- Non-Erotic Poetry
- The Colour Of Black
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Click heretake the train from Liverpool to Sheffield (if you dare)
you won’t arrive or if you do, you’ll be dead
having died somewhere around Manchester
this journey was no less real than the real one
but taken sometime later
long after the images had been collated
by then my memory was a carousel of snap shots
winking onto the blank walls of my skull
the street where I lived was black
I had a monotone childhood
a scum of soot covered the world
down the hill, across Park Lane and down to the river
where black ships cut through a black treacle
even the air smelt black
the black tar unfolding from my grandfather’s pipe
or the exotic black of spices blowing up from the warehouses
across the road were the black ruins of a bombed house
the sky was black, hiding black planes
‘we thought it was us.’ Said my aunty
hiding under the table as the earth quaked
a poltergeist had been set free
and the furniture flew about the room
she lost her child and her motherhood ended
under the black snow that dusted down from the ceiling
I remember the black Yorkshire range
the black kittens were in the oven
while a budgie spiraled in a dog fight about the room
a forest of black trousered legs towered above me
restlessly swaying, forever blocking my path
the black cat beneath the table
an elongated stretch of chewing gum
Liverpool was black but not as black as Sheffield
‘Oh my god!’ my mother exclaimed on arrival
I felt her choke on the black cloud
that poured past the station and through the streets
buildings of solid carbon stepping up the hill
the screech of trams as they belted and jarred
the hunched crowds broken by the weather
the stark realization that this was to be home
- COMMENTS
and why did God create Liverpool? So the Manchunians wouldn't know they were in hell. Hence the Red jackets, eh? A hearty fan 100, without the lecture about the edit. Did you go back for the annivserary?
I shamelessly idolize the numerous story tellers and poets, Irish as English, which those Islands seem to produce in abundance. Some suffering maybe indeed be a necessary irritant for the muse to be invited (I heard it on NPR of course), but not sufficient for the poetic muse to be so effective. Such a strong sense of time and place, it allows anyone in.
Yes, I did become totally absorbed in the world of the poem, in the backside of wealth-generation for those that live in the White. Yes, I did have a problem placing the Irish fellow, though his Guinness suited the black theme perfectly. Yes, I was absolutely delighted to find that the copious repetition of black worked like a charm rather than becoming a self-conscious artifact. Yes, I'm sure I will find fault after I've read it a few times, but after the first reading: Mwaa!
I can imagine the little boy living the memories you flash to and attempt to reconcile as an adult. I like how black is tied to daily life and survival. I can see the coal dust, the night bombing, the funeral clothes and the Guinness, however; I can't tie the Irishman in with any importance to the poem apart from his endless offering of beer. This is a really good piece, there's a real train voice in the rhythm and just enough sophistication in the language to impart the maturity of a man looking backward. Mentioned on the New Poems Review thread in Literotica's Poetry Feedback and Discussion Forum.
This feels very auto biographical - 50's or 60's. I find it hard to critique because I experienced something similar on first going to University .A country boy from Gloucestershire who had never been north of Worcester My journey was first with a friend to Manchester then over the Pennines to Sheffield before heading a couple of days later through Wakefield to Leeds. The first 3 months a massive culture shock which your poem brought back with great clarity.
I could carp about a few weaknesses but in truth this poem is almost too personal for me to be objective. I'll leave it there.Thanks.