To Simeon

You mustn’t, Simeon.

But then, what else?

You give so much,

You’d never give yourself away

And never mourn the loss.

What agony for those who watch,

Who cannot help,

Who find no right by word or look

To stay your heart or stem your hope

Of ...what?  Oh, she can cook and mend and smile

And “She’s not happy” is your plea,

Despairing and beseeching still -

But neither is her husband, Simeon.

Is, not was.  Her husband is.

The trust is gone, the seams have sprung,

To have, to hold for one short year,

To cherish...

Strange word.  In sickness and in health,

In sickness now -

In sickness, darkness, broken faith and utter lack of charity.

“You see, she broke...and left...and asked my help.”

And you?

Oh, Simeon, we do not know;

We only guess and fear and pray

And breathe “you must not, must not...”

You ache to help, to hold, to have

Her happiness,

Which doesn’t matter.  No,

It’s what you do with her unhappiness that counts,

For that is real and that is precious,

All that’s left of one spring morning

When marriages were made in heaven...

Let no man put assunder

Her anguish from her soul;

Twelve pride-full months are not from this time forth;

Her erring husband’s sickness must be cherished,

May be healed.

Oh, Simeon, you must not;

Deny yourself,

Dare not to kill unhappiness;

If she has pain (maybe for you) then she can feel

And even now she holds the grace to love.

So then, kiss pain away, my Simeon

- and win a love-dead heart.

How can we help, how can we hope?

Darkness stretches round your eyes,

Indecision frets your mouth

And wearies you.

Simeon, love her more, much more,

And let her go still broken.

(Undated, between 1966 and 1970?)

Nursery Rhyme For Grownies And Squares

Hippy girl, little girl, where are you going to?

Down in the twilight to have me some pot.

Hippy girl, little girl, what will you do then?

Ol’ daddy Nixon will likely be shot.

Hippy girl, little girl, whom will you care for?

Naught for a white man and less for a w_.

Hippy girl, little girl, what will you do then?

Live like a trollop and die like a dog.

(Undated, between 1966 and 1970?)

Case Number

Home wanted - ring

Two seven one double three.

Lift the ’phone.  Or let it lie.

Lift; right up.

Or lie.

I could stretch the hand like that,

So easy,

Cup the receiver in the hollow of my hand,

Tear from its cradle...

Words.

They lead you on too far.

God have mercy, mercy.

The cradle - souls born into babies,

Swathed in little woolly things - and made by whom I wonder?

Did it hurt - very much?

Knit one, slip one - weep, weep, grey woman - drop one

(No, two; drop two.  Giles 13 and Polly 7),

Pass the slipped ones over

To empty walls,

To makeshift arms,

To lino hard for soft-curled toes in joyless walking,

To smells and space and not a place to hide

Or live or love or let live love or be at peace.

The cradle’s empty now, my Giles, my Polly;

Thirteen, seven,

Dirty heaven, hell on earth today,

Tomorrow, mother gone

And sorrow

Gladdest day compare with your dark night.

Giles thirteen and Polly seven,

Giles and Polly.

Thirteen.  Seven.

Unlucky age, my farmer Giles.

All farmers live upon their losses, so they say,

And you must know that now; you’ll not forget?

Forget - and Polly seven; old, old number

Of perfection;

So aching old at seven,

A child as perfect as that Gift,

That Mary’s child.

What fear - full, weeping travesty.

Polly put the kettle on - they’ve all gone away. 

Giles (thirteen) and Polly (seven) - home wanted, Home

Not wanted.

Not that self-importance.

Cut out the self - home wanted.

A little humble home, with a little, little h

(A lower-case letter, isn’t that it?

Words, words... “he that is low need fear no fall”..)

Giles thirteen and Polly seven

Flung

With battered case (law case, suitcase - all the same)

Flung against the instituted Home.

Charity begins at home, they say.

They say.

Ring 27133.

Ring.

Did she have a ring, the woman?

I have, can have, so much.

Cup the receiver in the hollow of Thy hand

(Cup the water to me who thirst,

To me the receiver of stolen goods - goods once wrenched

                                                                             from love;

Cup the fresh fountain in Thy torn hands

Brimful with mirth and mercy).

Bless the empty cradle.

(Undated, between 1966 and 1970?)

Toggle In The Well

Once a wee toggle lived in a well -

But how he came there I couldn’t tell.

He had no teeth and his hair was pink,

He painted his whiskers in with ink;

He kept silk spider’s webs shut in a tin

To wrap around him when the winds blew thin.

His Aunt Clarinda always swore

(But very politely I feel sure)

That his trousies were fashioned of birch-tree bark

Gathered by bobbolinks after dark;

His shirt was red as a ladybird’s wing,

And summer or winter this song he’d sing:

“Down in the dingle the bobbolinks blink;

Out in the wastelands the woofle-whips wink;

Up in the starlight the pelliwigs peer;

But I’m cuddled deep in the well, my dear.”

(Undated, between 1966 and 1970)

Give You Good-Day, Gossip

Oh, not again; you’ve said it all before.

Hooligans?  What rot.

(Those young and roisterous merry ones?)

All right; there’s Jerry.

Young?  Not very, no.  I know...his clothes..

(Stuffed full of love

That gay, that trusting heart,

That child-like heart, hops

Under there,

Beneath that singing shirt).

He can get steam up, yes.

God bless him, too,

For that.

(He wraps his heart around the weak,

He curls their hurt beneath that blinding shirt;

I’ve seen the bullies dodge his bloody fists).

Laughing?  Oh, yes, indeed, I’m laughing -

Loud, loud, loud.

Cat’s whiskers, woman, is life to be so gloomy?

(Can’t mercy grin while lugging up the fallen?

In Christ, can’t you laugh too?)

Oh, no, not running on again, (again, again, again,

You carping, blind and silly,

Silly woman and corrosive...)

Indeed, there’s Pablo, too.  You know him?

Runty, ferret-eyed and sly,

And smoking like a foundry;

Just twelve.

You’d call him a lout?  A long-haired sneak?

Well, I can’t stop you.

(But fish out from your cliché- clouded mind

Some words

To sear his dad and brand his mother with

“Good souls; they do so much...” for others add.

Out, out, out, each evening of the week,

Serving others in the name of love.

Say that,

He’s frightened of his mum and dad;

Say “frightened sick,” my woman, “frightened sick.”)

Good souls that do so much?

(Ask Pablo what they do

To him, our lout, our hooligan,,

An outcast, wounded boy).

Sebastian;  No?

You don’t?

Of course, you wouldn’t.

(His name is something else,

Respectable.

Sebastian’s a title, though; they call him

Bastard,

Just for short,

And clap the staggering blows of love

Upon his leather back

And set him in the pattern.)

He’s needed too, you know.  All needed.

Well, woman, I don’t know...

(Don’t ask me how, or why, or when -

His mother didn’t need him)

Sebastian?  It’s an honest name.

(So’s bastard, just for long;

The length of life,

A vivid thread to give identity

To you and me,

Such drab, drab creatures both)

Look like?

Sebastian is gay and long,

Long hair, long trousers, long experience;

Such bright blond hair

That softly...

(Dances on his shoulders

Hunched

Above his cue for billiards

Or for life.

He laughs too.

Do you laugh very often?

Yet you were born in wedlock,

Not in deadlock.)

Weren’t you?

Sorry.  I was wondering.

Don’t make me more than angry.

(Your “hooligans” are held in trust

And you shall not go tattling,

Malicious, village lady-fair,

You poisonous old trout.)

“They’ve broke a chair, they’ve broke a light...”

(They’ve broken homes, they’ve broken hearts)

“...it’s shockin’, really dreadful.

Them noisy bikes,

An’ greasy hair an’ long,

All ’angin’ down their shoulders;

It’s not right, that; it’s not, y’know.

They ought to stop it, now.

The damage...”

(They should have stopped the damage years ago)

“Well, me an’ Mrs. Wells were down,

On Monday;

The library it was; well, really..

I mean, I know I’m not a prude

But some things...

Drugs, too, I shouldn’t wonder...

Well; maybe I shouldn’t

But what I’ve always said,

Them ’ooligans

Them dirty tykes,

They smoke an’ drink an’ swear -

An’ worse...

Oh no, I’ve never been, not club night.

I wouldn’t dare.  I mean

You never know;

They might...well, anything.

It’s got to stop.

It can’t go on; it’s plain

Disgustin’.

We want ’em out of ’ere;

This is the village ’all, after all.”

After all, they want them

Out of here.

I wonder where God wants them

In the pattern?

                 (Undated, between 1966 and 1970?)