Six Poems by Stephen Kingsnorth

 

 

Peddle Car 

 

The Triang car when I was three

was difficult to launch.

The rhythm build from first thrust

always was the key.

Soon I had a trailer

and loaded pans and pot;

it became a pitch for selling

and pocket money grew.

Soon I learned the skill to carry,

my brothers joined with me,

I travelled greater distances

from street, estate and town.

Peddling came easy,

across the countryside,

too far for talk or shouting,

we joined the county lines.

And now I run a business,

borders stretching beyond site,

because I cracked the pedals

of that red Triang car.

 

First Published by Runcible Spoon, 2019

 

 

Up The Creek

 

Though yet kids mingle in the street

below the north Kent railway track,

our daily destination norm,

The Rec, for playing, growing up,

both learning give and take a risk,

for muscle stretch and helping hand

short trouser-knees me, they in dress.

 

Grandmother's house, cut through the lane,

and there from maypole hung the chains,

to throw ourselves around, again,

by concrete through-the-tunnel, climb,

with grazing edge, slide without sides,

a balanced cone as witches hat,

all grass or paved, hard underneath.

 

Unstabled block, a horse to rock,

for fifteen swinging at a push,

see-saw to spring, though bumping back,

harsh metal scars in chip-thick paint,

revealing coats laid decades through,

but not the jumpers, woolly hats,

or broken promise, don’t turn up.

 

But superseding, longer haul,

permission granted, ‘off you go’,

The Rec to Creek at Faversham,

the mudded clog of hulks congealed

in Swale, bleak trail of brick and brew.

The tide when low is slow recalled,

sun glance on water, briefest show.

 

I never once saw bright sails flap

or business done, or engine run,

or squirl of gull scream, spilling air,

but grey brown ooze in black and white.

To dreaming boyhood, pirate wharf,

at least the barrel’s roll on sward,

and sense of smuggle, misted sludge.

 

First published by Literary Yard, 2020

 

 

Poster Paint

 

I stand for the stop at the lane,

wait on the rubber ribbed platform,

hold the steadying twirl-covered white pole,

glance through the glass rising from the ticket bin,

the green slackish bell-cord, tired, running the length

above the nearside seats.

 

Too many fingers, few gloved, more greased,

boned claws and fleshy fores,

tapping ping, I hear it still,

as we draw to the kerb

beside Dad's weeping work -

the poster details church services

for the month, ten feet by eight,

by childish measurement;

father failed to find the foolproof

poster paints, waterproof.

 

Now the bleeding red and

bluish tears trail down the white,

at meeting points, a painful purpled bruising

of inexperience.

 

From the number forty-seven,

bus rattle, initial mystery,

pausing beside the hall,

did any glance

as they dug hands deeper into sleeves

or double-checked the ticket ready for rare inspector

or stopped the chatter for a breath

or walked the gangway holding chrome?

 

Did any comment on the bleeding shame

or chuckle, vast display ineptitude

or try decipher what was wrote?

 

I alighted, walked past, and

entering the doors, said nought.

For shock and sadness

brought the mix with bewilderment and guilt,

that my Dad had made this failed display,

and this display of failure

when he knew everything there was to know

and was famed for his calligraphy.

 

I know that preachers could then

attract a crowd, but doubt the menu

then or now would cause a visit

from the bus.  Apart from harvest festival,

who cares the preacher painted blue,

the date in red, here tearful faced?

But father here, public disgrace,

and my ducts are inward.

 

First published by Eunoia, 2020

 

 

Copperhead

 

When I mowed the outer field

in burning sun, my copper head

failed to recognise host strategy.

As I circled, drawing in,

expecting rabbit targets at the bull

(can hardly say cornered in circumference)

the Kentucky cowboys

watched me work, sat with beer

(gin is my elixir of life, the tin bath stills

of mountain dew in the hillbilly

woods beyond the scrub).

 

I now know the date for course;

then untutored, less bothered anyway.

They swigged and laughed

that I had fallen in their trap

though I did not admit the bait

(if you understand, I’m mean).

Independence Day they said

we’ll watch the limey work, we’ll play

but I said July fourth does not signify for me.

They choked the bottle when I declared,

with some pomposity I guess,

in my best posh English which they mocked,

that I was glad they’d gone away.

No recognition from the Stetson-topped,

but I hummed The British Grenadiers

and thought busbies grander

than their wide brimmed hats,

even if my hair would melt

in that heat-cruel concentrate.

 

When that central final swathe was reached

there were no rodents, eye-rollings in the hay

(as Mum had regaled from her Somerset

harvest-rough-cider-tipsy-girly days.

Are bunnies rodents anyway?

I checked: they moved before first world war,

like secrets, they were re-classified).

There was a snake, a copperhead,

but none would roll in hay with that.

Iced Howdie Steve, they made a cake

on my first day, and saw me off

for Greyhound race, the pampas next.

 

First published by Academy of the Heart and Mind, 2020

 

 

Western Ghats

 

Protesting, strain motor engines scream,

bearing torque, outside of bends

edge-fenced by cliff-hang fall

outstripping unbroken unspaced trucks in line.

 

Not losing face, or screen, but hooting lean,

as calling on the dashboards garland gods,

to slip them back in pack again

the drivers vent, exhaust their fumes.

 

Bravado's wrecks raze valley floor,

reek, with jasmine hint, the strangest fuel.

Silver years on, road rites comply,

so first-time travellers adopt

hooded view, climbing Western Ghats

to Pune from Mumbai, stale breathing with

grocer's paper bag encasing head,

custom in follow weeks suspend.

 

First published by Softblow, 2019

 

 

Within Range  (a reflection on having Parkinson’s Disease)

 

It is in visible, the range,

between the infra, ultra waves,

though rays beyond the human eye,

radio, gamma, micro, X.

So what the light that I reflect -

what spectrum is it I exude,

illumination, candlepower,

lighthouse in spin, blink on and off?

I cannot cloak my Parkinson’s -

invisibility on tap -

determined terms that dominate,

unless some symptoms medicate -

the calmer quiver, further walk,

a better sleep, pills and a glass.

 

Few see exhausted energy,

insomnia of early hours,

the joints I roll - a vape puff helps -

slide scapula - sounds mafia -

sup tonic, quinine bubbles up.

They cheer, drag racing on the track,

as I play ball to bridge the gap,

both heel and toe, like synchromesh,

attempt, engage first gear at least.

Some give me stick that carry mine,

a tightrope walker balance pole -

feel ferule cat stuck up a tree -

as concentrate to keep in line,

stare pathway, sole on pilgrimage.

 

First published by The Quiver, 2022

Stephen Kingsnorth (Cambridge M.A., English & Religious Studies), retired to Wales from ministry in the Methodist Church due to Parkinson’s Disease, has had pieces published by on-line poetry sites, printed journals and anthologies, including Lothlorien Poetry Journal.

He has been nominated, like so many, for a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net.

His blog is at https://poetrykingsnorth.wordpress.com/