City Sonnets - 45 and 46

Here are two more ... quite like them both, if i'm honest

SCARBOROUGH

The hotel, which still looks the part, has gone

To seed, we’re told, with sad accusing eyes

As if we’d turned away when its prime shone

Across the shore, but couldn’t stem the tide

Of profit and cheap travel. Well, the fish

And chips are still imperial, I exclaim

Like any fool, though, honestly I wish

She’d find a different face to stick the blame.

While donkeys limp with pride along the sand

We look beyond to scant unhurried ships

Tip-toeing over ghosts of Doggerland

And legends of great battles long eclipsed.

The sun winks mischievously on the bay -

It’s grand, though, after all, ain’t it? I say.

MBALE

I told myself to be here when I gazed

On Kasigau; to be there, only that.

I told myself this is the bit that saves

You, saves it, looking longing over flat

Dry miles on miles to that great rearing beast

Of stroppy rock, day after day, not just

Some hopeless homesick boy, I am at least

Alive to beauty rising from the dust.

We smoked our menthol cigarettes, two boys

In luck, forlorn in different ways, and gazed

On Kasigau each day, shut out the noise

For minutes, happy in our different ways.

I must have been there. Memory speaks loud

That, in one task, I did my future proud.

City Sonnets - 43 and 44

Here are two more ... I think there'll be 101 ... I'm so weird ...

LEA VALLEY

The wasps had never known such spoils before

That summer – ‘95, on August 1st,  

A leisure centre terrace at the core

Of the Lea Valley, sating lust and thirst

Of thousands overwhelming cups and bins

And pouring into doorways with a zest

Almost romantic, zoning in on skins

Uncovered, loving fearful blood the best.

I sat with Mark and Martin, in the car

For hours – we sweltered on the packed roads east,

The Cranberries on the radio, smell of tar-

Macadam melting, as the vespal feast

Continued, bombing windscreens with panache -

The thrill before the coming thunder crash.

RUBIRIIZI

He waited out of goodness, or to prove

His God’s existence – I’d be sooner lost,

I thought, unkindly and, by now, unmoved

By talk of miracles, remained uncrossed,

Just thanked him with a dim smile and a shrug

Of scepticism, met aggressively

(I took it) with “Praise Jesus” and a hug

Of nascent friendship met unwillingly.

He saw me – tired and lightless – and he took

Me to my lodgings, and my name he knew

Already, and it’s written in the book

Of life, among the saved and blessed few.

Were I a better man, I might be honour-bound

To tell him I was lost, and now, through grace, I’m found.

City Sonnets - 41 and 42

Here are a couple more ...

WALTON-ON-THE-HILL

On Saturday, complacent and unkind,

He stops behind. Can’t recall why. Just does.

They’d stay for tea, a ritual well refined

By years of love – all care and calm, no fuss.

Egg sandwiches, oatmeal and lemon cakes,

With chocolate fingers, cocktail sausages,

Brown hula hoops, Ribena … a heart breaks -  

too late he looks up, realises it’s his.

They’d raid the shed for bikes, for balls and nets,

Run themselves red and break the genteel air.

He stayed at home that time. He still regrets

The age it fell, the callow lapse of care.

An empty chair, all festive spirit sapped,

It’s Christmas soon, her gifts already wrapped.

BENICASSIM

It’s possible I danced once. In a tent

Long after midnight, no one looked or heard.

It’s not recorded, yet I swear I spent

A half life on the floor of the absurd.

It’s possible I found, for once, the groove

For half a bar or so. Like this. Oh yeah,

I’m moving, like a stone allowed to move,

or like a judge with license not to care.

I danced once, at a disco, eyes half-shut

And ears enfolded by the freedom I’d

Refused to own ‘til then. Can’t prove it but

I felt it, and that freedom’s mine to hide.

I danced once for a lifetime all alone

With all the other dancers on their own.

City Sonnets - 39 and 40

Here are two more:

MINEHEAD

A tall man in a black suit stops and spies

A blackbird, for a heartbeat, on the roof

Of the canteen, while awestruck passing eyes

Dilate and wonder “Is he still aloof

Among us chalet-sharing, cool and calm

Like-minded twitchers, does he stand so far

Above us that we’d really do such harm

By sidling up and whispering “There you are!”?”

A tall man in a black suit struts and stalks

The stage they gaze on, he is clearly gone

From thoughts of sharing space and friendly talks

With any blackbird given to a song,

a song that’s now in motion, while those birds

Are speaking new and unexpected words.

SAN GIMIGNANO

One afternoon, a man asked you to dance

Downhill to him in San Gimignano.

The summer froze, thus hind’ring his advance.

You took advantage of the chance to throw

A shape in swift escape, a graceful rush

To cover, while confused onlookers winced

With kinship, causing you to shyly blush

With tender shame for your misguided prince.

The towers fell one morning all at once

And with no fanfare, leaving that hill bare

And chastened, now bereft of a response

To polyglot lotharios on a dare.

You ran rings, that I remember, you ran rings –

It’s you, it’s you, the echoing hillside sings.

City Sonnets - 37 and 38

It would have been nice to keep the idea of linking the two places going, but I don't think there's anything that links these two places ...

OXFORD

I slumped asleep three times on the way back,

To hate myself somewhere in Alperton

At five a.m., bemoaning the lost track

That started to unwind at half past one.

I drifted off when some student called Arthur

Began to bore me with his woman woes –

I’d not the patience nor the bitter heart for

Young Arthur’s dank misogynistic prose.

Before I knew it, I was at Victoria -

The driver nudged my shoulder, “off you pop”.

I stumbled to the night bus’s top floor where

I slept once, slept again, and missed my stop.

I waited for the first tube back my way,

Then slept through nearly all of the next day.

CAMBRIDGE

The time is right for fighting in the streets

Down by the Cam, then past the restless spires -

A bottle smashed, an idle threat, the heat

Is dimly on, you’d hardly fear such fires

Of peevish privilege. The lines are drawn,

You have to laugh - push barely comes to shove

The barely shaved, it’s only mutual scorn.

“Don’t fuck with us”. “Cambridge is our town, bruv”.

A cricket match, a casual annual sneer,

some dim insults, no great shift from the norm.

No grave threats squeaked you wouldn’t always hear,

But gloves are off. Come now, this is poor form.

The summer’s here, the time is right to fight

Then meekly shuffle back into the night.

City Sonnets - 35 and 36

So, as you can see, these two places almost rhyme, which has happened by happy accident, and raises the stakes considerably, and turns this whole thing into a ...
... MAJOR ARTISTIC ENTERPRISE!

HAMBURG

The Beatles we weren’t, shyly tiptoeing

The Reeperbahn in tepid daytime tasks

But still quietly unnerved by hovering

Blue neon guilt. That was the deadest mask

The crackling harbour city offered us.

We briefly sank down winded, even wished

Ourselves back home. A rush of sun, a gust

Of sea took hold, half-cleared our mourning mist.

I saw my first red squirrel! And like that

My Hamburg was exotic and ablaze

With promise kept, til finally we sat

By Binnenalster, sold on golden days.

We never saw the Beatles, or the darkening night

life of the city, kept it sober, clean and light.

BAMBURGH

I gleam with shame as I remember when

I ran to Bamburgh over rolling road,

Our first family holiday as men

And women, not just your four-headed load –

You’d still abide, of course, aglow with pride,

Still free of greater pains in waves to come …

Or maybe they’re already yours to hide

That year my way to Bamburgh was to run.

I ran to Bamburgh, just five miles, no more,

forth, back, but still too much for me that day.

I can’t remember what I ran there for

From our grand rented house on Budle Bay.

That was itself such a long time ago,

Though why I’m haunted now is mine to know.

City Sonnets - 33 and 34

Here are two more - I'm sure I'll stop some time.

I seem to be specialising in the pleasure of cold drinks, and walking, which is terribly imaginative ...

it's not for me to say right now, but there may be some personal interest in looking back at this and seeing what themes are inescapable ...

WUNDANYI

There’s not been better than a large cold coke

at Tsavo Hill Café, a sun-straight day

when shadows hide; shoes, shirts alike are soaked

in sweat, the hour’s walk up from Mbale

infused with “How are you”s and “Mzungu”s

and grimaced greetings barely whispered back,

The bursting thirst as you pass growing queues

And road replaces rutted red dirt track.

One task - no stopping yet at Aftab Khan’s

General Store for that week’s chocolate hoard.

No other business to take on, no plans

Beyond that loaded fridge, that first glass poured.

A panting mountaineer now on the brink -

You sit, you sigh, you wipe, you smile, you drink.

OLHAO

Let loose, I strode around that fishing town

As rainclouds glowered, the afternoon on edge

of sleep enforced; I could not batten down

my temper, had no compass, had no kedge

to yank me back to dry land. Squinting out

towards the lived-in isles across, I played

with all outcomes of solitude and drought,

but stood, thank goodness, wholly unafraid.

The headphones, as so often, filled my world;

I played that manifesto of homely

Contentment I had never sought, My Girls –

A life, as yet, which looked so far beyond me.

You know the rest, ten years have passed, my world

Is written by the words I heard – My Girls.

City Sonnets - 31 and 32

Two more:

HARLECH

Best place I’ve ever been is Harlech sands

The year before the girl was born, as sun

Burst through what we were led to understand

Had been a summer thereto underdone.

We seized the castle first, ransacked each tower,

 descended the world’s steepest road then crossed

the golf course fearlessly, where others cower

we braved the endless dunes … was our cause lost?

Eventually, we topped the final peak

and turned to see Snowdonia’s looming grace,

we turned again, had no words left to speak

confronted with the beauty of that place.

Best sight I’d ever seen was Harlech’s bay

Until that girl, the next year, came to stay.

NOORDWIJK

Of course, I hadn’t an adapter for

my laptop, which was quickly charging down

as I looked on the grimly gripping shore

of wild autumnal winds in this Dutch town

Where I forgot my shoes and listened to

Joanna Newsom’s brand new album Ys,

For want of something else to hear and do

For hours themselves reluctantly released.

I find some shoes which barely fit within

The quiet and quizless streets. And time finds speed

Towards the night, the murmured nerves begin

To churn, with just one lonely room to read.

The meteorite, the source of light, tonight -

I’m lost in space and can’t quite say it right.

City Sonnets - 29 and 30

So, for ages, I'd only done one for London, but then I realised that was just cutting off my London to spite my London. London is a lot of different places ... so this is one place in London ...

and the second one here is a nice example of a poem which is quite, quite bad ...

PECKHAM

The first pass went unnoticed till a beat

Of footsteps later – recognition took

A corner and a sigh to be complete.

The second time, there may have been a look

Before the crossing but the day ahead

Was long and daunting – eyes could not be met.

The third time was deliberate – a bowed head,

A pang of friendship hidden in regret.

The skill one learns in small towns - not offend,

just lightly ignore - sabotages luck

In London – to encounter an old friend.

An instinct to retreat and shun is stuck,

We walk with fear of people in our space

And miss the chance of small moments of grace.

NAIROBI

It’s fun to stay at the YMCA - 

The greeting’s warm, the board is great value.

The diocesan office calls to say

They have the paperwork to support you.

As if it’s the arc of the covenant

you bear the note from Bishop Mwaluda

to Kenya’s most generous government,

a welcome in store considerably ruder.

The arrogance of youth is blunted by

A bureaucrat called Kirui who scares

You half to death with threats you can’t defy

And, mocking, strips back all your bullish airs.

“But we came to do good”, you cry in vain.

You’ll never venture to do good again.

City Sonnets - 27 and 28

I'm actually not 100% certain it's Hickling, it could be one of the other ones, like Barton ...

HICKLING

As Hickling opened out, he took his place

Upon the prow, theatrically, and coughed,

Dramatically, before, full in the face

of growing autumn rain, he held aloft

His trumpet, sounded out an old refrain

As fine as ever heard throughout the Broad.

He knew we watched and smiled “aah, this again”,

But still, as much, we knew, played for his Lord.

That week, I first lost all my heart to Cohen

And Buckley, roar and whisper, back and forth

via Gods and lovers longed for yet unknown,

and forged a sermon for my journey north.

And yet, when I retrace, surpassing all,

The slow post in the rain’s what I recall.

RAWA MAZOWIECKA

The evening of my 31^st birthday

(In truth one could choose any birthday here),

By water, any water, but let’s say

It’s Polish water, with a Polish beer.

In truth it could be any beer so cold

It dims the sun (it could be any sun),

With lively conversation to unfold,

(In truth it could be held with anyone).

I checked my notes:- this here’s the life that’s good

It could be any life but this one’s mine,

It’s not unique, that’s known and understood,

It’s simple, universal, and that’s fine.

A bar, a Polish shack, a summer night,

I shut my mind down and I saw a light.

City Sonnets - 25 and 26

Two more - they might as well be in the same country but in the wrong order

BARCELONA

Sangria-shot, that selfish summer low,

Scrambling in vain for adulthood, cards lost

In camping scrub, indulged, nowhere to go

In Gaudi’s city, racking up the cost

Of kindness, slouching to an Irish pub

Of English slobs just off La Rambla’s traps,

On edge, their braying sparks off stub on stub

And pint on pint of spiritual collapse.

Where came redemption, or at least the lift

Required? That curious racist London girl?

the slow dawn of contempt perhaps helped shift

the fog and reset my place in the world.

The cricket’s on, I’m going home to wash, to hide

From this wrecked boy, and wait with hope for turning tide.

VALENCIA

A vital childhood story built from clips

Inside my brain, Valencia, the flash

Of wildling light, we shelter quick for chips,

Tortilla tears, the calm after the crash

And sand too hot for feet, they stumble, bridge

Half broken down at Montenejos, stones

Thrown, smell of drains and orangeade, a fridge

Stocked cold with meat, red cheese and ice cream cones.

We sing Prince Charming, jumping chair to chair - 

A Spanish soap that stings, a bandaged boy,

I learn to cry, the football’s gone, resolve in air

Planes, prawns to scare, clay figures, home ahoy.

I am all leaping memories too sharp to crack

And some days all that I can do’s jump back.

City Sonnets - 23 and 24

Two more ...

TREGUIER

A boy who died was hidden in my thoughts

That week, but I was too ashamed, or young,

To say. I sat, set loose in vest and shorts

Outside the café, toying with trite tongue-

twisters, annoying poor sisters, who took

to talking more advanced Francais than I

could match. Our mother, buried in a book

would gently snap or, sometimes, fiercely sigh.

One afternoon, to quell my threat, we crossed

the square. The old cathedral burned with peace.

And I, just twelve, at once grew old, and lost

My grip. Hot tears, not for myself, released.

I’d be a child so many times again,

But grace and wisdom first waylaid me then.

BRIDGETOWN

So … first, I burnt, of course - a patch on shin,

A swirl on wrist, the gift of cream applied

In haste, yet when I turned that wrist to spin

I spun for fun, arc-sharp, packed the off side

And earnt a scalp. Then – Desmond Haynes

Strode to the crease, two decades past his best,

of course, our beaming host, but class remains -

His friendly knockabout, my prime, my test.

I bowled … as well as I have done, and twice

I forced false shots, but twice the chance was spilled.

When I withdrew to calm my wrath, the price

Of fate and failure was at once distilled.

A towering strike up, down, through hands, through shades, skull crack,

Des, laughing transport, and my prize that won’t come back.

City Sonnets - 21 and 22

Two more:

EDINBURGH

They stood on secret bridges spying down

On long lost lovers, mapless, staying lost,

All fresh regret they both chose the Old Town,

Forgetting its renown for live wires crossed.

The winter chill came early as the rain

Laid waste their make up, he chased all the length

Of Chambers Street and Cowgate, while his brain

Surrendered meekly to its draining strength.

She wants to be a writer, he’s not sure

The money’s in it, he’ll cross Princes Street

Tomorrow, on the path to being mature;

tonight though, he’s supportive and discreet.

Tonight, they find each other, after all

The wasted time, it slows, finally, to a crawl.

ASHFORD

“They like it tropical” she rasped, just one

On the production line of firm but kind

Midwives with slightly changed advice. The sun

Ensured her words were heard. No fan, no blind

could quell the ward’s oppressive shrouding heat.

The new girl squirmed, she blinked and howled her blues

while my calves swelled like former hells thought beat –

We begged in vain a spare bed I could use.

As evening came to calm the sweltering blast

The room, as if by magic, lost its crowd

And we were left, us three, us three! at last

To feel it, breathe out, tell her loud and proud,

To play that bright-eyed girl that Bright Eyes song.

The moment passed. We weren’t alone for long.

City Sonnets - 19 and 20

Two more ... such times ... both involve running

IWERNE MINSTER

Till summer dusk I ran and ran like Christ

On childhood holiday. He cramped and fell,

But seeing hell, he rose with blood, he iced

The bruise, and, hark, his friends could never tell.

Till chapel hour, I ducked and dived like Saul

Before the road was clear. He fell and cried,

Then changed his name; like me, he heard the call,

Still, small, but kept his nerve to spread it wide.

In bare feet I stepped carelessly on grass

And stones ‘til cracks appeared. I held my pain

‘Til night time came - one holy moment passed

In vain was not a thought I’d entertain.

I ran and stumbled, hit the floor, flushed red

With shame, while my scratched palms solemnly bled.

CHICAGO

Grant Park, October 2008 -

a multitude collects in hope unbound,

while I’m hot off the plane, a little late

To understand this hope the city’s found.

For twenty-six miles the crowd will be one

On this unjustly sultry Autumn day.

Though, fooled by lake breeze and dim morning sun,

We start undaunted by the price we’ll pay.

I greet the Tower at halfway, spry and strong,

Then one mile later, cramp first comes to call.

The next twelve miles last just about as long

As fits a pride that comes before its fall.

Grant Park, Chicago, next month, yet more pride.

The multitude convenes in hope. Hope died.

City Sonnets - 17 and 18

Two more - one of them's about Virginia Woolf kind of, one's not ...

NEW YORK

Ribs rattled by the Cyclone circling rough

And undersupervised, we’re half bereft

In summer desolation stark enough

To fall in love with the ghost park that’s left.

If asked, we would be thrilled to “Shoot the Freak

Live Human Target”, but the freak’s not here

Today, he’s scared the Island is too bleak …

For him, but not for us. We have no fear

To eat the hot dogs, hog the boardwalk stalls,

Look out for monsters on their holiday

Or mobster kids in beach huts. But the balls

Are bouncing stories from a long gone day

When Coney Island rocked and rolled all summer long –

At least, the Coney Island I entrusted to a song.

SEVENOAKS

A last straight mile incline to that last oak

And loop it back. Then, if I’m lucky, deer

To scatter as I reset what was broke

And like a slowly boldening Alpine skier

I gather pace to pass the house, which takes

Its time. I count to three six five, intone

My prayer, and ask the guest of ghosts what makes

A single room here wholly of her own.

Down there, that home is small and never ours,

where I abide, expand from front to back

unconscious so long of the blackened hours

the ivy hides as brickwork starts to crack.

Those hills we climbed; no need to climb again.

Those rooms were never filled; not now, not then.

City Sonnets - 15 and 16

The former is, for what it's worth, the funniest thing that's ever happened ...

LLANFAIR CAEREINION

The llaugh that llasted … shared hysteria, half

Delayed to minutes after we creep past

The window of the farmhouse, on the path

To where we’ll tooth-brush. He is framed and cast

As hero of his own unprivate show.

We share our double takes, purse lips, bite tongues

‘Til certain we are out of earshot, blow

Our tops and roar each last laugh from our lungs.

Two decades slip and slide away, I’ve kept

No contact with those boys I shared that shock

Of shallow joy with, but the memory crept

Up, now … the laugh, I mean, no, not the … other thing.

But, men, I have this one word to give you

Peace be with you, and, yes, also with you.

FLORENCE

An Englishman, in any circumstance

must be unflustered, dignified and droll.

Whatever he’d not realised in advance,

He should emerge as one born to the role.

In forty-one degrees of Tuscan heat

His morning suit should linger on his back

Until he’s told the groom’s tasks are complete –

And never should his wry composure crack.

An English wedding knows no better site -

A villa overlooking Florence fair.

What better time than summer’s sizzling height,

What feeling tops shirt sticking to chest hair?

A few are flagging, though you wouldn’t know it –

An Englishman is trained to never show it.