Early Morning Stroll

Hull, 2005
Pearson Park, 6 o’clock in the morning

A young couple walk silently

Pushing a red pram.

Inside a baby whimpers

Then yawns, drops his head

And, finally, falls asleep.

 “Thank God!” she says.

“Humdililah!” he says.

He’s older than her, about 5 years.

They met in a nightclub,

A bit worse for wear.

Her on a hen night.

Him just up from Dover.

They’d danced, laughed, kissed,

Swapped numbers.

And a few texts later,

Were going out.

Her family wasn’t happy.

Her being with one of them Kosovans

(He was Kurdish)

One of them thick shits

(He was a lawyer)

Taking all our jobs

(He washed pots to get by).

He looks at her in the early morning light.

She’s so pretty, he still can’t believe it.

How she’s still with him

How he can feel this happy.

A bird skims across the pond and he jumps.

Suddenly his mind is full of bullets

And screams and children running.

His mother bleeding, his father pleading

And soldiers laughing, laughing, laughing….

“Best get back”, she whispers, squeezing his arm.

“I can’t go back”, tears running down his face.

He pulls her to him and starts to cry.
And she holds him.

As the sun peeks over the yellow trees

She holds him.

Still in her pyjamas

She holds him.

With her scuffed black trainers and tangled hair,

She holds him.

Nearby a man out walking his dog coughs.

And a jogger flits by with heavy beats pinned to his ears.

“Best get back,” she says again.

 “Best get back” he sighs

And slowly, they peel apart

And head towards the gate.

I remember writing this thinking of a Kurdish man I knew who was a massive inspiration to me at the time. His story was one of incredible resilience. And incredible pain. Back then I was struggling with depression and a feeling of stuckness. Often feeling overwhelmed and not knowing how to move on from some things. It helped going out for walks though. And one day whilst walking past the duckpond in Pearson Park, I got the idea to write this piece. The first thing in ages that was about someone else and not about me! So in that sense it was a healing thing. Getting me out of myself and trying to imagine life in someone else’s shoes. The depression still lingered for a while afterwards but at least I’d begun to get some perspective. And feel connected to the world around me again.

All my friends have a life

the last time I saw Mary, Stepney, East London, Sept 2004

“All my friends have a life,” she says,

Exhausted from lying in her bed.

Drained by people bustling around,

Trying to make her comfortable.

Visitors chatting about their plans

Like Debbie who’s off to Afghanistan.

Mother sits nearby, pretending to do the crossword,

Brother strolls by, eyeing up the morphine.

Sisters drop by, phone, pray,

Do their crying in the kitchen,

Take turns when to stay.

For an hour – a whole hour – we watch EastEnders.

Two episodes, back to back.

After I try to speak but the words soon dissolve.

You panic, “Don’t tell me you’re not coming back!”

So I quickly mop up. And backtrack.

Advice

from the writer, Michele Roberts after a reading in Beverley, 18/10/03

Cherish the leaden memories;

The hard, heavy regrets

That you say lay like

A seam across your soul.

Do not hack away

With cruel, vengeful force.

Rather, be kind

And take care of them.

For they have been there

For a reason

And have protected you

For a long, long time.

Courage

 Hull, 09/09/03

Courage is to get out of bed

To rise to the day

When everything wants to back down

And stay rooted under the duvet.

Courage is to boil the kettle

To toast another day

When it’s no different from any other

And looks likely to stay that way.

Courage is to put on clothes

And dress for the day

When there’s no one to look good for

When there’s no one coming out to play.

Courage is to open the door

And walk into the day

When there’s nothing ahead to fill it

Just the hope of something different,

Something good, something funny,

Something worth something

Happening, today.

Kindness

after an adult education creative writing class, Beverley, 09/09/03

A slight smile,

A vague twist of the lips,

A mumbled “hello”

And a quick dash to the back room.

You trembled there in the corner.

You looked visibly sick.

You stuttered and you stammered,

You laughed for no reason,

And then slumped down in your seat.

And they looked at you

And no one laughed,

No one sneered,

No one pitied you.

They just smiled.

Said they were glad to have you on board.

Said they remembered how it felt

The first time they came through the door.

Said, without saying a word,

That you were OK.

And then you smiled, shyly,

And then giggled,

Then giggled some more.

And then you thanked them

And stopped looking down at the floor.

Approaching Spring

Spring Bank, Hull, 2002

Take care not to step out too soon

And unpeel the tired overspill

Of long, locked up days.

Incubated skin grows way too thin

And the prickle of sudden heat

Can cripple and burn.

Wrap up well and walk steadily.

Rise with relish and ease

And stretch, slowly, into Spring.

Child-adults

 Longhill Estate, Hull, 08/10/00
Written after watching “Care”, BBC Wales MM

Child-woman, child-man, child-adults,

In suits, in cars, in families.

Children rearing children,

Half-functioning, half-alive.

Hidden memories,

Hidden pain,

Hidden children.

Screams that go so far

And no further.

Rage that swells and fades,

Swells and fades,

Swells and fades.

Fractured thoughts,

Forgotten details.

Sixteen years of sorrow

Bottled up

With nowhere to go.

When will the cracks come?

When will the leaks leak?

When will the tangled tears

Get their release

And flow?