A long time ago and hardly revised

The two of us almost bumped straight

Into the two of them. But it was alright,

Because neither boy nor girl looked back at us.

They had not gone far past us as I steered

My mother about the pharmacist’s corner.

The Diet Coke and the change in her handbag,

The silence was silenced - we both now had something to say.


Normally, when people-watching,

I look at women first. Man’s Descent makes three markers,

Sex, age, then aesthetics. The girl had a right

To demand a conspicuously furtive glance;

Her long hair had fine brown brightness,

She was smiling and natural and unconcerned.

I did look at her first, but scarcely at all.


For with her was one I felt I knew well,

I disliked him, disliked me, as I watched him.

He was my age, and made me feel short, dark, stumbling,

Away from a race contemptuous of fear,

Stout hearted, steel toned.

Looking at the girl was soothing, half-attainable,

But the blond boy’s morning aimed scowl fixed my stare.

I knew him then, I knew his sort!

Within sixteen guesses, his name as well,

And I wanted to use some honourless means,

Poison or deceit or book-learning,

Atomic science, verses, to leave him dead

And take his girl. If there is Progress

Such longings engender it.


And deftly I helped my mother to make way,

To absolve that envy by the gift of a pavement,

And we trudged on, past the chemist’s.

“I thought I knew that boy’s face,” I said.

I was her familiar, as I saw the same vice

Bundled under our verb.

“How strange,” she said, “I thought I knew the girl’s.”

Restaurant

Well, it’s a new place, said she, I’d rather not.

The reviews are good; yet a quiet evening,

I said. She said, yes, no problem with booking,

I’d just rather not; is that alright with you?


Then a ring percussed from the tall white door.

I opened it now to a man, a threatener

In a brown leather jacket with brown leather hair.

They looked at each other to tell what had passed,

He stared at the both of us, hands in his pockets,

She blinked first, and I spoke to the blackened beau.


What do you think of the new place in town

With its sparkling white décor and pulverised meat?

The newcomer meddled a grin of drugged slyness.

We’ll eat at that cool place called fury tonight.

Red Watch

My raging was diagonal

The sleep was only of a kind

My last thoughts placed me as a boor

My post-last kicked the duvet far

A rat at salami

A man at his tongue

Far too angry, far too ready, and only faded

From consciousness in that the words were dismissed

Till I arched my tense frame and rolled and shouted

“I shall not be sold to Mrs Lascelles”

Woke to a contortion and to a rebellion

And passed to fabliau non-sleep.

(I recall, however, that Mrs Lascelles’s

Husband’s first name was Charles).

Out of curiosity

Mister George Harnett,

I have a query,

With reference to your soul.

We've not really talked ever

(By my intendment

I slide choppily from your way).


This morning a sober clarion rang,

And I woke to the skein of your unfathomed mind.

Let's get to the washing up, Mister George Harnett.


The ur-Harnett, for the present author

Is smiling. His foot rests upon conquered contentment.

Some kind of noble truth he has passed,

He sold laughter for that hard-wearing smile.


Does it only amuse you, George Harnett esquire,

This oddly ruled turfworld, is it to be pinned,

Wreathed and contained by a lordly smirk,

And a bundle of creased, or perhaps folded blue?


I do not know you, good Harnett,

But do explain

If your mirth is germane

To time's drawn, aching slash,

To Russia, the mother of Lermontov,

Hardening in a grey turgid pipe,

To war beyond weapons?


If amusement can cover

The Cabinet's writhing

The BBC owes you one, Mr. Harnett.


Which sage cast you thus,

A formed man of power,

With banalised faults and no chance for surprise,

So gallant in peace and so hardy in war?

Was it OUCA and the Royal Air Force, or were

You born lumpen?

Drug

Well, as if it were that,

I pause for its coming,

I stand at its parting,

For its sight the better,

Avert neck, dart eyes.


I wish it were her, but it's not them, at least.

It's definiteless though deictic, and as

It hamstrings ken, spits, too, at the Infinite.


A substitute nymph

Plywood splints what was better.

Earns thanks without asking, taking or deserving.


O would it were beauty!

Would then it were love.

But that walker wears poetry's name.

'Please Explain'

Do you ever have those nightmares

Which though horrid are compelling

Enough to book a postchaise

Foam-flecked worn-down attempt?

I have chartered that compartment

For a restive shop-soiled sleep

Because a detail usually needs firming up.


Let me stop you there, my darling,

Let us step that jig again,

Why exactly are we lost for good?

What was the nature of...ah, well,

This was one of the silent movies.


I want to know my wreaking hands

Have full possession of the brute

Aggression, gone unspent by day.

Did I really smash the fat old liar's

Spectacles again?


It's not the rollercoaster stab

Which I've never invited. No:

It's about truth in falsehood, checks,

Corroborations, or exactitude,

A veering hope of pardon or vision.


I want, often, a re-run with sub-titles.