Nun on a Bicycle
Now here she comes, rattling over cobbles,
powered by her sandals, the gentle downhill
and the grace of God. Now here she comes, her habit
what it was always waiting to become:
a slipstream. Past stop signs, the pedestrian
traffic at rush hour, the humdrum mopeds,
on a day already thirty in the shade:
with her robe fluttering like solid air,
she makes her own weather. Who could blame her,
as the hill sharpens, she picks up speed and smiles
into her future, if she interrupted
the Our Fathers she’s saying in her head,
to say Whee, a gentle Whee, under her breath?
O cycle, Sister! Look at you now, freewheeling
through the air conditioning of the morning –
who’s to say the God who isn’t there
isn’t looking down on you and grinning?
The Bloke Selling Talk Talk in the Arcade
He’s got the patter, the natter, the gift
of the gab. He’s got all the flattery
you can stand, different routines for madam
and sir, all that self-help book, cod amateur
psychology, the professional
bullshit, the Hey, how’s it goin’, my man?
He’s got you eating out of the palm
of his hand. He’s got the Prince Charming,
the How are you, darlin’?, the body language
training, the feints, the moves. He knows
the moment to run a hand through his smooth,
smooth hair, when to nod sagely, as if he
cares, understands. He’s got the world
in his mobile and the pen in his
hand. He’s got the opening line, the spiel,
the feel for people, knows the time
to look into your eyes, touch your
arm, to hang back, play it calm,
to open up about his life, to ask about
your children, your wife. He’s got your future
waiting for you: just reach out and
take it. His brunette student sidekick
advertises herself but our man’s got the pen,
the pen, an afternoon of chatting up
men, and when, at five, he packs up
his tongue for the day and walks into the world,
just like you, like me, like anyone,
he’s got the air, the night, the setting sun.
Starbucks Name Tag Says Rhian
With her Minnie Mouse voice and her Popeye
tattoos, she is the Queen
of mug rings. Slow-stepping in sensible shoes
with that brush, she sweeps
the world before her. Her flirtatiousness
is customer service training, her complimentary
uniform an apron, her nemeses
the teenage couple in the khazi. She
takes no prisoners and does her duty,
holds the mop’s head under in the bucket,
bench-presses tables, chairs, beneath
that bouffant. Sometimes you’ll catch her
humming along to the piped Nina Simone,
stealing breaks to gaze out through the window,
tuck one stray hair behind an ear. Her smile
says she’ll take the clouds out of the sky
to make your latte, or if she can’t reach that far,
at least she’ll flutter those big eyelashes
at the tip jar. Now she turns to you:
What’s it to be then, sweetie? Look, the gold-toothed till
is open-mouthed again at all that beauty.
The Girls on the Make-up Counter
They stand and wait for you to want some me-time,
hairdos piled up like the Coldstream Guards:
they stand and wait to be your name-badged friends.
They come in close, intimate as opticians,
mascara brushes growing from their fingers.
Close your eyes, they whisper, as you make a wish
to look like them. They smile and smile,
working hard to get your reflection right.
They’ll have to do this to themselves tonight,
stand before a mirror, breathe in their waists,
mutter something, then step into a city
where every other woman wears their face.
Karaoke
Friday nights we try out other voices:
the boy with the piercing and the HATE tattoo
wants us to love him tender, love him true,
stumbling over the newsreader’s autocue.
The landlord asks his mam to mind the bar
while he pops round to give us My Way. His way.
The girl who’s got every boozed-up eye in the place
would like to know if we’ll still love her, tomorrow;
disco lights make a superstar of her shadow.
Next morning, I rescue overalls from the washing,
button up, slip back into my own skin,
head out to the van, start it up, and find myself whistling.
Brothers
You know the sort: they borrow each other’s t-shirts,
wear each other’s sweat under their armpits.
In the pub, you swear you hear one’s voice and turn
to find the other chatting up your girl,
or else you catch one, curling up his lip,
as if he’s trying on his brother’s smile,
or you go to the bar and they both show up.
One has a knackered Transit, the other jump leads.
They’ve one gym membership and their own bodies,
tell the punch lines to each other’s jokes
and if you’re fool enough to bother one,
you’ll find yourself outside with both of them.
You know the sort: the elder has a child
who’s got her mother’s mouth, her uncle’s eyes.
The Boy with the Pump-action Water Pistol
snipes from hedges at ladies fresh for chapel,
or dribbles a ball round old man Walker’s Astra
to score at Wembley. He floats above the ground
on his skateboard, plays toy dinosaurs,
lives in a land beyond time. Butterflies
outwit him: his idea of hunting is applause.
Pockets full of conkers, his head of acorns,
he raids his mother’s washing line for the sail
of the pirate ship he’s dreamt into the garden,
then sprints off to catch tadpoles, measles, snails.
O boy with the pump-action water pistol,
here’s to your ballet ankles, crash-pad knees,
these summer days I watch you through this window.
I have been careful. No one’s spotted me.
The Performance
On a quiet Tuesday in our village,
workmen started putting up a stage
in the square. When Will Johnson,
who has the butcher’s there, came out
to see what all the fuss was about,
he found they spoke no English.
By noon, the news was everywhere.
Some said it was all for a performance
by travelling players, others a boxing bout
between the vicar and the mayor,
or for some visiting dignitary, like the Queen
or Wayne Rooney. What wasn’t in doubt
was the expense: faux-Roman pillars,
flower arrangements camouflaging speakers,
a climbing frame lighting rig, a portable
orchestra pit. Neighbours talked about it
all afternoon, claimed indifference: the baby
to put to bed, something on the telly,
but by half-six, everyone was gathered
in their best clothes. Money changed hands
for seats in
the front row, while at the back,
there was something approaching an insurrection
over whether one arse cheek means possession.
Quiet settled as the performance time came
and went, and nothing happened:
by seven-thirty we were restless and thirsty
and some fella started hawking cans of beer.
The first of us stormed the stage an hour later,
swaying slightly, ready to have a go at
an a cappella Swing Low, Sweet Chariot,
got a can to the cranium for his efforts.
That started it: an industrial speaker
was put through the butcher’s window,
a lily was rammed down the vicar’s earhole,
some kid made monkey bars of the lighting rig,
until it collapsed and smashed, setting fire
to the now obviously polystyrene pillars.
We finished up cracking the stage with our seats:
all in all, it must have made a sight
for the workmen who then came around the corner,
with their mops and brushes, their mirror ball heads,
speaking no English, whistling to themselves.
Holiday
Unable to sleep for the fourth night in a row,
I get up, say Fuck it, drive to the nearest hotel.
The receptionist looks twice at my pyjamas,
the hot-water bottle that’s my only luggage,
but money is money, and business is business.
The room has a double bed and double pillows.
The walls are white; there’s a carpet I wouldn’t have chosen.
I fall asleep before I’ve brushed my teeth.
It works for a week. Then the porter
calls me by my name. At four that morning,
still awake, I look for the Gideon’s Bible, and find
my address book in its place. The final straw
is when I hear Room service! at the door.
Opening it, I find, holding silver trays,
my wife and daughter, my parents and my boss,
asking me if this is what I ordered.
On the Overpass
I like the one above the local bypass,
my parents’ farmhouse lit up on the hillside,
traffic rushing under at all times.
Also, the fence is dead easy to climb,
the outside ledge just deep enough to stand on.
Don’t worry. Look, I’m always sure to hold on:
now with my right hand, now with my left.
I like that moment when I’m teetering
and free. This is the second time this week.
I get so bored. Listen, here’s a lorry:
it goes Woosh. Then the wind goes Wuh-huh.
It’s too cold to stay up here for long, really,
but I like to make up stories in my head:
is this you, lovely boy, speeding your Corsa
towards me, your friend in the passenger seat
big-eyed, looking up now through the windscreen?
Acknowledgements
Some of these poems have previously appeared in 14, Agenda Broadsheets, Cannon Poets, Cheval, The Frogmore Papers, The Interpreter’s House, Iota, The Lightship Anthology 2, Magma, New Welsh Review, The North, nth position, Obsessed with Pipework, Orbis, Other Poetry, Planet, Poems for a Welsh Republic, Poetry Review, Poetry Wales, The Reader, Red Poets, The Rialto, Roundyhouse, Smiths Knoll, The Stinging Fly and The Warwick Review.
Some of these poems were included in a collection which won the Terry Hetherington Award in 2010. I am very grateful to Alan and Jean Perry, Aida Birch and Amanda Davies.
‘Evel Knievel Jumps Over my Family’ won second place in the Cardiff International Poetry Competition 2012. ‘Gregory Peck and Sophia Loren in Crumlin for the Filming of Arabesque, June 1965’ was commended in the Basil Bunting Award 2012. ‘Brothers’ won third prize in the Cannon Poets Sonnet Competition 2012. ‘How to Renovate a Morris Minor’ won first prize in the Newark Poetry Competition 2012. ‘Bamp’ was commended in the flamingofeather poetry competition 2013.
The author wishes to acknowledge the award of a New Writer’s Bursary from Literature Wales in 2011, for the purpose of completing this collection.
Thank you: Saskia Barnden; David Briggs, David Clarke and the members of the Bristol Poetry School; Michael Hulse, David Morley and the staff and students of the Warwick Writing Programme; Mike Jenkins and the Red Poets; and Amy Wack and everyone at Seren. Thank you beyond measure to my parents.