Odersfelt
(A poem in three parts)
2. New Street
has seasons,
times and tides,
and most of it
is not that new.
Just now
the surge isn't about,
the sun still
sulking somewhere
to the east of Hull,
though not as far
as Minsk
or Omsk;
the shops' eyes
closed, pavements
asleep, dustbins
waiting
for dustbin trucks,
the coldest
and most silent hour.
Things change
The walls
reflect
the early morning
beat of feet and
the first bolts of sun
warm the breast
feathers
of pigeons perched
on pediments,
sparrows
on high windowsills.
Things change
Ben Solomon turns
the corner, steps by
the Jug and Bottle, Stolen
from Ivor, Capolito,
Wots in Store, the Merrie
England Coffee Shop
without a glance, but
in an empty window next
to Next, sees his reflection,
grey on a background of white.
He stops at the entrance
of the arch that leads
to the Union Bank Restaurant
and Bar, notes the flood-tide
coming in from Cloth Hall Street,
Ramsden, all the yards
and ginnels, arcades, roads
that run into the New.
Joshua Umbabwe and Frankie Wells
loom up outside the front
of Marks and Sparks where once
was Thornton's Temperance Hotel.
They're on their way to sweep
the litter up along the bit
that used to be the Buxton Road.
This is the making of a day,
as Josh might say, that doesn't shake
the world but could be better if
the time was right and Town would
score the winning goal tonight.
Clicking her way on angry heels,
Candy O'Shea is less concerned
with football than her partner's
flagging dick and how
she'll find the money for
the baby's shoes and Council Tax,
puzzling how if and when she'll tell
her boss she doesn't fancy him
but still get Friday mornings off.
Buskers lay down their caps
at decent intervals, prams drive
a way through spin drift
of shoppers, students, reps,
etcetera, et al, and Bill
and Freda Beckenshaw.
Things change
Pigeons are pecking at the feet of Alfred Scarr
who's mouthing on a jumbo sausage roll, its flaky
pastry blown about and seized by beaks. Sparrows
hop here and there and flit from bench to bench, from
munching temps to masticating Town Hall clerks, and
some employed and un or past their sign-on dates.
The Jug and Bottle's filling up the guts of OAPS
with bitter, crisps and nuts, and reggae music
beats upon the ears through dreadlocks and Paisley
Jim thumps on the bar to get another half-an-half.
Mark's pulling pint on pint but still has in his head
the threads he's spinning for a short-story plot
he's working on on course for his degree and how to
structure it around the redhead in the window seat.
A sea of accents fills the bar, broad echoing vowels
of northern moors, hills, mills, mingle with those
of Glasgow, Caernarfon, Islington and Crewe and
Kingston, Bridgetown, Port of Spain, Lahore
and Cork and all ale-whetted, blowing gusts of smoke.
Candy O'Shea's half listening to the grim story
of Tom Dickson's life or so it seems although
its subject is his visit to the DSS last week.
There's a great deal of holding forth on matters
of considerable import to bookies' clerks
and football gates and Tony Blair, the Queen,
the Pope, budding musicians and the Reverend Stokes
whose sermons concentrate on sex and dope.
Outside, a sudden hiss of rain drives window-shoppers
into shops but even so the patrons of the pub thin out.
Things change
The early afternoon is brisk
and bustles like flock of pink
flamingos in a lake, leaf-cutter ants
or rabbits on the run. It's fair
to say that no one hears
the feet that passed here yesterday,
nor those of those who never heard
of tarmac or TV, who maybe even thought
the world was flat, the stars
were fixed and all roads led to Rome,
thunder and lightning battles
of their gods and lived and loved
and died without a credit card.
The Big Issue seller surely
has no thought of that
and certainly today
is not what was.
Things change
The sun drops
under Chapel Hill,
the day-stream
ebbs away. Tom Dickson's
off to catch
the 361
to Marsh whereas
his grandad used
to go by tram,
popped his clogs
in the battle of the Marne.
The shutters
and the grilles come down,
night sidles in,
New Street becomes
a silent sweep
of lamplight broken
by spasmodic bursts
of song and shout.
Nomadic groups
defy the silence
and police, seeking
from bar to bar
and club to club
some magic answer,
coupling of delight,
that's always promised
in some other place.
A hen party squanders
by Dolcis, Miss Selfridge,
Principles, Woolworths,
that face the window
of Worldwide Choice.
Squeals of laughter
shake the glass
of Our Price
and the Topman shop.
A half moon grins
in a silky sky.
Bob Clayburn says
that means more rain
but he's the one
that married Lilac Betts.
Things change
magazine list
- Features
- zines
- 10th Muse
- 14
- Acumen
- Agenda
- Ambit
- Angel Exhaust
- ARTEMISpoetry
- Atlas
- Blithe Spirit
- Borderlines
- Brando's hat
- Brittle Star
- Candelabrum
- Cannon's Mouth, The
- Chroma
- Coffee House, The
- Dream Catcher
- Equinox
- Erbacce
- Fabric
- Fire
- Floating Bear, The
- French Literary Review, The
- Frogmore Papers, The
- Global Tapestry
- Grosseteste Review
- Homeless Diamonds
- Interpreter's House, The
- Iota
- Journal, The
- Lamport Court
- London Magazine, The
- Magma
- Matchbox
- Matter
- Modern Poetry in Translation
- Monkey Kettle
- Moodswing
- Neon Highway
- New Welsh Review
- North, The
- Oasis
- Obsessed with pipework
- Orbis
- Oxford Poetry
- Painted, spoken
- Paper, The
- Pen Pusher Magazine
- Poetry Cornwall
- Poetry London
- Poetry London (1951)
- Poetry Nation
- Poetry Review, The
- Poetry Salzburg Review
- Poetry Scotland
- Poetry Wales
- Private Tutor
- Purple Patch
- Quarto
- Rain Dog
- Reach Poetry
- Review, The
- Rialto, The
- Second Aeon
- Seventh Quarry, The
- Shearsman
- Smiths Knoll
- Smoke
- South
- Staple
- Strange Faeces
- Tabla Book of New Verse, The
- Thumbscrew
- Tolling Elves
- Ugly Tree, The
- Weyfarers
- Wolf, The
- Yellow Crane, The