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CAUGHT IN THE NET 155 -  POETRY  BY G. F. PHILLIPS

Series Editor - Jim Bennett for The Poetry Kit - www.poetrykit.org
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Submissions for this series of Featured poets is open, please see instruction in afterword at the foot of this mail.
 

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CONTENTS

1 - BIOGRAPHY
2 – POETRY 

3 - PUBLISHING HISTORY

4 - AFTERWORD
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1 – BIOGRAPHY:  G F Phillips

G F Phillips is an Adult Education tutor in Literature on Tyneside.  His poems have been published in school textbooks and anthologies like New Angles, Oxford University Press and Enjoying English, MacMillan.  His short story, Going Backwards to Go Forwards, was recorded for the audio website, Listenupnorth as well as several of his short poems and prose pieces.  Five of his short stories can be read at www.cutalongstory.com   He has written articles and book reviews for various magazine including The Good Book Guide and Education Review.  Also, he has worked on several collaborations with composers, including a multi-media project with Essex schoolchildren called Five Operas.  His most recent project, The Square & Compass, is the setting of sixteen poem to music in the first-ever folksong cycle about the history of St Mary’s Island off the North Tyneside coast.  The result is a CD with an accompanying booklet to be released in November 2015 in a joint production between author and composer.   In 2011 he won a Northern Voices Award.  He is a member of the Society of Authors and the Performing Right Society. More details can be obtained from his website:  www.gfphillipswriter.co.uk/

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2 - POETRY 

ST MARY’S LIGHT:  A SONG

The hermit built his rocky cell

In the pure and salty air;

And he would learn through the host to dwell

In the world he shouldered there.

Behold the light.  St Mary’s light,

As ships go back and forth

Like famous folk must stay the course,

They must stay the course.

The lighthouse keeper was all eyes

In the clean and salty air;

But greater still was his second eye

At the lighthouse top its glare.

Behold the light.  St Mary’s light, etc.

The smuggler went his chance sweet way

In the drift of salty air;

And his two lives were as night and day,

He lived for the spoils and dare.

Behold the light.  St Mary’s light, etc.

The Island Lord made it his own

In the tang of salty air;

And the life he led he made it known

With his wig and gown and mare.

Behold the light.  St Mary’s light, etc.

The sailor spun his many yarns

In the rough and salty air;

And harbour maids they’d lust on him

And he told that more went spare.

Behold the light.  St Mary’s light, etc.

AMUSEMENTS, SPANISH CITY

‘The terrible thing is that the crowd that fills the street believes the world will always be the same and that it is their duty to keep that huge machine running day and night.’

(Frederico García Lorca)

Young toughs drifted here and there

among the twists and turns of amusements.

Back then, another twist and turn, a brigade

of men from seam and yard.  A call-to-arms

on the brotherly circuit for the campo,

with the whirl and swirl of bringing in reserves.

Already set loose were brutal thugs

under many a white dome of a half world to come,

guns blazing down the shooting alleys of prized streets.

There was a blood feast of screams and cries,

what was music to their ears

on the merry-go-round of more pleasure.

A MAN FROM BLYTH

He always stood at the bar, standing shipshape

in his blue peak cap.  He had now retired

but not from teasing the barmaids, cut and thrust.

Him, taking his time, the slowest drinker

to have around the bar.  He drank

to the likes of seamen, the man at his side.

He would tell an old tale and when a barmaid pressed

the keg’s button and looked at him the liquid

filled up like she was refuelling cargo

into his glass, like the counter was the deck

having to be wiped dry of any beer splash.

More than this the toss of her head was like his sister’s,

a helper and scalper of his land space:

was the bête noire of his overgrown back garden,

close to the sea and the cool he knows,

kept in the family this living at the coast,

of feeling at home.  His Tuesdays and Fridays

let out in town, with the afternoon free,

a walk around shops, the odd birthday card bought,

and then this watering hole, warmth, noise,

before the bus back to Blyth.  Booze and not food,

drowning himself among the known clientele,

if of the ogle and drool school.  Promisingly,

he’ll go home to the long view and sea breeze.     

FROM THE TESTIMONY OF AN OTHERWISE CITIZEN

‘I find it impossible to be ‘objective’ in my approach to the joys, desperation and terrifying fear that the peoples of Burma experience.  It is their indomitable spirit, their kindness, determination and humanity that motivates me to persevere with my documentation of these peoples’ endless suffering.’

                                                                                                                         Dean Chapman

For Colette Anderson

1962

Rescheduled line closing in on Bristol,

its cargo weighing considerably more

than its usual crates where shades of English

mix with Burmese.  The little ones their voices

weak from expectation or the strangeness

of a cooler landscape, pale complexion.

Hidden on board all the way from Rangoon

like fraudsters living under pretence;

playing up to the moods of the sea:

three siblings with enough noise to match,

already toughened by father’s orders

their lives shored-up and stirring

from the dangers that always lurk within.

First it was the Yanks then the Aussies got kicked out.

The army with their zeal saw fit to govern,

beating unrest through more unrest, shouldered

the blame on those in retreat, and so were guilty

by their actions.  The same when students torched

your university.  The soldiers raided,

but days before you had already fled.

Your father had his only weapon:

a billiard cue – with more hope than threat.

All roads straight, all lead from the capital.

You clutching hand-held beads and blown-up views

of Windsor Road where, flimsy like new shoots,

you had hauled yourself free of the good earth.

Another day the coast would have been

your Shangri-La, as it was for grandfather.

Earlier this century he had roamed in

from Ireland, into the interior;

though spoon-fed on occupation and famine

it gave him the chance to own a pharmacy,

what the army took out of private hands,

(as was discovered later)  a return,

it was said – a going back to basics.

Another Sunday it would have been

something sacred.  Fussed over by servants,

beyond serrated palms in the games-room

your father soon ahead in billiards.

He hadn’t played so well for weeks.  Standing proud –

in the way he’d follow-through was lethal,

for each ball he had to slug he’d see as

                              his enemy to smash    

THE VILLAGE  SCHOOLROOM:  A POEM ON THE 150^TH ANNIVERSARY OF THE HARTLEY PIT DISASTER, 16 JANUARY 1862 WITH THE LOSS OF TWO HUNDRED AND TWENTY LIVES:

 After the engine beam split

and iron had crashed in-by,

down the one and only shaft it smashed

upon the backshift’s unsuspecting men.

And here the pit hierarchy moved in,

an unplanned requisition

taking over in this absence of a lesson.

The monitor’s time-centred bell was rung,

un-marked slates were blank as worn faces;

those silent rescuers, their pit boots

clarted with mud, carried in, rough-shod,

this very stuff of coaly earth.

Behind this door of kith and kin

there were only overseers to run to.

Almost played out, given one last chance

those desperate men wouldn’t be knocked back

by the rise of gas the fall of debris:

everything hung in the balance.

But that following Saturday

came the grimmest news up from below.

And so began more tea and sympathy

in that patriarchal cycle of pit ways,

lads, fathers, born breadwinners to their task

and lasses knew many of their names off by heart.   

SUFFOLK STREET BOMB

In October 2006 builders unearthed a 1000lb World War II bomb in the Hendon area of Sunderland.  It was thought a German bomber dropped it in 1940.  Sunderland police imposed an exclusive zone affecting 4000 residents and many local businesses.

That October the digger’s driver reports

on some crock in the depths, his digger stopped short.

Suffolk Street.  The Royal Engineers got word.

A capsule ticking, heaving had disturbed

One thousand pound of German high explosive –

Nothing for it but to throw a cordon around it –

Two miles, a transit, side-on, beat cops, checks

on folk who took heed, got out or hedged their bets.

“Your pills.”  “Come by.”  A must.  Forgotten.  The least

he could do.  All hope they’ll not come to grief.

“The cop won’t let us through,” the lass told her drunk.

“But I live here.”  A rookie took the flak.

Yet most folk went to ground in ad-hoc centres

leaving streets whole, blank as unlined paper.

Still live, the capsule conspired against us,

biding its time, persistent in silence:

three days of labour, three days of no advance.

So it was hard-packed in sand, boarded by skips.

A metal buttress waited on the truck,

slowly backed in; turning, displayed, revived.

Late night, a crowd came to gape.  On the drive

a man too near was kept back.  Soon the cortege

left them behind.  No one must go that way.

Then they heard the big bang beneath the cliffs.  Someone

said “I knew they’d do it all along.”

THE GRAINGER MARKET WAITER, OLIVER’S BISTRO CAFÉ, NEWCASTLE UPON TYNE

Should I know you from somewhere?

Eye brows raised in thick liquorice black.

You and your hairline gone bald as plaster.

Or is it the puffed face, the cherub I knew?

No, separate, alone, stuck in time’s stiff relief,

all-round solid, middle-aged spread, that’s you.

But do I detect a grin?  What’s comical?

If I’m right, you never were the private man

enjoying lingering here among market souls.

Being statuesque has made you look so calm,

that dickey bow, tight waistcoat, long green apron,

the red towel hung rigid over our arm,

ever your big hands grip on that shiny plate.

To think you once used to like a flutter

from equine tips to extras of your trade.

Nameless, ghost-looker in perpetual gaze.

The same man?  Could it be?  I don’t know – what hope?

My pocket jingle with loose change, and yes,

I’d like to put something on your plate but don’t.

THE HOT BLAST:  ON BLUCHER’S FIRST RUN, 25 JULY 1814.

‘George Stephenson’s elder brother James was the first driver of the Blucher.  He seems to have followed George around the various collieries as George progressed over the years.  George named one of his stationary engines the Jimmy after him.  Like George, he lived in a cottage beside the Killingworth wagon way with his wife, a large, buxom woman called Jinnie.’  [He was also known for his colourful language]

Hunter Davies after Thomas Summerside, Anecdotes, Reminiscences and Conversations of and with the late George Stephenson, Father of Railways (London 1878)

Jinnie lit the Blucher’s grate

as if it was her own

at four o’clock that still dawn

of a July morning,

a well-chosen morning

with the sun up, the grate’s flames

soon raged as fiery as could be.

That big brute

was George’s doing,

iron-clad, a monstrous

fresh beast lodged

behind the cottage line

along colliery way

at once a showpiece an anomaly.

O her Jimmy of wanting haulage

the lever pulled, in West Moor air

steam spat like fat from a frying pan,

up back end to chimney

the hot blast made sure

the big brute’s long rag and grind

went over rails, back and forth:  trundled.

And yet so many time she heard

her Jimmy shout, “Here, me lass,

come put your shoulder to her!

She’s hit a shit patch.

Come, shove!

She’s broken doon again

but she won’t break me bleedin’ heart.”

Momentously, awkwardly,

on her turn, just then

a baptism of throbbing erupted

to let Jinnie attend to her chores:

more floored grass was cut back,

squeezed at Jersey teats of white rich oil

came with the spread of trackside crowd.   

JOHNNY SPRY:  GOALKEEPER FOR FOOTLOOSE WANDERERS

Johnny Spry’s between the sticks his second name’s The Lynx,

He’ll prowl around the six-yard box then stare out like The Sphinx.

He’s great at making hefty kicks the ball he belts quite far

And when there’s nothing he’ll swing along the bar

Until he’s out to grab the ball that’s spinning through the air,

The way he leaps and soars is more than high jumpers would dare.

Oh, Johnny Spry!  Oh, Johnny Spry!  He mustn’t let the ball pass by.

He loves to roll in all the mud; he loves to do it on the sly;

And how his fingertips they stretch beating a ballet dancer’s

While everyone agrees that his knee blocking’s the answer.

He’s like he’s gotten off a horse, his legs apart as rider,    

Whatever else he may be there’s no one brave or dafter.

He’s last to hear his players cheer, the first to take the flak

When things go wrong he’s put upon what’s said it gets passed back,

So out of spite, try as he might, he’ll do what they hate most,

That easy ball slips from his grasp to push it round the post.

Yet everyone has need of him, they’re shouting one and all,

But then he’ll keep them waiting as he juggles with the ball.

So when his wall is lining up, the free kick’s taking ages,

He’d like to count the kicker’s time and docket off his wages.

But, hey, he does no better as his kick goes into touch;

Though it frees him from those corners where he’s crowded in so much,

Or otherwise he has no choice but to fake an injury

And when the trainer sprays his foot he’ll plan his scrumptious tea.

Oh, Johnny Spry!  Oh, Johnny Spry!  Given half a chance you’ll know he’ll try

Some crafty dodge in which he excels.  But soon the ending of his spell

When he retires and quits the game they’ll put him in the Hall of Fame

Along with others plied in wax who died and stashed away their tax,

The first in town who has been set for keeping balls out of a net

For here he’s treated like a god a saviour from the firing squad. 

BIRD-MAN:  A PROSE POEM

Feeding the birds, once started, was difficult to give up.  The man in question stood on the paved area of the city square beside the statue of Mars.  He took out a chunk of what was probably stale bread from his plastic bag and began to break a few bits off with his gnarled hands.  Then he threw a small collection of broken bread around him that landed at random.  Nearby, the watching birds, hanging upon the statue, immediately got the message, and went homing in on the straightest flight towards what was now their recognised target.  They were the vanguard (mostly pigeons), swooping down to surround him.  In the midst of these birds he was anchored to his chosen spot, his legs felt wedded to the ground, a cap rounded off his head.  The fact that he was well-prepared suggested he had done this before.  There was nothing like encouraging the birds, these infiltrators from sky to earth.  The stonework on nearby buildings had taken its toll of bird droppings.  But he never thought of this end result in feeding them.

His sense of giving was drawing a small crowd of onlookers, amazed at the number of birds in the vicinity.  There were more pigeons flying in from all directions, rapidly increasing in numbers for their daily sustenance.  There were now two swarms of feathery bodies, only the main flock concentrated solely on the bigger bits of bread, grabbing what they could, holding onto it; fighting each other off with an occasional peck or dive to try and frighten a rival away. He was well under siege.  One pigeon flew up and took a bigger bit of bread from his right hand and flew off into a handy free space to gorge alone on its edible prize.  Several pigeons circled around him to see what was left for them to grab.  Come to me, he seemed to say.  Such a solitary figure, with is clothed arms outstretched, and as still as could be, he looked like he could have been a tree in a former life.

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4 - Afterword

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