Kind regards
Mark
Daughter of the Beat
At first, like everyone
we ever see, she’s an image, an assumption
Gazing from the page at
me, from a time before I’d even heard
Her name, let alone
stood on the cusp of these innermost thoughts
Lain bare as words for
all to read.
I know my walk in this
garden of candid prose will be unique
Seeking more than
others seek, I'm following a path that’s
Mine to find,
revelations from between the lines leading to
Appreciation.
On the day the
photograph was taken, if I’m not wrong, her eyes
Reflected more than a
cameras lens. An energy reaching out
Decades on – a
fragile being, aware of her mortality
Knowing she’ll soon
be gone.
Smiling, I'm enjoying
alternating shades of light and dark
Finding depth beyond a
perfect face, colour beyond
Black and white, happy
that words can endure death
Making more than
fitting epitaphs – they tell a story.
It’s through her
words the beat goes on, she herself
Has gone but if eyes
are indeed the gateway to a soul
I wasn’t wrong.
Turning the final page I also offer words
Hoping she’s found
the peace that she deserved.
Rear
View
All I had to do was
subtly glance behind me
A surreptitious rolling
of the eyes
To see you there,
sitting in my present
Yet somehow belonging
to the past
I wanted to see if I
still found you beautiful
Traced the familiar
contours of your face
A numbing sadness
tugging at my heart
Feelings from another
time and place
I heard your voice in
the here and now
Felt your presence just
behind
Not something I had to
recreate
From the forbidden
corners of my mind
Wishing I could say I
hadn’t felt the yearning
A desperate desire to
re-connect
Resolutely I drove on
through gaps of silence
Always one to humbly
genuflect
With trepidation I felt
the old fires burning
Of the love you’d
chosen to reject
I’ve often tried but
there’s no going back
No dressing the wounds
of your neglect
Wisdom’s lines trace
the pain of learning
Framing the damage
that’s been done
I pull away with no
thoughts of turning
No more rear-view
glances at “the one”
Comprehensive Indeed
Lined up like wide-eyed
frightened meerkats we await the verdict
Delivered from sneering
faces of contempt part hidden by big brother
(And there’s always
the guardian angel-rock-ape that waits outside the gate
Of this hellhole, after
school, the ultimate tattooed guarantor)
Fingers pointing they
progress slowly down the line
A single phrase, a
word, mark of the beast conferred:
“He’s a poof, he’s
a poof, he’s a poof, he’s alright, he’s a poof”
Said with an amazingly
dispassionate contempt
And now for the less
fortunate it starts:
Bullying, shoving,
sneering, name-calling
And those endless
portent laden threats
I’ll get you after
school
I’m going to kick
your fucking head in
Give us a sweet you
poof (always “you poof”)
As if they even know
the meaning of the word
Powerless teachers
often fare no better
Pale timid mediators
that our tormentors know
Can’t be everywhere
Can’t be outside the
gates
Where their spineless
jurisdiction ends
On the sprawling estate
I swear there are vines
hanging from the lampposts
To help the rock apes
swing their way to school
My punishable crimes: A
briefcase not rucksack
No standard issue Doc
Marten boots (in brown or black)
The branded gather in
clusters at playtime
Frightened little
penguins, bewildered, scared, lost
When the bell goes the
buildings spill their stomachs
From the upper floors
looking like a swarm
An eruption of
scurrying
Faceless ants
ii The Tools of the
trade
The shove
Safety in numbers
A Big brother or two
And (preferably) a rock
ape for extra immunity
A cover all insult
“You poof”
A flexible threat
“I’ll get you after
school”
(Effective even if you
don’t follow through)
The threat produces a
sick sinking-stomach feeling
Making the victim
recipient sweat for hours, fart with fear
The realisation of the
portent:
“I’ll kick your fucking head in, you poof”
iii How to be left
alone
Obey the law of the
jungle!
A hapless victim will
be selected for you
Unwilling gladiators we
form up
Before the bully
overlord and his gang
For their delectation
and delight
I can see his sneering
face
He knows you’re a
spineless shit
More afraid of him by
far
The bully cook book
recipe:
A pinch of Insults
lightly stirred
A seasoning of shoving
Lots of “you poof”
for a fuller flavour
Then get kicking!
A Doc Marten to the
shins
Or windmill punches to
the crying reddened face
You’re learning fast!
A revolting piping hot
dish will soon be served
Blood spattered, for
good old bully, already salivating
At the prospect of the
feast
Show no mercy under any
circumstances
The more your overlord
grins the better you’re kicking the shins
Don’t forget when
they go down a kick to the nuts
The victim is a “poof”
anyway, they won’t need them!
Iv The day that
friendship died
My dear childhood
friend:
If it makes it any
easier for you
Forgiving myself gets
harder with time
I wish I could make
amends
Turn back the clock and
stand up for you
Your crimes: polished
enunciation
Parents interested in
your education
I can see the bullies
surrounding you
Laughing, linking arms,
forming a tight ring
Framing your frightened
face, bed sheet white with fear
I can hear the chanting
begin
“Kill the poof, kill
the poof, kill the poof”
On a given signal the
dance begins
Like a macabre vicious
can-can
Doc Marten’s in
unison, to the shin, to the groin
Every time you try to
fall
They grab your collar
Hold it tight, kicking
Forcing you upright
Game over the suddenly
disinterested circle brakes apart
To reveal your face
racked with tears and pain as you stagger
Trying to walk,
shooting a look at your cowardly “friend”
That says quite simply
the friendship ends
I’m sorry
Wish I’d had a spine
back then.
V Music teacher
I can see and hear you
today
Clear as a bell in my
memory
You had a beautiful
voice
Long, lustrous blonde
hair
And I can see your red
face
Unwilling tears
starting to form
Behind thick black
rimmed NHS glasses
No interest in classic
arias here
The boys at the back
won’t listen
They’re too busy
picking the next victim
Planning today’s
playground torment
They merely jeer and
barrack you
It is with great
sadness I hear the news
A few years later
The throat that sang
arias
The rope you used to
hang yourself
Vi Comprehensive
“Here I sit bored as
hell waiting for the bloody bell”
I will always remember
that tribute
Deeply scratched into
the wooden table top
Like a pale brown scar
cut with a penknife, sutured by splinters
A mute verdict on
algebra, geometry, Pythagoras Theory
A hundred things we’ve
never had cause to use since
Five long, draining
years coming to an end
Unbelievably they’ve
put out squash, cakes and biscuits
To see us on our way,
trying to create an informal party hat atmosphere
A fitting send off from
the 1960’s build penal colony
We disaffected stand
sullenly, shifting our weight
From boot to boot when
a lone digestive is thrown
The air suddenly sports
a display of cake
It’s a riot out of
control!
The headmaster is
called
And he bursts through
the double doors
Mortarboard and black
grim-reaper cape
Billowing in the wind
of his assumed authority
A superhero like Batman
arrived to save the day
We all pelt him, the
mortarboard’s knocked off
Rolls impotently on the
floor like a chastened dog
A trail of cream and
jam adorn his high forehead, spatter his hair
He retreats the scene
with undue haste
Then it’s over and we
leave, just ebb away, like a retreating oil slick
No thought of a
backward glance at the grey prison
Nowadays dying of
concrete cancer, what a bloody waste
Vii A legacy
And there you still
stand
Ofsted special measures
Re-branded Art College
Failure
I still bleed from your
stigmata
Curse you when I drive
past
Through the jungle-vine
estate
Realising I’m scarred
just like the table top
Mark
Harris has asserted his right under
Section
77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
To
be identified as the author of this work.
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