To My Beloved Godson On His Marriage

The last time we shared a church occasion,
You were naked and a little bit sloshed,
And had to be carried home by a woman
And fed through a dummy and washed.
Remember your wife is not your mother!
And you will have saddened, stunned and shocked her,
If you mix up your mate with your madonna
Your angel or nurse, she’s only your doctor.
I’ve little knowledge of the married state,
Your funky uncle only married once
And stayed so through the good times and the great
But here for what it’s worth is my advice:
When Love makes an offer you can’t refuse
Embrace it thorn and rose, win as you lose.


Chris and Tanya's big big day April 10. And I mean big. Let them church bells ring out. She's a doctor, his mother's a nurse. As long as he doesn't go into teaching everything should be hunky dory. Seriously though, they're young, they're brilliant, they're utterly head over heels and life stretches before them like a highway of diamonds. Nice day for a...Welsh wedding.

Let The Good Times Roll

Standing behind the Wedlock goal,
watching the barcodes in soft yellow in the rain
like they don’t want to get their kit dirty
against our red-blooded last-ditch knights
(until we let them back in at 2-1)
my daughter said it was the best game
of football she'd ever seen –
all four goals right in our faces,
smell of the turf, rage of the crowd,
ever-changing, undetached narrative
and the world at stake along the white line
for 90 minutes. Can't beat it.
Then alone by an internet radio for Barnsley,
hearing an early lead crumble to 2-1
and then surge to 5-2, the wish to be there
almost as strong as the old dread
that returns – albeit briefly - at 5-3,
I think ‘we’re staying up then’.
And now behind the goal at Peterborough, from top
to bottom in one week, on terraces
built fifty years before the Taylor report
and a thousand years before civilisation,
remembering nine bleak years in the small time,
recovering from the optical illusion of Maynard
in long shorts and socks rolled up in the warm up
as the red tights of a Prem primadonna,
watching a grey game burst into brief red life,
the players larger than life and closer than TV,
as Clarkson nods, winks and ghost-smiles at Hartley
and points at a spot the Posh can’t see
I say to the stranger next to me: ‘Clarkson to score!’
and he does, like it’s my birthday (which it is)
and like we’re too good for places like this (which we aren’t yet)
and start to dream again.












I thought this was the Atyeo?

Real Wife

We're not the teen-dream lovers of the songs
And films n’ soaps n’ mills n' boons n’ ads,
The 'hunters' living with their mums and dads,
The twenty-something dramas, dinging-dongs,
The sizzling catalogues of straps and thongs,
The Darcys, Juliets and golden lads
In modern strip from tales in which the cads
Are forty odd like us and cause all wrongs.

Our story didn't end like these above
In frozen celebrations, wedding-deaths;
We've raised a daughter into Now and Next,
We're grown ups grown together, more or less,
Our romance is a realistic text:
A dangerous, married, grail-quest of true love.















This was for an anniversary a few years ago. We've clocked up thirty years since and we're fifty somethings in this picture though forty something in the poem. I always visualise the Norwich City kit in line 7 (because of the golden lads). But for fidelity through better and worse, Ashton Gate is more like it. I shared a long Indian train journey with a Sikh once who told me that you don't get married on your wedding day - it takes at least ten years. We're getting there.

Breathless on a peak in Venezuela

To our daughter on her 23rd Birthday
and her imminent departure for Venezuela


So once again, my love, we have to let you go,
Our Spanish sunshine woman, our child of English snow.

The rosebud has to petal, the flower has to bloom,
The young heart has to open and love must let you go.

In realms of gold or breathless on a peak in Venezuela
May that flower of peace you chase within you grow.

These hands that used to be your anchor, wave you farewell now:
Love’s imprint travels with you, and everywhere you go.

O parent, what a burden a beloved child is on the heart:
What chords and strings are plucked, what music wherever she goes.


Dec 28 2009

Note: a bit late posting this but I've been closeted in a room with Oscar Wilde (writing a 100 page study guide on the Canterville Ghost) all day every day since. Our daughter is still in Venezuela, the next beach from Norfolk albeit over thousands of miles of Atlantic and Caribbean water. On the phone her voice sounds simultaneously far away and shockingly close.

Pearly Gates

Thirty years ago, a boy and a girl
Put their No’s to the grindstone, their Yes to the world.

Thirty years ago, two lovers’ true minds
Got some grit in their oyster and started a pearl.

Thirty long years with ‘the right bloody woman’
Hatching a love-shelled and rock steady girl.

Thirty years gone, two half-hearts gambled
A whole heart for love and lost a half-world.

Glimpsed through that dazzle of church wedding glass,
Seen face to face now - the sun’s winter pearl.


Dec 1 2009



My Uncle Riley famously greeted his sixtieth wedding anniversary with 'Aye, sixty years with the wrong bloody woman.' I do not envy him his marriage but I do envy his laconic power.

Intertextual note: I read Shakespeare's sonnet 'Let Me Not To The Marriage Of True (Two?) Minds/ Admit Impediments' at our wedding reception and meant it.
My playout features Shelley's rendering the Corinthian spirit of (formerly Saul and later St) Paul as sourced via the Stones's greatest hits LP 'Through The Past Darkly'. (1969) Even the devil (now Sir) Jagger knew his Bible in those days.

Beardo!

An Ode To Danny Haynes

D aring runs into dangerous areas, deft passes
A ttacking balls aiming for the top where the Premiership class is.
N ew boy coming fast out of the blocks in a reconditioned team,
N ew ambition and nous re-igniting the old big City dream.
Y oung, gifted and laughing at risk

H ell forward leathering the ball here, held back at Ipswich,
A ngular artistry, a Giggs on grass, identical scars above each eye,
Y ES-yelling walker in da Ashton park, Danny never-say-die,
N ever underestimates the need to nail his place in the side,
E very Friday’s an audition for a part in his favourite film:
S torming through the opposition like a red sail on the Caribbean.


Notes during recent matches at 'Fortress Ashton' I have been carrying a thumb injury. This is partly the reason why during the Scunthorpe home draw I have misfired texts as follows:

'cuntsthorpe are bringing on a bus!" to the editor of a large international publishing company instead of to my mate 'cabby'

'peedo' (as the crowd was yelling in wild abandon at the time) to the head of a Welsh secondary school, instead of to my mate Tom.

The other reasons for the mistake - drunkenness, schoolboy excitement/terror and the sheer amount of noise and jostling in the East End - did not make the cold Monday morning retractions and apologies any easier!

Here, though, as published in the Middlesbrough programme earlier this season, is a 'text' suitable for anyone who receives it - especially anyone cheered by the young hero's match settling goal for City last night.

Good day Sunshine

June and sunny. So unless you're reading Summer Moonshine by PG Wodehouse (in which case go back to it immediately) get your old copy of Sergeant Pepper out, put Side 2 on the turntable (if you don't know what a turntable is, stop reading now, there's no hope for you) and read this extract from my forthcoming novel Rubber Soul.

Lennon-McCartney wrote some of the most revolutionary music ever written. And the happiest. And, with Harrison, the loveliest. Love songs. They all believed in it, devoutly composed in it, still do on the quiet, the two that are left. Love as a political liberation (“say the word and you’ll be free”), love as personal revelation (“the movement you need is on your shoulder”) love as a mystical force (“with our love we could save the world”.) Pope John-Paul-George, the accidental divines. John’s direct hits, Paul’s plucked heartstrings, George’s blaze of inner Light worried from dark grumbles. Ringo’s floor spot at the steelworker’s social that was good enough to join the band.

They did not set out to be Shakespeare. But then neither did Shakespeare. They set out with a popular instrument in their hands, to make great popular culture for their own time. But Beatle Studies will replace Shakespeare as the definitive English heritage–high art for generations of school children. Shakespeare will move upstairs into Chaucer’s position as the Father of English Literature (and finally stop tormenting fourteen year olds who can hardly read modern pidgin with his sophisticated Elizabethan verse.) And Chaucer will move further upstairs to become the timeless classic of an earlier civilisation and language, like Homer. And Homer will stay where he is, like God.

They set out to be the toppermost of the poppermost. And they were. They made peerless end of the pier entertainment for their peers.

Yet there is a hole at the heart of even the happiest Beatles record. In the end, it was the bullet hole that found Lennon’s heart. And it was there long before that. It was there on I Am The Walrus, the B side of a McCartney carol John’s raspberrying backing vocal and rhythm helped rasp into irresistibility on 8 December 1967. It was there through all the late head-down Lennon B sides – Rain, Revolution, Don’t Let Me Down, Come Together – as obscure as any Beatle millions seller could be. It was even there at the ultimate orgasm: that windblown peak of the Summer of Love, the climax of their great signature album, which ends… after all the fuss …in a crescendo of nothing. A space ship storming an Albert Hall sized Black Hole. A hole. It was there at the end; it was there at the beginning.

It was always there.

The Return Of King Arthur (Again)

No, I'm not referring to the druid John Rothwell (goddess bless him) but to the original May King. I'm teaching a children's reading workshop on him at the Writeaway Conference Something Old Something New at the University of London on 22 May. King Arthur for the 21st century.. So Poem of the Month on the main website is The May King. This chimes pleasantly with my sight today, in a rare break from the PC, through a proper window, of my first swallow of the year. Add this to my first ear full of cuckoo a week ago and I think we can with cautious optimism begin to talk about the onset of summer. Let's hope it lasts a bit longer than it did last year. Meanwhile, here on the sister site blog, and staying with the original May King, or his Queen anyway, here's an old favourite of mine from Coming Home - Lady Guinevere.

Lady Guinevere (c. 13th century

Belle ami, si est de nous, ne vous sans moi, ni moi sans vous.

Let them play at boyish games round
A table. Though walled up, bound,
In an unpublished garden, stone
Tower with window, all alone,
This court still revolves around me.
I twist them all round my pretty
Little finger, a studded ring:
The champion knight, the poor king,
Modred, Gawain, my Lancelot.
It’s the only power I know.
He comes through enchanted forests,
Rough-horses, haunted castles, mists;
From slaying giants, big bad knights:
Barons with feudal appetites;
Impossible quests for Our Lady,
Sowing wild seeds Love meant for me;
Obsessed so with courtly sin and
Confession – Indulgence’s twin;
Greets Artos, old friend – clash of mail
(So grieved his crown still lacks a graal,
So tedious!) He comes to me
Who waits… and do not wait to see
The object of his worship pass,
Wasted, into this looking glass,
Wheat-hair, rose-lips, unsown, should he
Choose to deny himself – and me.

I have a heart, self-determined
Core of I Am, God-underpinned,
Won on the Cross, for me. It can
Choose a beloved, a ‘husband’
The church would make him. But marriage
On earth’s not as it is (a rich
Royal land transaction) as one
With my Lancelot – in heaven.

Dave and Helen's Wedding

“The best wedding since ours, “ I say, and I mean it.
Even a breakdown and a lift home on a truck with an AA angel
Called Dave (was it you I wonder?) could not stop us.
A union of high theatre and real marriage.
Out of a cloudy April, a sudden brilliant summer
Falls straight from heaven onto Bishamption
And lasts all day and all starry evening,
(For one day only!)
The perfect lighting for the tulip-brilliant dresses
And beautiful costumes of all these people
Who have made up your amazing elusive life.
The high church vicar who started in the army
And then went into marketing and then found the church
(Cheerfully counting out fivers into his pocket from yours
Just before the holy starts rolling)
And now combines high humour with pointed, solemn
Endearingly detailed interpretations of the stage set.
Then the casually tip-top professional music concert as you exit
Into the vestry to sign the papers; then the Irish jig
That had us crazily clapping you out of church,
The sense of an entire village (with a Jane Austen church at the heart)
Revolving around your modern love story and its happy ending,
The sixth formers handing out canapés and smiling
Like these first sixth formers, your peers, I’m meeting again
From my first school at the other side of a dead career.
Your lucky streak continuing like the complete croupier you once were
To include every aspect of the meal and venue
And indeed half of Worcestershire by the time it ended;
The brilliant soul band with 1930s mikes and Aretha-red suits.
Even as I use my index finger as a temporary hinge
In a slammed door jamb of pain beyond pain (or any sensation
For the following days) I can’t help laughing.
We all got married with you two, those words come true
And everything with them, when the bride and groom mean them.

Everything organised to perfection to appear effortless,
Like the best poetry.

Even the accidental riverboat sailing under Eckingham Bridge
And over its brilliant sun-painted reflection
Joined in: its shining swan-white prow and name:
Welded Bliss. I gave my heart
- We all did – to the bride, but, ludicrously,
It was the groom I actually dance with.

All of us are dancing with both of you now
I think we may be dancing forever.

29 March 2009

On His Birthday

“You cannot live in the present.
At least, not in Wales.” RST

“The rhymer in the long-tongued room
Who tolls his birthday bell
Toils towards the ambush of his wounds.” DT

All those years ago, I was in a tatty Welsh classroom
Studying Poem On His Birthday by Dylan Thomas
And now here I am in a tatty Norfolk classroom
Teaching Poem On His Birthday by Dylan Thomas
(Same textbook, newer edition). I’ve got nowhere
Very slowly and now the clock on the wall (essentially
The same wall) ticks up thirty nine instead of seventeen
As I fidget and fill in time as artfully as possible -
Subconsciously still waiting for teacher to come.
A big-hearted girl in year 8 has just tidied up
My slagheap of a desk because she “couldn’t stand it anymore”
And Caroline next door has crammed my pigeonhole
With a big red balloon and put HAPPY BIRTHDAY
Over the staffroom noticeboard. When I slip home
For lunch, I’ll get all my cards, a request to record
My not-so-slim-as-it-used-to-be volume onto tape for America
And the annual rejection from a Welsh publisher.
Then I’ll ease on the moccasins Melanie bought me
Which make me feel like a New Man. But I’m not.
I’m an Old Man, a Boy, enjoying his birthday
Up the Mountain, playing truant from everything
With my dog, Tan, running at my heels.

March 29 1995

Notes: Moccasins? That's so last decade darling.


A Good Friday

Blood-orange sun lazing down into the sea,
Full moon ghosting up the other side of the sky.
All down the sun-slackened tarmac to the woods,
Finches fleece hedgerows like there’s no yesterday
And no tomorrow. Round the graveyard walls
Like over-bred mothers, the fields have ploughed
Through yet another winter, lie back in the sun.
Mozart plays somewhere on a holiday radio,
Notes a tossed incense of joy so alive
It is almost beyond living. The sky
Is full of larks and I’m full of Real Ale
And full of myself anyway: it’s my birthday.
At the foot of a wall of crumbing stone -
A Victorian relic of ivy and railings -
D-A-D stands over a grave in flowers.
“Look, love, I chuckle, they’ve left out the E.”
This tickles my daughter as much as me
And we splutter until I am out of breath…
I am about to meditate on mutability
When her miniature copy of my hand
Hoists me homeward, impatient, a daffodil chill
On the air. Her face is a tiny March leaf,
Her "snuggle-riding" featherweight on my back
Fresh as the daisy that hasn't quite sprung,
A summer in bud. I'm the finished version.
I guess they'll be carving my dates clear as Spring
On one of these stones eventually (paying
The sextons double because of the chalk)
But all in good time. Carpe Diem.
Days like these are worth dying for.

Sedgeford, March 29 1991.

Notes: I was 35, then 39 and now I'm 53. The daughter described is now 22. We change, we stay the same. It's brilliantly sunny here. Happy birthday everybody!

A Reader's Letter

I've recently received this from one of the fifty people who attended the launch of River Deep Mountain High in February 2008. It's the most economically expressed and still among the most comprehensive comments I've had.

"I have had a conscience about failing to write to you before this about your book that we all greatly enjoyed reading, though the bureaucratic jungle that enveloped the aspirations of your youth were horrifying to read of, despite the lightness of your touch. Your fame has spread to Cyprus..."

All right, I've left the Cyprus bit in just to show off but I am genuinely and deeply gratified (and humbled) by the care and attention of the previous sentence. It's worth all the writing when someone reads this receptively. Why isn't this woman running the education ministry? Ah? she failed the entrance exam - she got far too many marks...

Gareth Calway (And All His) Works Social

My works Christmas social/office party has been arranged to coincide with my wife's. She is joining dozens of colleagues in a swanky hotel near Norwich for a seasonal lunch. I and all my staff will be calling in - toil permitting - at the Gin Trap in Ringstead for a club sandwich and a pint of Wherry. "Table for one, please landlord."

Happy Christmas everyone!

God bless America!

How blue can we get? Blue as a Virginian sky, blue as an Ohio dawn, blue as a Florida sea board, blue as a Democrat dream ticket, blue as a black man in the White House.

Well I woke up this morning and there was a man with a brain on his way to the Oval office in January. First time in a while.

I never felt more like singing the blues.

God bless America.

Perspectives on Literary and Linguistic Theory

Link here for a copy of my extension area of Hodder Education's living literature A level teaching resources. The deal is, you pay Hodder a modest sum on behalf of your school and your A level students (and, for my section, star spangled mega bright AEA = A++ A levels students) can then teach themselves a way into fabulous pass grades.  However, as they don't seem to be available through such official channels, the link above will take you to a copy of my AEA area of the text. I am more than happy to rescind this link as soon as an official one is functioning. Shame for all that good work to lie fallow.

http://www.alevel-english.co.uk

Well, here's how it starts-

In this unit the focus is on extending and enriching your understanding of theories that have developed around language and literature. For this purpose the unit has been split into two sections: Literary Theory and Linguistic Theory.
The Literary Theory section introduces some of the main schools of thought on how literature can be read from different perspectives, for example placing the writer, the text or the writer at the centre of the reading. You will be encouraged to test out each theory for yourself and to apply it to a varied selection of texts and extracts.
The Linguistic Theory section offers valuable insights into such linguistic greats as Bernstein, Orwell, Whorf, Chomsky, Labov and Halliday, providing access to extracts from their work and interesting ideas to put their theories to the test.
Your will have the opportunity to practise the following skills:
experimenting with reading literary texts using different critical theories
analysing complex linguistic theories
investigating the structure of language at lexical, syntactic and text level
describing language using different linguistic theories
challenging your own perceptions of language and its relation to society
This unit will stimulate you to think in new and refreshing ways about the texts you are studying in you English Language or English Language and Literature courses and it may prove a useful resource in preparation for undergraduate study.
If you enjoy thinking outside the box, this is the unit for you.
Note: Please come back to this area of the website in September 2008 for the full unit (including interactive activities). Perspectives on Literary and Linguistic Theory
In this unit the focus is on extending and enriching your understanding of theories that have developed around language and literature. For this purpose the unit has been split into two sections: Literary Theory and Linguistic Theory.
The Literary Theory section introduces some of the main schools of thought on how literature can be read from different perspectives, for example placing the writer, the text or the writer at the centre of the reading. You will be encouraged to test out each theory for yourself and to apply it to a varied selection of texts and extracts.
The Linguistic Theory section offers valuable insights into such linguistic greats as Bernstein, Orwell, Whorf, Chomsky, Labov and Halliday, providing access to extracts from their work and interesting ideas to put their theories to the test.
Your will have the opportunity to practise the following skills:
experimenting with reading literary texts using different critical theories
analysing complex linguistic theories
investigating the structure of language at lexical, syntactic and text level
describing language using different linguistic theories
challenging your own perceptions of language and its relation to society
This unit will stimulate you to think in new and refreshing ways about the texts you are studying in you English Language or English Language and Literature courses and it may prove a useful resource in preparation for undergraduate study.
If you enjoy thinking outside the box, this is the unit for you.

National Poetry Day 2008 (Work)

Worksong


Through broken dreams
The shattering trumpet shrilleth high
The alarm clock aubade.

Delirium of wavelengths,
The hour of our reckoning cometh nigh,
Coercion of tuning.

Now switched on to the Voice,
The ever ready Voice
Of Dawn Greenwich:
I'm afraid we can't play your request.
We've chosen another for you.
Going to work,
Don't wanna go…
Ah well,
TEA BREAK SOON.

A path through the woods,
A forest of nerves
In my finger tips.

We're still so close
(Correlation Street)
But it's just a walk into work
Work work...
Ah well
TEA BREAK SOON.

And it's-
Hello until five o' clock
And squeezed humour grease
Embrocates the blisters.
TEA BREAK SOON.
Take a walk on the wild side
With the mowing machine.

I like grass.
I don't like cutting it.
Is this all right Jack?
TEA BREAK SOON.

Bloody rain
Arms the grass against us,
Blades that attack
Our mowing machine.

I like rain
And I like wet grass.
I don't like cutting it.
Is this all right Jack?
TEA BREAK SOON.

The fence is broken down again
And to that place a story appertains
-The cows have escaped and now we must catch them.

I like cows
Living in fields.
I don't like mending fences.
TEA BREAK SOON.

Is this all right, Jack?
TEA BREAK SOON.
And do you like me Jack?
TEA BREAK SOON.
And do you love your fellow man, Jack?

And is it TEA BREAK SOON Jack?
And how do I switch off
This machine Jack?
Jack? jack? jack?
Jackjackjackjackjackjackjackjackjackjack

Summer 1973


Note: this is the earliest poem I have kept/not lost. It records a holiday job working for Monmouthshire (or was it Gwent?) County Council maintaining the lawns of Torfaen across its schools, 'settlements' and council properties. Ah! the scent of fresh cut grass, the thrill of the scythe through the nettled wilderness, getting the hang of the hook, the chug chug chugging of the mechanical mower (rendered here in the repetition of my instructor and workmate's name, Jack. ) Jack did the Mirror crossword, I did the Sun, during the (many and welcome) rain breaks. I made the tea also, which they thought was putting me in my place but it was my favourite bit of the day. Poor old Jack, he's in his nineties now probably. We'd book overtime on every day except Friday and spend Friday 12 noon to 4 pm - well 2.25 anyway but once 4pm - in one of the Pontypool pubs. (12 noon to 4 pm were the opening hours in Wales in those days, quite liberal for the era.) The nightmare job was Snatchwood Junior School built on a mound whose every inch was infested with ants. It took all day - four of us - and the ants got well and truly in your pants and bit everything they found there. 'Cynddylan' Jones - my name for him - worked the tractor and apparently always considered himself a bit above and apart from the rest of us once he'd got that post. The young and perpetually fraught foreman always thought I was too clever by half for the humble position I held (well, I was: I was a Grammar schoolboy doing A levels ) and spent any time he was present putting me in my place. That and warning (rather longingly) during school postings, like at Twmpath Sec Mod, that 'these girls'll ave your trousers off I if we dont watch it.' The older guys would exchange an old fashioned look when he did so. Percy on the other hand - a maverick under-foreman who often operated with a separate team of breakways including me- won my respect with his wit, his subversiveness and his ability to irritate Brian even more than I did. Whenever I smell cut grass, even to this day, I am right back in that 1973 summer between the lower and upper sixth, with a head full of the songs and poems 'alluded' to (sub-Eliot fashion) in this poem. Wordsworth, Tennyson's Sir Galahad, Sergeant Pepper, Supertramp, Genesis, Lou Reed - they're all there, man. All in all, it was one of the best holiday jobs I ever had. It was also my last summer at home - by the next summer, a huge gulf had slammed down between me and everything in that valley, notably the family and the home (in Groveside Villas) that they'd sold within a year of me leaving. And my A levels were done and my schooldays over. So it's a poem that suspends in time a valedictory summer I was never to regain. I'm still rather pleased with the way I captured some of my 'green' (and wet behind the ears) hippy protest against the machine in the refrains and the ending. And there are a couple of signs too that the boy who wrote it was a bit too clever for his own good.

Anyway, happy poetry day eveybody. I wish you joy in your work, whatever it is

The Signing!

Are the reflections in the window actually the real world or is the young model on the cover actually more real and present than the ageing author?



I think Waterstone's might be overselling me somewhat, billing me as the new JK Rowling. (The hint of Northern Rock in the distance in the final frame is probably nearer the truth). Thank you Norwich. Hope you enjoyed the little extract from the love story I read you. If anyone remembers the earlier and much younger student Gareth with the campaigning 70s newspaper stuttering out his slogans - well, that story today was what all I was really trying to say back then.

Book signing - Norwich Waterstones

Don't forget, I'll be signing copies of this in Norwich Waterstones, Castle St, on Friday 19 September from 12.30 noon to 2pm. You can find a few extracts on this blog and on the website www.garethcalway.co.uk

Radio Norfolk gave the book and its feature on Roy Waller's programme 4 stars last spring (if you can call it a spring) and Keiron Pym in last Saturday's EDP was going along the 'Great Comprenhensive School novel' route too. Flattery will get you everywhere, fellas, and - having spent 27 years teaching in comps - you can't say I haven't done my research. It's also a romantic comedy and a love story in which the romantics among you will not be disappointed.

I was there 30 years ago, at UEA. See you there!

Maynard's gold

As I confidently predicted (meaning I was desperately unconvinced but hoping), Maynard got his first City league goal and spread the love across Bristol - south of the river anyway. But City seem to be losing one key player per game for a long period out injured at present, which doesn't help. By Bonfire Night, the chairman might yet be accepting my offer of my own striking services (my Ashton Gate stats: one attempt on goal, one goal) because everyone else is in hospital. Congratulations also to the Match Live Centre on the club website which showed the draw, points tally and league position at 5.00 pm, 20 minutes before kick off - an omen I could have done without. Meanwhile, in Bejing (how was that ever called Peking?) Britain gets more golds in a day than it has since 1908, when she ruled the world - and had done since we outsailed Napoleon at Traflagar in 1807. Mind you, Britain also provided a third of the total Olympics athletes in those days. We can still out-sail, occasionally out-swim, out -cycle, and out-row the world anyway. (And are pretty good at Olympic rowing as well, as the poolside diving spat revealed.) Meanwhile, imgine Nick Maynard's golden moment - the ball comes to him, he's only 21, just a lad, the media is alrady on his back, the Bristolian crowd might soon be, he's worth his weight in gold (2.5 million) and he hasn't scored yet, Brian Wilson ( not just a Beach Boy) comes on as sub and feeds him the ball, he shoots, he scores. The crowd goes wild. City go (temporarily, equal) top...More of the same please, Nick.

Hullo again

Hi everyone (anyone?)

I've just posted off my July and August poems of the month for the main site to my webmaster. They should appear shortly. Apologies for the long lay off. In the long interim, I have slowly recovered from my calf injury (four months), got my first ever pair of reading glasses and (on 08 08 08) a jolly comfortable armchair in a sale. I have also got, on the second attempt, tickets to see Leonard Cohen. I have also watched dear old Dicky Attenborough confer an excellent University of Sussex degree on my daughter, celebrated that with some of the wildest and most beautiful girls in Brighton and had a haircut.

And City have won their first two games. Speaking of the latter, you can read my first poem of the season in the Bristol City versus Derby programme this Saturday. That's the first matchday mag poem for a couple of seasons. The next one will be celebrating Maynard's first goals for the club - a club once again being written off by everybody, I am pleased to see.

Despite my novel, SATs are still (a) in existence and (b) in the news for being a complete waste of time. If something's not right, it's wrong. Get rid of them and bring back proper teaching now.

I've also written two new books of poetry, one about King Arthur the other about a pilgrimage to Meher Baba. And completed my Cinderella novel about the 60s, Rubber Soul. Oh yes and marked over 700 A level papers. If you're celebrating your A level results tonight, have one for me.

All we need now is some sun. I'm off to Paris soon whether it comes or not. Paris ou il fait du soliel tojours, as we used to say in O level French class in Abersychan. With Ma Tucker, God bless her.

Slainte!

Hunstanton Festival June 24th

A full house for this double act of poetry and jazz bringing a bit of real class to town - wine bottles and candles on tables etc - as well as warm hospitality, interval eats, a proper warm sunny June evening and a final hour of r&b and dancing from Eddie's groovers. The audience was lovely, really appreciative, receptive and ready to enjoy themselves.

My favourite bit was rapping my 'Life Is A Bitch But the Songs Are Great' with Eddie's band providing the brass, strings and drums behind me. But then it would be. It's great to feel a band that knows what it's doing driving you on - normally of course I'm carrying everything sotto voce. In the best traditions of jazz, we did not over-rehearse. In fact, we did not even meet until the night and did not rehearse it with the music until we actually did it. Nice...

I enjoyed the two sets I put together, all from Exile In His Own Country plus one short extract from River Deep. (Set list below) It built into a sort of exploration of the British Dream - and naturally included my monologue from the Exile show, 'Beatle' (the embodiment of that Dream as available to everyone including the national football teamcirca 1966- 1968). It was good to do a new concept, using but not repeating the Exile In His Own Country touring show or the Edinburgh Tales Out Of School fringe show, both of which have had their day. I particularly enjoyed the musical connections of many of the poems - Crowded House, Sinatra - and the luxury of time to introduce the pieces, not being tied into a staged performance, plus being able to talk and interact around the poems with the audience. A Norwich City supporter and a teacher both freely announced these afflictions to the world, an indication of how relaxed and accepting the atmosphere of the evening was...
Part One: Toucan resistance (first memory); Cooking up a revolution; 1970; England win the world cup (1966/2003); Beatle, From The Welsh.
Part Two: The voice (tribute to Sinatra); Boudicca, Britain's Dreaming; Bard of Bristol; Mocks; Afternoon break extract from Rver Deep Mountain High; Life is a bitch but the songs are great (rap).

Poem of the Month - June

My latest Poem of the Month is published at my website,  here. It's called Sister and was originally written for my youngest sister Donna in the 'orrible 80s. I'm resurrecting it in memory of a recent very happy hour spent in a tapas bar in Cardiff, my crutches swaying drunkenly in the corner. 'Sister' was published in Britain's Dreaming in 1991.

Hunstanton Festival and All That Jazz

Tuesday 24 June 2008

HDFA: 7.30pm: Poetry & Jazz Evening at Hunstanton Town Hall. Local poet and international playboy, man of mystery and author Gareth Calway plus the Eddie Seales Band. Tickets £10.

I'm going to concentrate on poems with a musical connection, which actually doesn't exclude many, I notice. A couple of Boudicca poems may well get an airing, especially as it's Norfolk venue - I may not have the hair anymore or even both the legs but I can still punk it up when I need to - and the world jazz rap Life Is A Beach (or something like that) is very much on the cards. One of the poems I'll definitely be reading is this, about a jazz singer those of you aged over ten may have heard of-

The Voice

Sinatra is singing All The Way on a foreign radio station,
Across the North Sea and down my snapped aerial.
He's singing from the heart, from the words, he means it,
Holding each vowel like a hornplayer,
Phrasing the lyric through the breaks of the song
Like a love-struck shark performing underwater.
I turn it up. And a foreign language is saying he's dead,
Ol' Blue Eyes, is dead - this morning - of a heart attack
And he, even he - never quite gone - won't be coming back.

The Voice, the voice of the little guy, just telling
A story, lives on, though, like a May morning
As it did through all the crackling
Interference of decline: the ghost (impressing
My pillow between Sixties rock) of June
Through even his September years, but soaring
On a pungent whiff of Fifties record deck, tossing
Pennies From Heaven to a post-war world
That wanted to dream again. He was my Granddad
In double-breasted suit and Godfather turn-ups
Beaming down on my New Deal mum and dad
On Songs For Swingin' Lovers. He was the soundtrack
(Borrowed from Dad along with the suit) at my
Seventies wedding, singing Love Is Here To Stay.

The Lean Lark could act, too, outside of the songs,
Natural lines delivered with blazing blue eyes
And finger-snapping aim. A doorman says, You can't
Bring that black boy in here…. He’s the sax-player
Says Frankie. The doorman sneers, He’s a n-
He’s my brother says Frankie, with a sweet left hook.
Corny. But true. Like - There's a lot of people out there, Frank,
Don’t know how to say I love you.... You gotta
Say it for ’em. And he does it, so tenderly
(And as lone and rogue-male as a lounge wolf)
It could melt Alaska.

Sinatra is singing All The Way on a foreign radio station.
A girl steps through the stalled traffic, naked-
Thighed, soaked to the skin, carrying her shoes,
A gorgeous lithe animal let loose in the city,
Easy and self-possessed as a Sinatra torch-song
Delivered from a bar stool at three in the morning,
It's quarter to three, there's no-one in the place,
Except you and me.... sung for Ava Gardner, and all the others.
Or later, tireder, I have been a rover, I have walked alone,
Hiked a hundred highways, never found a home
Sung for strangers, in the night, for Farrow, for this girl.

That's you, Frank, because your roving gave it all:
You never found for yourself what your voice hit for us
In all that swing, all that swooping caress, all that jazz
Loosed from deep in the heart of you, a voice born
Of this roving-spotlit, rat-packed, shot-at century
(Calling you a spick, then a commie, then a gangster):
Born of the blues, of a Jewish violin, of Little Italy.

The nearest to home you got in it was four families
Squabbling over your loot. Well, "Sultan of Swoon",
King of the broken heart-voices who gave their faith
To this world's lost ways, I hope you've found it now.

Frank Sinatra, born Dec 12 1915, died May 15 1998

Pass me the can, lad, there's an end of May

from "The Chestnut casts his Flambeaux"

There's one spoilt spring to scant our mortal lot,
One season ruined of our little store.
May will be fine next year as like as not:
Oh, ay, but then we shall be ...fifty four.

We for a certainty are not the first
Have sat in taverns while the tempest hurled
Their hopeful plans to emptiness, and cursed
Whatever brute and blackguard made the world...

The troubles of our proud and angry dust
Are from eternity, and shall not fail.
Bear them we can, and if we can we must.
Shoulder the sky, my lad, and drink your ale.

Alfred Edward Housman (1859-1936) (with apologies, I have changed twenty four to fifty four)

A good luck chant for the terraces

John Lennon said there's nothing you can do that can't be done and we've done it. 4-2.

A Bristol Palace
In a crystal city
Is where I want to be.
It's the Ashton gate
to the Promised Land
And they call it wemberley

(all this talk of first legs and second legs and I'm on crutches!)