The Personal Touch
poems by
Joe Solomon
Copyright 2011 Joe Solomon
Smashwords Edition
Licence notes
Thank you for downloading this free ebook. Although it is a free book, it remains the copyrighted property of the author and may not be reproduced, copied and distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book please encourage your friends to download their own copy at Smashwords.com. Thank you for your support.
Cover design and
photograph by Dru Marland
mailto:drusilla.marland@btopenworld.com
Grateful acknowledgement is made for permission to quote extracts from Robin Askew’s appreciation of Joe Solomon in Venue magazine’s 1998 Honours List.
Section1
A
Profession in Recession : Murdered Darlings : Perfect Crime, Perfect
Time : Admin. Hero : Aunt Jane : Dedicated to Sooty – A Cat I Know
: Friend of the Family : Britain makes a Stand : Case
History
Section2
Applications
are Invited : Dolly : Gloucester Road Beggars : Oh, the Bother :
Heart Trouble : Long Past Bedtime : Lost and Found : Mad Hatters
: Nelson Street Blues
Section3
Never
Rose : News-Speak : No Sexism Please, we’re British : No Special
Mention : Numbers : Patient’s Lounge, Smoker’s Only : Whinging
with Bravado : Question-Time with a Great Man :
Respect
Section4
Rhyme,
Gentlemen, Please : Slip of the Tongue : The Signs : So Many
Deadlines to Meet : The Beyond-a-Joke Comedy Club : The Clock and the
Calendar : The Cosy Tea Shop : The Personal Touch : The Poisoning of
Life
Section5
The
Rule Book : The Silly Things : Timely Warning : Transcendence : What
Friends are For : When Sleep Won’t Come : Worst Scenario Man :
Young Grey, Old Grey
Section6
A
Death Row Guard Wrote a Poem : Pen Friendship : Have a Good Day : A
Dead Man’s Death : Stupid Girl : A Tale of Two Mysteries : I’m
Getting Out : Safety First : Matters of Judgement
About
the Author
Section 1
A
Profession in Recession
A
population of prickly poets,
A babble of bad-tempered bards.
The
loving cup cracked down the middle,
If we drank we would swallow
the shards.
The
Festival Founders are funding,
The scribes search for scapegoats
to scrag.
What once was a climb to Parnassus
Is a fight for a
perch on a crag.
Murdered Darlings
A
well-turned phrase that didn't fit,
A not-quite-relevant shaft of
wit,
A story told in rambling style,
Lie in my Murdered
Darlings File.
A very
subtle Latin pun,
Some Anglo-Saxon overdone –
It all filled
my fancy for a while,
Now it fills my Murdered Darlings File.
Characters
written out of plots,
Orgies cut to a line of dots,
Schmaltz to
out-sugar Tate and Lyle –
There's a line for my Murdered
Darlings File!
Perfect Crime, Perfect Time
Our
hands were clasped together
And our two hearts beat as one
And
I softly asked her whether
I'd be hers till life was done.
"Of
all the times to ask me,
"Your reason must have gone!
"I
can't make a decision, Coronation Street is on."
View
on, she much prefers to
Let her view in her own juice!
No girl
this to bring my cares to,
No, I'd better turn recluse
"Grant
refuge, Father Abbot,
And the cowl I'll gladly don.”
“What
must I vow?"
"You don't vow now,
The Street is coming
on!"
That
made me anti-social,
Now I housebreak, wreck and steal.
Make
crime pay? Lots can't, but Joe shall –
Here's my plan, if you
won't squeal.
Eliminate detection is the method banked upon.
They
ignore suspicious noises once the Street has been switched on.
Admin. Hero
On hearing that a whole day's programmes on BBC Radio 3 were to be devoted to Sir William Glock, former Controller of music. He was described as "not a composer, not an artist, but an administrator". As ‘Administrator’ happened to be my job title, too...
The
treasurer’s speech gets approving looks –
It was me who stayed
up all night with the books.
I'm the backroom toiler you never see
–
Will my day ever come on Radio 3?
The
director serves the Open Day wine,
But who made sure it arrived on
time?
There's not much left when he comes to me.
Will my day
ever come on Radio 3?
I
suggest new ventures, he says they'd fail,
But he took up one and
it blazed a trail.
The day has now come for his MBE.
Will my
day ever come on Radio 3?
Aunt Jane
Your
Aunt Laura sends letters without any stamps,
Uncle Jack snuggles
spoons out of holiday camps,
But Aunt Jane, she must never be
mentioned aloud –
That subject's taboo, so the family vowed.
Aunt
May worships her cats, guests must sit on the floor.
Uncle Ben, a
recluse, never answers the door.
But some things, you will learn,
are much better passed by –
Of Aunt Jane we don't speak, even I
don't know why.
Dedicated to Sooty – A Cat I Know
This
cat has an appetite nothing can quell –
He'll eat Cat-o-Meat,
Dog-o-Meat, carpets as well,
And we can't hear him coming, he's
eaten his bell.
Sooty is eating the house!
The
carpet once eaten, he mewed for some more.
We hid every carpet,
but he gobbled the floor –
And the house is so draughty since he
ate the front door!
Sooty is eating the house!
The
Town Planning Department's beginning to fret,
We called in a
joiner, who fled to Tibet,
And he's broken the heart of our
long-suffering vet –
Sooty is eating the house!
Before
his voracity everything falls,
Including the roof when he's eaten
the walls –
Before Sooty came, these were fine stately
halls.
Sooty is eating the house!
His
diet is normal now - fish-tails and such,
But we all have to bed
down in Sooty's wee hutch...
... 'Cos Sooty has EATEN the house!
Friend of the Family
I saw a girl, her
eyes were blue,
I said, "May I walk home with you?"
Her father said, "Do
you play chess?"
And soon my king was in distress.
She said, "That
game's for dull old men!"
But he said, "You must come
again."
So three nights on,
we had a game,
She brought us tea, said, "Glad you came.
"Poor Daddy's
had a heavy day,
"It's nice he's got someone to play."
She always brought
it in at eight,
Till one night she came home quite late
With
news of tennis-club to tell.
I asked,
"Could I join that as well?"
"Now that's a
subject best to broach
"With my fiancé, who's the coach.
"The wedding is
to be in June.
"You'll get an invitation soon."
I
saw a girl, her eyes were grey,
I let her pass upon her way.
Britain Makes a Stand (To Muhammad al-Massari)
Freedom
of speech
Is a value we preach
To
régimes that are less than enlightened.
Refugees
from Iraq
We would never send back
Into
chains that are constantly tightened.
When
they write of such shame,
We will honour
their name –
They ensure that dark deeds are not whitened.
But we get rid of
rowdies
Who upset ruling Saudis –
Yes, business is business,
we're frightened.
Case History
The solicitor
couldn't see him that day –
He wasn't an emergency.
The social worker
couldn't see him that day –
He wasn't at risk.
The
doctor couldn't see him that day –
He wasn't a priority
category.
So
he went out and made a priority, at risk emergency of himself.
That's
how he comes to be on this ward.
He's what we professionals term
manipulative.
Section
2
Applications Are Invited
1997
–Additional immigration officials were required when the Tory
Asylum Act brought in a fast-track system to distinguish
between
"genuine" and "bogus" refugees.
We are
looking for very special communication skills
In a sensitive area
of the public service
Often dealing with highly agitated
people
Whose command of English is slight,
But with whom
dialogue must be established.
Could
you gain their confidence,
Be the sort of' good
listener
Who can pick up on inconsistencies
Without giving
personal offence?
You'd
be working with the latest in identity-checking equipment,
And
using our firm but fair Departmental guidelines,
But, in the end,
what must count is your judgment
And the strength of
mind
To disregard
Hysterical outbursts.
Dolly
Till
she died, the oldest of my friends,
took me to infants’ school
when she worked as a maid for my mum,
collected me at
half-past-three along with the headmistress’ complaints.
“But
she is very strict,” my mum would be reminded.
Dolly
knew all about strictness, past employers had guaranteed that –
fire
blazing and hearth spotless by seven or else no breakfast;
wages
docked for a broken saucer;
days off at Madam’s discretion.
But
better than the life at home,
the step-mother, the beatings.
By the
time she came to us, she had a place of her own,
a room, rather,
and paying part of her rent in housework,
the day-job running into
the night-job.
Just
occasionally, there was time and money for the music-hall,
a seat
in the gods.
Next day we’d get a laugh-by-laugh commentary on
the antics of Dave Willis.
“He’s so daft! He’s lucky to be
daft and get paid for it.
And we’re lucky to have him to laugh
at.”
She had no idea that someone could be professionally
daft.
Just as well – would have killed the enchantment.
The
music-hall became bingo (which she never took to),
Dolly became a
pensioner, with the nearest yet to a place of her own –
a
Council flat.
She got a cat for company
and, when she realised
that robberies were rife, a dog to protect her
with its
barking.
She took in another cat, a stray – “Before someone
sells it to the labs.
It’s awful what they do to the poor
beasts!”
A neighbour, about to enter an old folks’
home,
couldn’t bear to have her dog put down.
Dolly to the
rescue, refusing payment –“Get away, five
can live as cheaply
as four!”
When
Dolly herself had to go that way, the Council people
must have
rounded up the animals,
but she said, “No, I’ve still got
them. They’re out playing in the garden.
You’ll
see them crowding at the window soon. They always know
when it’s
teatime.
My dad keeps an eye on them. He’s got a job as the
gardener here.”
Then she asked, “How’s your mum? All
right?”
“Oh – don’t you remember? – she died many years
ago.”
“No she never!” Dolly dismissed this delusion of
mine.
That exchange marked every visit
till at last I replied
“Oh she’s fine thank you.”
Once, I added, “She was asking
for you” and wondered at myself.
I was
her one visitor, and only on holidays,
for I had moved to a
far-off town.
I would ring the home before I called…till
“Oh
– I’m sorry to say Dolly is no longer with us.”
I’d missed
her funeral by ten days.
I took flowers to the crematorium,
but
there was no plaque or stone,
no place that was hers.
In the
crematorium office, they said I could leave them
in the Chapel of
Remembrance
for one week only, then they’d be removed.
Yes, I
was told, there had been some family at the funeral.
No, there had
been no mention of a plaque.
They had no knowledge of the
family,
I would have to ask the undertakers.
They gave a
telephone number.
On
which I explained that the deceased had been the oldest of my
friends
and I would be glad to contribute to any memorial planned.
All
they could do was forward a letter –
to which there was no
reply.
Perhaps they took it the wrong way.
So that
was Dolly.
Homes kept clean and running smoothly,
small
kindnesses
and, when she could, larger ones
are not the stuff
of obituaries.
This poem is the best I can do for Dolly.
Gloucester Road Beggars
1 – Mixed Reactions
There
are poor folk who are busking,
poor folk who are juggling,
but
mostly they are begging
outside shops in Gloucester Road.
There
are people who are giving,
some crouch beside them, talking,
but
mostly they are passing
as they shop in Gloucester Road.
Some
think about them, caring.
Some think about them, blaming.
But
it’s mostly mental shrugging
when they think of Gloucester Road.
Charities
acting locally,
the “czar” who’s acting nationally
bring
no piece of the action for most on Gloucester Road.
2 – Mixed Feelings
When a
beggar sits in the wind and rain
and something inside me feels the
pain,
I give.
When
this beggar sits in the wind and rain
and I think he’s using the
weather for gain,
I pass.
When a
beggar asks ”Can you spare a fag?”
and I think how I
feel without a drag,
I give.
When
this beggar asks “Can you spare a fag?”
and I feel it as a
wearisome nag,
I pass.
When
I’m begged the price of a cup of tea
and I think but for luck
this could have been me,
give? pass?
Oh, The Bother!
Oh, the
bother of coins caked in dirt!
A waste to bin them,
a pest to
scour them,
a menace to pass around,
food handlers at
risk,
who, one way or another, are all of us!
I know
what I'll do –
I'll keep them in a special bag and give them to
beggars.
They'll be glad of them.
Bother
is – beggars handle food.
But they're disease-prone,
lucky if
they live till forty.
What’s a filthy coin or two in that sad
situation?
Bother
is – the beggars will buy food in shops,
food handlers at
risk.
Oh, the bother of beggars!
Heart trouble
All the
time he's brewing tea,
Old Rodney talks.
I say "Yes"
or "Oh" or "Really"
As Rodney, holding the
unfilled kettle,
Says the things he always says.
How
hard he finds the shopping,
How hard he finds the garden,
How
hard he finds the neighbours.
The ticker trouble doesn't
help,
And, of course, the good old days have gone forever.
I begin
to think my cup of tea has gone forever.
When it comes, I've no
time to drink it.
"I ramble on so much," he says.
"I
forget what I'm doing.
"I'm sorry."
I say,
"Oh, not at all.
"It isn't that.
"I'm sorry that
I have to rush.
It's just that I can't stop tonight.
"I've
such a lot to do at home."
I put
it that way.
It's kinder that way.
In fact, I'm having some
friends round.
They're lively, trendy, theatre-going types.
I
would invite him, but he'd feel so out of it.
"Oh
well," he says, "I mustn't keep you.
"It's good of
you to spare the time.
"Don't work too hard."
Poor
Rodney, chattering all the way to the gate!
If I didn't drop in,
he'd have nobody.
He
could be more outgoing, of course.
I've told him he should go to
the village hall
and make some friends there.
They have a
varied programme to suit all ages,
something for everyone –
It's
obvious from their notice-board.
He says his ticker trouble rules
that out.
Damn!
I've left my library book at Rodney's.
No hurry for it, I won't be
starting it tonight,
not with friends coming.
But it would be
just like him to bring it over,
Arriving just when they're
arriving.
Oh, I'd
better dash back.
There's someone in there with him,
for,
through the door, I hear him talking
Of the shopping and the
garden and the neighbours,
And the ticker trouble and the good old
days.
So! He has a friend I've not been told of.
I ring,
I explain, I apologise.
"Oh, that's all right," he says.
"Come in.
"I would have brought it round, you
know.
''Still, no harm done,
"Cos this time there's a pot
of tea just freshly made.
"It'll revive you for the double
journey."
"Well
– O.K. then – I will.
"Just a quick one, though.
Thanks."
He shows me into the room.
I smile pleasantly,
I'm about to be introduced to someone.
But there's no one.
Long Past Bedtime
I must
stay awake, but Sleep is on the warpath,
pressing behind my eyes,
getting abusive –
“Hey you, you unmade bed!
Make yourself!
Tidy yourself! Give me stretching room!”
I try
reasoning –
“You know how it is, Sleep.
One of these
frantic days, deadlines crowding.”
“Crowd
them somewhere else, not strewn all over my bed!
Such shoddy
service!”
I try
assertion –
“Now look here, sleep was made for people, people
weren’t made for sleep.
I’ll sleep when I’m – hey, go easy
on my eyes!
If once they close – ”
They do.
Sleep heaves
the clutter off his bed.
His snores drown out this silly poem.
Lost and Found
The
woman's carrier-bag was over-full and over-tilted,
Looped on her
wrist as she unlocked the boot of her car
I saw a small green
object tumble out as I approached –
A scrap of paper? A fragment
of wrapping?
No, seen more closely, more like a glove.
I said,
"Excuse me, I think you've dropped a glove or something"
And
felt, for once, the joy of a simple kindness –
No priorities to
balance,
No problematic outcomes to give me pause.
"Thank
you," she said,
"I know."
Mad Hatters
Conservative
headgear is never out of the news:
They're throwing their hats in
the ring,
They're clamping their caps on community charges.
A
long-forgotten advert, comes back to me –
"If you want to
get ahead, get a hat. Ask your girlfriend."
They
don't make ads. like that anymore.
And, if they ask anyone, it's
Saatchi & Saatchi.
Nelson Street Blues
(Nelson
Street is the location of a well-known
and well-disliked Bristol
Job Centre.)
The job
display boards are very high,
The print on the cards is very
pale.
"Miscellaneous" is the highest and palest of all
–
I've a cataract forming and I'm not very tall.
"The.
Job Centre staff will be pleased to help."
When I asked for
their help, they were very nice.
But none of those jobs was quite
my line
And 1 felt I was wasting the government's time.
You're
not supposed to remove the cards,
But I sometimes do, though,
again, in vain.
I can barely reach the topmost group,
When I
put them back they sadly droop.
"So
you're the bugger who mucks them about!"
He was seventy-two
outraged inches in height
So that's why I took a hasty
departure
And forgot to take my Job Seekers' Charter.
Section
3
Never Rose
It's
fifty years ago today since I asked Rose to be my wife –
"I
will not rise from bended knee
"Till you consent to marry
me!"
But Rose refused to marry me, and I've been kneeling all
my life.
I thought at first she might relent, but years have
passed, my hope recedes.
New people came and placed a screen
To
hide me here, alone, unseen,
Except when sympathisers bring the
little food a lover needs.
But
time's a burden when unused, and fifty years have wearied
me.
Oppressed by joyless, endless wait,
I now intend to change
my state –
Though old and rigid, I will move and kneel upon the
other knee.
News-Speak
A level
playing field
Is the bottom line
Though, having said
that,
Pressure from the grass roots
Is pushing the
nitty-gritty
Higher up on the agenda
And a question mark is
hanging over
The food mountain
And the summit negotiations.
In
a word,
HELP!
No Sexism Please We're British
(1993)
DAVID HUNT the Employment Minister, also now has responsibility
for
Women's Issues, so he is in effect Britain's first Minister
for Women.
What an
achievement! What a breakthrough!
And yet hardly noticed.
It
was done so quietly,
No fussing, no bragging –
The creation
of a Minister for Women.
It's
true that Labour already had a Shadow Minister,
Waiting for
someone to shadow.
But Conservative substance puts shadows in the
shade ...
.. and silly reporters in their place,
"Isn't
it odd" asked one, "to be a male Minister for Women?"
To
which he replied "I consider that a sexist question."
Hear,
hear! What matters is to get the right man for the job.
No Special Mention
Pink
roses on black china made it an inviting little jampot,
though
we’d now passed on to cakes and trifles.
The lid had come to
rest by me, so I replaced it.
My eyes, less fickle than my
appetite, lingered there
And Beatrice, beside me, seemed to
notice, for she said
“I’ve always liked it, too.
I tried to
paint it as a still-life for school homework.
It wasn’t a good
choice.
I was only eight and didn’t know what to do with
black,
How to blend it out of other colours.
So it got no
special mention, no display on the classroom wall.”
“But did
you keep it?” I asked.
“Oh we never got to keep them, the
school kept them.”
But
not, I supposed, for long,
Not even the mentioned and displayed,
still less…
Yet here the jampot and its artist were, seventy
years on,
and people with her round a tea-table,
though
different people and the table was her son’s.
And I don’t know
why I felt such wonder at what was – really – nothing wonderful.
Numbers
“When
you’re forty, going grey, what you worry about are
numbers.”
Overheard as I passed two men in the street, barely
into their twenties.
And when you’re sixty, going bald, what do
you worry about?
A wig can replace lost hair,
what can replace
lost chances?
I write
another silly poem,
I hope another silly hope.
I never had much
head for numbers.
Patients' Lounge. Smokers Only. Bristol Royal Infirmary
Foam
peeling from chairs,
Moist nicotine stains on the walls,
Cell-like
room,
Grimy
green carpet, greasy black blotches,
A large ash-container holds
the door ever open,
But there are no curious stares –
People
passing through the corridor avert their eyes,
As from noisome
substances.
A
graffiti artist has painted a green face
Wide green eyes, sad and
calm,
Taking doom steadily.
A room
designed to make you ashamed to be in it.
And yet when two or
three are in it,
They talk, they joke
And they dare to laugh.
Whinging with Bravado
Thank
you, you owners of smoke-free zones,
heartfelt, from a smoker.
Question-Time with a Great Man
He was
welcomed by the Mayor,
Rescheduling her diary to come and say
How
glad the city was
That he should visit.
The
Chairman next:
How honoured the meeting was
To host his visit
–
There was none who saw more clearly
The crisis of the
planet,
The need for a new agenda
To recognize our common
future.
The
great man gave Bristol two hours.
His talk took up the first.
He
spoke of war and poverty and power politics
In a world that had
become our global neighbourhood,
With no safe distance between
winners and losers.
If without vision the people perish,
That
must now mean all the people,
The human species.
Then an
hour of trenchant answers to our questions
On every kind of abuse
of power
Save one.
I was the oddball who asked about animals
–
Were they to have a new agenda
Or stay caged and
trapped,
Business-as-usual,
As of old?
Via the
Chair,
The speaker declined to respond.
Of course, with human
survival his burning concern,
He couldn't very well.
And, in
the din of the final applause,
No one imagined
A happier
planet
Without the human species.
Respect
Jim was
a leader born,
Outfought, outshone them all,
Became a prefect,
became Head Boy,
Admired, respected even...
Except
by Nick,
A ne'er-do-well –
Could never answer questions,
But
presumed to question answers.
Jim got
submission out of Nick,
But no respect, no liking either.
No
friends of Nick could be friends of Jim,
So Nick had none.
But Jim
outgrew all that,
Became mature and wise, appointed to the
Bench,
Where the public good imposed sad duties sometimes...
Nick
showed no emotion, no respect.
Section
4
Rhyme, Gentlemen, Please
Dedicated to 'The Silent Peach' – a mysteriously named pub.
A peach
can never make a speech,
It cannot teach,
It cannot preach,
In
either a whisper or a screech.
Neither bass nor alto can it
reach.
This applies to all and each
Of every single blessed
peach,
So, Mr Landlord, I beseech:
Why specify a silent peach?
Slip of the Tongue
A new
epoch
Was ushered in
When Dr. Bradsby-Carr
Became our
Principal
And made his distinctive mark
On every aspect of the
College life.
He set the highest standards
For himself
And
others....
....As
you can see here in the Library.
Those notices your eyes are drawn
to
Wherever you look
Are in his own beautiful script.
"No
smoking,
"No food or drink,
"No crisps, chocolate or
chewing–gum
"In the Library."
He was a pioneer
environmentalist.
"Make
sure you wipe your feet,
"Make sure your hands are clean,
"No
sweat-stains,
"No writing,
"No drawing
"In
the books,
"No standing on the chairs to reach the
shelves."
He has made the books and chairs in other
libraries
Seem positively grimy.
"Warning
to readers of the Great Comedies:
"No laughing aloud
allowed."
His one regret
Was lack of funds
To segregate
that section.
And, of
course, this Library gives pride of place to
The Bradsby-Carr
Complete Collected Quirks.
The Signs
'Respect
the beauty of your park -
Leave no litter'
Said the notice by
the daffodils.
'Respect the beauty of your park –
Dogs to be
kept on the lead'.
Thus the sign
By the rose-bushes (scenting
trouble).
And all along the paths
'Keep off the lawns and
flower-beds'
Was the grand refrain.
Now,
The
lawns are snowbound,
Flowers a memory,
Bushes bare.
But they
never let
The snow obscure
The signs.
So Many Deadlines to Meet
Though
my nephew, I hardly knew the boy,
A cheery, helpful kid when I
visited,
Showed me the short cut to the station last time.
His
ambition was to be a footballer, he said
“Good luck with that,
then” was my farewell,
thinking “that won’t last.”
I was
more prophetic than I knew –
He’ll never walk again.
A road
crossed carelessly,
A car with no chance to brake.
He’ll need
nursing care all his life.
I must change my will to help with
that.
But
this is a bad time to sort it out,
So much to do, so many
deadlines to meet,
But next year, early next year.
April
and still not done!
And now our local sanctuary that rescues
animals needs rescue.
I’ll send a cheque now,
But they call
especially for legacies.
Yes, I must make the changes this
week.
Oh God, the diary is full!
So much to do, so many
deadlines to meet.
From
hospital I send for my lawyer
and hope he’ll come in
time.
Always so many to meet... now only one.
The Beyond-A-Joke Comedy Club
1
If it
had only been the one about the Jew and the money-spider,
I would
have let it pass,
But when it came to the stinky Paki and the
toilet-roll,
It was really too much,
So I spoke to him when
he'd finished MC-ing the show.
"I
couldn't agree more," he said. "I hate racist jokes,
"But
I have to tell them, it's what they want,
"I do the warm-up
for the others on the bill.
''It's the only way to make those
meatheads laugh.
"I'd
tone it down, of course, if there were any in the audience,
“But
we never seem to get them here.
"Oh,
Jewish yourself, are you?
"But how was I to know?"
"If
you'd worn something distinctive...
“WHAT? No of course I don't mean that!"
2
I’m
not surprised they booed you off,
What they want is a good
laugh,
Not social satire,
Jokes about the dole, the Council
Tax, all that depressing stuff.
Haven't you any Holocaust jokes?
The Clock and the Calendar
They
say that time heals bereavement.
At 6 pm on Tuesdays we would
meet.
Time will present me with 6 pm every Tuesday of my life.
The
worst bereavement is to grieve
For the living.
(With a little help from someone who insists on being anonymous).
The Cosy Tea Shop
The
Cosy Tea Shop in the square –
I book a window table there
Some
folk say it’s just to spy,
But I love to see the world go
by...
Well ..... the homely world that’s Peel-on-Sea.
Slow
and sleepy and trouble-free.
Jo passes with a pile of books
–
Improves her mind but not her looks!
Now her mum is
stylish, though I’m afraid
That’s the skirt I gave to
Christian Aid!
‘Fruit salad’s on? Yes please, I will.
‘It’s
time my taste-buds had a thrill!
‘Complaints because it came
from where?
‘Graffiti daubed around the square?
‘”Apartheid
- flavour of the week.”?
‘Well, I call that appalling
cheek!’
Here's something else to spoil the view
Those kids
with hair of pink and blue.
No jobs indeed! No mind to try!
They
give new meaning to do or dye!
Once seemed my Grant might go that
way
But he joined the army and that may
Turn out to be a
splendid plan –
They'll teach him skills, make him a man
'Was
that a news flash being read?
‘An ambush leaving many
dead?
'Well, the news from there is always grim ...
‘Oh no!
It can’t be ... God, not him!
The
Cosy Tea Shop in the square,
Nowadays I don’t go there.
The Personal Touch
There
are cards to say congratulations,
Cards to give
felicitations,
Cards for all life's celebrations –
Say it
with a card.
And
cards to say you love your mother
Cards to say you love your
brother,
Cards to say we should love one another –
Love them
with a card.
Cards
admitting they're belated,
Cards regretting they're misdated,
All
your lapses deprecated –
Do penance with a card.
The
world of cards is always sunny,
The world of cards makes lots of
money,
Lots of money being sunny –
Sell it with a card.
The Poisoning Of Life
In the
beginning, there were three grown-up figures in my infant world
The
one that had the name "Dad-dy",
The one that had the
name "Mam-my",
And the one that had the name "Maur-een".
They
were big and I was wee, that was the only difference then.
Then –
"only the maid".
Maureen was only the maid.
Daddy,
Mammy I belonged to,
Daddy, Mammy I obeyed.
But the maid obeyed
those I belonged to.
That's
how the poison got into me.
What about you?
Section 5
The
Rule Book
Life is
never black and white,
But indeterminate shades of
grey,
Enlightened persons always say.
I’ll never get it
right
If I think in black and white,
So I’m gathering all the
wisdom I can
For my little grey book of the little grey thoughts
of a little grey man.
The
Silly Things
(The Kaddish is a Jewish prayer said
on the
anniversary of a death.)
When I
think of those I have lost,
I remember the silly things.
Olga
and Leon used to say:
she married him for fame, he married her for
money and both were disappointed.
My dad
would say, of any coin picked up,
“It looks like one of
mine.”
And after every bath,
“Now I’m the cleanest person
in the house.”
My mum,
testing my school French as she poured tea in a café,
said,
“Passez-moi le lait, s’il vous plait.”
Before I
could translate, an old man sharing our table
twinkled at us and
laid the milk-jug by her cup.
She didn’t let me forget it.
When I
went to scout camp, there was a P.S. to her letter:
“Passez-moi
le lait, s’il vous plait.”
The
Kaddish prayer is what I’m reciting;
the silly things are what
I’m thinking.
Timely
Warning
Read at a Poets Against Racism event, Bristol, July
1996
With
the B and the C and the F words, he demented all the time,
This
man who had seen much better days, a Bishop in his prime.
The rest
of us in the admission ward remarked on the pain to his wife,
Who
visited almost daily, bereavement without loss of life.
Said
the charge–nurse, "She's blaming the hospital for teaching him
how to
swear.
"She
can't or won't see that he's bringing out what all through his life
has
been there."
He
yelled, when a black patient joined us, "That nigger – get him
out of
here!"
To a Back Ward the Bishop was bundled, where
none had a sensitive ear.
Tonight,
it is only a poem, one of many to mark, this event,
But if we
should ever be senile – what words will we use to dement?
Transcendence
It was
a women-only vigil
An itinerant one,
A pilgrimage of protest
to
Mosque and temple,
Synagogue and chapel,
High Church and
Low.
They
carried multi-defiant banners:
"A Woman for Pope"...
"And
for Chief Rabbi"...
"A sex-change for God".
They
were the Inter-Faith Sisters.
An
onlooker asked,
"Can I be your sister, even though I'm
an atheist?"
After much soul-searching, the answer came:
"You
can be our half-sister,
"But you can't carry our banners."
She
brought along one of her own:
"She doesn't exist".
What Friends Are For
Some
say she drops her friends when they’re no more use to her,
But
that’s ignorant talk –
Friendship portfolios must from time to
time be rationalised,
Modernised,
Made leaner and fitter.
When Sleep Won't Come
I
listen to all the sounds of night.
There's the tick of my clock
and, less polite,
There comes from my stomach a curious
gurgle.
Perhaps it's my supper that's made my tea curdle.
I
wonder what sound it might produce
To swallow the clock with
orange-juice?
A gurgling tick or a ticking gurgle?
And would it
scare someone trying to burgle?
A line
of research I can't explore –
That dirty great clock would just
stick in my jaw.
A curse on its bulk and on its botches!
I
hunger for elegant, slimline watches.
A
lonely hearts plea next post shall catch:
"Slim, elegant lady
with watch to match
Is sought by a poet kind and gentle
Whose
motives are purely experimental."
Worst-scenario Man
Do I
have to keep repeating
That all plugs and lights and heating
Must
be double-checked before the show begins?
Have you allocated
spaces
For guitar and cello cases?
We're not insured for
bruises to the shins.
All
these things I must take care of,
Must make everyone aware
of,
It's the only way to organise and plan.
Someone has to be
reliable,
Someone has to keep it viable,
Someone's got to be
the worst-scenario man.
Tell
you this – as sure as glue sticks,
There'll be trouble with
acoustics.
Did you fail to see that curve along the wall?
I
fear that once again, you
Have chosen the wrong venue –
Had
it been me.... but must I do it all?
All
these things I must beware of,
Must give everyone their share
of,
Must foresee as many pitfalls as I can.
When the snags look
insurmountable,
Someone has to look accountable,
Someone has to
be the worst-scenario man.
Thus
I'd bully and I'd beaver,
Till I fell sick with a fever,
And
the worst of all scenarios began –
For my colleagues proved
resilient,
What they did was hailed as brilliant,
And they did
without the...
Young Grey, Old Grey
I have
a problem with grey.
Grey surrounds me every day,
At work on
grey areas, in my grey Department –
Grey man from the
Ministry.
But....
Best
teacher I ever had was called Miss Grey.
The lessons came to life,
I stopped playing truant for a while.
My very
first suit was grey.
I wore it to Bruce's birthday
party...
Everyone said,” This isn't the Joe we know,
"No
birthday cake for this boy!"
But
they gave me some in the end. I got the piece with the
silver-
wrapped half-crown in it.
The
first real book I ever read was called "The Picture of Dorian
Grey",
I bought it after seeing the film.
I skipped
over all the words I didn't know
Till I came to the exciting bits
where folk got killed.
....Lots of problems go back to childhood, they say.
Section 6
A
Death Row guard wrote a poem
to
comfort a prisoner.
A doggerel poem
nothing original about
it
...except that he wrote it.
Pen Friendship
“Even
a letter of kind words that help comfort me in this place
would be
most appreciated,”
Brian wrote in an article
smuggled out of
Death Row.
But what could you say?
You
could say you felt concern,
that you hoped he’d win his fight
for justice.
You could say you were thinking of him,
that he
was not alone.
No, you couldn’t say that.
He was alone.
You
could say you didn’t know what else to say,
you’d never
written a letter like this,
you were sorry it was so brief.
And
then you post it off,
wondering what he can say.
He
said, “Sometimes a simple letter can be a great relief in here.
I
know how limited words are.
They can’t say how much it means to
me to know there’s such love out there.”
And this tells you –
though love is not the right word – that what you say doesn’t
matter,
it’s the act of saying.
But
there are still things you cannot say –
like “Have a good
Christmas”
or “Happy New Year”
Perhaps say “This must
be a sad time of year for you.”
Such a statement of the
obvious.
Change to “I know this must be a sad time of year for
you.”
That tells him you understand.
But you don’t
understand
and it only rubs it in.
Better not to mention
it?
But what does that tell him?
He replied, “You do not owe
me any apologies for being slow in responding to me.
I myself am
slow. Smile!”
And he drew beside “Smile!” two squiggles for
eyes,
one for nose
and a wider one, with a loop, for the
mouth.
A letter of kind words that help comfort you from that
place.
Have a Good Day
Darling
McClung said “Have a good day.”
Unnerving, that was,
creepy.
Not the words, lots of people say that–
cashiers,
receptionists, canvassers.
But
coming from the secretary to
the defence attorney of
my
pen-friend on Death Row, who was having a last day…
Unless there was truth in the rumour I’d heard –
a
moratorium on executions till after the Presidential
Election.
Callers never got to speak to the attorney,
everything
went through Darling McClung.
“The
moratorium? That only applies to new execution dates,
not those
already fixed.
So unless something extraordinary happens,
Brian
Roberson will die at six o’clock.
Anything else I can help with?
Sure? Get back to me if there is.
Have a good day.”
How
could she?
But how could I, ringing Leon when his wife had
died,
how could I have closed
with the routine
“Give my
regards to Olga”?
A Dead Man’s Death (1968)
The fun
will soon be over, but then so will the strife,
And a
contradiction of faces is my only mark in life:
In different
people’s memories is left a different face–
A friend, a foe,
an oddity, a family disgrace.
Cocooned
in sin-lined gloves, my hand took all and never gave,
And even
after penitence, there was nothing left to save.
It isn’t God in
judgement that I fear most at last,
But the wounds of my ultimate
victim, and these leave me aghast.
In a
stinking moat I built for defence, my love and promise fell;
A
slime-encrusted island formed – I think its name is Hell.
Stupid Girl
What
did you do in the war, Daddy?
In the war? I and my comrades
occupied Holland.
Was it dangerous?
Not as dangerous as some
places, but it was a vital part of the war effort.
The Dutch were
troublesome people.
Some of them even sheltered the Jews.
Who
were the Jews?
What a question to ask at bedtime!
They don’t
make a good bedtime story – unless you want nightmares!
Some
other time I’ll tell you it all.
For now, let’s just say they
had to be – oh – moved on.
My last
big job, before the war took a bad turn for us,
was when we
pounced upon a nest of them that had managed to hide
for two years
in a cleverly concealed attic.
Not clever enough, though! You
should have seen their faces
when we burst into that Jew-hole!
There
was a girl who tried to fight us off with a large book she’d been
writing in.
Pathetic! The pages all tumbled out on the floor.
Then
she fell to pleading: “My diary…please let me take it,
please.”
Stupid girl!
As if her diary could matter any more.
Note
In fact, Anne
Frank did not resist or plead, but the incident,
along with the
S.S. man’s comment, seems to me to have a
kind of poetic truth.
A Tale of Two Mysteries
We do
not know the reason for suffering.
Nor does a crab
When
suddenly its open sea shrinks to a closed trap,
And, suddenly
again, a giant creature shakes it out.
This is
one of many giant creatures
And the crab is one of many
crabs
Being crammed into a basket.
It
cannot move and yet it is in motion –
Something huge and dark is
taking... taking it... taking it to...
An emptying out,
A slab
to crawl about on.
The giant creatures come and go from the
slab.
Crab after crab is lifted away.
Its
turn comes.
Again there is a basket,
But it's alone in the
basket,
Taking... taking it... taking it to...
It doesn't know
where,
It doesn't know the reason,
Knows only the feel of its
misery,
This misery that never ends.
But it
does end, for now there is water again.
But this isn't like the
water it came from.
It is heating... heating it... heating it
to...
It
never knew the reason,
Knew only the feel of its boiling,
Found
mercy only in death.
We do
not know the reason for our suffering.
Some say it is part of the
mystery of God
And hope to find that God is merciful.
I'm Getting Out
I'm
getting out of the meat trade,
Sheer cruelty, I call it!
No,
not to the animals – they're all right –
It's
what’s done to the workers
By lunatics let loose on us
–
Intruders from Whitehall, invaders from Brussels,
On the
rampage with regulations, drubbing us with directives!
They
tell me I must swot up
(Having had only thirty years'
experience)
For a certificate of competence
In humane
slaughter, humane stunning, humane everything.
It's an abattoir I
run, for God's sake, not a hospice!
Oh, I'm
getting out of this,
Getting into fish.
Fish is sane.
There's
your lobster, there's your pot of boiling water,
You can forget certificates.
Safety First
People
often ask, when told how shellfish are boiled alive,
“There must
surely be some less cruel way to kill them?"
Well – yes –
a way was invented
By perhaps the best scientific mind in that
field.
An electric current, passed through a tank of salt-water,
stunned them instantly.
Plunged into boiling water, they showed no
signs of pain –
No writhing, no violent flips, no shedding of
claws.
Just
like dying in their sleep.
It was hailed as "One of the
greatest breakthroughs since the captive bolt pistol",
That
was in 1976.
Though flawless in the laboratory,
It could not be
used in kitchens
For health and safety reasons.
Matters of Judgement
I took
the shellfish trade to court
to put a stop to boiling the
creatures alive.
“It’s easy enough for him,” said the
chef,
“to tell me to stun them first!
Can he tell me how to
pay for the extra labour?
By prices too high for my
customers?”
“Not too high,” ruled the judge, “if it
reduces suffering.
It is a price worth paying.”
Justice
for shellfish!
The test-case won for our campaign…if only
the
court had not been merely the backdrop
to a debate shown on cable
TV.
He
didn’t lose graciously,
and I didn’t win graciously.
He was
animal abuser to the likes of me.
I was lunatic fringe to the
likes of him.
Just
our luck, we had to face each other again,
returning to London on
a crowded train.
His eyes gave a flicker of recognition,
I gave
a slight nod.
Then he opened out his newspaper
and I pored over
a none-too-readable pamphlet.
I was
bound for Charing Cross,
he for London Bridge.
There, he
offered his hand and said, not unaffably, “See you again.”
I
shook hands, returned his farewell
and then wondered about shaking
such a hand.
It went against my better judgement,
but better
judgement, had I refused, would have nagged still more.
Who can judge that?
Other titles by Joe Solomon at Smashwords.com
Perpetual
Playground
http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/80589
‘If there was ever a contest to find the Nicest Bloke In Bristol, they’d have to disqualify Joe Solomon before anyone else would bother entering. Poet, stand-up comedian, ex-communist, animal rights and anti-racist activist, anti-death penalty campaigner, and enthusiastic devotee of Robert Burns. Edinburgh-born Joe... had a succession of manual labouring jobs before being accepted as a mature student at Bristol University. His social sciences course opened his eyes to the gulf between rich and poor, and after graduation he went into welfare rights advice work...
He was active in the Anti-Racist Alliance and Campaign Against Racist Laws, organised two ‘Poets Against the Death Penalty’ events in support of a charity which assists poor people in capital cases in the US, and had a penfriend on death row...
His other pet project, The Shellfish Network, came from Joe’s early experiences as a kitchen porter. One of his tasks was to carry tanks of live lobsters to the kitchen, where they would be plunged into boiling water. He campaigned against such barbaric practices through the national Network which he founded.’
Robin
Askew in Venue’s 1998 honours’ list of the‘100 most important
people
from Round These Parts’