the book of arrivals

  Dad had four brothers Two were dead Peter David and Peter George Scrolls on the wall shorten their names to Pte And say Peace and Freedom and King and Country   After work Dad carries his bike up the staircase Parks it on the landing under the scrolls of the Peters Cuts the handlebars with a hacksaw To keep it narrow so we can squeeze past And he can get through the traffic   The main road shakes beneath lorries and buses Frosted glass in the front door buzzes Stink of floor polish and damp old mats To left and right every species of mobility In perpetual commotion   We make a noise with meccano on the floor Mrs Downstairs launches the wrong end of a broom into orbit Complains to Mum about her nerves When she goes out shopping we laugh and run And Mum smiles and stamps her feet   In our beds at night we talk and listen And blindly guess the passing traffic Fords are easy and Beezer bikes and motor scooters ...

A Ping Pong Poem   stepping out                that place we endeavoured                     scree slope on loan                                   script rewritten small beer                   hombre sincero   sensitive side              the infinite question we were babies                       among the builders unalloyed         ...

Cooking and cleaning done, Sitting at the upstairs window; Sunday-best twopiece and heavy butterfly brooch, A cloud of talcum in sherbet pink;   Polishing the classroom floor made Bloated sponges of her knees; So hot last week almost naked under nylon workcoat, But today is day off and sardines for tea with a thin slice of   Cold beetroot and lettuce from Dad’s allotment; Rolls kiss of lilac lipstick in the dressing-table mirror, Laughs: All dressed up and nowhere to go! Nods at runners and riders on the street below:   Here comes the ginger cat with its tail up, Look at old woman and dog they walk the same, See Mr Upstairs On The Corner and his backward boy and Mrs Downstairs Over The Road with a black man;   Checks hats coats hair with a giggle, Pronounces age and frailty and degree of Meanness and goodness and the kinship of brutes; Divines several errands from the back catalogue of Interviews and habits and the movement of troops; Smiles while embroidering the dr...

You made me bark my shin, It was the pedal of Dad’s bike in the darkness Of the living room   - odd name living room.   You dragged me through the various ochres of night and dark, But I did not wander in the park, Nor did I throw stones at lovers;   The bark was the only sound in that muffled place of shadows When I crept from my blanket bed to the living room, to kill the carriage clock.   I felt my way to the sideboard, Barked my shin and stuck my finger in The back of the clock to stop it striking the hours and halves   Which had been keeping me awake; I had school next morning and I had been trying to force myself to go to sleep.   It was the small hours but Those hours are anything but small and after stopping the clock, I floundered awake in a great abyss of silence. (A memory of childhood prompted by reading Once It Was the Colour of Saying , by Dylan Thomas)