COLLECTED POEMS Read online

Worrying themselves to death

  To do their best for you.

  While some, it’s true, are softies,

  There’s others ‘ard as sin,

  A-jabbin’ Playdoh infants with

  A nasty little pin.

  There’s teachers, every school has some,

  Who work until they drop,

  To help their lucky pupils climb

  The ladder to the top.

  There’s others, though, with bloodshot eyes

  Below a crafty frown,

  Who sharpen up the starfroom axe

  To chop the ladder down.

  I knew a staffroom once that ’ad

  A trap door in the floor,

  That led down to an… awful place

  I’d rather not say more.

  When governors came calling,

  It always was the rule,

  They never found a single

  Trouble-maker in that school.

  You may have wondered how I know

  These things of which I speak.

  Well, I was once a caretaker

  For ninety quid a week.

  But since I’ve gone and blown the gaff

  And give the game away,

  The staffroom mob is on my trail

  And it’s me who’ll ’ave to pay.

  So watch y’steps and peel y’eyes

  And keep y’noses clean;

  The secrets of the staffroom ain’t

  For all – see what I mean?

  Beyond that door there lies a place

  You never oughter go.

  Unless, of course, you’re curious and

  Y’really want to know.

  The Grey Boys

  Oh Mother may I go to play

  With the grey boys in the street

  For I hear the thud of a booted ball

  And the clattering of feet.

  My window overlooks the street

  The street lamps light the game

  The boys are mad to kick the ball

  And I feel just the same.

  A yellow haze hangs round the lamps

  Under the smoky sky

  And up and down the clattery street

  The shadowy boys go by.

  Oh Mother may I join the game

  With the grey boys of the town

  For I feel much better than I did

  And my temperature is down.

  My fevered brow is cooler now My pulse is calm and slow My hands lie still upon the quilt Oh Mother… may I go?

  Dream football

  Dream football is the harder game

  The grass is devilishly long

  And growing

  Fish appear in the trainer’s bucket

  Your mother has set up a small shop

  On the halfway line

  You are obliged to play in your underpants

  The Mad Professor’s Daughter

  She came into the classroom

  In a dress as black as night

  And her eyes were green as grass

  And her face was paper-white.

  She was tall and quite unsmiling,

  Though her manner was polite.

  Yes, her manner was polite

  As she stood with Mrs Porter

  And you never would have guessed

  She was the Mad Professor’s daughter.

  ‘A new girl,’ said the teacher.

  ‘Her name is Margaret Bell.

  She’s just arrived this morning.

  She’s not been very well.’

  And we stared into those grass-green eyes

  And sank beneath their spell.

  Yes, we sank beneath their spell

  Like swimmers under water

  And found ourselves in thrall

  To the Mad Professor’s daughter

  The sky outside was overcast;

  Rain hung in the air

  And splattered on the window panes

  As we sat waiting there.

  Our fate, we knew, was settled,

  Yet we hardly seemed to care.

  Yes, we hardly seemed to care,

  As the clock ticked past the quarter,

  That we had lost our lives

  To the Mad Professor’s daughter.

  We did our sums in a sort of trance,

  ‘Played’ at half-past ten,

  Sang songs in the hall for half an hour,

  Ate lunch and played again.

  And all the while, like a constant ache,

  We wondered ‘Where?’ and ‘When?’

  Yes, where and when and how and why,

  And what ill luck had brought her?

  And whether we might yet deny

  The Mad Professor’s daughter

  She made no move at two o’clock.

  She made no move at three.

  A wisp of hope rose in our hearts

  And thoughts of ‘mum’ and ‘tea’.

  And then she spoke the fatal words,

  Just four: ‘Come home with me!’

  She spoke the words ‘Come home with me’

  The way her father taught her;

  Her green eyes fixed unblinkingly,

  The Mad Professor’s daughter.

  And now an extra sense of dread

  Seeped into every soul;

  The hamster cowered in its cage,

  The fish flinched in its bowl.

  We put our chairs up on the desks

  And heard the thunder roll

  Yes, we heard the thunder roll

  As we turned from Mrs Porter

  And set off through the town

  With the Mad Professor’s daughter.

  Her silent lips were red as blood.

  Her step was firm (alas!)

  And the people on the street

  Stood aside to let us pass.

  Though this piper played no tune,

  She had enthralled a whole class.

  A whole class, like sheep we were,

  Like lambs to the slaughter,

  With PE bags and such

  Behind the Mad Professor’s daughter.

  The rain beat down upon our heads.

  The wind was warm and wild.

  Wet trees blew all around us,

  As up a drive we filed.

  Then a mad face at a window

  Stared out at us – and smiled.

  Yes, a mad face at a window

  That streamed with running water,

  While lightning lit the sky above

  The Mad Professor’s daughter

  And now the end has almost come;

  We wait here in despair

  With chains upon our arms and legs

  And cobwebs in our hair.

  And hear her voice outside the door,

  His foot upon the stair.

  Yes, his foot upon the stair:

  ‘Oh, save us, Mrs Porter!’

  Don’t leave us to the father of

  The Mad Professor’s daughter.

  ∗

  A final word – a warning:

  Please heed this tale I tell.

  if you should meet a quiet girl

  Whose name is Margaret Bell,

  Don’t look into her grass-green eyes

  Or you’ll be lost as well.

  Yes, you’d be lost as well,

  However hard you fought her,

  And curse until the day you died

  The Mad Professor’s daughter

  Cemetery Road

  When I was a boy

  Just nine years old,

  We moved to a house

  On Cemetery Road.

  The road was rough

  Not well-to-do.

  It split

  The cemetery in two.

  On winter nights

  The gravestones glowed

  In streetlamp shine

  On Cemetery Road.

  When coming home

  My heart would beat

  From footsteps

  That were not my feet.
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br />   On frosty evenings

  Scared to death

  By breathing

  That was not my breath

  Until at times

  I’d quite explode

  And run for my life

  Down Cemetery Road.

  Along the entry,

  Velvet black,

  Into the house

  And not look back.

  Yet now, alas,

  My pulse has slowed.

  I’m quite grown up.

  It’s just a road

  The Vampire and the Hound

  Towards the distant mountains flying,

  Closer, closer,

  In darkness, wind and rain;

  Above the ancient castle sighing,

  Nearer, nearer,

  The Vampire comes again

  In at my Lady’s window staring,

  Closer, closer,

  His pale eyes calm and dead,

  Watching the beeswax candle flaring,

  Nearer, nearer,

  Beside my Lady’s bed.

  Over the golden carpet going,

  Closer, closer,

  His black cloak furled and wet,

  Up to the bed where, all unknowing,

  Nearer, nearer,

  My Lady’s sleeping yet.

  Come at last to his monstrous calling,

  Closer, closer,

  Unchecked by keep or moat,

  The Vampire, swooning low and falling,

  Nearer, nearer,

  Towards my Lady’s throat.

  Wakes to a nightmare foul, and screaming,

  Murder, murder!

  My Lady, silken-gowned.

  Up from the hearth-rug, damply steaming,

  Save her, save her!

  Lottie, my Lady’s Hound

  Black night and rain at the windows lashing,

  Louder, louder,

  Warm blood upon the floor,

  Blood on the silken sheets a-splashing,

  Redder, redder,

  Blows on the bolted door.

  The savaged Vampire, faint and fleeing,

  Horror, horror!

  The sundered door gapes wide.

  Servants aghast at the sight they’re seeing;

  Save us, save us!

  The Hound with a bleeding side.

  My Lady there at the bedside kneeling,

  Weeping, weeping,

  Stroking her saviour’s head.

  Fire-thrown shapes on the distant ceiling

  Higher, higher,

  And Lottie, the brave dog… dead

  6

  How to Score Goals

  The Lovely Ball of Leather

  Team Talks 1, 2 and 14

  Dad on the Line

  How to Score Goals

  Talk Us Through It, Charlotte

  Surely This Boy Must Play for England

  Soccer Sonnet

  1966, or Were You There, Daddy?

  The Betsy Street Booters

  Who Kicked Cock Robin?

  The Song of the Sub

  Friendly Matches

  Kicking a Ball

  The Lovely Ball of Leather

  About a mile North of Preston

  On a cool November day

  A team of boys plus substitutes

  Was setting off to play.

  They sat there in the minibus

  Just gazing straight ahead

  Listening to their manager

  And this is what he said.

  O boys, he cried, O fellas

  I couldn’t ask for more

  You run your little socks off

  Though you never seem to score.

  But I know you’ll keep on trying

  You’ll strive and strain and sweat

  Till that lovely ball of leather

  Goes flying in the net.

  Just a little West of Bromwich

  In the January rain

  That selfsame team of players

  Was on the road again.

  They crowded in the minibus

  As it carried them away

  While their manager-cum-driver

  Had these quiet words to say.

  O boys, he cried, O fellas

  I’ve got this rotten cold

  My knee’s a bit arthritic

  And I’m really rather old.

  But I know I will recover

  My life’s not over yet

  Till that lovely ball of leather

  Goes flying in the net.

  In a lay-by South of Hampton

  On a balmy April night

  When the road was dark and empty

  And the sky was starry bright,

  A team of boys plus substitutes

  Was sitting in the bus

  Eating chips and burgers

  While their manager spoke thus

  O boys, he cried, O fellas

  I knew that you could play

  I knew the gods were with us

  And we’d get a goal some day.

  It was a precious moment

  Which I never will forget

  When that lovely ball of leather

  Went flying in the net

  Team Talk

  Marcus, don’t argue with the ref.

  Yes, he needs glasses

  Yes, he should keep up with the play

  Yes, yes, he’s a pawn

  In some international betting syndicate

  But don’t argue with him.

  He’ll send you off.

  And if he doesn’t, I will.

  Billy, you’re the goalie – right?

  Listen, you’re allowed to use your hands

  OK?

  It’s in the rules

  It’s legal.

  Another thing

  What’s that you’ve got in the back of the net?

  That carrier bag

  I’ve seen it – what is it?

  Hm.

  Well, leave-it-a-lone

  You can eat later

  Now then, Michael

  You’ve got Charles outside you, OK?

  Unmarked, OK?

  I know he’s only your brother

  But pass to him.

  Marcus, another thing

  Don’t argue with the linesman either

  Or me, for that matter

  Or anybody

  Just–

  Just–

  Just–

  Marcus… shut up

  Kevin, a word.

  Their number seven

  You’re supposed to be marking him

  And he’s scored five already, right?

  Well that’s… enough

  Close him down

  So come on, lads

  The golden rules – remember?

  Hold your positions

  Run into space

  Call for the ball

  Play to the whistle

  Pass only to members of your own team.

  Last of all

  NEVER GIVE UP

  Thirteen–nil

  Sounds bad, but it’s not the end.

  We can turn it round

  We can get a result

  It’s a game of two halves.

  So let’s go out there –

  And show ’em!

  Billy… are you eating?

  Team Talk 2

  (the next match)

  Marcus, what did I say?

  I warned you

  You’re argumentative

  He was bound to send you off

  Your own mother would send you off.

  And besides –

  Besides –

  Besides –

  Marcus… shut up.

  Dominic, a word.

  Mud.

  Stop worrying about it, OK?

  There’s no prize for the cleanest pair of shorts

  Never mind what your auntie says

  Get stuck in.

  No, Jonathan, that old fella on the line

  Is not a scout for Man. United.

  No.
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  No, he isn’t.

  Don’t ask me how I know

  I just do.

  Call it instinct

  Come here, you two

  Michael – this is Charles

  Charles – this is Michael

  Say, Hallo.

  Say, Pleased to meet you.

  I mean it.

  Now pass to each other.

  Billy, empty your pockets

  All of ’em.

  What’s this?

  Goalkeeping’s an art, Billy

  It’s vital

  The last line of defence

  You have to concentrate

  And how can you expect to do that

  With a pocketful of peanuts?

  Get rid of ’em.

  How many shirts are you wearing,

  Craig – hm?

  It’s not that cold

  You look like…

  No, not me, Marcus

  You look like – well, never mind

  Brian, brilliant header.

  Unstoppable.

  Now let’s see if you can do it again

  At their end.

  Yes, and another thing

  I know your dad’s an expert

  I can hear him

  We can all hear him

  But take no notice – right?

  if I’d wanted you to play through the middle

  I would not have picked you

  At left back.

  So let’s get out there

  Keep plugging away

  They’re not eight goals better than us