Christopher James Heyworth: a retrospective

This retrospective on the poetry of Christo (as he was known to us) concludes the occasional Sunday series featuring former Dead Good Poets who are, alas, no longer with us.

On open mic nights Christo would as soon (or rather) read poems by his favourite poets than read his own compositions. And for some reason the guest blogs he wrote for the Dead Good Blog never contained any of his own compositions.

But he was passionate about poetry, read widely, commented constructively and wrote, albeit not prolifically.  It has been a pleasure to read again, curate and present here some of my personal favourites. 

Christopher James Heyworth

Wyred For Sound

From above the thread of stream

silent yet sibilant sidles seaward

Skippool and Wardley's wresting

the shake snake-handled sidewinder.

Over there is where Illawalla dressed

in Hindu glamour as Mumbai let us

dream we were briefly Maharajahs

John Travolta-ing for Saturday Night

Shebas sashaying mouthing medleys.

Falstaff

Sir Anthony sidles into
the little space left in
my memory as the rather
gaunt and sallow History Man
who so horrified us
when so shallow but
costumed and padded
with gross belly and
straining belt commands
this stage as Falstaff
misleader of Hal, liar
personified, but Life-
lover as dimpled as
Dionysus - eat, drink,
make merry one and all
for tomorrow we die.


Thank You Stanley Cornflake

As a uniform, he always wore
the grey ironmonger's coat
immaculately pressed and bore
clipped hair neat as well as a
close shave.

Mr. Cornthwaite (all of us
minions called him only Mr.)
was no "Do It 'Cos I Say So" boss
but with patience would teach
and preach retail folklore:

Cooks' staples stored well inside
our mini-market shop advanced
for its 50s' existence; shelf-stacking
to re-arrange for early use-by at the
front; fast-moving lines checked
hourly if not sooner; trusted staff
becoming the Tasting Squad for
new fresh produce being considered
for supply - The Cornflake (never
uttered in his hearing) circulating
to ensure not only that his ever-clear
commands were reflected in full shelves
but also that staff were coping not
rushed or overwhelmed.

The best Warrant Officer cares
just as much commands as
my de-mobbed Warrant Officer
father used to tell me when I asked.

Warwick Words

Thursday morning and I board
the Preston train, a dumpy DMU,
but less of a cattle-truck today.

Over the bridge or beneath
lines to Platform 5 to wait:
Branson's Scarlet Pendolino
will glide in soon bound
for Birmingham - wonder
who I shall meet and share
travelling moments with ?

At the caverns of New Street
I must wend to Moor Street
and a Chilterns train trundling
me south for Warwick's 1,100th.
birthday weekend and 100 years
since trains of Lancashire PALS
cattle-trucked themselves to
Flanders fields never to return.

Money Talks...

...and what it said back then on the railway bridge
at Bloomfield Road (no longer there of course)
was "You can spare me – it means only one less
penny ice lolly from the corner shop !" (no longer
there of course) and the train will make me huge
(steam no longer here of course) and the others
will laugh and cheer as you scramble down to
the line place me centred and climb back up
here again before the train shoots through to
Central Station (no longer there of course).

Gigantic copper-coloured disc and this recall.
Still talking half a century after.


War Poets

Poulton Library and
Adele & I are here to
share with whoever
arrives some thoughts
concerning War and
Literature. Linda sets
us up with chairs and
table, and first here is
delightful surprise: Pat
who I taught thirty years
ago - there will be no
need for me to dig a
trench and put on a
jacket bullet-proof
with tin hat on my
head - Philip Larkin
Alun Lewis, Sassoon
and Wilfred Owen
give staunch support
to Jon Stallworthy's
World War One tome
Anthem for Doomed
Youth: Twelve Poets
but doomed not us
this century later.

Travel

On the hailed ferry from

Wardley's Creek to jetty

at Cockle Hall I scull back

days to nosing through

ducklings on The Cam punting

past King's College Chapel on

The Backs with puntsman

Eliot reminding us: When

we can see the backs of leaves

rain is waiting in the wings.

Blue but no longer 'blue'

Our son
grins from ear........to..........ear
as Kompany
lifts the trophy
for all to see:
blue moon
here but
we are
no longer
BLUE

Ungrown

During this sort of fallow period
my inventiveness has been
hibernating within for the months
that are beginning to feel endless
where are the fresh shoots ?

Do I need a salvo to stir
the soil so that like poppies
long lying in wait under
too undisturbed soil pop their
red clarion call being vivified ?

Here I chop down pen not *****
and loosen the words waiting the
flowering of fresh inspiration.

There - just a flick of the wrist.

All poems (c) the estate of C J Heyworth

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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

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Sheilagh Dyson: a retrospective

The third in this series of Sunday retrospectives celebrates the poetry of Sheilagh Dyson. She was the regular Tuesday blogger in the early days of the Dead Good Blog (2012-2015) and a stalwart of our open mic nights. She was a lovely warm and sociable lady and we miss her. Though her blogs tended to feature poems on theme by other poets than herself, I've selected three of her own to share with you today. Enjoy. 

Sheilagh Dyson in full GB Olympics mode, 2012

Balanced Baking (a triolet)

Weigh the eggs, butter, sugar and flour
For a perfect Victoria sponge.
All must weigh the same, same power.
Weigh the eggs, butter, sugar and flour
Whisk and fold and blend and now you
Mix with love to a sloppy gunge.
Weigh the eggs, butter, sugar and flour
For a perfect Victoria sponge.


One Thousand (a found poem)

Something to a few,
a woman whose life was a mess
before the bitterness
do I starve this year?

Come hold me now
come see the sun
come stand with me
lay down the tracks

From a wild sky painted furious
crumpled metal objects
the brass blasts of the Salvation band
hear the horses coming closer, see the gallons of blood
twisting grey
tunnels, stale urine light and a voice
like dandelion seeds
that warns of gaps

This is the light to live in

Thinking
I could bring him to life with nothing more than hope
and the power of my own mind
religion and fecking psychics
they weren’t my first choice
not my intention

You will be left wearing pants
being trodden underfoot

Rabbit holes lead to burrows
and gardens aren’t a secret

The place we lay when no more days to give
it won’t be sad.


A Blackpool Fantasy

Winter.
Wind whistling, litter rat-tat-tat-ing,
no-one around, just me,
no-one looking, just me.
I climb into the zip-wire harness
on the roof of the Winter Gardens
and start the slow descent across St. John’s Square.
The softly glittering jewels of light through the church windows
rise up to meet me
and I glide effortlessly to greet the silent stone tiles.

You can link to all Sheilagh's Dead Good Blogs here: Sheilagh Dyson

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Mandy Laird-Hall: a retrospective (part 2)

In the second part of this Mandy Laird-Hall retrospective, three more of the poems Mandy performed at our Dead Good Poets' open mic nights in the years before Covid. The first two were written for a couple of our themed nights. I have to say that 'Asylum 1865', which concludes the blog, blew me away when I heard it first and has just done so again as I put this post together. Enjoy them all and please feel free to comment and share. 

Don’t Find It

Never land, never land, never land in Neverland

Fiendish Pan clad in skeleton leaves
With juices that ooze out of trees
He takes your trust and lures you in
A promised land that seeps with sin.

Nefarious fairies cast their spell
Led by the teratoid Tinkerbell
Believing their ploys, their jealous lies
They’ll trample you down, ignore your cries.

Be wary of that vicious croc
Who’ll crunch your bones, despite the clock
And leave you broken, bitten, spat
Discarded, dismal, wrung out flat

No escaping heinous Hook
Who rips your heart out like a crook
Then chews it raw, washed down with wine,
Dribbling shivers down your spine

Tootles, Curly, Nibs and Slightly
Will take your dreams and twist them tightly,
Aspirations squeezed to dust
Love transposed to lightless lust.

Take the 2nd star to the right and carry on till morning
No health warning!

Vegetables and Rhythm

Beet needs the heat to grow succulent and sweet –
Makes the bulbous bulb grow larger and the flavour more complete.
The old wives’ tale says beet heats your toes,
Widens out your blood vessels and sends heat to your nose –
But scientists have proven that this is very silly
Concentrated beet juice makes you no less chilly –
Betalains in beets cause red poop and pee
In 9% of cases – so not quite majority –
So let’s sit in the garden with our vegetable juice
With our drums and our guitars,
Playing free and hanging loose
Drinking beet in the heat to the beat in the heat –
Drinking beet in the heat to the beat in the heat.


Asylum 1865

My name it is Elizabeth; they call me barmy Bette.
Been here three year, engulfed in fear, and no release date set.
And why, you ask, is this my home, with no sign of release?
I questioned my dear husband re his sleeping with my niece.

This place is full of women who have challenged gender norms,
Spoke up and pushed oppression back, in all its sexist forms
Some would not promise to obey or walk through life half-blind.
They didn’t toe the family line; some dared to speak their mind

Our warped ideas, we’re female ‘queers’, with shrunken hearts and brain
Lock them away, the judges say, save us from the insane.
Save them, poor mites, the social blights, they know not what they do-
Moral contagion, gross mutations, we’ll help them muddle through –

Deviant women, here to be cured, neglected wifely duty
We’re problematic spouses, sisters, daughters lacking beauty.
We are gender deviant, unwomanly and mannish,
Immoral and hysterical, they’d love us all to vanish

So cauterize our cervix and compress our ovaries
Chain us to the wooden beds, complete lobotomies
Give enemas and borax to eliminate our badness
We’re nymphomaniacs, fallen whores, born with raving madness

Our families saved from social scars by this fair institution
Our souls to save as our minds rave, this neat and kind solution
My name it is Elizabeth, some call me barmy Bette
My children lost their mother – the world pronounced me dead.

Thanks to Mandy's son Oliver for permission to reproduce his mother's poems.

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Mandy Laird-Hall: a retrospective (part 1)

For this and the next few Sundays, I'll be sharing some poems by members of Lancashire Dead Good Poets' Society who are sadly no longer with us. Call it an overdue retrospective.

We start this week with a trio of poems from Mandy Laird-Hall, otherwise known by her professional name of Emily Laws. All of these poems were performed at our Dead Good Poets' open mic nights in the years before Covid. Enjoy them and please feel free to comment and share.

The Big One*

(dedicated to 12th August 2016)

A thousand nights of painting on a borrowed face
To attract, interact or merely distract
The crowd at the pub or queue at the chip shop

The wearisome war battling boulders and dents
My personal series of unfortunate events.
The stifling ceiling creeping eerily lower
Heavy heartbeat ticking slower

Endless monotony, ceaseless cacophony
Mindless mindgames, factitious lobotomy
Struggling to swim against the tide
Sucked down by currents, washed up, cockeyed.

Seeing life through the bottom of a glass
Allowing the colours to fade to brass
A blur of greys, dismal days –
Smashed into rainbows by one single gaze

When she raised
Her eyes to me
When she raised her eyes.

*First printed in the Lancashire Dead Good Poets' anthology 'The Big One', 2018

Let Sleeping Dragons Lie

Let Sleeping dragons lie.
Don’t try to befriend, train or mend
Their natural tendency
To set you alight,
Consume you with one blast
Of hell-borne wickedness.

Let sleeping dragons lie.
Lie in their placidity.
Lie in their disguised acidity
A dragon cannot change its spots
Or should that be scales?
Their tails should be avoided –
One foul flail and you’re out.
Out for the count.
Do not pass go
Do not collect 200 pounds.

Let sleeping dragons lie
Don’t awake the fiery snake
The blood-red eyes, disguised
While sleeping, no sign,
Seemingly benign,
Almost fine, godlike, sublime,
Yet rancid green, unseen
Your true disposition
Cruel magician

Let sleeping dragons lie
Or you may fry!


2 ¾

Outside the now house that was
Post Office, in my pram,
I ask you how old I am –
Two and a half or two and three quarters –
Your daughter.
Two and three quarters, you said.
The pram was grand.
You wove me through fairytales and
Unavailable beliefs,
Streets carved with wound down paper rounds
Of back-breaking love.
You bore the load. Toad.
Cockroaches. How they encroach on your life.
She finds them and obliterates
Every sound of them.
She wove her treasure trove so deeply,
So astoundingly,
So God-given magically.

There will be three more poems from Mandy's back catalogue next week.

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