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Streets of Belfast
ALISTAIR GRAHAM ———————————————
Belfast Lapwing
STREETS OF BELFAST
ALISTAIR GRAHAM
Belfast LAPWING
First Published by Lapwing Publications c/o 1, Ballysillan Drive Belfast BT14 8HQ lapwing.poetry@ntlworld.com www.lapwingpoetry.com Copyright Š Alistair Graham 2012 All rights reserved The author has asserted her/his right under Section 77 of the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Since before 1632 The Greig sept of the MacGregor Clan Has been printing and binding books
All Lapwing Publications are Printed and Hand-bound in Belfast Set in Aldine 721 BT at the Winepress
ISBN 978-1-909252-16-5
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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
July Moon was first published in The Poet's Place anthology by the Community Arts Partnership in 2012.
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CONTENTS A KNOCK ON THE DOOR . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ALLY ALLY OH . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ALL BETTER NOW . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . BARBARIAN BARBER . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . BEHIND BARS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . BELFAST PAVEMENT . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . BELFAST TAXI . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . BIRTH WRONG . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . BLIND MAN’S BLUFF . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . BLOODY MONDAY . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . BLUE SHROPSHIRE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . BOOK SHOP . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . BOUNDARY . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . BOXING DAY 2008 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . BUTCHER’S OATH . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . CAFÉ CLIMATE ......................... CATARACT . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . CONVENIENT AFFAIR . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . CRACK UP . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . DENTIST APPOINTMENT .................. DINNER IS SERVED SON . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . DREAMLESS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . EMPTY HEAD . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . FAIRS FUR . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . FEEDING TUBE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . FIFTY SHEETS OF GREY . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . FROM WORK TO POETRY CLASS IN GOLDEN THREAD GAME OF CHASE AND THE BLACK BALLOON . . . . GIVE UP . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . GO FOR IT . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . HEAD QUARTERS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . I KNOW . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . I SEE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . IN THE DINING ROOM . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . IT’S STINKING . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . JULY MOON . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
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7 9 9 10 10 11 12 12 13 13 14 15 15 16 17 17 18 18 19 19 20 21 22 22 23 23 24 25 26 26 27 28 29 30 32 34
LAND OF MILK AND MONEY .......... LIST OF PUBLISHERS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . LIVELONGABETES . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . LOVE SEED . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . LIMERICK . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . MANNA MANIA . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . MEDDLE WINNER .................. MEN KNOW . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . MIND FINGERS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . MOVE ON . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . NOTHING’S PERMANENT . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ONCE-OVER . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . PAY SLIP . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . PUB GRUB . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . POEMS ON PUB RECEIPTS AT LONELY POET POETRY SHELF . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . POST NO BILLS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . SCAFFOLDING . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . SELF-MADE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . REFLECTION . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . SILENT NIGHT . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . SITUATIONS VACANT . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . SIX O’CLOCK SHADOW . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . TABLE DISPLAY ................... THE CHIPPY . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . THE CREGGAN WHITE HARE . . . . . . . . . . . THE TIME OF YOUR LIFE . . . . . . . . . . . . . THE TOMB IN TYRONE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . THOUGHT FOR THE DAY . . . . . . . . . . . . . TOO BIG . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . TIMEPIECE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . UNALTERED STATE OF CONSCIOUSNESS . . . UN-BELOVED . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . UNDERGROUND TOILET, BELFAST . . . . . . VOICE MESSAGE ................... VOTES R US . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . WARNING SIGN . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . YOUR PLACE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
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Alistair Graham
A KNOCK ON THE DOOR I heard a hell of a knock on the door I lifted my head, I heard it once more A dreadful noise, a please let me in knock A for heaven’s sake, don’t leave me here knock I slowly opened the door towards me To a dishevelled man clothed bizarrely With his upper lip raised, his gum exposed A mouth of words, a purple tongue and nose The snakes, he shouted, the snakes, bloody snakes Let me come in son, thank god your awake Come in, I implored, come in and take rest Please sit by the fire and tell of your quest He leaned back in the chair to draw a breath And to all the world appeared close to death What’s that, I whispered, pointing to his hand He motioned to speak then got up to stand It’s snakebite, he shouted, see for yourself But I was further concerned for his health He hoisted both arms high above his head I’ve been roaming around this world, he said His weathered hands clasped the pewter tankard The liquor waves crashed the sides and downward Take it, take it, go on take it, he said Medicinal juice without which I’d be dead I sipped it, he smiled, I sipped it once more I took a great gulp, I smiled then I roared I like it, like it, I like it my friend, The feeling inside, I hoped would not end
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Streets of Belfast
My arm round his shoulder, his arm round mine We danced up the room and down in quick-time My heart, he cried out, for one and all aches Because current psyche’s a shallow lake He studied my face through tears in tired eyes Certain the people were happy with lies I’m off now, he said, damn-all I can do We broke our embrace, I knew it was true I heard a bang. The door pulled behind him On the floor lay his card. Must have fallen I picked up the card and turned it over St Patrick called today, three leaf clover
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Alistair Graham
ALLY ALLY OH If Titanic skin was our skin the question I’m asking is would we sink into ourselves and die Our skin is double-thick anviled and armoured bullet-proofed and barricaded bomb-proofed and separated labelled and warehoused on terra firma Belfast built
ALL BETTER NOW Did you know a poet in Belfast Is convinced and therefore is steadfast You can read for yourself From the books on the shelf All gods are equal when you contrast
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Streets of Belfast
BARBARIAN BARBER While you’re waiting to sit in the chair For the barber to cut off your hair Remember Delilah Ask Samson he’ll tell ya Make a run for the door, if you dare
BEHIND BARS Gated community to lock them in Pearly gates shine thin Gated community to lock them out Lit torches A bout
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Alistair Graham
BELFAST PAVEMENT The soles of girls and boys and mothers Eggshell-laughs spilled ice-cream Splinters of shrapnel Spent cartridge, feather Wild bomb, tar-macadam Scream from the crack Break mother’s back Streets of heaving mangled heart Blood pools in sawdust Saline to drench, men
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Streets of Belfast
BELFAST TAXI If intending to ride in my cab Be so kind and do not make me sad No eating or drinking No stuff that is stinking Though unwind now, for a wee confab
BIRTH WRONG Have you ever thought how you vote By colour of flag therefore coat Or simply religion I pity your children “Accident of birth� quote-unquote
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Alistair Graham
BLIND MAN’S BLUFF Bust for inequality Framed and hung in poverty Subject to authority Citizen no more New world probability Pact agreed society Can-do possibility Fore the days of yore
BLOODY MONDAY Monday, bloody Monday tomorrow Commences the five days of sorrow It is Sunday today With the time you should play Come morning, it’s work beg and borrow
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Streets of Belfast
BLUE SHROPSHIRE I I pluck the block as I pass by I journey to the kitchen door Dorrit pees a pee on the grass A concentration of nitrogen Dilute or die Eggs are boiling in stainless steal Caged hens no longer free II My bib is stained with suffering III I ignore the knife and pluck again, the block Crumble from wrapper like rich compost Fetch the crackers from the shelf The sofa Little Dorrit, up
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Alistair Graham
BOOK SHOP So you’ve walked in the door for a book Well your welcome, and please take a look If you need a wee hand Sure the staff understand For a bookies; a man once mistook
BOUNDARY Rusted railings rusted gate A metal history have to wait for wetted finger touch and taste the sulphur hen of human waste
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Streets of Belfast
BOXING DAY 2008 There’s considerable chat from the birds out the back up high They don’t care that today massive sales give away things cheap They store nothing in barns and come to no harm yet progress With no boom and no bust living simply on trust they soar In their year of seasons they’ve very few reasons to fuss
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Alistair Graham
BUTCHER’S OATH As you’re looking for quality meat It’s as well you came in off the street With our pork, beef or lamb And our chicken, you can Give your family a mouth-watering treat
CAFÉ CLIMATE Place your order and then please be seated In the winter this café is heated In the summer it’s not As it’s too bloody hot And swimwear for staff would be needed
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Streets of Belfast
CATARACT He was half way from the earth to the moon He looked back at the ball A cloudy cloak had covered the mess The masses were ecstatic
CONVENIENT AFFAIR Some couples are partnered for love While others, a hand in a glove United for coinage Or aligned for lineage Wink nod or a push and a shove
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Alistair Graham
CRACK UP Dinner plates cracked from set set to garage wall Croc for pots with peat I pee down the drain to the left of them and let stub fall with glow to skid damp china red out
DENTIST APPOINTMENT There’s nothing to stop you leaving You’re terrified and you’re breathing As if sentenced to die Though you can if you try Grasp; you’ll be fine by this evening
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Streets of Belfast
DINNER IS SERVED SON It takes a lot of time To hunt and gather To chop and clean, to boil To steam and stew To roast and poach And then prepare a table A spread of food laid out A splendid view Then you don’t take your seat When the hall bell rings Your friends pull up outside And you wave out You leave the house, your empty stomach with you Drive up the Gilnahirk Road and out of sight
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Alistair Graham
DREAMLESS (Inspiration from a painting by Rosaleen Davey in the Irish Writers Centre, Dublin) Forget my image as you bow your head Shun the sight of me I’m not lonely and don’t crave pity No one to aid me I am alone inside my suffering My head a planet I boast little of mine on this globe You brag of your dreams Don’t pity me in your world-system Seize my dream and leave
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Streets of Belfast
EMPTY HEAD (Ballyhackamore Bards) It disturbs me to write when on the spot My head placed chop, chop on the writers block The sign hangs on the chain around my neck Empty Head
FAIRS FUR Dorrit takes her turn on the leather One hundred and twelve, the auld bleather She has pockled about The back-door in and out I think she’s depressed by the weather
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Alistair Graham
FEEDING TUBE If when you’re awake you are sleeping I suggest the food, you stop eating If you’re reading clap-trap TV-viewing pure crap From a putrid breast you are feeding
FIFTY SHEETS OF GREY I put my neck on the line for you You put your lingerie on the line for me but obscured it with your discoloured bed linen
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Streets of Belfast
FROM WORK TO POETRY CLASS IN GOLDEN THREAD It’s half past five, I leave at six No pressure then I see a few words, leap onto the screen I need heaps of them I glance at the clock, out the side of my eye It’s ticking its’ time What seemed seconds ago, it said five thirty one Now it’s five thirty nine I’ve worked in my office, all day without stress I’m now biting my nails My rapid heartbeat, is attacked by a panic What if it fails I juke at the clock, it’s one minute to six Have I been cheated No way on this earth, can time move at that pace This poem’s completed
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Alistair Graham
GAME OF CHASE AND THE BLACK BALLOON We could hide, up to four streets away on our own, or in twos or threes The park was out of bounds; we could hide there for eternity It was agreed unanimously to raise the stakes from a game of chase to murder-hunt As each boy was uncovered, caught, he suffered a punch, a kick Not too severe, was just a game A bruised arm or leg, a blackened eye an occasionally tear It was Belfast circa 1978 Of course the captured were not slain Just children playing rough It was the grown-ups who killed We didn’t fall out We gave chase up cluttered entries flanked by scores of back doors A coronation-street cat on the yard wall Bird’s-eye view of the kill Every red stain on the ground or nearly red we decided, was blood from a murder on scene-around-six or a knee-capping and the proof could be anything; decomposed chicken skin, spilled from a nearby rubbish bin During the game we’d stop at the sound of a distant bomb See a plume of smoke above terraced roofs The Black Balloon
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Streets of Belfast
GIVE UP It’s the first week in Lent I’m not joking I’ve agreed on the date to start smoking Not one to give up I’ll drink from the cup And the coals of the fire I’ll keep stoking
GO FOR IT Damned if you do and damned if you don’t Not quite sure if you will or you won’t Try for precision Make a decision To conclude; be prepared to confront
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Alistair Graham
HEAD QUARTERS I hear them Upstairs in my head Moving stuff around Pieces of furniture Placed Displaced The noise of them No consideration Scoundrels Provoking me And they know it Want me to bite Plank-thick though Because they know I’ll wipe the floor with them I’m not going up Not tonight Couldn’t stomach it I knuckleknock The roof of my mouth “Give it a rest” That’s better
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Streets of Belfast
I KNOW I know the crease beneath your eyes I know your lips your brow your chin I know the hair that clothes your head I know the surface of your skin I know the rhythm of your breath I know your movements when you sleep I know the moment you awake I know the promise I will keep I know when you cast off the world I know when sorrow’s at your door I know when secret tears you shed I know my power to restore I know the verse birds sing at dawn I know the setting of the sun I know the light cast by the moon I know my pure love is legion
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Alistair Graham
I SEE It is almost midnight I see the crown of the tree in the distance Beautiful, naked branches I hear the call of an owl like the cry from a mosque piercing the silence of the night I acknowledge and fly up I light on the tree sense the branch at my feet I look up to the owl I look down on Gilnahirk with mighty eyes opened wide I observe Lucille far off in the kitchen moving graciously under low light I fly down to the kitchen door We go up to bed
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Streets of Belfast
IN THE DINING ROOM (2am) Kazek Thrown onto the white sheet Like into a black hole But I am not afraid of falling I have been there before and somehow survived You’re still yourself even when you don’t know it Why fight, why bother You will be part of something bigger Alan He wasn’t local His English was broken But goodly What was coming down Belfast Lough England, Ireland? No, Poland He’s welcome here any time
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Alistair Graham
Alistair I This night Like no other night Double doors closed Closed in Forced to focus II My humanity My world view What I was taught What I was fed III I am greater I am Mightier I am now alive I am now free I am
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Streets of Belfast
IT’S STINKING I She said It’s stinking outside I thought about it Stinking I tried to smell the stench Imagined rotting piles of stuff It’s not the day for the bins Bins on Monday Today is Wednesday, midweek Like midwinter The rain doesn’t stink I thought Rain rains Soaks you through to your trunks
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Alistair Graham
II Trunks is Sunblest Veda Thickly sliced, toasted with butter Melted cheese – Eyelevel grill Trunks is a bus journey To primary school – double-decker Upstairs, front window, massive Buildings coming at me Touch the top of street lights, midwinter, Dark, raining up the Lisburn Road to Balmoral And knickers Is posh Christmas cake Piped edges, white, pink Nickers is coming down the Lisburn Road Upstairs – double-decker School finished Mid-afternoon summer Smell the heat, smoke my pipe Chase the girls: groin
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Streets of Belfast
JULY MOON I The first sip of a fine Rioja Sumptuous nose, tantalising tongue Liquid art in my hand Half a bottle now Half way between the past and the future My hand has been resting on the glass for an age Bloody sore, the skin marked The whole bottle now; a blonde beer I’m carried along the conveyor belt to the destination The moon is watching It is now upon me A swollen camembert globe oozing a smothering liquid blanket enveloping my panic-face; advising how I should go
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Alistair Graham
II At the front of the house the Cordyline Palm filters the street light to me Again, the moon comes A white-hot disc now stihl-sawing the top of my skull to create a lid A skullcap canopy shading the nonsense from the Sun while the orchestra plays, despite the heat A hand painted wooden sign thrust into my shoulder; inviting the lunatics I arrive
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Streets of Belfast
LAND OF MILK AND MONEY 2012 AD
The ruler of the land and the high priest simultaneously sucked on the breasts of Mother Mammon. With eyes of twitch they turned in turn to advise the masses while sour milk poured through the teeth of their open mouthed smiles as they spoke. They proclaimed that the people would suffer great with burns and boils and gnashing of teeth and that wild hunger would be wrought upon them in this life and an eternal molten pit rained on by fire and brimstone and flesh eating worms would be their inheritance in the next life should they choose not to obey their commands. The high priest and the ruler of the land knew with authority that what they gave out was a babbling of their own imaginations from heads thoroughly drunk on the supply from the dripping breasts of Mother Mammon. There were a few in the land who took it upon themselves to set their hand on trinkets and other temporal pieces that had been manufactured on the orders of Mother Mammon. The trinkets and temporal idols were collected and brought to the people. “Look,” they said, “we can also gather and lay claim to that which our hand has not produced.” A mighty thunder rose up and ripped through the night. Mother Mammon had ordered its suckling to send Knights on horseback with orders to break the lintels of every door, spilling blood to recover the idols. The leaders were ordered to make new laws that would lock up the people for longer than ever before, as an example to others. The good people of the land were dragged from their homes and from the steps of the temple while the high priest and the ruler of the land, hiding behind tempered doors, watched on while counting pieces of silver.
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Alistair Graham
LIST OF PUBLISHERS Considered posting this to you; then Slush pile Unsolicited material Can’t plough through Nonsense, formless Have you eh, Eh, A writing degree? I see! Don’t have time The cost Non commercial The boss Partial shelf space Standard high Require a stool Silly fool Our insanity We are granted Limited view Publish for vanity
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Streets of Belfast
LIVELONGABETES Hopping mad on one foot as its friend got the axe I won’t see face of fear with blind eyes The stroke of six sounds attack in a heartbeat while the spell of the carb carves its curse in coiling veins and devil’s dandruff from the canes spews its spew on the planes and on the plates of platelets and plasma
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Alistair Graham
If the plan of the pan if it can is to cure it or cure us or cre us a pan cre us as pancreas then repair yourself you self ish shitester or I’ll shite you out for waste you waster Or die, die die, a, bee tees dieabeetees diabetes be happy to die please He he he he
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Streets of Belfast
LOVE SEED We cycle from my house to yours over cracked paving stones up and down buff-coloured kerbs and the white line on the road is always in front and always behind forever, outshining the black while the sun on our backs appears and disappears and our pre-adult bodies touching, blending, and our wind-blown, red-cold faces freewheeling by Redburn Country Park then up to Palace Barracks, a crack of guns nigh the entrance to old Dunville’s is our sign that the heavy peddling is over We are young, fourteen years old, our love a seed, we pause for breath now mouth on mouth, cold and wet and the tip of your nose, your straight dark hair, a delicate face, delicate body drawing me to embrace
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Alistair Graham
later in the sitting room at your house we sit alone, loving each other by the minute, dreaming dreams through the window at a sky of giggled plans now mouth on mouth, warm and moist and the tip of your nose, soft on my neck
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Streets of Belfast
LIMERICK To Limerick we never set off Bell’s hip was put out by a cough The journey’s too far To travel by car We stayed put; red wine we did quaff
MANNA MANIA It’s obvious you enjoy books Therefore not obsessed with your looks While you like to look good You know words are the food The library, a kitchen, for cooks
MEDDLE WINNER Whatever you think it is That troubles her life or his I assure you it’s not They have just lost the plot It’s not your business to quiz
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Alistair Graham
MEN KNOW Men know the moon the stars the sea Men know the speed of light and sound Men know the price of everything Men know the value of nothing around Men know the power that money can buy Men know the steps on corruption’s road Men know the weak are fashioned for use Men know the system and the system’s code Men know that excess is not enough Men know that dearth is required Men know that all men return to dust Men know that greed is admired
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Streets of Belfast
MIND FINGERS I My hands resting on the keys Fingers and thumbs Waiting to tear at white letters On black blocks In neat rows QWERTY Hands separated by protocol Left keep left, right keep right Invisible barricade Keep-out sign, German dog Familiar with what you know What you know works II A frenzied finger fumble in fast forward forcing false words upon words while up on the screen, screaming sincere smiles sing, see how they run see how they run from left to right Letters tiddlywink into words, sentenced in neat black blocks like buildings stacked on top of each other; swaying faintly forward before falling face down
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Alistair Graham
MOVE ON For god’s sake give over stop moaning For all your mistakes you’re atoning So get on with the job And break free from the mob As by now, you should have outgrown them
NOTHING’S PERMANENT Remember when you were at school The fella who thought he was cool Have you seen him of late A regrettable fate His temperature’s rising, poor fool
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Streets of Belfast
ONCE-OVER No full-moon tonight Little crescent object I leaped up To sit a while Reclining, my hands behind my head I studied total insanity After, I dropped down to Lucille on the sofa Toppled pistachios into a bowl of shells Mixed them through Downside up
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Alistair Graham
PAY SLIP I went for a stroll, as the crow flies, through Belfast city centre The bank buildings chafed my ankles so I kicked them up out of their foundations to the top of cave hill, then bought three scarfs in Primark for the weavers
PUB GRUB If you came in tonight for fun For food and for drink then you’ve done What a sensible man With an exquisite plan Would do; so get on with it son
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Streets of Belfast
POEMS ON PUB RECEIPTS AT LONELY POET Kazek Life can be a bitch Gives you something sweet The moment you least expect it But only a bitch can arrange it This way; the sweetness turns to poison Alan Life eluded us then and will elude us tomorrow so, we beat on going on but looking back into the past Alistair My sweet perfume my scent my me I am now what I was I am now what I will be I am beautiful I am the morning sun I am the assurance I am the I am
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Alistair Graham
POETRY SHELF In the main room of every home at arm’s length of everyone A shelf with screws and plugs should hug the wall And on this shelf the paperbacks from left to right and pamphlets the spices in your life, may you grow tall The poet speaks when others won’t with words in ways that others can’t the like of which you won’t have heard til now Surprise yourself, buy a new book surprise your family or even look to buy a book for everyone you know
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Streets of Belfast
POST NO BILLS I flick through a carpet pile of envelopes, bills paper, poetry A4 pads and words and then I laugh though I shouldn’t so I’m told: at requests demands final … and they Cry for skin, for flesh for blood for breath They cry for strength for mind, for time and for my death even so I will deliver the minute I’m ready Puke out pay up Money in lieu of life 50
Alistair Graham
SCAFFOLDING I Mortar crumble from slackened brick on slackened brick down to dust II She stroked Pond’s Cream from a pot to the palm of her small hand and thumbed the moisture into her skin III Her mind, inside her beautiful head of red-bricked-terrace fronting a futile fight against the elements, resounded “O Mother, dear mother”
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Streets of Belfast
SELF-MADE A millionaire who inherited nothing Employed staff, numbering nil No resources; animal, human mineral, vegetable or treadmill Required no assistance zip and zero, Self-made man, zippo, zilch Pity poor fool doggedly deluded, cow, human, cow, milch
REFLECTION At night when you climb into bed The thoughts of the day in your head Do you drift into sleep Or fall into the deep Fine-linen, debating, bedstead
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Alistair Graham
SILENT NIGHT I Candles on the mantelpiece Flickering flames of light Burning smiles towards me Blowing kisses softly II Kazek returned my book tonight “Of the few books, that have changed my life” he said. “This book stands among them” Jesus for the Nonreligious By John Shelby Spong
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Streets of Belfast
SITUATIONS VACANT poet seeks work in quiet room with no ties can start now have own paper pencil and rubber
reply in confidence attempts to flatter will be leaked
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Alistair Graham
SIX O’CLOCK SHADOW I Limbo no longer Timed out Destruction Swinging-ball No sun-set No path back Search for mint leaf Calm raging fire Seed not planted Leafless existence II Count pills In columns Cold water In glass Gulp-swallow Gulp-swallow Icy stream Throat to belly Gulp-swallow Gulp-swallow Calm head Hand steady Gulp-swallow Gulp-swallow Light out Shadow gone
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Streets of Belfast
TABLE DISPLAY fibrous foliage flaming flange soiled seed soggy sown table top tantric tango yuletide yearn young yet running rigid right round may march june july vena bulbi bone meal water smoke
THE CHIPPY We all love a trip to the chippy No bother if outside it’s nippy For when you’re inside Your senses go wild And the kids? They’ll always shout “yippy”
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Alistair Graham
THE CREGGAN WHITE HARE I know damn well the paws will tap the pane The curtains on the window will be drawn That mammoth mammal thinks that I’m insane I’ll trim the lights down low; she’ll think I’m gone Now I was scared to hell but there’s no call While large in size she’s really just a pet I spotted her this morning on the wall We exchanged smiles but still we’ve never met She laid herself out on my car bonnet Yelling, “look at me the Creggan White Hare” Damn you Hare, I’m trying to write a sonnet She gazed at me but truly didn’t care I spied her that night among the heather “Good evening madam Hare, lovely weather!”
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THE TIME OF YOUR LIFE I I long for time, extra portions, a little wedge at no cost I am the owner of fragments, a dribble of pottery pieces I had time on my hands and on my side while a child Giant jugs and plates and vases of time of every colour II Time now is captive Time is Daniel in the den Time is Jonah in the belly and my time is not my own or too little of it at any rate Whatever the rate, time now is money and the bulk of us mere tools of the trade; spanners, working our nuts off 58
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THE TOMB IN TYRONE Down to Tyrone and the calm and splendour An Clachan at An Creagan I will stay I will eat and drink and write and slumber I’ve put it off but now I’m on my way A second visit for my second book Creggan devesky will entomb the spark For the Creggan White Hare I’ll take a look Though determined to write and leave my mark The roar of the fire, my solitary friend I will lean out the stable door to smoke While I write at the table I’ll pretend It isn’t true that I am close to broke The next guest here may be a writer too The cottage is vacated now for you
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THOUGHT FOR THE DAY I Lucille Savours Sauvignon Blanc I relish Rioja Samuel Feasts on fish on Friday Dary doesn’t do sea The love of … Acquired Taste II Religion Is a matter Of opinion Peace Be with you Amen
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TOO BIG She’s too big for her boots her shoes her hat her coat and scarf and all that adorns her She’s too big for small conversations for established contradictions for petty interactions or fluffy worldly distractions that surround her She’s too big to fade or fear or fall flat on a face of fleer or falter going forward on her journey She’s too big for faith in Father Christmas or phoney authoritative figures or fickle fibber failures of all flavours She’s too big I fear, for this world
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TIMEPIECE Look with your eyes at the clock Hear with your ears the tick-tock Think of the time Not of the rhyme Latent potential unlock
UNALTERED STATE OF CONSCIOUSNESS After a night on the thinners Pouched eggs for lunch down at Skinner’s Though the library first To help quench my thirst Saturday. Holywood. Sinner.
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UN-BELOVED If during the evening your mood Dramatically changes you should Consider your company Abandon it bluntly If guilty of menace construed
UNDERGROUND TOILET, BELFAST At the back of the queue for a poo in the loo stands a boy with pool cue on the toe of his shoe
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VOICE MESSAGE Where to bloody hell are ya? I wouldn’t rake ya Fetch the eggs from the backside of the hen I wonder would ya? Are you trapped beneath the compost heap? Are your socks and shoes scattered on the lawn? Are you on the list of missing persons? Will you appear on the back of the milk carton on my kitchen table? Are you there you scoundrel? Listen to the call of the wild. Wild man in the trees. He’ll fight you on the lawn at day break with the clashing of grass rakes, for god’s sake speak to me Are you in the Holywood Hills with your back on a flower bed and a length of straw between your lips pish-drunk in your undergarments quaffing from a bottle of merlot and your bib stained with the muck of this earth?
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VOTES R US Very nearly didn’t vote, votes change nothing quote-unquote or nothing ever changes, stays the same Then I slice a slice of Five Mile Cheddar and up the hill inclement weather “if you don’t vote then you can’t complain” A flyer from a friendly face on entry, now inside the place I’m fed warm cheese on stick, on paper plate Plug-in smellies on the walls fat men in wellies know-it-alls and opium burners filling heads with bait Flag wavers of every sort, piled-high troughs and sniffs and snorts of greedy pigs feeding on human flesh In a small room out the back a laughing roaring spluttering pack of bloated faces over-run the crèche
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Wine and beer is complimentary spirits, cider, wickeds, plenty, flat-screen sports and fashion shows, three D And rows and rows of smiling faces hanging low from boot-size laces screaming, if you buy one get one free In a trance now; silly me
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WARNING SIGN The smell of damp awning and the dew, beautifully sweet then the Sunday oven-sun Later; bread toasted at supper We sipped wine that night in Wexford from plastic goblets under high canvas. And in the belly of the night, in flaming-hot sleeping bag, I awoke to grandmother standing; her long grey hair, in heaven I believe, warning me. Five years, before grandmother standing; the cross, with a skin-and-blood-man, appeared on the wall. Now; I have need of the council with speed bumps, barriers and neon signs to warn of locusts and canker from new wine in old skin.
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YOUR PLACE I All right jack what’s the crack what’s the story what the heck is going on How did they pull it off II Not surprised that the lies like flies on starving eyes is the price of the prize III The aspirations of western nations A dizzy climb no hesitation IV The pace of the human race to replace the face beneath the headspace
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V Society up high A Premium space A raucous bird table insatiable taste VI What a waste that first place No staircase just a birthplace A disgrace
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L A P W I N G PUB L I C A T I O N S
ALISTAIR GRAHAM
Alistair Graham Studied at Shaftsbury House College and is working in sales and account management for the Royal Mail Group. He lives in Belfast with his wife Lucille and their sons Samuel, age 25 and Dary, age 21. His first book, War and Want, was published in 2011.
The Lapwing is a bird, in Irish lore - so it has been written indicative of hope. Printed by Kestrel Print Hand-bound at the Winepress, Ireland
ISBN 978-1-909252-16-5
ÂŁ10.00