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Best Poems Written by Carl Halling

Below are the all-time best Carl Halling poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Carl Halling Poem

Snapshots From a Child's West London

I remember my cherished Wolf Cub pack, 
How I loved those Wednesday evenings, 
The games, the pomp and seriousness of the camps, 
The different coloured scarves, sweaters and hair 
During the mass meetings, 
The solemnity of my enrolment, 
Being helped up a tree by an older boy, 
Baloo, or Kim, or someone, 
To win my Athletics badge, 
Winning my first star, my two year badge, 
And my swimming badge 
With its frog symbol, the kindness of the older boys.
                                                                    
I remember a child's West London.
                                                                    
One Saturday afternoon, after a football match
During which I dirtied my boots 
By standing around as a sub in the mud, 
And my elbow by tripping over a loose shoelace, 
An older boy offered to take me home. 
We walked along streets, 
Through subways crammed with rowdies, 
White or West Indian, in black gym shoes. 
"Shuddup!" my friend would cheerfully yell, 
And they did.
"We go' a ge' yer 'oame, ain' we mite, ay?"
"Yes. Where exactly are you taking me?" I asked.
                                                                    
"The bus stop at Chiswick 'Oigh Stree' 
Is the best plice, oi reck'n."
"Yes, but not on Chiswick High Street,"
I said, starting to sniff.
"You be oroight theah, me lil' mite."
I was not convinced. 
The uncertainty of my ever getting home 
Caused me to start to bawl,
And I was still hollering 
As we mounted the bus. 
I remember the sudden turning of heads. 
It must have been quite astonishing 
                                                                    
For a peaceful busload of passengers 
To have their everyday lives 
Suddenly intruded upon 
By a group of distressed looking Wolf Cubs, 
One of whom, the smallest,
Was howling red-faced with anguish 
For some undetermined reason. 
After some moments, my friend, 
His brow furrowed with regret, 
As if he had done me some wrong, said:
"I'm gonna drop you off 
Where your dad put you on."
                                                                    
Within seconds, the clouds dispersed, 
And my damp cheeks beamed. 
Then, I spied a street I recognised
From the bus window, and got up, 
Grinning with all my might:
"This'll do," I said. 
"Wai', Carl," cried my friend, 
Are you shoa vis is 'oroigh'?"
"Yup!" I said. I was still grinning
As I spied my friend's anxious face 
In the glinting window of the bus 
As it moved down the street.
                                                                    
I remember a child's West London.
                                                                    
One Wednesday evening, 
When the Pops was being broadcast 
Instead of on Thursday, 
I was rather reluctant to go to Cubs, 
And was more than usually uncooperative 
With my father as he tried 
To help me find my cap, 
Which had disappeared.
Frustrated, he put on his coat 
And quietly opened the door. 
I stepped outside into the icy atmosphere 
Wearing only a pair of underpants,
                                                                    
And to my horror, he got into his black Citroen 
And drove off. I darted down Esmond Road,  
Crying and shouting. 
My tearful howling was heard by Margaret, 
19 year old daughter of Mrs Helena Jacobs, 
Whom my mother used to help 
With the care and entertainment 
Of Thalidomide children. 
Helena Jacobs expended so much energy 
On feeling for others,  
That when my mother tried to get in touch 
In the mid '70s, she seemed exhausted, 
                                                                    
And quite understandably, 
For Mrs O'Keefe, her cleaning lady 
And friend for the main part 
Of her married life
Had recently been killed in a road accident. 
I remember that kind 
And beautiful Irish lady, 
Her charm, happiness and sweetness, 
She was the salt of the earth. 
She threatened to ca-rrown me
When I went away to school...
If I wrote her not.
                                                                    
Margaret picked me up
And carried me back to my house. 
I put on my uniform 
As soon as she had gone home, 
Left a note for my Pa, 
And went myself to Cubs. 
When Pa arrived to pick me up, 
The whole ridiculous story 
Was told to Akela, 
Baloo and Kim, 
Much, much, much to my shame.
                                                                    
I remember a child's West London.
                                                                    
The year was 1963, the year of the Beatles, 
Of singing yeah, yeah, yeah in the car, 
Of twisting in the playground, 
Of "I'm a Beatlemaniac, are you?"
That year, I was very prejudiced 
Against an American boy, Raymond, 
Who later became my friend. 
I used to attack him for no reason, 
Like a dog, just to assert my superiority. 
One day, he gave me a rabbit punch in the stomach 
And I made such a fuss that my little girlfriend, Nina,
Wanted to escort me to the safety of our teacher, 
                                                                    
Hugging me, and kissing me intermittently 
On my forehead, eyes, nose, cheeks. 
She forced me to see her:
"Carl didn't do a thing," said Nina, 
"And Raymond came up and gave him 
Four rabbit punches in the stomach."
Raymond was not penalized, 
For Mademoiselle knew 
What a little demon I was, 
No matter how hurt 
And innocent I looked, 
Tearful, with my tail between my legs.
                                                                    
I remember a child's West London.

Details | Carl Halling Poem

The Boy From the Tail End of the Goldhawk Road One

The Boy from the Tail End of the Goldhawk Road

1.

The Boy from the Tail End of the Goldhawk Road

I was born Carl Robert Halling at the tail end of the Goldhawk Road which runs through Shepherds Bush in west London and which in the mid 1960s served as one of the great centres of the Mod movement, whose dandified acolytes were infamous for their vanity and hedonism.

I was raised in nearby Bedford Park, a comparatively genteel district close to the largely working class area of South Acton.

My first school was the Lycee Francais du Kensington du Sud, and by the time I was 4 years old, I was already bilingual. 

I wasted little time at the Lycee in establishing a reputation as a troublemaker, a popular one admittedly, but a troublemaker nonetheless, constantly in trouble.

I was popular, that much is certain, not just with girls but boys too and blessed with a vivid imagination but I was a near impossible pupil which caused my poor mother a good deal of heartache, and on at least one occasion she drove me home in tears.

I seemed born to controversy, being impatient, disobedient, mischievous, remorselessly attention-seeking, a true imp of a child, on which the full force of the innate depravity of Man appeared to have landed.

At the same time, I was friendly, sincere and open, a good friend, and well-liked.

My Judo teacher at the Budokan in Hammersmith once told someone no doubt with a sickly feeling in the pit of his stomach that whenever he heard me he always knew it was Saturday.

I was no less a trial in the quaint little back streets of suburban west London. 

My roughness could hardly have been helped by the popular music of the times. 

By the time it came for me to leave the Lycee my scholastic standing had improved a little, and after some months spent at Davies Preparatory School, I received the most glittering school report of my entire young life; and was actually declared an excellent pupil.

Details | Carl Halling Poem

I awake each morning
With fresh hope
And tranquility;
I might go for a saunter
Down quiet London backstreets...
Soon my aimlessness
Depresses me,
And I realise
I'd been deceiving myself
As to my ability
To relax as others do.

I decided on a Special B
Before the eve.
I bought a lager
At the bar
And chatted to Gaye.
Then Ray
Bought me another.
I appreciated the fact
That he remembered
The time he,
His gal Chris,
And Cary downed
An entire bottle
Of Jack Daniels
In a Paris-bound train.
A tanned cat
Bought me a (large) half,
Then another half.
My fatal eyes
Are my downfall.
I drank yet another half...

My head was spinning
When it hit the pillow;
I awoke
With a terrible headache
Around one o'clock.
I prayed it would depart.

I slowly got dressed.
I was as chatty as ever
Before the exam...
French/English translation.
Periodically I put my face
In my hands or groaned
Or sighed -
My stomach
was burning me inside.
I finished my paper
In 1 hour and a half.
As I walked out
I caught various eyes
Amanda's, Jade's (quizzical) etc.
I went to bed;
Slept 'till five;
Read O'Neill until 7ish...
Got dressed,
And strolled down
To Golders Green,
In order to relive
A few memories.
I sang to myself -
A few memories
Flashed into my mind,
But not as many
as I'd have liked -
It wasn't the same.
It wasn't the same.
Singing songs brought
Voluptuous tears.
I snuck into McDonald's
Where I felt at home,
Anonymous, alone.
I bought a few things,
Toothpaste and pick,
Chocolate, yoghurts,
Sweets, cigarettes
And fruit juice.

Took a sentimental journey
Back to Powis Gardens,
Richness
And intensity,
Romantic
And attractive,
Sad, suspicious and strange.
I sat up until 3am,
Reading O'Neill,
Or writing (inept) poetry.
Awoke at 10,
But didn't leave
My room till 12,
Lost my way
To Swiss Cottage,
Lost my happiness.
Oh so conscious
Of my failure,
And after a fashion,
Enjoying this knowledge.

("The Wanderer" originally existed as, as I now see them, melodramatic, would-be tortured artist diary notes dating from the early 1980s; ultimately becoming part of a memoir called "Rescue of a Rock and Roll Child", even while all the original names have been changed.)

Details | Carl Halling Poem

Back To Brazil In My Mind

I go back to Brazil in my mind,
Last outpost of romance,
Rio de Janeiro in my mind,
Dance, Bonita, dance.
Away from the gray 
Of a suburban day, 
Away from the streets
And the shops,
Away from the delays,
The buses and trains,
I float away to Brazil.
Oh Brazil, in love
With the Garota di Ipanema,
The Song of the Sabia plays,
In a sunny romantic daze in Brazil.

Details | Carl Halling Poem

Melancholy Girl

Melancholy Girl 
With your Pre-Raphaelite curls
You don't seem quite of this world
Such a strange and a sad-eyed girl
                                                                    
What happened to your smile
How came you to be so full of guile 
Your eyes seem to stare for miles
For such a sweet and a tender child
                                                                    
There's someone you've got to meet
The truth can set you free
Eternally
Enigmatic babe
The way you live's a shame
Life is more than some strange game
Freedom's found in just one name
                                                                    
I'd like to show you another way
Where the dark can't harm you
Night or day
                                                                    
Melancholy Girl, 
With your Pre-Raphaelite curls
You don't seem quite of this world
Such a strange and a sad-eyed girl.

Details | Carl Halling Poem

An Aphoristic Self-Portrait

As a writer, people are my vocation.
As for humanity, men, women
And other abstractions,
Their interests constitute little more
Than my hobby; I can only deal in people.
As soon as I start dealing in sects
And sections, I am either an insider
Or an outsider, and I feel lost as either
And as soon as I feel lost,
I make no attempt to find myself,
But simply retrace my steps
And return to the people.
You can call me detached if you like,
But you see, the only way
I can remain sane as a person
With such an all-consuming instinct
For attachment, is to be detached.
The world of subjectivity
Holds no sway over me,
Because it is paradoxically impersonal,
Being affiliated to partisanship,
Sentimental causes and other such abstractions.
I couldn't possibly belong
To a school of orthodox thought
That accepted me as a member.
I don't believe in myself
Other than as a crystal clear container
For the freshest cream of human individualism.
When I was younger,
I ached to be famous for the sake of it,
But now it occurs to me
That anyone can be famous
Provided they are sufficiently audacious
And thick-skinned, and I desire fame
Not so much for the vain satisfaction
Of being seen and known and heard,
But in order to guide others
Towards a happier way of being,
The only precept for celebrity,
Indeed for being in general, as far as I can see.
Adversity seems to be my fate,
As well as fortune.
The meek ones gravitate to me.
I'm the prince of the hurt ones,
The damaged ones.
I resent all success and authority.
I'm so affectionate one moment,
So icy and evasive the next.
I'm in love with many people at present.
I over-accentuate my individuality,
Because sometimes I look at myself
In the mirror and I say:
"Who's that pathetic wreck?"
The more complex you are,
The less you like yourself,
Because you frighten yourself.
The more I find myself liking someone,
The more I doubt us both.
Liking someone negates them for me.

("An Aphoristic Self-Portrait" was based on a series of teeming informal diary entries made in various receptacles in the late 1980s. "The Compensatory Man Par Excellence" originally formed part of a novel written - at an estimate - around 1987. Its fate remains a mystery. "Self-Portrait" may also once have been part of it.)

Details | Carl Halling Poem

Some Sad Dark Secret

"Temper your enthusiasm,"
She said, 
"The extremes of your reactions;
You should have 
A more conventional frame
On which to hang 
Your unconventionality."
"Don't push people,"
She said,
"You make yourself vulnerable."

She told me not to rhapsodise,
That it would be difficult,
Impossible, perhaps,
For me to harness my dynamism.
The tone of my work,
She said, 
Is often a little dubious.
She said 
She thought 
That there was something wrong.

That I'm hiding 
Some sad 
Dark secret from the world.
"Temper your enthusiasm,"
She said, 
"The extremes of your reactions;
You should have 
A more conventional frame
On which to hang 
Your unconventionality."

("Some Sad Dark Secret" was inspired by words once spoken to me by a former tutor and mentor of mine in around 1982 or '83. And my own perhaps partly fantastical reflections on them.)

Best Poems Written by Carl Halling

Snapshots From a Child's West London

In Puerto Rican Skies

Some Romantic Afternoon

My Travels

The Boy From the Tail End of the Goldhawk Road One

The Wanderer of Golders Green

Back To Brazil In My Mind

Melancholy Girl

An Aphoristic Self-Portrait

Some Sad Dark Secret