Mother me!

A quick recap: the 1960s, for me, was a period of creative exploration with glimpses of a world of bohemia that lit my imagination. But I blew out the flame and took to a life of business; in advertising initially. Then in Government, which is where I left the last but one blog, where I became the Deputy Head of Communications at the National Economic Development Office. But, sitting in my office on the 33rd floor of the Milbank Tower in London, I still hankered after the writer's life.

A few demons had gathered too, which needed dealing with. As always, I used poetry to take them on. Here's me doing just that, with a poem that was published in the March 1987 edition of Psychopoetica from the University of Hull:

CONFRONTATION

Footsteps on swinging bridges
black below, even dank
like drowning kittens in a sack.

Why, why, why
but my memory would not answer such a thing
so the bank burst and I cried.

In a half waking, half sleeping,
sad interlude I imagined
what I would do if I saw

no, seeing wasn't the word
confronting, admitting, yes blaming.

I tried.

The place was familiar; of today,
modern, existing; no Samuel Beckett this.

Did I knock, or just enter?
It matters little, I was standing
on the carpet
and she was in a bloody wheelchair.

You cheat, I thought
I can't hit you like that.

That worried me, the thought of hitting,
although I needn't have worried long.

From her frail self, all skin,
hanging loose, like Oxfam clothes,
she struck out at me
with a walking stick
the one in the cupboard
the one with the snake's head.

Furious striking, making crosses
criss cross patterns in the air.

They never touched or marked
furious striking to prove a point.

You, you, you: I hate you
it seemed to say
a fair reply
to why, why, why.

I'm glad it wasn't real
not a real confrontation
especially as I wasn't sure
what next.


Having got that out of the way, I joined the International PEN Club, hob nobbed with the likes of Harold Pinter and set about another change of life. To the country dear boy, to pursue country pursuits and bury my head in books. Another rich turn in the mosaic that is/was my life. Come back and see me again, soon.