If knowledge could be set up against mortality…

Bridge 142, Shropshire Union Canal © 2000 Simon Crosbie

for Rosie: Simon’s song
(in memory of Simon Crosbie: 25 December 1966 to 24 April 2025)

    there are no words that you can say
    no pill to take the pain away
    when you are raggedly ripped in two
    there is no healing superglue

more than just each partner’s brother
once we were there for the other
much more than just so simply there
yet tighter than a braided wire

we were as close as lovers once
yet did not do those things they do
except those kisses on the cheek
pinched in jest for being unique

    there are no words that you can say
    no pill to take the pain away
    when you are raggedly ripped in two
    there is no healing superglue

you are the loveliest man I’ve met
the brightest and most gifted too
so full of love and honesty
that sharing time and space with you

have always been my greatest joys
that knowing smile, that gorgeous voice
so dapper and so full of zest
genius at its very best

    there are no words that you can say
    no pill to take the pain away
    when you are raggedly ripped in two
    there is no healing superglue

the plans we’d made, the things we’d do
the sprawling journeys we’d relive
the craic and music shared once more
the mutual pleasure they would give

I missed you when you were alive
do not know what I’ll do in death
would sadly swap lives to survive
would gladly take your final breath

    there are no words that you can say
    no pill to take the pain away
    when you are raggedly ripped in two
    there’s nothing else that you can do
        but weep…

The old man and the tarn…

For Paul Besley… — inspired by him, his writing, and a recent visit to Eel Tarn.

As the Sun also rises, so the Moon rests. Its waning glow, low in the mauve sky as it drew the Man here, has departed. But he still feeds off its allure as his pulse climbs, and he pauses, breathing hard, summoning support, as well as the air he so craves. He moves on to meet the dawn, pushing his body well beyond the valley-bound limits it frequently fights to meet. This race was too urgent to refuse, and all obstacles must be overcome, or sidelined.

Few creatures stir so early, the young calves so puzzled by his appearance that they cannot label him good nor bad, so regard him as both. Finally, they return to their cud-chewing amongst the muddy grass. Even after such a long absence of rain, some becks still happily feed the ground. The Man tracks this one eagerly; then turns from it to face down the radiant horizon.

I’m definitely amazed…!

I picked up the book in the image — a book I had been anticipating for weeks — and was crying by page 2: recognizing elements of both myself and my son in the first wonderful description of John’s autistic offspring James (the principal character); then, a few pages later, in John himself — although, as I wrote to my son, “the tables are turned with us, I think: me, the autistic father; you, the mega-talented [one]”. Autism can be, and frequently is, a family trait: inherited — at least partially, in my case, I am pretty sure — from my amazing dad. How much of it I have passed on myself I am not at all sure. Plus… it really doesn’t matter. What I do know is that my son truly is multi-gifted, musically (and technically): probably with the encouragement of a whole bucketful of helpful genes from my erstwhile concert-pianist mum, and a few random droplets from me.

And so is James: incredibly talented! (And, like my son, plays the bass southpaw, despite being right-handed.) Many people who are autistic have a ‘superpower’ (or defiantly and knowingly claim that autism itself is their superpower): and his includes in-depth knowledge of huge swathes of rock/pop music; the ability to perform that music to a very high standard indeed, singing, or playing different instruments; as well as absolute, or perfect, pitch.

James, though, struggles to communicate: he “has experiences that he cannot express in words”.

Would in thy palm dissolve…

Conditionality
Provoked by yet another hospital visit — this one more promising than most… — and therefore composed over a watchful, thoughtful night.

…but be sure
I will from henceforth rather be myself,
Mighty and to be fear’d, than my condition,
Which hath been smooth as oil, soft as young down…
— Shakespeare: Henry IV, Part I

Why are our bodies soft, and weak, and smooth,
Unapt to toil and trouble in the world,
But that our soft conditions, and our hearts,
Should well agree with our external parts?
— Shakespeare: The Taming of the Shrew

smooth is a soft word; soft is not — it speaks
of a lover’s leaving: the latch that drops,
catches and calls; a lapse of the caution
that pulled the stillness of the prior world closed

closed is not ever close — bodies touching
may hold unknowable souls, or stories
consciously untold; can cling to silence
fashioned from flints of fear, pointed with pain

pain is anything and everything we
wish it were not — the short sharpness of a
cat’s playful claw; the ceaseless cremation —
deep within its eye — of stars undying

undying is not living, nor is it
the phoenix’ echoed resurrection — mere
hope-filled fancy for a latch that never
lifts nor falls; for a blade pared soft and smooth

The answer, my friend, is blowin’ in the wind…

The ballad of Woodhouse Colliery

the siren blasts pre-dawn today
wakes the locals at five-thirty
it is time it screams for the chosen few
to get down deep and come up dirty

what we do is what our grandas did
it made some sense back then
when our father was nobbut a gangly kid
but (umm) have you seen the papers

our houses cost nearly nothing we’re told
too small too cramped so old and cold
yet there are some who fail to afford them
so they go and do what their grandas did
when their father was nobbut a kid

but not to power a nation this time
this time they’re making nowt
unless you consider the world’s biggest hole
the country’s nuclear dustbin
an achievement of sorts
rather than an act of futility
a great big hole of nothingness
devoid of all utility

they are scouring the planet’s intestines
not producing the value of old
as they know it’s only shit they shovel
not exhuming a dark form of gold

what we do is what our grandas did
it made some sense back then
when our father was nobbut a gangly kid
but (umm) have you seen the papers

dig it big enough they say
and all Sellafield will fit
but what will they do with the great big hole
where that festering factory used to sit

they’ll build a mountain of excrement
unneeded to the sky
and add another Wainwright
where the fulmars used to fly