Finchley Boy poems
Please note that this display merely presents the poems as plain text in a list. For the complete book including cover, preface, and full indexing, please see the PDF or WORD versions.
Daydream
Point to point the mind is wandering.
In such idling
gears are not engaged,
handbrake so arranged
to stop the wheels from turning.
What use is thought that is not working,
rolling up its sleeves to earn its keep?
Half-asleep
drifting aimlessly,
connecting dots that have no currency.
Who can spend the profits from a nebulous plan
or eat something vaguely Freudian?
Driver back to take control
pumps the throttle.
This scenery too dull.
Too many roads ahead to dwell in neutral.
Amiable Rodent on the New York City Underground
Christmas spectacular!
New York in winter clothes
and us, wrapped against brutal weather
that never came.
All stops east
our designated plan
clutching maps folded with military precision
crumpled
in jacket pockets and haversacks
on a dank platform
in a subway
with no signs.
Bristling
with indignation
at gulf between
our own beloved London underground
and this run-down
shack of a station,
private purse locked shut
for all to see.
Suddenly
a bold usurper.
Four standing,
two adults
two children (both taller),
now a fifth!
Huge rat,
as us, staring at track
passing a day.
I mentioned nothing
for fear of mass hysteria
but watched
as only a worried family man might do.
Stock-still
seemed to enjoy our company
then wandered
into darkness
to catch another tube.
I
no wiser
of its motives
or desires.
Not Heaney’s rat
slobbering with a knobbled skull.
A simple rat of simple taste.
Not two syllables when one will do.
An urban rat,
city bred. None the lesser for that fact.
Dice
Sometimes a life hangs on a single moment of stupidity,
twitch in a trigger finger, car driven too fast into a corner
rolling over into a crowd or coming to rest injury free,
blow to a temple causing bruising or cerebral injury and coma.
The measure between prison, guilt, or interesting story.
Intent, random chance, and consequence regularly meet.
Die is cast almost always in our favour, but occasionally
the blind roll of fate intervenes. In that unexpected defeat
everything can be lost: years of liberty, family, income.
All changed in an instant. Who could say truthfully
if from one of our own acts the worst outcome
had come to pass, we’d be reading this so comfortably?
Recommendation
and that was how it happened. But on to other things
such as where did you get that from? Which reminds me
of the trouble we had with the Thomson twins.
Light fingered bastards. Not normally known for charity,
wouldn’t give a fart away. When they came hawking
that box of assorted jewellery at discount prices.
I remember you coming over to me whispering,
Here we go again. Not our first day at the races.
Being stubborn and psychotic, would not take
no for answer. Anyway, that place we buried them
behind the pub, where the road forks to the lake,
is now a site of natural beauty. It has become
quite the picnic spot. I mention this in passing.
Christmas, does a spot-on lunch with all the dressing.
Study on the Dynamics of Conflict
There is a woman, no taller than her first guess
or heavier than her own estimation,
shouting at a man, large, well-built, dressed
in two-tone shoes and consternation
that this slip of a mad person, armed solely
with an unseemly amount of boldness
would, even in her own anger and downright folly,
take him on. Who set this match? It is madness.
Yet, it is the mongoose, and whatever the mongoose
gets up to, all over. The proud but vertically
challenged wolverine. The honey badger who does not lose,
but goes on to win, in no small part, due to its ferocity
and failure to take a backward step. There is the bell.
Man, bowed by the unexpected: woman,
fresh to go again. Sometimes sheer force of will
can overcome. Not often. Nature tells us it can happen.
Young Man With a Bad Leg Refusing a Seat on a Bus
When limbs broken or misplaced
a stick often the answer.
Any issues beneath the surface
of little matter
practically.
Such as when a bus is loading
and suddenly a man,
no older than another man, but sitting,
graciously offers his seat.
Which might end there
except standing man, crutch in hand,
pointedly looks elsewhere
so declines.
Sitting man mistaking
this as a grand misplaced gesture,
starts offering
again and again
and will not cease
until standing man
is forced to take his seat.
He self-consciously
lowers himself down.
Landed,
begins to look around
for a place outside to park his gaze.
A few stops later
stands,
brushes himself purposefully to saunter
off the bus
as steadily and as upright as he can
not looking back
or offering any gratitude or thanks.
Strange vignette
played out over a seat.
Man
who seemingly feels embarrassment and sees defeat
simply in a question;
second man, so strangely intent to make good his offer,
despite the other’s obvious discomfort
or honest answer.
Spectator Sport
She has never had to earn anything in her life. Gauntlet
delivered, duly picked up by the woman opposite
who, leaning forward, ploughs straight into the subject.
I observe people. Glean what I can from snippets
that fall my way. Watch. Arms folded lightly until she
launches a tale when her arms start crazy wandering,
Left limb, in particular, works tirelessly to sell the story.
I take a break. Drink tea. Woman behind me talking
about a dress her sister wears which shows her boobs but
adds that could be a good thing. Friend concurs. Moves on
to more racy stuff, whispering. Endlessly interesting. What
people do – how they do it. I am surprised television
survives. Stand on any street corner. Plug your ears in.
An education. Mobile phones a particular treasure.
Plot, sub-plot. If you can’t hear the whole thing
can fill gaps with more salacious fare, later, at your leisure.
Rambling
Days divided thus,
into those with just the two of us,
those work collected,
family time, holidays, rail commutes I always hated,
or in sleeping
which when locked and running
takes us all to lord knows where.
Incidentally, I am not one of those people who swear
they recall every strange detail of a dream.
That cock-eyed scheme
the sub-conscious uses to find loose threads
unravelling from our threadbare heads
to stitch together sanity.
I hope that’s clear. Back to my point. Time slips by too easily.
Frameworks, categories, left behind.
Days more simply assigned
into those I remember and those I do not.
But the current flows and will not stop.
Concerned where it may finally subside.
Here? Or near to here? Or with all structure swept aside?
Lucky to Be Confined to the Present
A man in the cafe looks just like my son.
Not the current version: years added, reconfigured.
Final blossom – end-product as if wrung
from clay, mechanically made then animated
to be a copy of him. And as he works
unease growing inside me, as if this facsimile
had deeply resonated. The image subverts;
man unaware he is an object of study.
A distortion: son older than oneself, age set in.
Inverts due order with no good explanation.
As if a whole life ripped away from him.
All hopes, plans, forfeit to this drab conclusion.
The Dutiful Daughter
An older, aging mother
with a younger, middle-aged daughter.
Two planets circling in distorted symmetry.
One, the stronger gravity
so when the daughter expresses an opinion
mother diminishes and derides, so the focus of attention
is held on her.
Over years, the daughter quieter,
more shabby.
Throughout, her mother is that great personality,
person to charm an audience, lead conversations,
yet sucks oxygen
from air
so her child cannot breathe or grow there.
Bond in transition.
Deformed between offspring, carer, servant, paid companion.
Ties
laid in childhood become vines
thickening each year, twisting
around unused limbs, becoming more complex, enveloping
entire sections of her being, so you know instinctively
she will never break free.
Short Breaks at a Well-Known Hotel Chain
Motels called our name
with the promise of cheap prices.
Single-room saver. However, children with capacity
to expand into all available spaces
wrecked any hope
of a peaceful holiday.
Extra bed pulled out from under another
a limit on mobility
which saw us swap ground for bed
as we bounced gazelle-like from A to B.
An aerial challenge,
shaving successfully
then falling to earth
as Icarus, but without the stubble.
But I digress.
Enclosed spaces likely to cause trouble
such as at a zoo when cages are too crowded
animals maul a keeper
or worse still, each other.
Or life raft cast adrift in stormy weather.
Four set out
but only one found by the rescue party
who, burping, recalls
the hungry two days lost at sea.
Survival of fittest
is what I mean.
When walls close in
self-preservation becomes the only priority, solitary theme,
and slights and imperfections and disappointments
kept down, damped, left unspoken
as wadding
applied to barrel of a cannon
to keep the shot in place. Safe. Unexploded.
Until later,
when least expected, in some stupid innocuous conversation,
out comes the loaded mortar.
Hoodie in Costa
Sat there
bold as brass. Phone, tablet, electronic chicanery.
Friend talking
sipping tea
leant together
planning murder or worse criminal caper.
Who wears a hood
sheltered from the weather?
No driving rain
to dilute his coffee, drench his jailbird hair, freeze his evil nose or ears.
Best of my knowledge, it has not snowed inside
for many years.
Suddenly, as a waitress, harassed as usual,
comes to clear debris
they are
the pinnacle of civility
and helpfulness.
Nothing is too much trouble!
Clear their own,
then start an adjoining table.
Luckily
I never rate books by their covers
or label in haste.
A fault I see in many others.
Gossip
Her story
could not be confined in a two-line structure. History
too long and complicated to be fitted in.
Hence, I have shaved off a sliver to begin
and will return to the rest at some future date.
I hesitate
to go any further
as I realise, I may have set in motion all manner
of conjecture and speculation.
This cannot be avoided. There is no direction
I can go, other than the route I have taken.
I have spoken
to her solicitor
who is of a similar opinion. Her butcher
baker, candlestick maker, are of a single voice.
I have no choice
in this matter. After a dry spell, she is going steady.
There. I have said too much already.
At the Junction of Redbourne Avenue and Ballards Lane
Early. The nights chill
has not cleared. People
shaken in a bag and overspill
dumped out, ripple
through deserted roads.
Woman drags a case behind.
Two youngsters abroad
well before normal teen waking hours. Workmen lined
in casual order
pray for transport.
Frozen, sneak closer
to a sheltered door without thought
of Barclay’s staff arriving in corporate blue batches.
Breakfast underway.
Finchley stretches
preparing for another day.
Raw Beauty
She is the one.
Red dress painted on.
Gravity, sun,
point eyes rest upon
thoughts silently defile.
As she drinks coffee
unleashes a smile
built so gloriously
friend opposite
rocked back in her chair.
Ankle bracelet,
delicate stare,
leans across
at ease, enjoying it.
I dwell on the cost
of being so perfect.
Electrical Therapy
The customs of the medical folk are simple:
place an electrode on each temple.
Current once applied
will clear any confusion inside
and when the storm has passed
a new beginning.
Electrical ballast
so prescribed, will fortify and solidify
mental foundations,
secure against flights of fancy
mania and other related conditions
might allow, or magnify,
or pull someone bodily
from standstill of depression.
A miraculous cure
over weeks or single session.
And I have seen that tidal wave
wipe clean and shift
delirious thought, save
people otherwise adrift.
Myself, as chance observer,
leant against a forgotten wall
saw poles placed in gel,
airway secured, heard a call
when the machine was ready.
Not what I expected.
Body twitched, but barely.
When inspected,
wheeled back out to safety.
No convulsive dance,
or Frankenstein aloft in a maelstrom cursing
or lightning strike chasing
an earth through flesh.
Anti-climax. No drama or threat.
Peaceful, professional,
and yet
while I know the ins and outs,
balances and checks,
accumulated debts
to memory or cognition, weighed against each benefit,
I wish I had not seen it.
Not logical or subject to discussion.
Once seen, I became lesser for it.
I can offer no explanation.
Snapshot
I only saw the worst of her. Arthritis already burned in.
Bed bound under tyranny of joints which when moved
by examination, pressure placed on levers flexing or extending,
bones would grind audibly until the turning force removed
and elbow or knee returned to their linen sanctuary.
For pain, a cocktail of morphine plus sundry analgesics.
Worst case he’d ever seen. That was it. Her history.
Borne with an almost casual hint of steel. When asked about its
severity would say, Can’t complain and, My wrist is better.
Her whole frame, entire skeleton affected, though immobility
to be final straw: spectre of the pressure sore and leg ulcer.
Side tables stacked with dressing packs and sterile water ready
for that unequal battle. And what of the redundant fifth wheel?
Shadowing a local doctor on his rounds, I had not expected
to encounter such intensity or see this depth of suffering revealed.
Why? What was the sum of it? What great truth represented?
That tableau considered for forty years and still no clearer.
My intent, to capture an image, overall tenor of the memory.
In this, think of me not as writer but acting as photographer.
For you to add any text or headline you feel is necessary.
Totally Unexpected
She smiled at her. In that moment
all motion stopped. It became the reason
everything was created. In comparison, a firmament
of stars faded, nature did not grow a season,
and every other crass, poetic hyperbole. All due to a megawatt explosion
of emotion. That event, so unconditionally meant,
so powerful, cut through shabby life. And as life has since moved on,
it is recalled here and now: I am a witness; I was present.
There, dressed in usual garb, my drab intent
to pick apart, draft discomfort, find scraps to feed upon.
Imagine – that cynic vaporised in an instant.
Shamed, knowing I can never capture that purity of expression.
Waitress Staring Out of a Window
Pauses. A passing look.
In that unguarded state, deeper
thought revealed. Book
opened, but the reader –
who will that be?
Plots queue.
What ending do you see?
Or are you working through
drafts, opening lines,
imagining final scenes?
Against this, time
corrupts, negates all our schemes.
Choices to be made.
A perfect ending or sensible trade?
Reading
A sweet smell of piety and saccharine
pervades the air. A cloying scent.
I am not a killjoy – averse to happy ending,
but the easy line stains style and content.
Preacher and converted merged together,
audience bellows at what it thinks it knows.
Performer in role of paper tiger,
crowd delighted as its own thoughts echo.
Who wants to be the outsider looking in?
Yet the group experience is not for me.
Evenings, I part butterflies from wings,
rip two creeds apart before I have tea.
Prisoner of Language
Migrating west across a panoply of countries,
twists and turns that words engender
falling as heavy weather, rain, flood. The local is
at ease with regional extremes, sentences meshed together
with barely space to breathe, meaning hidden in pronunciation
or affectation. The untutored tongue is rendered silent
by its lack of understanding, diction,
so in the present, and every ongoing moment,
excluded. I knew her. Her husband would say
Why bow to other’s expectations? Why educate when I can translate?
It courts disaster. A conversation which might sway
or embolden her to consider decisions only he should make.
Debate at a Nearby Table
Five people cluster.
They are discussing
moral questions. At their centre
is a man who controls the meeting.
He employs two words repeatedly: We, and Clearly.
Each unloads a tale in turn
after which he delivers a verdict. They listen intently,
nodding profusely, eager to learn
from this religious or moral leader.
While I am not suggesting killing
Buddha is in order,
at the very least, give him a good kicking.
Motorway Service Station
We have arrived
despite a myriad of wrong turns
and slip roads mistaken
for the shortest way.
When parking
again, I go astray
to be put in my place.
This is the longest day in history
and slop
in metal tins
labelled home cooking
does nothing to alleviate
my sense of foreboding.
Prices here a heart attack
in waiting.
What crap.
You need a mortgage to buy
a fun size bar of chocolate.
A man has just fainted.
He was browsing and found a bargain.
It was that unexpected.
Unexpected Storm
Rain hosing the world down.
A sloping road becomes a river
flowing down to where cars turn around.
Level rising ever higher
so when drivers get out to run
legs are converted to marker
of how deep the flood has become.
Our cul-de-sac a sump for bad weather.
Remainder of street soaked
to storm drain gills fares little better.
People dressed for sun are drenched
under makeshift umbrellas
of bags and holdalls held to deflect the spray.
Deluge pauses, resumes even harder.
Expectations, plans, completely washed away
by the vagaries of falling water.
Lazy Day
A cup
before the hoi polloi turn up.
Sunday morning coffee
a rare treat for me.
Beans, flown halfway round the world
swirl
in water,
off the boil – no warmer
to ensure
a perfect balance. Neither sweet nor bitter. Once more
into the breech
dear friends. Cappuccino reaches
parts tea,
delightful as it may be,
can only dream.
Hiss of steam,
a measure
of grounds and milk together,
the synthesis
of bliss.
Inevitable Decline of Something Hardly Begun
First stirrings, enclosed within each other, syrup sweet.
She perched delicately leaning forward so that
at any time, might tumble off her seat
into his arms. He, emboldened, to look deeply in what
seems to be an infinity of eyes.
Around them, commerce stumbles quietly.
Cups are emptied. Cake devoured. Strangers pass by.
Love is mentioned. Almost imperceptibly
he pauses for a second. Not so much
that an observer might notice, still engaged, inclined towards
her, yet long enough for one not used to such
heat to feel a first fault line creak, inwards,
so from that pause on, fissure planted,
deeply, beyond logic. Now limited. Somehow ended.
Testimony
Imagine the treat!
Bearded English master
waving another
poetry book disaster
to be landing soon
in our vicinity.
Buckle up lads!
Words only seen in a dictionary
coming our way.
Pass the books around.
What’s this?
The Mersey Sound.
Shock
of recognition
complete.
Suddenly a lesson
alive
with scraps of thought, poems, scribbling.
Imagine – verses that use the language
we are speaking!
Sod classics,
sod Latin,
we have Henri, McGough,
and Brian Patten.
Events
not always constructed logically.
Elements may come together
accidentally
as if by chance.
A teacher
way off curriculum,
a bored class and three Scousers
meet.
Later,
no matter
how much my life alters,
places change, perspective shifts,
incredibly
that encounter decades ago
still inspires me.
Map of the London Underground
Victoria Line
a particular friend of mine.
Pedal
to metal
no-nonsense sort of fellow.
Circle shaded yellow,
along with District, Jubilee
Metropolitan, City, Piccadilly,
slip off a tongue
quicker than they sometimes run.
Jokes aside,
apart from being crowded, decent rides.
Bakerloo to Paddington
whose seats are sprung,
hasn’t been updated
since electricity invented.
Northern
out of Morden
goes through to Finchley
so more than handy.
However, Central
from Notting Hill to Bethnal
could it get any warmer?
In summer, it could double as a sauna.
Mug
Remember when we were given that scrap metal by the guy
at the factory and had to drag it back to our garage space?
And that bloke passing from the caravan site offered to buy
it off us, and how he would need to take it back to his place
but would come back to us shortly with the money?
How many hours did we wait for him to return?
I can hardly remember that long ago. What age were we?
Nine- or ten-years young. Plenty old enough to learn
people are not always what they seem or claim to be.
Well, he hit the jackpot with us. Farm fresh and gullible.
Our costs not too extreme. Few pounds with loss of dignity.
You pay for an education. Collect wounds. Nothing physical
though we certainly didn’t advertise what chumps we’d been.
Decades later, cut to a different scene, sat with mortgage lender.
Full of our best interests, explaining how a repayment scheme
was throwing cash out a window, how much better
an endowment would be. Not only pay off the loan,
expect extra! Certainty! Then near maturity, after chickens,
scrawny bastards, had come to roost, shortfall grown
to huge proportions, asked if we’d like to put extra cash in.
Sure. Great idea.
Conference Scanning
Though words are strung together
they are not connected.
A conversation of no matter
between two people distracted
by other things. Who else is arriving?
Substance, as it is, consists
of shadow boxing, wondering
what better opportunity missed.
At our most flimsy, superficial.
Both know it. Pretence maintained
to stay sparring in the ring until
sure no margin to be gained.
Adventures in Backpacking
World broken into pieces
picked as lottery.
Here or there, random
play of chance, the possibilities
endless. Hill, mountain
setting their own games.
Which peak is larger?
Who knows their names?
Rivers and lakes
duly scatter.
Whether swum, sailed or rowed
it doesn’t matter
planet spinning
under your feet.
Jump, hang in air long enough,
the lap will complete.
Cutting
She seemed happy
but zebra stripes
roughly hewn
with penknives
or razor blades
shaped a different story.
Arm a marker
of a time
or place
which had
in some way
overwhelmed her.
I asked, as you do.
Her answer short,
confused.
Pain
a treat
she looked forward to.
It somehow
served to
reassure.
What I most
remember
now
was her smile,
openness,
her laughing.
She was
as lovely
as she was fragile.
Regular
Green dress. Table configured carefully.
Mobile placed centrally so an observer
is assured of purpose. How she is busy.
Keys and notepad together
complete a pose, an image for consumption.
Clouds swirl, traffic passes,
customers come to go. All the time one
of us, alone. To trace a line in verses
slowly with a finger. Book an armour
as days move on irreparably in spite of her.
Summer, autumn weather. Drama
of people loving. And she, never the lover.
Listening to a Transistor Radio
Music runs through life
as a thread.
Pull it.
See the first shred
of teenage angst
or rebellion
etched in some
long forgotten
vinyl single,
through to today’s slicker
video fests
who flatter
to deceive.
Sound and fury.
Pull harder.
Step between the memory
of a garage band
bound to fail,
speakers and drums jammed inside a Leyland mini
to tales
of school bands
with instruments blagged from the Salvation Army.
Amazing how a tune or song
can instantly
remove years
to a time or place.
Can remind you
of a face
or particular event
and is woven
around
the very same emotion
you felt then.
Conversation with a Middle-Aged Man
He wondered where she went,
what happened after. Would say
those words were not meant.
Never wished to push her away.
Sin in perpetuity: remembering
scenes which as years progress
become threadbare in the viewing.
Unguarded moments would confess
he had never managed to move on,
forever taking that catastrophe in.
Thirty years with the wrong woman.
I heard him say it. Imagine.
Theological Pamphlet
Words linked purposefully together
explain the unavailability of bliss.
A treatise on the highs and lows
of emotion, how we can miss
any subtle signs, reject
what might be our sole chance
of paradise here on Earth.
Further, how we preserve distance
between a hard or easy life
subconsciously, to spur ourselves on.
These are central arguments
the work was based upon.
I do not believe any of this.
Hairshirt not a garment
I would have chosen; less, still
to wear with muddled intent.
Station Road on Thursday the 5th September
How strange! Man on a phone
in middle of a road.
Not a main route, I grant you.
Turning, tributary. Cars slowed
nonetheless to walking pace.
Quite unperturbed, does not see
beyond his wireless world.
Skims a van’s wing quite nonchalantly.
Lost in himself,
consumed by a point he is making.
Master of all traffic flow,
local deity of braking and swerving.
Completely diverted
as are many vehicles around him.
We all let things pass by unnoticed
though seldom with an engine.
Victorian Haberdashery
Dust here
speaks of arcane, forgotten times.
Of trade – cuffs, starch – where
slovenly service a crime
and culprit severely admonished.
Poverty the lever and whip hand.
No dissent unpunished.
To understand
one’s rank in a prison of dress,
that constricting
hierarchy – to be less
than another – the cost of working.
A ready elegance
in carved mahogany furniture.
Distracted by romance
we forget the whole picture.
Reflections at a Coffee Shop
I
Poster children for the punctured generation
on call today. Girl with eye and ear piercings in conversation
with a friend, heavily inked on fingers and hands, who ignores all before her
until a manager, clearly irritated, steps in to take an order.
Tattoos on every strip of skin; everyone has a nose ring.
A creative, colourful setting
for the drab customers who frequent the café. Show
prelude to main event. This is, by common consent, the finest cappuccino
.
II
Tattoos have always been a source of fascination for me.
The artistic, vibrant expression of a talented hand
in a coordinated design. Others – smudged, gathered haphazardly,
less so. Perhaps my nature values the well planned
above the whim or drunken camaraderie these often represent.
I have baggage attached. A book on the forensic study
of inking. Those applied in prison that are a statement
of an allegiance or position. Dots, spider webs, and sundry
other coded marks. Or those on limbs which could prevent
a recruit from joining the military. However, fashion moves on.
From minority sport to now, seemingly, always present.
For myself, permanence a problem. I change my mind too often.
III
They have swapped home-grown artwork on the wall
for more functional shelving. Sales probably too slow.
Large ornaments placed in top compartments with smaller
bags of beans and milling equipment below.
A few interesting objects to consider. Books, glass, bric-a-brac.
It retains a touch of the amateur. Selection almost casual.
Why I like the shop. Better to be savaged by an enthusiastic
puppy than professional wolf, say, the internet kings, cynical
in how they track people to exploit them, as well as sell
their details on. Claim it is to improve the experience.
I avoid large companies when able. Find an independent. Tell
my friends. Buy things when I can. Try to make a difference.
IV
An internet jockey
you know who I mean,
laptop open
empty plastic cup
riding other people’s airwaves for free,
has a team of physicists visiting
from a local university.
Apparently,
has managed to stretch
a lone coffee bean to infinity
and as if that’s not enough
by using a previously unknown filtration
process has refilled his cup
purely from condensation
and a whiff of perspiration
in the air.
A mug of coffee all day.
The staff would like to clear his testicles away.
V
A woman sat at the next table leaning over, speaking quietly,
is one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen.
Her clothes a jumble of army boots, combat fatigues, and hoodie.
As if dressing down to avoid attention, but to such an extreme
extent the opposite occurs, so she can’t help but be noticed.
She sits with four friends who don’t look at her clothing,
but all of whom are immaculately and expensively dressed.
For some reason it brings to mind a renaissance painting
where a range of symbols or signs would be added to a scene
to include a hidden message or explanation. Without the key
you could scan the elements yet never know what they mean.
Something awful happened. Or not. You can only guess her history.
VI
Car blocking the road outside.
A woman nodding apologies
rambles on
to the end of her conversation.
Truck driver at the door
arse-end in traffic,
vehicles jammed to eternity
or at least as far as eyes can see,
quietly suggests
under his breath
where he would be pleased
to put her car keys.
She returns
hatchback
duly moved at last
to let his lorry pass
then circled back
to be parked
exactly
where it used to be.
VII
A disturbed, dishevelled woman is talking to two customers
who sit outside the cafe. It seems amicable. In time, they go
and the women, deprived of captive audience, waits as a predator
is prone to do. People inside have noticed and know
the space comes with a price attached so avoid the tables.
I think she is harmless. Looking for someone else to talk to.
Alarm bells rung, the chairs have become untouchable.
Seats inside are taken so friends are splitting, going into
half-filled areas sharing. It is the potential – what she might start doing.
Smart money avoids such company. Why put yourself in that position?
Life has an unpleasant aspect. People alone, discarded. In sitting
here today, did not expect to see so eloquent a demonstration.
Sketches in Finchley Church End Library
I
Two women
legs swinging as a metronome
whose pace
reflects the volume of conversation, its tone,
content, salacious meat.
At interesting snippets
voices lower
as swing increases
until feet can go no faster.
Then, tale complete,
silence, stillness,
until again, feet pick up a beat.
I speculate
what rumour, depravity,
so charges
this human battery.
However, the formula
for any link found
between
pendulum speed and level of sound
and exactly how they
are connected together,
could be easily quantified
by experiment or trial and error.
II
A librarian
whose voice belligerently
rattles the building’s frame,
who seemingly
cannot keep quiet
even momentarily
to breath, and when he is not speaking
drags a contraption piled high with books rattling noisily
lest mean of sound
should drop below a set level
agreed between
himself and the devil,
is speaking now
to some woman so loudly
her hair is blowing in the breeze
from this apocalypse of council employee.
III
There is a whole system in place
of codes, passes,
numbers to be quoted,
photos to be taken, fingerprints, locks, and latches,
nonetheless, a tramp has wondered in.
We sit. Perplexed.
Uncertain what to do.
Tramp, feet up, relaxed
is enjoying bespoke seating,
a holiday in the sun.
We look around.
As buses, where are librarians when you need one?
Tramp sleeps on, comfortable,
contented
by basic comforts, the rest of us
take for granted.
IV
A library mouse who has awoken
is whispering
to a colleague
about books which have been stolen.
Desks can reflect a state of mind.
Their workspace, a monument
to organised thought.
Objects precisely lined
in a row
except for a corner
piled impossibly, dangerously high.
It must fall, surely. Oh no!
Beige jacket, glasses, de rigueur.
Socks are odd. Perversely so.
Different colours, textiles, patterns.
Who knows if beneath that calm exterior
a psyche is engaged in a deadly struggle?
If that tightly coiled spring
should snap
I think we all might be in trouble.
V
There is a machine,
nobody knows what is does.
They press a button now and then
but only wearing gloves.
A bright fluorescent light
illuminates a tray.
The coin slot has no obvious role.
The screen has no display.
Some say it photocopies
some say it validates passes
some say it is pure evil
reads fortunes and predicts disasters.
VI
The two women earlier
whose leg swinging so captivated me
are moving their heads too.
A mass of movement. Every joint unglued.
What are they discussing
I cannot guess.
They are laughing now, flopping backwards,
tears running down cheeks. They are in raptures.
VII
He is pacing up and down past my table.
A military demeanour
belies a strange uncertainty.
Perfect posture
eroded
as if lost amongst us.
I draw a line, hatch form,
but any likeness
eludes.
I return renewed.
My focus
blurred, confused.
I cannot capture him
because he has not yet sketched himself in.
Purpose
in transition.
Forces child,
ex-soldier
now in civilian life
without orders or commander?
I defer, leave as thumbnail
for completion.
He is
his own commission.
Timely Reminder
The small girl opposite is a volcano.
Mum, desperately trying to stem the flow
of white-hot lava, curtail behaviour.
This one is a force of nature.
Told to settle.
Points sound, thought through, sensible,
but everything mum suggests
completely lost in the process
of eating a sandwich upside down
trying to keep its filling off the ground.
Suddenly moves on
in a blur of purpose and pink ribbon.
Whilst exasperated,
her mother to be congratulated.
Refreshing for the jaded, battle-weary among us
to see such little monsters
so crammed with life, joy, anticipation,
it comes bursting out in all directions.