They made her over the years,
Somewhere between the Bridge Inn
And the Curly Wurly Bridge,
In the strew of empty bottles of
Buckfast and White Lightning and
The scab ends of rollies scuffed
From cracked, rotting tarmac.
They casually tossed their taunts and
Jibes, the lazy, perfunctory barbs
Of lug-headed youths with ambitions
Dulled by the vacuous promises of
Distant Whitehall bureaucrats and the
Confidence of eager planners who
Believed that they could fix a
Sectarian divide with concrete.
She laced her boots against their
Ignorance, and took her notebook
And her sandwiches, and filled
Her bag with Blyton and Forest,
Hinton and Salinger, wishing
For a shiny, leather satchel, and
Headed to the meadows, where
Shouting was for football, not dinner or
Short skirts or being late or the boys
Looking wrongly over the gate.
There, on empty fields, between the
Nettles and the cow parsley, where
Starlings and sparrows chattered,
And where the outsiders could forge
Their code, she caught dreams in the
Rye grass and learned from George
And Darrell, Tim and Nicola and
Lawrie, Michael Curtis and Holden,
Those righteous rebels who knew
Fierce right from wrong – even if
They found wrong fun – and she
Was sure even then that she would
Write her way away from the
Unfinished city with empty streets
And lakes that had no place being:
‘Remember to stay gold, Ponyboy...
Stay gold..., Kaykay?’
And she dreamed wild dreams of
Middle Earth and Mordor and the
Worlds across the sea; far from
Skid Row, just barely out of school,
Far from the crumbled battlements of
Craigavon’s aspirational estates,
Far from Lurgan and Portadown,
Far from Derry and Belfast; and
She loved Queen’s and hated it,
And later loved City, but hated it,
Leaving to find herself in Tokyo,
Teaching wide-eyed Japanese kids
With her Belfast burr, but didn’t,
Though she loved it dearly,
But did in Melbourne, among
The hippies, then – restless and
Searching – returning to remind herself
Why she left for home, for Oz, all
Before learning with the homeless,
– Restless, restless, restless –
Brittany and Rathlin both
Interlopers and interlocutors, this
Small, inked, pierced butterfly,
Away again with the rising sun,
Until back, once more, to the
Ormeau Road and working with
Those women broken by men
Who couldn’t care less and who
Left them to the shelters with
Hot soup and a dog-eared Twilight:
This switchblade writer who called
Eighteen and life as she fought
The world alone.
And in the meantime, throughout,
She loved her mates and old lovers,
One transitioning to another and
Back again, the best sort; and
She loved Paddy, kind, bright Paddy,
With his stars and marks and
‘Happy days!’ and who was
The gentlest, funniest friend, who
Longed for love but knew his
Mates instead until even they
Were too much to bear; and
She loved other Paddy, too,
Dealer Paddy whom she feared for,
Who had her mind the stash; and
She loved cockney Paul,
With his twinkling eyes; and
She loved little, long-haired Marty,
With his quick wit and words
And hate for scratch-inked spides
That hollered but couldn’t spell,
Marty who climbed Cave Hill
With her as they giggled in
Paroxysms of ecstasy before taking
A lysergic acid diethylamide
Dance through Botanic, ending with
Breakfast at Maggie May’s,
Marty who dipped Brits in eggs
With her and called ‘Bacon!’
After Peelers, she still dreaming of
Middle Earth and Mordor and the
Worlds across the sea; and
She loved Gerry, despite herself,
Despite his temper and madness; and
Elsewhere she loved Yann and Robert,
Who loved her, too, with fine cooking
And cupboards full of balloons; and,
Differently, with trust and beer,
She loved Conor with his gentle
Smile and hopeless promises; and
She loved Terry with his
Loyalty and soft chuckles,
The most popular man in Belfast,
Teasing him with knowing smiles; and
She loved George the Fire Horse, with
His mutton chops and magic, joking
From flat to pub and back again; and
She loved Dave, Dave Henry,
With his sardonic smile,
Who, beneath the smoky clothes
And whiskers and hang-dog eyes,
Was simply diamond and shared
Her nights and beer and grass; and
She loved big Marty, with
His trench coat and umbrella,
Made for skewering spides; and
They each loved her, and feared her
Slightly, with her wit and cheek and
Filthy mind, and fists that floored
A milly and gained a caution that
She wore with quiet pride;
Talking, laughing, crying, loving,
Getting high, long into the night,
Stuffed with champ from Spuds,
And refreshed by midnight forays to
The Hatfield, she and her people,
In Katy’s or Lavery’s, in The Elms
Or Voodoo, or perhaps, on a whim,
In Filthy McNasty’s or The Hudson,
Or even old, old White’s, for
Smithwick’s and Jack Daniel’s,
With pool balls and Fear of the Dark,
And talk of what was, and what
Could be, and what had been,
Shooting shit and doubled-up,
And talk of Paddy, kind, bright Paddy,
Now gone to dance among his stars, a
Black hole left at the heart of
Their galaxy.
He found her on a screen, burnt by the
Sun on the beaches of Koh Samui,
Grinning, drunk on rain and Chang,
Hair tangled over cigarettes and
A short, blue dress worn in the waves;
He teased her about her shy smiles
And she loved his eyes and soft words;
They split an air fare and laughed
And fucked and drank and then
They simply split, in Amsterdam,
Over spliffs and bourbon, after
Rock and steak and good times.
He found her again in September,
On the Portobello Road, the year that
Neil Armstrong and Paddy died,
And they laughed through the day,
Taking pictures of a Volkswagen
Campervan, him rubbing her
Tired feet before buying beer,
And, though they thought of fucking,
They went their separate ways,
But thought in that autumn evening
How much better they were
Together, not apart; and then, before
They knew it, after easyJet and Billy
Telling stories about taxis and partying
With Oliver Reed, it was approaching
4 a.m. in Camden Street and the
Polish whore screamed as she came
Again and again in the flat below,
And they cheered and stamped,
Opened another bottle of Merlot,
Found a packet of Mayfair Lights,
And played rock and hymns and
Rebel songs on YouTube until
They passed out, drunk and happy.
When the fleggers rioted in front of
City Hall, crying ‘It’s our culture!’
But vandalised road signs in
Ulster Scots instead, and as women
Were treated as second class citizens
By small-brained bigots who claimed
God as they screamed murder and
Preached hate, she marched and laughed,
Showing the world an ordinary right.
Later, when they found Good People,
In London, she hid her wet eyes,
And Margie Walsh burned into
Her consciousness as he asked her
‘How’s the wine?’ and she replied
‘How the fuck should I know?’
Then Jean Valjean, and more so Marius,
Made her cry again and think of
Empty chairs and empty tables,
Where she and friends talked of
Revolution and sang about tomorrow.
Freddy lived again, too, briefly, and
They sang along, glo-sticks waving,
‘These were the days of our lives,
The bad things in life were so few,’
Before Seb brought it all back at
Knebworth with his hair and they
Swore his veins burned gasoline,
And Bruce warned them to watch for
Shadows dancing from behind, the
Phobia that someone’s always there,
Reminding them that, as ever,
Only the good die young –
All the evil seem to live forever.
And now, as life begins, she
Remembers what Louise said,
That ‘You get what you settle for,’
But she won’t settle for anything
And writes long into the night,
The evening smouldering in the
Tips of her cigarettes, washed down
With Rosé and Thatcher’s,
Words like a river in spring melt,
Torrential and terrifying, tumbling
And crashing from her brain,
‘The price of genius,’ she says
As sleep eludes her once again.
So she monkey dances and stirs,
Wales and Cornwall and Galway and
Bavaria a tapestry of happy memories,
Bantering with Dug and ducks,
Drinking bucket mugs of tea,
Eyes twinkling and full of mischief,
Smart dresses from eBay, sharp
Humour from Private Eye, romantic
Ideals of revolution from Orwell
And the songs of Les Misérables –
Do you hear the people sing? –
Compassion learned from Tiko,
Defiance fired by Charlie Hebdo,
Laughing at DOS as she playfully
Calls them ‘Cunts’ with a blush,
Loyal and loved and loving,
All as she makes her home on
The river, across from The Swan,
Near the swans, just down from
The gas lights of Richmond Bridge,
Beneath the flightpath of
So many transitory dreams,
Where Lisa could never go to
Taste the bright lights.
25th February, 2015
A/N: Written for my partner's 40th. It was a hell of a weekend. *grin*