She said it first

I liked you first but

She said it first and

The rules of friendship demanded

I keep quiet.

I’m not even sure how much

I really did, or you really did like me.

You joked we should get married

And I jokingly agreed,

Over 3am tea, and your cigarette smoke – see?

You smoke, I don’t,

We live in different cities;

How would it even work?

A week later, I can’t even remember

Your face. Just the colour

Of your hoodie, a vague memory

Of your smile. Just

A flirtation. Just

A moment. No big deal. But still

I wanted to decide that for myself,

And she said it first.

Dancers

He must have danced with a dozen different girls that night, at least; plucking them from the obscurity of the crowd (or group – the venue was really too small for a crowd) and spinning them out into the limelight of those few metres he’d claimed for his dance floor.

The band was playing jazz, and swing, in several languages and styles, and he leapt and twirled and spun and ducked in response. And the girls did too, all seemingly transformed in his hands – as if each had been his partner for years, not minutes.

Some he kept for a few songs, others just one. Some he spoke to, others twirled in enigmatic silence. Some got smiles, others just his full-on eyes.

All looked happy, relaxed, vital. Even watching, I felt myself wrapped in his spell, fascinated by each swirling sequence, unfolding too fast for my mind to match – so only my eyes could keep pace, no space for thoughts.

At first I wondered if they minded, the girls – being picked up and discarded like that. But they didn’t seem to (not that I could know), and he did it all so gracefully, with such apparent purity of intent.

By which I mean, he didn’t seem to be looking for anyone in particular (though there were those few he spoke to, danced with longer, even followed briefly back to their corners – and once I heard him respond, “Oui, je suis français, bien sûr”). He seemed mainly to just love dancing – no, more than that, to have it in his bones.

To judge him, or demand he behave any differently, seemed beside the point. He was simply doing what he had to; how could he not dance, and how could he dance with just one, or two, when he had enough energy, more than enough, to transform the entire room?

Anna, my Anna, was one of those girls. She wasn’t mine, of course; I loved her, but she didn’t know. Or maybe she did, but it’d be another year before I told her, and then three weeks more before she decided, in her own sweet time, to end my suspense.

I feel like saying it broke my heart to watch her dance with him. And in a way that’s how it felt, but not how you think. Not because (or not just because) I was jealous. It’s more that she looked so perfect – I mean they did, together. So complete. And so utterly strange to me. As though I was fully seeing this person I thought I knew so well, and she was someone else entirely.

The singer’s voice was all husky and teasing; I forget the song. They smiled, a little, and danced very lightly, spinning round and through each other’s arms without pause. Then he pulled her in close, and they jived playfully back and forth. So easy! As if they’d known each other half their lives!

The song ended, they bowed, he slipped away and she turned with glazed eyes, towards me. She smiled vaguely, but I don’t think she could see anybody just then. I reached reflexively, for something – my drink, empty. And I blinked, dazed too.

I left early, so I don’t know if he did eventually settle on one perfect partner. I never really asked her, either, how it felt, to be danced with like that. I mean, it sort of came up – the night, the place – in conversation a few times. But I kept the reference cursory. Anxiety, I suppose, my own insecurity making me unwilling to hear her answer, to see her eyes light up, in memory.

But again, this isn’t quite (just) jealousy. I think I’m also scared of destroying my own memory, or blowing away the dreamdust I’ve gathered around it. It’d be too harsh, too cruel, to have it all levelled out to the mundane. I’d rather keep the poetry, the magic, even if I maybe know it’s of my own.

Already over

In isolation she seemed – not perfect, he wasn’t that naïve – but, well, a positive romantic prospect. A promising investment of his time. (Why was it that, despite having deliberately avoided any career choices that would put him at risk of becoming even remotely ‘corporate’, his thoughts had suddenly taken on the aspect of an investors’ board meeting?)

Viewed in the context of her life though – her friends, daily routine, ‘hobbies’ and so forth – he immediately saw how it would end: not well for him (or for her, perhaps, but his main concern here was for himself).

It was all too similar, too much like repetition – not of his last relationship, but the one before that. He’d heard somewhere, or read, that life is a series of challenges that repeat continuously until we learn to deal with each one. If so, he didn’t feel at all confident about handling this particular challenge any better than he had five or so years ago.

Largely, no doubt, because he wasn’t at all sure where the problem lay. Or, that is to say, he knew most, if not all, of it lay somewhere inside him – and you can hardly be expected to be objective and analytical about something which is part of your own self, can you?

Even if he couldn’t pin down the problem, however, he could see, all too clearly, how it would play out. Not in any dramatic, or even really externally observable way, but almost entirely below the surface, beneath the hidden anxieties of face, chest, breath.

Terminating at the end of a reasonably long, apparently happy (most of all, somewhere in the middle – they’d have one great summer together, which they’d never be able to recapture, leaving both ultimately doubting their recollection of those months) relationship, with a prolonged, painful, confusing break-up.

He knew that if he tried to retrace this to its roots, he’d arrive right back here, at this moment, where he’d first felt himself withdrawing – self-preservation, that’s what it was – while at the same time powerless to sever the reflex that left him reaching out, grasping, towards her.

This despite knowing (and here he indulged himself in a little self-aggrandisement, rather tragic, he thought; there’s pathos, at least) that they’d never fully combine. Even in those blissful few moments when they’d succeed in convincing one another, and themselves, of their utter devotion, even then, he knew – and would know, deep down – it was already over.

(It should be noted, they’d only at this stage been on three or four dates. And he hadn’t exactly met her friends or observed her ‘in the context of her life’. But he had clicked through a lot of photos on Facebook.)

Oh!

Oh!

“Oh!” she said, and stopped.

The sound repeating over

and over in her head,

much louder than she’d actually said it: Oh.

The picture still in her hand, showing him and the ex-girlfriend

who she’d never seen, or heard described – yet somehow, she knew

not a friend, or cousin, or any other ex, she knew

and that ‘Oh’
struck right to her core,

because she knew, too,

that he’d been right (not that

he’d ever said this, or could)

– that this was

so clearly, the kind of love she’d never had,

with him, or anyone –

never would, perhaps, she thought

(but this really was an afterthought,

a conscious attempt to redirect, reassert

her own claim on happiness).

Because what had really been expressed in that ‘Oh’

was just sadness.

They should be together, she thought (she knew),

and why oh why oh why did they ever

split up.

(Which she knew, too,

 he’d spent roughly the last two years asking himself,

including the three months or so she’d known him.)

Still staring, sensing how self-destructive this was,

but unable to escape

that picture, which she knew she’d never escape –

the look in their eyes, their faces, laughter, smiles,

all somehow combining to suggest such perfect

togetherness.

(Like children accepting all innocent

that the world is benign.)

It cut straight into her, cut her breath, stopped her voice, left that ‘Oh’

hanging, repeating inside her mind,

long after she’d left the room,

left him,

all behind.

Parties

Goodbye

They’d only just met, and he was moving away.

It was just one of those things.

Their circles of friends had only recently overlapped sufficiently, and he’d had this opportunity, which he couldn’t really – and so on.

So they were saying goodbye, without knowing what they’d be missing, if anything.

“Another one that got away,” she thought, a little drunk, a little wistful, filing him away in some mental space, to be taken out and contemplated at a later date.

The party was ending. She got up from where she’d slumped (how bohemian) on the floor, between piles of books and CDs – his things, half packed.

“It’s been good,” and “I’ll be back, I’m sure”, and a hug, close, lingering, somehow satisfying, but still not solving anything (it seemed to say lots of things, but how many, she wondered, were her own invention?) and that, was that.

The Strand

At 47 he’d never looked better, but neither of them knew it.

He avoided thinking about age, if he could, and she – well, she’d only just met him, and she hadn’t really thought too much about how he looked, either now or before.

She asked what he did, and for some reason he just said, obscurely, “I work on the Strand.” And for some reason, she just nodded and smiled, as if that was an answer.

Her eyes drifted but her smile stayed, and they moved on through the conventional round of first-meeting questions.

But afterwards, she came back to that phrase, and thought, how strange. What a strange thing to say, and why didn’t I ask what he meant? I suppose, she concluded, I didn’t really care.

Parties

She seemed to go to a lot of parties. At least, she had a lot of stories that started, ‘I met this person at a party…’

And she laughed a lot, more than most people, but she didn’t seem happy. Even when she was laughing she seemed somehow sad – especially when she was laughing, perhaps.

He realised she’d never looked him full in the eyes, or at least that was the impression she gave. 

As if her eyes, and her mind, were always somewhere else, even in the middle of laughing, or telling one of these stories about the people she met at all these parties.

He bought, she bought

-1-

He’d bought a small sailing boat, the word went round, prompting little malicious ripples of gossip.

Big enough for four, apparently.

(The word ‘apparently’ took on a particularly important role in these discussions, spoken with a special emphasis, as if to imply something worthy of suspicion, ridicule, contempt – any number of responses in fact. Hence its usefulness.)

There was some degree of speculation as to the source of funding for this purchase.

“Apparently,” they said, “It’s not even his money. It’s hers. From her last marriage. Or from when her parents died.”

Others were more concerned with the possibility of select couples being invited down for a weekend on the boat (or yacht, as some now said), which was, after all, big enough for four at the very least.

But Mrs Matthews, who lived close enough to know, said they could’ve hardly been out on it themselves, as they seemed to be at home every weekend.

As far as she’d noticed, at any rate. Of course she had better things to do than spy on her neighbours.

-2-

She’s bought one of those dry shampoos, the kind that are supposed to clean your hair just by spraying it on or something.

He’s not sure how long it’s been there, on the shelf by the sink, but now that he’s noticed it he’s remembered something.

He remembers her calling it ‘one-night-stand shampoo’.

There must have been an advert on TV for it, and she’d said that. In a tone suggesting scorn.

He’d made some noise in response and she’d said, “That’s what it’s for – it’s for when you stay out all night without planning to.”

Funny really, because at the time he wouldn’t have really said he was paying much attention, but now he can remember it clear as anything.

And there it is, her one-night-stand shampoo, in their bathroom.

-3-

He’d bought me a bar of chocolate, one of those big ones you’re supposed to share.

We’d had this silly thing before, sort of like a bet, and he’d ended up promising to buy me an ice cream, so then he turned up with the chocolate instead.

I’m not sure why it was so awful. I’ve never had a bad date before. He just kept asking all these questions, which I guess is what you’re supposed to do on a date, you ask questions, but I just wasn’t in the right mood or something.

So I think I told him to stop interrogating me, and he got offended, and that was it really. We had a few drinks and I sort of wanted us to click, but it just ended up feeling like an argument, even though it wasn’t.

I felt awful today. I ate the chocolate all in one go. That did help, a bit.

-4-

She’d bought him a grain of sand with his name written onto it, in tiny, spidery writing.

It was inside a small, clear pendant, part of a necklace, and (she told him proudly, like a child) she’d chosen the beads that went on either side herself.

He smiled mechanically, and said some of the polite things you’re supposed to say when you get a present.

But inside he was thinking: Bright red beads. She’s chosen bright red beads. I never wear red; I don’t have a single red thing. Why is she so pleased?

He held it up to his chest so she could see how it looked, then curled it meticulously back into its box, and put it away in a drawer.

The next time he took it out, several years later, he realised with relief that the hollowness and strange anger he’d felt at the time had faded.

Also, it seemed somehow to have broken; the metal piece fastening the pendant to the string had come loose.

He wondered if she’d noticed he’d never worn it. If she had, she’d never said.

He went to Madrid... And I didn't

Waking up with a wail

In my heart:

He left me.

He went to Madrid

And he chose someone else.

Why are mornings the worst time of day?

In fact at first, I’m OK.

I’ve slept, at least, no terrible dreams,

Then gradually it sinks in.

Rejection, regret;

Should I have said yes?

Would things have been different?

...Most of the time, I’m actually fine.

But if he ever reads this,

He’ll think I’m obsessed

With a stranger I felt close to

Who asked me to go to Madrid

And I didn’t.

Pillow talk

I’d lounge around

On your lower lip,

Climb to the tip

Of your nose

And skip

To the middle-brow summit,

Make the return trip

Over the curved ground

Of your cheek

Then sneak,

Tickle-footed,

To your ear

Where I’d whisper

So softly

You’d have no idea

That I was ever

Even

Here.

You can also read this at Middlebrow magazine.

Flash fiction!

(To see the missing numbers scoot over to Middlebrow Magazine...)

One

May didn’t seem to believe in time. Not that she’d have put it like that, if you asked her. Likely she’d have looked at you with that eye-brow raised, lip slightly curled kind of face on her, before getting on with what she was doing.

She was always doing something.

When I say she didn’t believe in time, I suppose what I really mean is that she only believed in the present. She never seemed to think about the future, or at least I never heard her mention it –except for maybe what she planned on doing with the potatoes when she’d finished digging them, or what time she’d bring the chickens in.

And when she spoke about the past – only ever if someone else brought it up – it was with a kind of detached humour, as though she was reciting a story that really belonged to someone else, to amuse a child.

She always made me feel like a child, thinking back.

Seven

There was this church near where she lived – you had to go past it on the train to get there. It was just an ordinary little church, like most villages have, but it had this big cross outside, all lit up in neon.

It was always there, but I could never get used to it. Some days it just looked odd, other days I think it reminded me of a scene from one of those low-budget horror films… Not that I really watch them.

Anyway, next to the church was an allotment, and that always looked wrong to me as well. I think because I expected it to be a graveyard, and it did sort of look like one if you just glanced at it. But then you realised the things coming out of the ground weren’t gravestones, they were little sheds and fences.

Maybe there was a graveyard on the other side of the church, I don’t know.

Another story, about knitting

Casting on


Sue held up the scarf, eyeing it critically from top to bottom. It was much wider at one end than the other, with several bumpy patches and some loose holes hanging off one edge. Definitely the worst scarf I’ve ever seen, she decided. And smiled.

Just a first attempt after all, and she’d almost certainly improved as she went along. She’d pop down to the shop later and get some more wool – chunkier this time, so it would be faster. The next one would be good enough to wear. Or at least to hang up in the hallway.

Then she’d try something different. Gloves maybe, or a hat, and she’d like to make herself a cardigan – nothing too fancy, just something warm and snuggly. ‘Oh thanks,’ she’d say, ‘Do you like it? I made it myself.’ Then there’d be Christmas presents, birthdays, christenings. Who did she know with small children?

Going into the kitchen, her eye caught on the picture of her mum by the phone. She smiled again, but this time with a frown. For the first time it occurred to her that having the picture there was strangely appropriate – or inappropriate. Mum must have circled round the telephone like I am now, she thought. Trying not to look at it, or think about what news it might bring.

She’d been ten when they got the diagnosis, eleven when Mum died – or ‘lost her battle’ as people said, in magazines at least. So she should have been old enough to understand, really. Old enough to know better, to realize that cancer wasn’t contagious, and that she couldn’t somehow catch it from talking about her mum, or behaving like her. At any rate, her dad had thought she was old enough to have a serious talk about how these things did work, by which he meant the statistical risks of history repeating.

‘I don’t want it to be something we can’t talk about,’ he’d said. ‘All this doesn’t mean you’re definitely going to get breast cancer. But it won’t help to ignore it, or pretend it’s not a possibility.’ For Sue though, ignoring it was exactly what she felt like doing. She hated going to the doctors, hated going bra shopping for her newly developing breasts, and hated herself for the sense of resentment she felt.

Mainly, of course, she just missed her mum. And it was natural, surely, that it was painful to be reminded of her. But alongside the pain was a twinge of fear. Over the years she’d found ways to cope, to remember her mum in happier ways, to enter a lingerie department without feelings of panic. It was only last year, when Dad had suggested she might want to take Mum’s old knitting things, that she’d realized how much she was still holding onto. She’d practically shouted at him, as if he’d said something totally inappropriate, and he’d ended up taking it all to a charity shop.

When she’d found the lump, she hadn’t felt scared. Well, she had, but also something else – relief? After all those years of waiting and worrying, she was ready to face her demons. All the rest of the day, and the next, she felt fine, pleased with herself for staying so calm – until she got back from seeing the doctor.

She’d put the kettle on, and then – what? What was she going to do now? Three days she had to fill (‘We’ll call you on Thursday with the results,’ they’d said) but how? She didn’t have the stomach for cooking, walking seemed too lonely, shopping would feel pointless, and she just knew she wouldn’t be able to concentrate on a book. But then her gaze fell on the chunky hardback Beginners Guide to Knitting that Diane had given her, for a birthday. ‘It’s very trendy these days, knitting,’ she’d laughed, ‘I’ve got a feeling you’ll be good at it.’

Well, she wasn’t exactly good. Not so far, anyway. But it had been the ideal way to fill the time. Calming, meditative, but absorbing enough to stop her going mad. Satisfying too, seeing the rows build up – even if the end result wasn’t exactly perfect. Not yet. She understood now why her mum had spent that last year filling the house with quilts and knitted cushions, inundating everyone with scarves, gloves, hats, jumpers.

Maybe this is what they call closure, she thought, making herself smile again as she imagined herself saying the words in a corny American accent. And she picked up one of the needles, holding it up like a spear. She narrowed her eyes, aiming at the phone, and this time laughed out loud. Maybe I am going mad after all, she thought, but in a good way.

You can also read this here: http://www.middlebrowmagazine.co.uk/home/?p=3176

A longer story

‘Howard’

They do it on purpose, Howard thinks. Women. They know how these things get stuck in our heads. Unremarkable at the time, we barely even notice, but somehow they turn into cast-iron memories, fencing us in from our own futures.

‘Good moaning,’ Kate would’ve said about this time (for no real reason, they’d never watched ‘Allo ‘Allo together), rolling over to bring her hands up to his chest. At which he would’ve grunted, and then smiled – because he couldn’t not smile when she was looking at him like that.

Then she’d wriggle free, sliding – no, jumping, bounding (how was she always so instantly awake?) – out of her side of the bed. She’d be wearing just a t-shirt and knickers. And some days she’d go straight into the kitchen like that, and he’d hear her padding about and humming as she put the kettle on to make coffee.

And now he can’t wake up without hearing her, can’t stop himself most days from reaching out an arm to feel the space where she used to sleep. Eventually, he’ll drag himself up (definitely no bounding) and slump into the kitchen in t-shirt and boxers – a shabby parody of her, lovely her.

He doesn’t allow himself to put the television on, or sit on the sofa – too much for his still sleep-hungry body to resist. Instead he sits hunched over a bowl of Rice Krispies (snap, crackle, pop!), breathing in the smell of his own stale sweat, waiting for his laptop to warm up.

He’ll check his emails (even though his phone would’ve bleeped if he’d got any), browse a few news sites. At some point he’ll look down to check his watch, realise he hasn’t put it on yet, and notice his coffee’s gone cold, again. Howard can never seem to finish a mug of coffee these days. He read somewhere recently that drinking coffee can prevent depression (on the same day he read that David Croft, creator of ‘Allo ‘Allo and other classics of British sit-com, had died.) Does it work backwards, he wonders – does feeling depressed impair your ability to drink coffee?

Who’s he kidding anyway? That ‘good moaning’ scenario occurred what, three, four times in the whole two years they were together? Most days it wasn’t like that at all. He’s not really sure what most days were like, to be honest. But that’s the way it works – now she’s gone and he’s stuck with this memory that’s taken over and is somehow stopping him from finishing his coffees.

He’s actually not even called Howard. More likely David or Anthony. Or Paul. Something ordinary like that. Howard just seems to suit the kind of character he is at the moment. You know the type. Philip Seymour Hoffman might play him in a film: slightly overweight, pasty, obsessive and a bit creepy, too often seen sitting around in his underwear.

And Kate (meaning: pure maiden) – a nice, ordinary name that suggests what a nice, ordinary kind of girl she is. Not Allegra or Charlene or Belinda (meaning: immortal beauty). Nothing too unusual or exotic, it wouldn’t fit.

The coffee though, a nice detail, definitely keep that in. Maybe it could be a recurrent motif. Or even the central motif: we follow Howard/ David’s story through a series of scenes based around coffee drinking…

‘I asked for a cappuccino,’ Howard (or David?) says.

‘I know,’ says Paul, still hovering over him with two tall glasses of something that isn’t cappuccino. ‘But I got you a frappuccino. Mocha light. They’re really good. Plus, it’ll cool you down.’

Paul’s always doing weird stuff like this, Howard thinks (let’s stick with Howard, we’ve got to know him now). He’s always so eager about things. That’s probably why Howard likes him. He’s not sure about the frappuccino though. Would Kate have liked it? He can’t remember coming to a Starbucks with her, but he thinks she would’ve stuck to a cappuccino most of the time.

New scene: Elizabeth (who also works with Howard) has brought Howard a coffee. She frowns and sucks in her lips a bit as she concentrates on delivering it safely to the coaster on his desk.

‘There you go.’

‘Thanks Elizabeth,’ Howard says, trying to load the words with the right emphasis so that she knows he really means it.

‘We’re onto the UHT stuff I’m afraid.’

‘No worries.’

Howard makes a mental note to pop out and buy a big carton of milk later. And some biscuits, or cake. He feels like making people smile today, like reaching out his arms and shouting ‘Hey, I appreciate you! Even if we hardly ever speak, and you don’t really know who I am, I still want you to know I appreciate what we share just by being together, every day, in this building. Thanks for being around, and smiling at me sometimes in the corridor, and wearing nice perfumes, and not swearing at me or keying my car or making my life more difficult.’

Hopefully at least some of that will come across through an open box and a cheerful note – ‘Help yourselves everyone!’ – with a smiley face drawn underneath. I’ll go to M&S, Howard decides, get something really nice. Kate used to go there, or had at least once, when they had people round.

Next scene: Howard is collecting a new suit (he’s in good shape, he’s lost weight). He’s early – they haven’t quite finished making the adjustments yet – so he goes for a coffee. There’s a mother next to him, with a baby in a pushchair and a little girl, just old enough to toddle round the table on her own. The little girl is called Kate, or Katie (not a big coincidence, not a coincidence at all really, it's a common name).

‘Katie,’ sings the mother, in a voice that hasn’t had enough sleep. ‘Kaaaa-tie. Do you want some sandwich?’

Katie is picked up and fed part of a sandwich. Her little brother moans and waves his arms around a bit. The mother gives him a piece of bread. Howard is fascinated by the way Katie seems to eat using her whole face. She scrunches up her nose and eyes with each chew – she’s stuffed in far too much. The mother looks across and he remembers his coffee, going cold again.

And now the reader is starting to wonder where all this is going. The story seems to have got stuck on its own motif. How many coffees are we going to watch Howard drink, or not drink?

Possible endings. Howard finally watches an episode of ‘Allo ‘Allo, which is, after all, still pretty funny. And now when he wakes up he smiles, because he’s not thinking about Kate but about René and Crabtree and the rest. He even considers saying ‘good moaning’ to people at work, but decides against it. He’s not that keen on people who go round quoting TV shows, and anyway, they might not get it.

Kate comes round and asks if she can have the coffee maker, because she bought it, and he doesn’t really like coffee anyway – she was always pouring away barely touched, cold coffee when they were together. Howard is surprised. He thinks about it and after a while says no, he’d rather keep the coffee maker, it comes in handy when people visit and anyway he’s fairly sure he does like coffee.

Howard opens a coffee shop. He calls it ‘Howard’s’ and puts up a poster explaining that coffee can help prevent depression. He smiles a lot and people like going there because he smiles a lot and because he does ‘Allo ‘Allo impressions which they don’t always understand but which make them chuckle anyway. And he chops up the sandwiches really nice and small for the children.

Or, maybe we should leave Howard with little-girl Katie and her scrunched up face. Except he finishes his coffee (too depressing, too dark, that ‘going cold again’), and doesn’t even remember to worry about whether he’s finished it or not.

Very short stories

1.

Michaela and Dan were expecting a baby girl. Dan wanted to name her Holly. Michaela refused flat out to consider this. She was vague about her reasons, but if she’d really thought about it she would have realized she somehow connected the name with one of Dan’s past relationships. Michaela suggested Anna. Dan gently but resolutely resisted (no real reason, but if he couldn’t have his first choice then neither should she: that’s what it came to). They settled on Kate in the end, a few days before she was due. It was a compromise name; neither of them had strong feelings about it either way.

2.

‘Kate! Turn it down a bit please. You know you could always join us down here for a change. We’re watching a film. It’s got Hugh Grant in, and that actress… Well, if you get bored. I don’t like thinking of you up here on your own.’

‘No luck?’

‘Nope. She’s a teenager. Budge up. What did I miss?’

3.

Oh, I could have crossed then. Oh well, I’ll just wait for the green man. Is it changing? I can’t see the other lights from here. Battery’s gone on my iPod again. What’s that man saying? Something about Jesus I think. He needs a better microphone or something, the sound’s all muffled on that one. Not that anyone’s listening anyway.

4.

‘You didn’t kiss me goodbye this morning.’

‘Hmm?’

‘You just left. I was awake.’

‘I did, didn’t I? I kissed you on the forehead.’

‘I don’t think so. I’m pretty sure.’

5.

Vouchers, receipts, about ten different store cards. What’s this? Oh, that ticket to Keats’ house Robin gave me. I never did use it. Valid for a year, and it’s already half a year out of date. Where did all that time go? It’s on Hampstead Heath I think, the house. Not the kind of thing I’d do on my own really. I liked the idea of it at the time. But the Romantics depress me. Put it in the recycling pile.

6.

When Sue was 60 she got a cat. She’d always wanted a dog really, but it wouldn’t be fair to leave it all day, and what with retirement looking less and less likely each year… It’d be nice to have a dog to take walking though. She caught herself enviously eyeing other people’s glossy spaniels and shaggy collies, with a twinge of guilt. Where was that from? It wasn’t as if she was actually planning to steal one or anything. Maybe it was to do with craving something different, a different life. She didn’t do that; she believed in appreciating what she had, and she was good at it. So, in the end, she got the cat.

7. 

'There's this woman I remember, when I was at university. She was always in the park, every day, sat on the same bench. And she had these huge rolls of paper, that she used to draw on.'

'What was she drawing? People?'

'No, just trees I think. She was pretty old. And I just remember her always wearing green, this big green coat and green wellies and a green hat.'

'Didn't you ever speak to her?'

'No, I just used to run past her. I used to go jogging every day then. I saw her in the town once, walking home I guess. She had all these bags with her, full of the rolls of paper, and she was talking to someone. She seemed like one of those people who knows lots of people. I used to think, that looks like a nice way to spend old age, just drawing trees.'

Moving out

Last morning

It's not the clouds
That make the shapes,
I think, it's our minds, and

I don't want to leave.
I like living here.
I'll miss this,
Waking to the instant calm of water,
The gentle rustle of trees

(I can't work out what kind),
The one closest to me
A patchwork
In shades of grey,

Bark peeling away and healing
Around old scars.
Three strong arms
Reach far beyond

My third-floor window.
And if I look straight up
The newest leaves
Are waving.

Seat reservations

Seat reservations

I am self-enclosed,
-contained, -sufficient; this is
A somehow pleasing pretence
For an afternoon spent
On a train to London Euston
In the company of strangers.

Unknown faces,
Solitary, mainly, gaze
Headphoned and mobile-phoned
Through windows,
Eye each other vaguely,
Muse on other lives, played out
In other places.

That pair of shoes,
His hairstyle,
Her tone of voice,
My secret smile,
Each reserved space seems momentarily to belong
To an individual, distinct
Self-contained Someone.

Also published at Middlebrow Magazine.

Running

Running

Running:
The feeling of having
Strong legs,
Deep breath
And a reason
To keep going.

Saying goodbye

Saying goodbye

Saying goodbye
Makes part of me inside
Go blind.

All week I knew this was coming:
I've been slowly turning
Away, busy humming
To stop myself looking

At the door I've sealed off
Somewhere in my mind.
On one side, there are feelings.
I'm not dealing
With those; I'm smiling
A false smile, thinking

False thoughts
That can't stop
Or settle anywhere,
Until I open the door and

You're not there.

In defence of the spoken word

I love poetry. I really do. I like reading it, writing it, studying it, hearing it. But, in common with most people I know, I’m still more likely to curl up with a novel than a poetry collection.

So I was interested to read an article in the Guardian last month addressing this issue. While fiction has never really had to struggle, says poet John Fuller, poetry has seen its audience drop ‘like plague victims’ in the last century.

So far, so much nodding in agreement from me. But Fuller’s next sentence had me doing a double take – or the modern equivalent. You could almost hear my thumb screech to a halt, before hastily scrolling back up the screen of my phone.
What was the offending phrase? No more than a throw-away comment, actually in parentheses, but it was this very offhandedness that surprised me: ‘There are occasionally revivals that don’t seem to matter very much (stand-up poetry perhaps)…’ With that, Fuller moved swiftly on to outline his idea of focusing on ‘poetry puzzles’, leaving me puzzling over the casualness with which he could dismiss ‘stand-up poetry’ as unimportant.

Fuller doesn’t offer an explanation, and as Niall O’Sullivan (who runs the Poetry Society’s weekly Poetry Unplugged) argues, it’s probably not worth taking his comments too seriously: ‘Fuller has a book to sell and is therefore trying to drum up a response… I’m not even sure what he means by “stand-up poetry”. Live poetry in general? Spoken word? Slam poetry? Comic poetry or poetry by stand-up comedians?’

Nonetheless, this dismissal of ‘stand-up poetry’ got me thinking. What is stand-up poetry? Is it different to written (or sitting-down) poetry? Why does it ‘matter’?

While Fuller doesn’t explain his comment, it seems stand-up poetry simply doesn’t fit in with his own ideas about the proper route to poetic enjoyment. Based on the belief that poetry ‘requires thinking’, he paints a picture of a reader off on an academic adventure, teasing out each allusion and ‘puzzle’ through hours of arduous but ultimately rewarding research.
Again, I’m all for this kind of pleasure. I love sitting in libraries surrounded by books, the thrill of coming up with a new interpretation or theory. But I’m not convinced this is the best way to broaden poetry’s appeal, or indeed the only way to enjoy a poem.

Performance poet Raymond Antrobus is keen to dispel the myth that poetry belongs only in the classroom, or that only Oxford dons have the right to pronounce on what it is or what it should be. He is appalled to find himself approached after shows by university students who say they had no idea poetry could ‘live in the voice of today’.

‘There is a definite demand for more interaction with quality and accessible poetry,’ Antrobus says, ‘and accessible shouldn’t mean simplistic… but it helps if it’s simple and therefore relatable.’ He recalls sitting in a pub with friend Simon Mole after the latter had completed his sell-out spoken word show last year. ‘It was just brilliant… afterwards all these locals, students, regular folk with day jobs were all singing and laughing and talking about the show. Simon tapped me on the shoulder, pointed at them and said “now these are the people I’m trying to reach with my work.” That was a truly inspiring moment for me.’

O’Sullivan takes a similar view: ‘Live poetry is often the first point of contact with the general public. From hip-hop inspired spoken word events to boozy, bawdy Soho literary salons, live poetry meets its audience at the genuine cultural meeting points – pubs, cafes, theatres, galleries, festivals, music venues…’

As well as being an access point for wider audiences, he says, stand-up is also a much more accessible route for budding poets. ‘Poets that come from cultures that seem invisible to the poetical establishment will often converge at spoken word or live poetry gatherings. Booking a venue and putting on a show is a much more immediate outlet than starting your own publisher and seeking mainstream distribution.’

Russell Thompson, London coordinator for Apples and Snakes, agrees that performance can make poetry seem more accessible and relevant: ‘It touches a lot of people, makes them consider things differently – by which I mean it can promote quirky, askance views – not necessarily revolutionising an entire worldview.’ And, he adds, there’s certainly no requirement that all stand-up poems be about iPhones and trainers.

Indeed, in my experience the main feature of ‘stand-up poetry’ is diversity – of subject matter, form and presentation. The website for Bang Said the Gun, one of London’s regular spoken word nights, advertises itself as ‘stand-up poetry for those who don’t like poetry, especially the stuff about thwarted love and daffodils’. This is a snappy way of attracting people who are turned off by poetry’s reputation as a highbrow, airy-fairy, pretentious kind of art form. But in fact, there is room for ‘thwarted love and daffodils’ – as well as for political tirades, rambling narratives, comedy sketches, lyrical refrains, poetry films… There is overlap with drama, stand-up comedy, story-telling, cinema, hip hop and other music genres.

And surely this eclecticism is positive. If poetry is to compete with fiction, or any other art form, it needs to be available in just as many different varieties and packagings. After all, what everyone – including Fuller – seems to agree on is that poetry is essentially entertainment, and can only really ‘matter’ insofar as it achieves this. Pleasure is a matter of personal preference. So where you get your kicks is purely individual choice, whether it’s from the nether regions of an annotated edition of the collected works of T. S. Eliot, or from a YouTube film of Luke Wright rhyming about growing up in Colchester (‘where very little culture-stirs’).

And this page/stage dichotomy is largely tongue-in-cheek. In fact, it’s difficult to make such a neat distinction. To do so, Antrobus says, is ‘unhealthy, unnecessary and egotistical’, generally driven by an attempt to prove one’s own superiority. Thompson suggests that in broad terms, spoken word poetry may include more rhyme and ‘in-your-face rhythm’ while poetry for the page may have more layers of meaning, able to withstand repeated readings but he warns that the distinction is a nebulous one. Meanwhile, O’Sullivan points to the many published poets who started out as performers – including Forward Prize nominees Tim Turnbull and Tim Wells – and those from a more traditionally academic background who are also incredible entertainers, such as Luke Kennard, Daljit Nagra and Hugo Williams.

So it’s tempting to ignore Fuller’s casual dismissal of stand-up poetry as meaningless, not really referring to a distinct entity separable from poetry in general. On the other hand, it represents the kind of dictatorially restrictive approach that leaves university students shocked to discover poetry living in ‘the voice of today’.

This is particularly important because poetry provides an especially powerful, authoritative voice, surrounded by a tradition that sees it as an elevated, almost revered form of communication. In the words of former US poet laureate Rita Dove, ‘poetry is language at its most distilled and most powerful’. According to Salman Rushdie, ‘a poet’s work is to name the unnameable, to point at frauds, to take sides, start arguments, shape the world, and stop it going to sleep,’ while William Hazlitt called poetry ‘all that is worth remembering in life.’

A quick Google search brings up scores of such quotes. Whether or not you agree with them all, it’s clear that exclusion from poetry, as producer or consumer, is hugely disempowering. Or to put it another way, a few hours at a spoken word night such as Jawdance leave no room for doubt about how empowering and powerful participation in poetic expression can be. ‘Stand-up’ equates to opening up this participation. It definitely matters.

You can also read this at Middlebrow Magazine, if you like.

Ouch, sore eyes!

Preamble, preamble, preamble... Essential Background Context for this poem: The Weather.

Sunny intervals 

Sunny intervals,

Said the BBC weather forecast,

Without giving a clue 

To how long these would last,

Or what in between.

I suspected the weatherman

Not of lying, per se,

But of optimistic euphemism;

What he didn't want to say

Was, that kind of grey day

When the sky looks worn out

And it seems quite cold,

But it's not (nor hot either),

The rain will probably hold off

But the sun, truth told,

Can't really be bothered,

Though it may just pop out

In the intervals

(So schedule your loo breaks

For during the acts)

Though today, in fact,

'Sunny intervals' turned out

To be strong wind, intent

On filling my eyes

With sharp bits of nature

While the sky changed colour,

Unnoticed.

22/5/11

HAHAHAHA (moan moan moan)

It's Shrove Tuesday. I've eaten lots of pancakes and frivolously decided to 'give up moaning for Lent'. So, in the spirit of getting it out of my system, here are some hitherto-repressed-from-the-public-eye Moany Depression Poems. (HAHAHAHA they shriek, we've been released.....)

The light evening sky

The light evening sky

Said it was time for change.

It lied.

The trees were still bare,

The air

Was still cold,

I still

Felt

Shit.

The prematurely lit

Street lamp

Glared at me

Across the railway lines,

Like an unfriendly

(But honest) eye.

I wrote that about this time of year, two years ago, at Teddington station.

Burnt out

Friday night,

Ten to nine

And high time

To be home.

No

Second wind tonight;

Feel my soul clenched tight

Against anyone who comes between

Me

And a deep, long sleep.

19/11/10.

Sundays

About a quarter past four

She got around

To removing the mascara

From the night before.

Now, she thought,

I must get out,

Get some daylight, and-

Oh

It's already dark.

Sundays, she thought,

Are hard work.

28/11/10.

Now that wasn't actually so bad was it? (I am still sitting on the worst offenders...)