COLLECTED POEMS Read online

  A list of rhymes, some crossings out,

  Confusions, choices, doodles, doubt.

  No clue to what it’s all about.

  Where I sit writing I can see

  A glowing sky, a darkened tree,

  Some Sellotape, a saucer…me

  The Boy Without a Name

  I remember him clearly

  And it was thirty years ago or more:

  A boy without a name.

  A friendless, silent boy,

  His face blotched red and flaking raw,

  His expression, infinitely sad.

  Some kind of eczema

  It was, I now suppose,

  The rusty iron mask he wore.

  But in those days we confidently swore

  It was from playing near dustbins

  And handling broken eggshells.

  His hands, of course, and knees

  Were similarly scabbed and cracked and dry.

  The rest of him we never saw.

  They said it wasn’t catching: still, we knew

  And strained away from him along the corridor,

  Sharing a ruler only under protest

  I remember the others: Brian Evans,

  Trevor Darby, Dorothy Cutler.

  And the teachers: Mrs Palmer, Mr Waugh.

  I remember Albert, who collected buttons,

  And Amos, frothing his milk up with a straw.

  But his name, no, for it was never used.

  I need a time-machine.

  I must get back to nineteen fifty-four

  And play with him, or talk, at least.

  For now I often wake to see

  His ordinary, haunting face, his flaw.

  I hope his mother loved him.

  Oh, children, don’t be crueller than you need.

  The faces that you spit on or ignore

  Will get you in the end

  The Slow Man

  The phone rings

  But never long enough

  For the Slow Man.

  By the time

  The set’s switched on

  His favourite programme’s over.

  His tea grows cold

  From cup to lip,

  His soup evaporates.

  He laughs, eventually,

  At jokes long since

  Gone out of fashion.

  Sell-by dates

  And limited special offers

  Defeat him.

  He comes home

  With yesterday’s paper

  And reads it… tomorrow

  The Filling Station (country style)

  The word is spreadin’ across the nation,

  Git your kids to the Fillin’ Station.

  Teachers now can take their ease

  While moms and dads say, ‘Fill ’em up, please!’

  Fill ’em up with Maths and Readin’.

  Anythin’ more, Ma’am, you’ll be needin’?

  Spanish, German, History?

  Half a dozen subjects and y’get one free

  Attach these wires to your wrist,

  Relax here on this special bed,

  Shut y’eyes and don’t resist,

  Feel that education flowin’ into your head.

  ∗

  C’mon down to the Fillin’ Station,

  We’re gonna build a new generation.

  How ‘bout the toddler? Only three?

  Soon he’ll be a little infant prodigy.

  Forget about your sand ’n’ water,

  Teach him all those things y’oughter.

  Shakespeare, Dickens, Roald Dahl too;

  Literature is good for you.

  Place these goggles over his eyes,

  Lay him in this little cot,

  Golden slumbers, big surprise,

  When he wakes up, he’ll know the lot.

  ∗

  In one ear and in the other.

  Could y’use a top-up for his older brother?

  Seems a bit empty, if ’n you ask me.

  Have y’ever thought about a PhD?

  No more learnin’, no more books,

  No more tough exams to pass.

  No more teachers’ grumpy looks,

  Soon we’ll all be top of the class.

  ∗

  Just got back from the Fillin’ Station,

  We’re gonna have a big celebration.

  Kids all sittin’ in a row,

  Ain’t a blessed thing that they don’t know.

  Name that wind in the south of France.

  What’s the square of minus eight?

  Is it true that bees can dance?

  Who wrote a show called Kiss Me Kate?

  Where do whales and penguins thrive?

  What’s the longest river in Tennessee?

  Will the human race survive…?

  Y’all know the answers – and so do we!

  Yippee!

  The word is spreadin’ across the nation,

  Git your kids to the Fillin’ Station.

  Collect them tokens, don’t be dumb;

  Albert Einstein, here – we – come!

  Scabs

  The scab on Jean’s knee

  Is geographical.

  Bexhill-on-Sea:

  Tripped up on school trip.

  The scab on Henry’s knee

  Is historical.

  Oldest scab in Class Three:

  Second year sack race.

  The scab on Paul’s knee

  Is pugilistical.

  Fighting Clive Key:

  He got a cut lip.

  The scab on Sally’s knee

  Is psychological.

  Hurts if she does PE:

  Painless at playtime.

  The scab on Brian’s knee

  Is bibliographical.

  Fooling around in library:

  Banged into bookcase

  The scabs on the twins’ knees

  Are identical.

  Likewise the remedies:

  Hankies and spit.

  The scab on Eric’s knee

  Is economical.

  £2.50:

  Second-hand skates.

  The scab on Debby’s knee

  Is diabolical.

  Nothing to see:

  Hurts like the devil

  Worlds

  The first world

  Was made of paper.

  God screwed it up in a ball.

  It would not do at all.

  The second world

  Was made of ice-cream,

  Fudge flavour mostly,

  In a delicate (8000-mile diameter) wafer cup.

  God ate it up.

  The third world

  Was made of modelling clay.

  God baked it in the oven

  And gave it to his grandma

  The ninth world

  Was made of house bricks,

  Artfully arranged.

  God won second prize

  In a competition with it.

  The twelfth world

  Was made – woven, actually –

  Of magic-carpet material.

  It commuted between here and there.

  There were two billion

  Uncomplicated if somewhat wind-blown

  People on it.

  The thirteenth world

  Was perfect.

  God put it down somewhere

  And has been looking for it

  Ever since.

  The twenty-fifth world

  Was made of a miraculous new substance

  With mind-boggling properties.

  It had an unfortunate smell, though,

  Like rarely opened wardrobes

  The thirtieth world

  Was made of dirt and water

  Day and night

  Grass

  Trees

  Bungalows

  Odd socks

  Incomplete jigsaw puzzles

  Volcanoes

  Fluff

  Happiness and boredom

  Wedding rings

&
nbsp; General elections

  Telephone books

  And me and you.

  God said that it would do

  Boys

  Boys will be boys

  But before that

  They sit around in prams

  In woolly hats

  With sticky chins

  Waiting.

  Boys who used to be boys

  (i.e. old boys)

  On the other hand

  Sit around in pubs

  Or on the upper decks of buses

  With stubbly chins

  Remembering.

  Boys who are boys

  Meanwhile

  Just get on with it

  It is a Puzzle

  My friend

  Is not my friend any more.

  She has secrets from me

  And goes about with Tracy Hackett.

  I would

  Like to get her back,

  Only do not want to say so.

  So I pretend

  To have secrets from her

  And go about with Alice Banks.

  But what bothers me is,

  Maybe she is pretending

  And would like me back,

  Only does not want to say so.

  In which case

  Maybe it bothers her

  That I am pretending.

  But if we are both pretending,

  Then really we are friends

  And do not know it.

  On the other hand,

  How can we be friends

  And have secrets from each other

  And go about with other people?

  My friend

  Is not my friend any more,

  Unless she is pretending.

  I cannot think what to do.

  It is a puzzle.

  Sometimes God

  Sometimes when I’m in trouble, Like if Gary Hubble And his gang

  Are going to get me and beat me up,

  Or I’m outside Mr Baggot’s door

  Waiting to have the slipper for pour-

  ing paint water in Glenis Parker’s shoe,

  This is what I do:

  I ask for help from God

  Get me out of this, God, I say.

  I’ll behave myself then –

  Every day

  Sometimes when I’m really

  Scared, like once when I nearly

  Got bit by this horse,

  Or the other

  Week when Russell Tucker’s brother

  Was going to beat me up

  For throwing Russell Tucker’s PE bag

  On the boiler-house roof, or Roy

  And me got caught in the toi-

  Lets by Mr Baggot turning all the taps on

  And he said,

  I’ve had enough of boys like you,

  This is what I do:

  I ask for help from God.

  Stop this happening, God, I say.

  I’ll believe in You then –

  Every day.

  And it works… sometimes

  Billy McBone

  Billy McBone

  Had a mind of his own,

  Which he mostly kept under his hat.

  The teachers all thought

  That he couldn’t be taught,

  But Bill didn’t seem to mind that.

  Billy McBone

  Had a mind of his own,

  Which the teachers had searched for for years.

  Trying test after test,

  They still never guessed

  It was hidden between his ears.

  Billy McBone

  Had a mind of his own,

  Which only his friends ever saw.

  When the teacher said, ‘Bill,

  Whereabouts is Brazil?’

  He just shuffled and stared at the floor

  Billy McBone

  Had a mind of his own,

  Which he kept under lock and key.

  While the teachers in vain

  Tried to burgle his brain,

  Bill’s thoughts were off wandering free

  Balls on the Roof

  The caretaker went on the roof today,

  The first time for years.

  He put his ladder against the wall

  And cleared the guttering.

  Some of the children stayed to watch;

  It was after school.

  He threw the balls down that he found

  And they caught them.

  That guttering was a graveyard for balls.

  Balls with moss on them.

  Balls you couldn’t even buy any more.

  Balls too old to bounce.

  There was a sorbo ball with R.T. on it,

  Not Russell Tucker’s –

  Raymond Tate’s – he’d left – ages ago!

  Gone to the Comp.

  There was a ball so perished and worn,

  It was like Aero.

  I could’ve kicked that up, the caretaker said,

  When I was a boy.

  The children studied each relic as it came down,

  But made no notes.

  They said, we’re taking that mossed-up one

  For the Nature Table.

  The caretaker cleared the guttering.

  He put his ladder away.

  And the children kicked the least un-bouncy ball

  In the empty playground

  The Mysteries of Zigomar

  I’d like to tell you what they are

  The Mysteries of Zigomar.

  I think it’s time to spill the beans

  And spell out what the whole thing means.

  Remove the mask, reveal the trail

  Unbag the cat and lift the veil.

  Yes, lay my cards upon the table

  And see an end to myth and fable.

  Say, Here it is! and, There we are!

  The Mysteries of Zigomar.

  No more delay, no dark confusion

  Just simple facts and a conclusion.

  I think it’s time, I think it’s late The world has had too long to wait.

  From Stoke-on-Trent to Cooch Behar

  We’re driven mad by Zigomar.

  From long ago to times like these

  One tangled web of mysteries

  But not much longer – Goodbye doubt!

  The time has come to spit it out.

  I’d like to tell you what they are

  The Mysteries of Zigomar.

  I’d like to tell, you’d love to hear…

  The trouble is, I’ve no idea

  Only Snow

  Outside, the sky was almost brown.

  The clouds were hanging low.

  Then all of a sudden it happened:

  The air was full of snow.

  The children rushed to the windows.

  The teacher let them go,

  Though she teased them for their foolishness.

  After all, it was only snow.

  It was only snow that was falling,

  Only out of the sky,

  Only on to the turning earth

  Before the blink of an eye.

  What else could it do from up there,

  But fall in the usual way?

  It was only weather, really.

  What else could you say?

  The teacher sat at her desk

  Putting ticks in a little row,

  While the children stared through steamy glass

  At the only snow

  5

  The Vampire and the Hound

  The Secrets of the Staffroom

  The Grey Boys

  Dream football

  The Mad Professor’s Daughter

  Cemetery Road

  The Vampire and the Hound

  The Secrets of the Staffroom

  You may well think y’knows it all,

  You cheeky kids today,

  But I ’ave got a tale to tell

  To blow y’minds away;

  About your teachers, cruel and kind,

  Quick-witted, vil
e and slow,

  And the secrets of the staffroom if…

  Y’really want to know.

  Y’may suppose they sits in there

  Just drinking pots of tea,

  With nice triangular sandwiches

  Politely as can be.

  Well, that was maybe how it was

  Back then, but not today.

  More like it’s now a crate of beer

  And a Chinese take-away

  Y’might have guessed the place was full

  Of markin’, books and chalk;

  Educational supplements

  And intellectual talk.

  The plays of William Shakespeare,

  The exports of Brazil,

  But never a pile of bettin’ slips

  From that well-known William ’ill.

  Perhaps y’thought they spend their time

  With felt pens, paint and glue,