City Sonnets - 69 and 70

Here are two from different parts of the same green space

KENSINGTON

So … this is how I broke my leg. Or, no,

How someone broke it. Lanky lunging prick.

A bright November morning, just below

The Palace, whistle barely blown, first kick,

I’m sharp, then, late as midnight, here he cracks.

I hear it. “Fucking cunt!”. I land. And “Aaoaah!”

Lie down and do not move. For days, in fact.

I’m calm, and quite forgiving, but still …. Aaoaah!

And since I’m calm I’m now convinced I’d thrive

At Dunkirk or the Blitz. I’ve passed a test,

I’ve grinned and borne, my inner steel alive

And well when most unwelcomely oppressed.

That’s how my bones were breached – something like that,

A snap - panache! A whacking crack – eclat!

PADDINGTON

We walked south from St Mary’s. Bright spring day,

First time (of several) we both saw you there,

Through Hyde Park, where we’d later contemplate

Your ashes being scattered, since it was where,

Of London, you loved most, where you’d brought us

So many Sundays, where, the story went,

when told of the birth of your first daughter,

the Serpentine splashed with all that it meant…

We talked. I was surprised that it was me

Who was more fatalistic, more resigned

To the endgame. I had prepared, you see,

For this long, slow descent’s headlong decline.

By Piccadilly, we’d devised a plan

To shun the horror and honour the man.

City Sonnets - 67 and 68

ROSS’S POINT

Hot chips still smell like Ross’s Point to me,

In July 1985. I run,

The fastest Bajan paceman, as the sea

Late cuts the harbour, as a struggling sun

Relinquishes control, I run, and bowl,

And calculate the damage done, the salt

Can sting, the bragging waves swallow me whole,

still I’m a Caribbean lighting bolt.

And chips still, sometimes, smell like Sligo’s coast

And beer and smoke and brine and pride and charm,

Like putting all your stories in the post,

An English-Irish boy bowls fast left-arm.

He stumbles on the cobbles, almost falls,

He rises, plaudits ring off harbour walls.

COLETON FISHACRE

The age of Hipstamatic, albeit brief,

leaves lasting traces, like the flower frames

of Coleton in its blazing March relief,

a place of arts and crafts and parlour games

through mimicked ages of enchantment leant

a blooming swagger by the shaded edge

of artifice, with not a tree unmeant,

not one untended shrub or unkempt hedge.

A perfect place for murder, this, of course.

Paths snaking down to hidden coves and cliffs

While raucous soirees seethe, and slowly force

The opening up of deftly plotted rifts.

The killer would be captured, gleaming bright

And elegantly hiding in plain sight.

City Sonnets - 65 and 66

Two about being submerged without having really thought about it in advance ....


... which ...

... if you think about it ...

... is a lot like life ...

ELIE

Surprised, abruptly spinning under waves

I taste the shock salt of a ruder joke

Than written – I’ve not banked on being brave

This morning, honestly, have barely woke

From sluggish dreams, take several seconds down

To check I’m safe, at least, from sinking fast

And hard, scrape up to eye the fishing town

At peace, now framing faces all aghast.

The fun stops then and there for some, though I

Dig out some spirit from I know not where

And carry on a bit, I know not why

And freeze it up as long as I can bear

Until, when gritting/chattering teeth on land,

I note the blue sea’s less blue than my hand.

BARRA DA UNA

You lead upstream a while through motorboats,

Jetskis and swimmers, bronzed and buoyant packs

Of Christmas kids born languidly afloat.

I find my paddle’s pace and mind relaxed,

At which you turn, you nod, accelerate

Along the bar, past basking garden grown-

Ups – even if- , I wouldn’t hesitate,

In any case, to steer to that unknown.

Here’s the Atlantic, here’s extreme-ish sport

Impromptu and so quickly thrilling, gone

Beyond the beach and back, a wave now caught

For one, two, three, four, forward, on and on,

And … lean, and flip, I’m smartly down and spun

Alive - a deed, you led, we did, it’s done.

City Sonnets - 63 and 64

A couple more ... i can't remember the specific name of the first one actually

NEW JERSEY

In opulence, a dog pissing with fear

On her devoted owner’s perfumed hand

Adjusts their sights – perhaps best to steer clear

Of those eye-perfect canapes which stand

Out in the country club’s clean sun for hours.

The fares are paid, and still, an emptiness

Persists - admire, don’t touch or smell the flowers,

Accept, but don’t embrace or trust largesse.

The sprinklers hiss with menace through the strain-

Soaked conversations, anecdotes misheard

stay uncorrected. Faux pas unexplained,

the action all at once meets the absurd.

The choice is stark, at last, should this guest start

To sing a song he knows not … or depart?

GRAVESEND

It’s weird, once we’d walked twenty-seven miles

To Gravesend, I was in a trendy priest’s

Well-ordered front room, sifting through his piles

Of records, bold and busy, or at least

Not far away, defending Marvin Gaye’s

What’s Going On from stacks of unjust scorn

And (save the babies) my paean of praise,

I dare say, struck me to this vicarage reborn.

It’s weird, though, cos what happened next was

We watched Match of the Day, and that guy’d died,

A helicopter crash. And just because …

Because … because … I don’t … because … I cried …

Right there … with Chelsea fans … the vicar Chris …

And soul-sad pilgrims … and, just this … just this.

City Sonnets - 61 and 62

Two places in this first one ...

STREATHAM/WESTMINSTER

There were two pairs of facing seats one side

And three the other … no, there was a two

facing a three … please, sir, can you decide

Just what you saw? If not, who’ll believe you?

We had been drinking, but not much. Sir, how

Much? Two, or four … or eight … I guess, a few.

Were heading home, bit tired. Now, sir, allow

Me to suggest you’ve lost track of what’s true.

There were six boys, they loomed near us. Oh? Six,

You say? Your friend said five. All black? I think

So, maybe half, half what, you know, er, mixed.

The only mixed thing here, sir, were your drinks.

And who did what to whom? The facts are clear

The jury knows, in fact, you’ve no idea.

COLOGNE

It took a while to find the peace in those

bright white interior halls. It shook the grey

post-travel haze, and we both briefly froze,

uncertain if this was the smartest way

to start a holiday. A sleeping child

restored our poise – an unobtrusive frame

en route to a more vaunted room. We smiled

and breathed, a storm becalmed. The day became

the needed trigger. Gerhard Richter quelled

the nerves, then Klee and Klein repaid in kind.

We didn’t linger, but when we beheld

The vast cathedral next door (as designed)

We saw its ancient structures in new light,

The art of apposition in its height.

City Sonnets - 59 and 60

Here we are ... proximity ...

LONDON BRIDGE

By default, with the dying, eyes out for

A spare chair, I am suddenly a clock-

Watcher supreme. No tick can be ignored

here, there’s a sigh of pain beyond each tock.

So this is open plan … I continue

With my bad blood, and places to arrive

and flee, events already born in you –

the endless memory of the half-alive.

We’re all in here together, I’ve a call

I might be late for. I am sorry, though.

I’m hoping to be back playing football

But I’ve been told I’ve got to take it slow.

I freely watch the minutes slide away.

I’ll win time back. I’m gone. I will not stay.

SALFORD

I shared a lift with Alan Shearer. He

Didn’t smile. I thought that good. He seemed in his

Unsmiling way a proper person free

From affectation, what they call showbiz.

I reached my estimation of big Al

In all of 14 seconds, yes, I warmed

To how he did not smile or call me pal

Or try to change what viewpoint I had formed.

Of course, that might be Shearer’s trick, but I

Doubt it. It doesn’t fit. He shoots, he scores,

There are no tricks. He smiles if pleased, didn’t try

To charm before the lift opened its doors.

And I, in turn, didn’t chirp or tip my hat.

I think big Al respected me for that.

City Sonnets - 57 and 58

Some things are just nice memories ... here are two to throw away ...

MIDDLETON STONEY

In slo-mo, he ran like a hovercraft

Into an overhanging branch which watched

The pitch for centuries, though now it laughed

Along with youth and cruelty at such botched

And blind intent it tweaked the summer idyll.

Companionship via mockery is old

As green on white, as red hit from the middle,

Of near-flat, short-grass, half-brown lightly rolled.

There, just before my fifteenth birthday, the place

I first got nicely drunk on bottled Becks,

played football in the twilight, kept my grace

that day, and saved my shame up for the next.

I found out boys on tour don’t go too far

If there’s a friendly clubhouse with a bar.

SOUTHWOLD

Tom Jones is in the forest singing songs

Bob Dylan’s written. I am smitten by

The setting and the glistening midnight throng’s

Reaction. Readying for a weekend’s high

And heaving revelling, they relax into

This new incongruous song-clash. Clearing dense

With brimming calm, here’s showbiz Tom in lieu

Of rivals, burning down the leaf-lined tents.

Tom Jones is in the forest and he knows

Just what he’s there for, waking dryads if

he needs to, he’s a model of repose,

restraint and carefully scaring no one stiff

at midnight in the forest with the voice

of Thursday night when there’s no other choice.

City Sonnets - 55 and 56

Two more - the second one is, excitingly, the only one about a place I haven't been

CARDIFF

The train pulls out. He puts his headphones on

with eyes half-shut. He’s facing back the way;

The week’s been long, the sunlight’s almost gone,

His mind begins to darken with the day …

A twinge, a blink. Beside a bridge, a face

Unseen. Clothes striped on green. We’re all so tired.

The truth in any image hard to place.

A man at rest. At ease, a brain rewired.

The train draws on. A second look, he’d pass

A citizenship test. The chance is high

No harm was done, and now, the die is cast

In any case … the train glides slowly by.

The man has gone, his happy face unseen.

The train’s long gone. It’s fine, he’s clothed, he’s clean.

JERUSALEM (where I haven’t been)

The planes are sent. As called concerns collect,

I’m set free, I suppose, by destiny …

That’s generous. Let cowardice protect

Its name - a promised landing meant to be

Was hijacked by a sullen, narrow fear.

I never went, my friends, I never went.

I fled the bow, the chariot and the spear,

At once underprepared & overspent.

Christmas in London, safe and self-contained,

Kept from the wider world by warmth and guilt.

I never went, my friend, I’ve never deigned

To bore you with the trite defence I built.

The words would rot, a cold silence would hang.

Jerusalem, a song I never sang.

City Sonnets - 53 and 54

Here are two more.

They're both places by the sea with two-word names, fact fans ...

BOGNOR REGIS

A bouncing ball in Bognor Regis like

A bomb or like a flying fish, small and red

And hard to catch; a poor boy on his bike

Is victim – staying quiet and playing dead.

I lost my Top Trumps in the train car we

Were staying in, took me thirty years to find

Them, such a crime of childhood’s grave ennui.

And such a sadness, time chased out of mind.

Two fingers through a curtain, the police

Are on their way, the boys on bikes are out

For bouncing blood, the smell of chips and grease

And danger in an idle callow shout.

Those days seen now so blue so hard to tame,

That boy, that wild boy then always the same.

PUERTO BANUS

Oh, fucking hell, the state of it. This place …

‘Cos mostly they conspire to hide the cash

But here you see it – polish lined with waste.

This is the kind of town where fash- meets fasc-.

Poor little cat, he’s hiding ‘neath the wheel

Of a Ferrari, Porsche or something gross.

The boats where ghosts make death kneel to their deal,

Just here, just out of sight, a hidden coast.

The gold and glare, the ropes and the contracts –

The sitters with dead eyes and dangerous friends.

The sweepers and the pavement, shit and cracks,

The dealers collecting as dark descends.

The state of stateless barons, every berth

Along the brimming harbour knows its worth.

City Sonnets - 51 and 52

OK then.
The second one here, it's not really a confession of awfulness or a glorying in youthful rebellion, it's just funny to think how antisocial one's been at certain times in one's life, and the awkward pride one takes in it ...
and i thought "I could be such a prick" is such a silly line, i might as well use it twice

COLL

The ferry slipped from Oban early, full

Or fullish, brisk or briskish. Out on deck

I braced and stretched, past Tobermory, pulled

My winter jacket round my sunburnt neck,

Felt wholly bullish, polished off a tea

And basic bacon bap, felt fresh and fuelled,

Watched the Olympics, claiming kinship, free

To daydream, frame euphoria as renewal.

I did run pretty well. We started by

The harbour, in a headwind meek and mild

Though at ten miles the gale came in, the sky

Turned black, the roads arose, the cows turned wild.

My ankle twisted on a cattle grid.

It was my prime. I didn’t mind. It did.

TOLO

Those pioneer days, I could be bold and rude,

With scowl set, legs spread, crumbs spilt down my front,

I’d stamp and sow seeds, stop and start new feuds,

By crying loud “What’s a cri-de-coeur, cunt?”

In crass defiance. I could be such a prick,

A graceless martyr to unspecified

Fresh causes, contradicting myself sick

on spartan fury and Socratic pride.

I could be such a prick. It’s funny now.

I’m hardly sorry now. I spoilt and strived

For dignity and vim, not knowing how

To keep a dash of basic grace alive.

Apologise? I wouldn’t dream of it.

I’m still, at heart, a noxious little shit.

City Sonnets - 49 and 50

50!
Hiding the shit ones here and there ...

VILLIERS-LE-ROUX

In Villiers-le-Roux the sunflowers soar

above sporadic cars into the blue

and breakless July sky. We watch the Tour

on TV when the dry heat presses too

intently on my workshy back; you see,

I love the land, the light, the hum of peace

But not enough to let myself be free

Of sport, and thrill, and facts – there’s my release.

First light, on borrowed bikes, we free our wheels

To Villefagnan for croissants and baguettes.

I may almost have lost the way it feels

To freewheel - you don’t let me quite forget.

The Tour’s on – it’s the mountains. Happy hours

to come! you laugh, but now, look up! - sunflowers.

BRENTFORD

The bare ground underneath the motorway

unveils a path through nettles and dock leaves.

Our guileless skittering vanguard makes her hay

Headlong and lead-free, stops and starts and weaves

The way to waterside. A narrowboat

Progresses through the levelled chain of locks,

An engineering miracle afloat,

Triumphant stately jack in lidless box.

The tramp dog stops her tracks, looks shocked, so free,

so sure, no more. We need to cross the gate -

she slips and slips again, she whimpers; we

watch, wish to save her shame. But wait, we wait

‘til slowly she restores her mongrel pride –

she steps, she steadies, makes the other side.

City Sonnets - 47 and 48

Here are two more - they're bot about having FUN!

WINGHAM

Two capybaras sitting side by side,

Called Clive and Kathleen, read the Sunday sun

And watch the humdrum pond where they abide

In silence and so grandly live as one.

They know they’re not the glamour; most will pass

With just a look or two, the kangaroos

Are feisty, the baboon’s scratching his arse,

The capybaras quietly read the news.

They nod their heads and sigh, that slow Kent day,

They’ve seen it all before. And, if observed,

They pay no heed – no pose, no trick to play,

No master’s bidding they are seen to serve.

We watched them for a while, just you and I.

We loved them. Loved them. I remember why.

COPENHAGEN

The seats apart from mine are empty, free

Of fears and cold feet, on a cold spring day

In Copenhagen, inner Tivoli.

I fear my shoes will fall off, and I pray

My pockets empty as I’m shock shell shot

To way above the calm city below.

I’m breaking from the skyline, I’m a dot

Of desolation o’er the undertow.

Up here, it’s still midwinter, but I see

a sea, then Sweden, and the season sprung

In Stockholm, and I feel distinctly carefree

As breath lost slips back shyly to my lungs.

The thrill is in the safety, I suppose.

Although the ghost of danger haunts my toes.