David Riley: a retrospective

I feel I am among the least qualified to introduce this retrospective piece on David Riley, as I barely knew him. He was  Blackpool-born and I understand he was among the early participants in Lancashire Dead Good Poets' Society, but his involvement had pretty much ended by the time I joined in 2014. 

David Riley (extreme right) with early members of LDGPS

He was an historian, a tutor with the Open University, and  a writer of science-fiction, plays and poetry. I saw David read at a couple of open mic nights and prevailed upon him to write a trio of short pieces as a guest blogger but he always seemed to maintain a relatively low profile. The last time we met was at the funeral of fellow Dead Good Poet Christopher Heyworth in the summer of 2017, when David announced that he was relocating to Ireland to undertake an MA in Poetry at the Seamus Heaney Centre of Queen's Belfast. He passed away in September 2018 just after having completed his dissertation.

Divine Mystery

In Whitechapel, hell clings to brick and stone
Grim residue like smog that never lifts
Blue populace wades, ankle deep in death

Behind a window's bubble-spotted eyes
Bone-handled orphans rest in caskets lined
With velvet. Feathered pens and vessels, cracked.

A desk, marked deep and faded as the day
Is strewn with cups and wands, lovers and wheels
A form, ancient and present, points to change.

Her fingers at the deck, old woman smiles
Reeking of gin and smoke, wrapped tight in tweed
A body's surfaced and she knows the hand.

Emigrant

Alehouse drink was attracting attention

to the ending of things

preceding Skipool's frigate who'd blur all consequence.

"Carried away to Amerikay,"

the stillborn song no one could finish

among the fledgeling emigres.

Anyons, Bambers, Silcocks, Hulls

most busy telling absent Hornbys Stanleys

what they could do with their bulls.

Brave on their last night in Poulton

that gentry at a safe distance

they waited on high tide to follow the sun -

"aye, where it sleeps, just beyond there

they've men with faces for chests

and dogs' heads for their hair.

It's true as I'm standing here

they've got pictures down south somewhere."

The stories were getting as strong as the beer.

They wanted a world of adventure

lied for it, stole for it, lent wives for it

and tomorrow on the shore

they'd look where horizons should be

losing touch, moving on

into the sky and the sea.

Found Blackpool

3am argue blackpool blackpool's cash chair class come cost council day deckchair deckchairs emro end forward gazette go golden happen id including just mile modern move need new other place police process prom pub resort say seaside seem shame sight spent stock talk time town visitor vital working year

Thoughts For Christmas

Is poetry always religious?

Is religion always influenced by the politics of the day?
Therefore, is Christmas poetry always political?
Do you need to understand religion before you can understand most poetry, from Beowulf to the Canterbury Tales to Eliot?
Do you need to know the nativity story to understand Coleridge, Rossetti and Wordsworth?
How much Christmas themed poetry have you seen in the shops recently?
Are poets making Christmas commercial?
Is there extra exposure for poetry at this time of year?
Does it help poetry?
Are Christmas carols poetry?
Are some more Catholic than Protestant (and vice versa)?
Do they all have the same message?
Is Christmas relevant any more? Is Christmas poetry important?
Is it as saccharine as Christmas card verses?
Are these big questions?
Happy Christmas.

Customs Man

The child's wrapped to her

curves reserved for him now,

maybe husband too.

She does the dance of motherhood

soothes the boy

refuses to entangle eyes with me

but I know her secret name

and the one she shares

since she's been goodwife to him.

I add them

to Anyons, Bambers, Silcocks, Hulls

clerk them out of England

a last rite,

pull them up by the roots

throw them out to sea.

I look at the child's red fist

declining to go so easily

catching his mother's impatient hair.

I murmur small pleasantries

close my book

wish them God speed

watch them walk the plank.

I wave. No one turns back,

she doesn't look.

RIP David Riley, 1955-2018