He knows cars, collects them,
tinkers with them, repairing, tuning,
striving to understand old motors.
Four of them in the garage and one
under a tarpaulin in the drive,
as much for the mechanical pleasure
of metal parts without computer control
as for the driving.
Then his heart attack.
No driving for months to come.
And worse, because the surgeon
mechanics have installed an onboard
defibrillator, no bending under hoods
in case vibrations trip the computer.
Four cars stand in the garage and one
under its tarpaulin in the drive,
and one careful owner of bodywork
that's seen better days is consigned
to exercise on the humming roadway
of a treadmill in the rehab workshop.
Inside the bus
In memoriam Honoré Daumier
A portly mother tells her pudgy child
fuck off to hell, in case this six-year-old
still harbours thoughts of mother's milk
and humankindness in the cold.
I am told there are places
where presenting a passport
stating Occupation: poet
is not a good idea.
Poets are dangerous,
poets are subversive,
poets know words,
they are anathema even.
Poets carry passports painted brown.
If you declare your poethood
(your hero being the poet Hood)
you may be frogmarched to a waiting van
(awaiting Van Morrison, but you'll do),
blindfolded, and driven through unfamiliar streets
to a dungeon. You will struggle
to find a rhyme for dungeon
even as they are plunging
you into the dank confines.
You will go gently into the darkness.
At the interrogation they will ask
about your connection with the Sestina,
the Gang of Six,
the struggle to free verse from
the confines of tyrannical Alexandrines.
They will monitor the charge to the five electrodes
(lobes, nipples and gonads) with a pentameter.
You'll cry: you've got the wrong man here.
I'm innocent, I'm Henry Fonda. No, I am . . .
Iambic I ams will flood the cell,
You will be branded the villain hell will swallow.
You will be condemned for your treason
without rhyme or reason.
It's a misprint.
Actually, I'm an accountant.
High above the Great Orme,
a mere celestial comma in a sentence
passed on mountain goats,
like calm before the storm,
the soaring predator has no need of repentance.
In cool air he floats
and bides his time.
No, kid, no!
The eagle has Llandudno.
Ghosts at the World Cup 2006
A memory of 1988
The platform at Potsdamerplatz,
like the one at Wembley
for the man in the white suit
to conduct Abide with Me,
the wooden stage on which we climbed
to watch the Ostpo perform
repairs to walls within the tracks
(the nearer one the goal)
in no man's land whose keepers
play theoretical football on the grass,
an international match
where both sides play at home
but only visitors scrawl messages.
In front of us, incongruously,
a sporting culture clash:
'Geoff Boycott we love you'.
Just a simple courtesy call, sir.
No need to worry at all, sir.
How would you like a conservatory?
No thank you.
Perhaps I could speak to your spouse, sir,
You know, the real head of the house, sir?
No? Just kidding! But if it were free . . .
If it's free. . .
We're going to be in your road, sir,
Just part of our heavy workload, sir.
And we need a show house—it could be you.
I'm not a . . .
It's certainly well worth your while, sir.
We'd build an extension with style, sir,
And when it's all done, you let people view.
I don't want . . .
And because you'd have people come round, sir,
You won't have to pay—not one pound, sir;
And people in show houses are quiet as mice.
If it's free . . .
So when is convenient to call, sir?
The process takes no time at all, sir.
Once we've measured, we'll tell you a reasonable price . . .
Now hold on!
OK, just come here and build your conservatory
But there's no way you're getting a penny from me.
I'll show people round and I'll tell them with glee
You're so effing stupid, you offer them . . .
Hello? Hello?
Free!
Of course we support more affordable housing:
It's just what the powers that be should provide.
The arguments made for the low-paid are rousing
Our sympathy. Naturally, we're on their side.
So what do we think of this local development?
The issue is not, as you might have supposed,
About building more houses but—this is important—
The much broader impact. So we are opposed.
For a start it will skew our secure demographic,
Put pressure for places on our local school.
More people with cars will just add to the traffic
That's quite bad already. And then, as a rule
The people who'd occupy this type of dwelling
Are not quite as socially mature as we are.
So where it would lead there is simply no telling.
The crime, the pollution. That's going too far.
Let's put the childrenswear upstairs.
It's not like ladies' fashions.
These romper suits and babygros
will not spark shoppers' passions.
Then mums and dads can come in here
With bags of rusks and Huggies
And find they have to climb the stairs
And carry up their buggies.
Lies, damned lies and politicians
You don't need the grey cells of Agatha's sleuth
To judge for yourself, your own way.
You know the old adage: no smoke without fire.
And it takes one to know one, they say.
So when one politician calls another a liar
You know that he's telling the truth.
Step right up and try your luck.
See if you hit
six chickens with six shots
from this AK47.
Chicken are like ducks but less likely
to fly off when shooting starts.
You prefer a bigger target, mister?
You see that cow over there? And this
genuine shoulder-mounted rocket-launcher?
For a hundred and fifty dollars . . .
You look not too keen. Maybe
you play fetch with this dog? Two dollars.
Pull pin from grenade and throw,
watch dog chase and catch. No?
Step right up and try your luck.
© David Fisher 1962-2019