were green

and a small colour TV

rested in the unit in the corner,

by the west-facing window

overlooking the racecourse

where we witnessed 
the best sunsets.

And you had a kind of fabric mosaic

picture of a racehorse,

and I remember your beautiful cats.

And the stairs up to your

neat little room, the spare room

so mysterious to me

and the bathroom,

which smelled of air freshener -

maybe lilies - and the dolly

toilet roll holder in her hanging dress.

And I remember after you died

having dreams about you

where you were sleeping on mum and dad’s

green sofa, and your head

was stuck down behind the cushions,

or you had inexplicably 

come back from the dead.

And it was fine.

I miss you. I miss seeing you walk out

mum and dad’s front door, so tiny,

only four feet eight, your curly white hair,

your wooden stick supporting you,

slightly arthritic fingers, skin so fine

and so wrinkled, your knuckles

so thin and so pronounced.

I wish I could see your house again,

although it’s been occupied since 2005,

to see your garden, where once

rhubarb and beans and cabbage grew,

your tiny shed and the ramshackle pile

of sticks behind, full of spiders

and lizards. And you’d bring me out a cup of tea, 
in small china - so sweet and good.

And the sweetie tin, oh
the sweetie tin.

You’d bend over, and say,

go on, take one. So I’d take my time,

then choose a chocolate-lime. Then you’d say,

take another - a butter fudge, maybe?

And then you’d smile and say,

take three, a third - have one on me.

And I’d spend the longest time

looking through the fruit bon-bons

before inevitably choosing raspberry.

The Story of Me

I started out as a quiet boy

So my teachers thought I was dumb 

But I was just sitting and watching

And working it out, rule of thumb

I was difficult and misunderstood

And I could talk for hours about comets -

Long before high school

And writing crushes rubbish sonnets

I was angry and I was confused

And when I played video games 

If I couldn’t beat that final boss

I’d throw the controller in a rage

And look in the mirror and cry

And slap my face 

And wish I would just fucking die;

What a disgrace

I was stuck in an unhappy home 

Full of rage and retaliation - 

It was a microcosm 

Of this place we call our nation,

Where knives glistened ‘neath

Fluorescent lights

And words were cut so sharp

And tinged with such clever poison

They would stay within your heart 

And school was like some primal jungle

Where animals did roam -

The snakes, the bears, the unawares

And the girls in their mean ivory thrones

I wore my heart on my sleeve 

And I just did not understand

Why reaching out in kindness

Left me with a blistered hand

That boy was cheeky, and that boy

Was clever. I loved that boy, I knew him,

And I can still see him 

Out in rainy weather

He’s wearing a dark-blue raincoat

And the rain feels good on his skin

And I’m telling him: It’s not your fault

And he says, It’s a long game, but

I’ll win

The Homeless Man

You see a homeless man
Sitting dishevelled on a bench
With his spirit long since flown
And you wonder to yourself
Why he doesn’t have a home.

Well first of all it doesn’t help
That his mother gave him up
Because she was only fifteen
And the shame she felt
Was just too fucking much.

And he was in and out
Of child homes,
And he was sexually abused
And he had to fight
Tooth and nail
Like respect just wasn’t his due.

He was always told he was stupid
And he was always told he
Would fail
And eventually he grew so numb
That the tears dried up
In the well.

And the pain he felt was so intense,
It stabbed like a hot blade
In his heart
So the sweet release of any drug
Was a better pain
For him to cart.

To live in his mind was a mindfuck
But he still had reason enough
To live, for there was a tiny
Slither of light
And in his soul
A few crumbs of love

But that didn’t stop him
From cutting himself
For the pain was how he thrived;
The pain was all he ever knew
And it somehow
Kept him alive.

So the next time you walk
Past this broken man
Remember once
He was an innocent child -
A baby in his mother’s arms.
Before she abandoned him she smiled.

For he was just so beautiful
And he was just so precious
And his mother wished herself to die
With the regret she lived
Every second.

So see this man and embrace him -
Embrace him like he were you.
Embrace him as if you were holding yourself
When you were born,
So new.

Behind every weary figure,
Behind every shouty mess,
There is a person
Shuffling through this cutting world
Who just wants some tenderness.

Silence is Deadly

The silence of a belt loop
before it cracks

The silence between violence
Before she shouts back

The silence in a young boy’s heart
That’s aching

Once the bully’s smacked him round the face
And everyone’s watching

The silence in longing
For a girl who doesn’t feel it

The silence in the lies
Of a friend who doesn’t mean it

The silence in your father’s voice
When it’s hard for him to speak

And the silence in your mother
When she’s broken and weak

The silence in a hurt man’s heart
And the silence before the torrent

When another breaks another down
Without any warrant

The silence of history
And those deprived of a voice

And the silence of the desperate
When they don’t have a choice

The silence does us violence
And the hurt just circles round

Like sharks around a wounded whale
Before the vortex pulls it down

There’s so much blood in the water
I can taste it on my tongue

Please, raise your head up, speak your mind
Sing your beautiful songs

The Story of Us

I was a hurricane,
although I thought I was a ship,
to give passage, to give
a romance trip,
where instead there was
a swirling gyre
of loneliness
trying to hold her
within my eye;

She was a typhoon,
blown far from home -
she was fun, she was exciting,
she was wild,
and she thought I was her man -
she judged this at a glance -
but I was still a child.

All our winds fed into
each other -
we were fast, we were fleet,
we were crazy for each other;
she had me beat.
But in all the chaos
of our situation,
blown hither and thither,
I made empty on the promises
she hoped I’d deliver.

Yet we were married
in the maelstrom,
and we sired a child -
in the middle of our tempest,
blowing raging and wild.
And she was a beauty,
she was perfect,
she was the nectar of the gods.
But she was borne into our storm -
and those are terrible odds.

We thought we were sailing,
we thought we could be happy,
not seeing all the heat
was feeding so heavily
the thunderous towering clouds
which circled our heads,
which darkened our eyes,
which rained on our bed.

Our child grew older,
we loved her so much.
Then we gave her a brother,
another she could touch.
And the storm seemed abated,
the squall quieter in our ears
and we tried and we tried
to work hard, allay our fears.

The radio was playing -
she liked pop songs
by young women;
I was silently rehearsing
It Ain’t Me, Babe
by Bob Dylan.
And the whipping winds blew in,
whipped wildly the shutters
and the music was steadily drowned out
by the water, inching higher up us.

There’s no rest out on
the open sea,
so expansive, so huge;
and all the problems
which once seemed like steady rain
seemed now a deluge,
and they came, and they came.
No use pitching out this vessel -
it will just sink again.

The boat we thought we’d captained
was rocked and was worn.
We looked back on all the heartache
and realised we were the storm.
All along, we fed each other
in the worst possible way
and where we needed sunshine
all we had to give was rain.

Yet we see now,
through the other side,
through the calm inside the eye,
that it’s possible to ride this out
if we work together - really try.
And come out of the haze
to an endless blue sky,
rainbows festooning the heavens,
tall grey anvils far behind.

Sure, there will be dark skies ahead,
and beneath us we’ve left wrecks,
but perhaps the things that haunt us
can rescue us in the end.
Perhaps we can shake the trembling hands
of the ghosts which fill our pasts
and meet them as our friends,
our friends, at long last.

Lives Matter

When you’re poor
stealing’s always on your mind;
when you need some dishcloths
or a scrap of food to feed
your kids, you’ll find
that impulse calling more and
more.

It doesn’t matter if you’re black
or white -
we all have that need
for self-preservation
and to fight.

And yet I still find myself 
on a train platform
with a young black man,
unconsciously thinking
keep an eye on that bike, and
keep an eye on your
prejudices, if you can.

I’m guilty, I’m guilty - cry shame. 
I sometimes cross that line, 
I swore, I promised.
If it glittered gold enough,
would I even pinch
my own moral compass?

I came very close to taking something
which was never mine.
And yet I can unconsciously judge
a stranger -
is that normal and fine?

I look to images from across the ocean
and see black children
with rubber bullets
pointed at them
because of a notion

that’s torn the deepest fissure
through the centuries:
that white lives matter more.
You don’t believe me?
Check the penitentiaries.

It’s the same notion that seems
friendly, see this, say that,
we’re all caught in the maul.
You see that black conductor
and a single thought flashes:
‘You make that Southern cap
look cool’.