Written by
Barry Tebb |
(or ‘Huddersfield the Second Poetry Capital of England Re-visited’)
What was it Janice Simmons said to me as James lay dying in Ireland?
“Phone Peter Pegnall in Leeds, an ex-pupil of Jimmy’s. He’s organising
A benefit reading, he’d love to hear from you and have your help.”
‘Like hell he would’ I thought but I phoned him all the same
At his converted farmhouse at Barswill, a Lecturer in Creative Writing
At the uni. But what’s he written, I wondered, apart from his CV?
“Well I am organising a reading but only for the big people, you understand,
Hardman, Harrison, Doughty, Duhig, Basher O’Brien, you know the kind,
The ones that count, the ones I owe my job to.”
We nattered on and on until by way of adieu I read the final couplet
Of my Goodbye poem, the lines about ‘One Leeds Jimmy who could fix the world’s.
Duhigs once and for all/Write them into the ground and still have a hundred
Lyrics in his quiver.’
Pete Stifled a cough which dipped into a gurgle and sank into a mire
Of strangulated affect which almost became a convulsion until finally
He shrieked, “I have to go, the cat’s under the Christmas tree, ripping
Open all the presents, the central heating boiler’s on the blink,
The house is on fucking fire!”
So I was left with the offer of being raffle-ticket tout as a special favour,
Some recompense for giving over two entire newsletters to Jimmy’s work:
The words of the letter before his stroke still burned. “I don’t know why
They omitted me, Armitage and Harrison were my best mates once. You and I
Must meet.”
A whole year’s silence until the card with its cryptic message
‘Jimmy’s recovering slowly but better than expected’.
I never heard from Pegnall about the reading, the pamphlets he asked for
Went unacknowledged. Whalebone, the fellow-tutor he commended, also stayed silent.
Had the event been cancelled? Happening to be in Huddersfield on Good Friday
I staggered up three flights of stone steps in the Byram Arcade to the Poetry Business
Where, next to the ‘closed’ sign an out-of-date poster announced the reading in Leeds
At a date long gone.
I peered through the slats at empty desks, at brimming racks of books,
At overflowing bin-bags and the yellowing poster. Desperately I tried to remember
What Janice had said. “We were sat up in bed, planning to take the children
For a walk when Jimmy stopped looking at me, the pupils of his eyes rolled sideways,
His head lolled and he keeled over.”
The title of the reading was from Jimmy’s best collection
‘With Energy To Burn’
with energy to burn.
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Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
SONNET CV. Fiamma dal ciel su le tue treccie piova. HE INVEIGHS AGAINST THE COURT OF ROME. Vengeaunce must fall on thee, thow filthie whoreOf Babilon, thow breaker of Christ's fold,That from achorns, and from the water colde,Art riche become with making many poore.Thow treason's neste that in thie harte dost holdeOf cankard malice, and of myschief moreThan pen can wryte, or may with tongue be tolde,Slave to delights that chastitie hath solde;For wyne and ease which settith all thie storeUppon whoredome and none other lore,In thye pallais of strompetts yonge and oldeTheare walks Plentie, and Belzebub thye Lorde:[Pg 136]Guydes thee and them, and doth thye raigne upholde:It is but late, as wryting will recorde,That poore thow weart withouten lande or goolde;Yet now hathe golde and pryde, by one accorde,In wickednesse so spreadd thie lyf abrode,That it dothe stincke before the face of God. (?) Wyatt.[T] May fire from heaven rain down upon thy head,Thou most accurst; who simple fare casts by,Made rich and great by others' poverty;How dost thou glory in thy vile misdeed!Nest of all treachery, in which is bredWhate'er of sin now through the world doth fly;Of wine the slave, of sloth, of gluttony;With sensuality's excesses fed!Old men and harlots through thy chambers dance;Then in the midst see Belzebub advanceWith mirrors and provocatives obscene.Erewhile thou wert not shelter'd, nursed on down;But naked, barefoot on the straw wert thrown:Now rank to heaven ascends thy life unclean. Nott.
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Written by
William Shakespeare |
Let not my love be call'd idolatry,
Nor my beloved as an idol show,
Since all alike my songs and praises be
To one, of one, still such, and ever so.
Kind is my love to-day, to-morrow kind,
Still constant in a wondrous excellence;
Therefore my verse to constancy confined,
One thing expressing, leaves out difference.
'Fair, kind and true' is all my argument,
'Fair, kind, and true' varying to other words;
And in this change is my invention spent,
Three themes in one, which wondrous scope affords.
'Fair, kind, and true,' have often lived alone,
Which three till now never kept seat in one.
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