For The Grenville Tower Fire

Anthony Leatham

3 July · 

Dust to dust
Ashes to ashes
In the wind we all
Whistle the same.

Meriem in her party dress
Dancing round the table
On the 21st Floor

Soul to soul
Reed to Reed
In the wind we all
Whistle the same

Mohamed at his PlayStation
His brother in the other room
On his computer
Chatting with his friends

Babel to Babel
Tower to tower
In the wind we all
Whistle the same

Mother Indira
Lady Fulani
On the 16th and 17th Floor
Jostling lives that matter 200feet high

Skin to skin
Bone to bone
In the wind we all
Whistle the same

Zainab fled war
To this safe haven
Trapped in Fate's wicked twist
On the 10th Floor

Voice to voice
Breathe to breathe
In the wind we all
Whistle the same

There is a place
Where they have gone
Each to his and her
Own heaven

Soul to soul
Reed to Reed
In the wind we all
Whistle the same.

Tom

You've never seen a man who works as hard as Tom
Everything for his wife and children
All the time out wheeling and dealing
You've never seen a man who works as hard as Tom

You've never seen a man own as little as Tom
Time-poor, space-poor
His things'd fit in two plastic bags
The wife and kids don't say hello
Out spending, in texting
You've never seen a man own as little as Tom

Tom was a good man
But always people-pleasing
Indeed his mother's son and his father's little soldier
Don't know how he ended up in this situation
Didn't question how, never questions why

You've never seen a man crack open wide as Tom
Fallen from his manly pride
His 'mirror cracked from side to side'
Tom's breaking soul unnoticed by
His own kids and his own wife
You've never seen a man crack open wide as Tom

You've never seen a man provide as much as Tom
All those holidays and clothes and house for his beloved bride
For her he worked himself into an early grave
She asked what the insurance was
In her husband's name
And if the standard of her life
Would be the same or change
You've never seen a man provide as much as Tom

You've never seen a man so soon forgotten as Tom
His colleagues did not attend his funeral or the wake
Neither did his wife and children, off in Saint Tropez
His father stroked his trophy wife
His mother fixed her golf-Course smile
Said, " Don't worry, dear, we have another good hardworking child."
You've never seen a man as soon forgotten as Tom

Heads Head Down To The Bunker

Heads head down to the bunker
Arms hang akimbo
Minds gone awry
Feet do what feet do
Standing still they shuffle
When no-one among the Generals
Can answer why.
Voices voicing silence
Courage fails where morality
Poses the great questions
And heads head down to the bunker
To await the unleashing of terror
Unleashed by embarrassed dogs of war.

Ragnarok

Know this
The armies that you raise
Are but nothing to
One brand of fire
Brighter than any sun
You have created this
Hell, with your own hands
One outnumbering
Millions

Whale

Rusted, beached
Corruscated, tipped
Spilled, eventre (gutted)
Wet pebble-rattled
Receding tides do not alter
In any beautiful way
This monument to our greed.

Ropes, cannisters and bobbins
Plastic blue plastic
Canary yellow
This in no way seems probable
From the distant arrangements of shelves
To this poor rubble of beached bathers.

And heaviest of all
The stinking rotting hill
Of flesh
Stuffed like Christmas
With landfill
Our Landfill.

The whale
From what gyratory mixture
Did this Mother and
World-Seer sip
Maybe this is her sacrifice
But this is our vanity
In her, or shame.

Twisted, broken, bloated
Between the landfill shame
And sea of tide
Wet rattles the pebbles
Skerries of the hoard of words
That lie like engorged
And drowned Odysseus
World recorder
Witness...Chronicler
Chronicle..Chronicler
What have we done.

The Anchor And The Chain

Let clod feet mire in mud
As old ideas of old men;
Whose dying breath calls out
For pity

I have been a sorry fool
Who, in life, took vindictiveness
And hate for others to new heights
And lows.

It is the Anchor and the Chain
Like fetters, drew me down
Into the murky depths
Of prejudice.

Whereof my sense of self superior?
When you, my African nurse
Are last to witness me in illness
And isolation.

You draw the blanket to my chin
And with kind dark eyes say,
"There, there", and, as patiently,
Hear my confession.

They're Dragging Out The Crown And Sceptre

'The Tory party is stuck in a post-colonial delusion'. Labour conference 2017

They're dragging out
The crown and sceptre
They've scheduled daily
The mitre and the ball
The House of Plantagenet, Tudor, Saxe-Coburg and Windsor
Is a diurnal TV staple
To keep the British buoyed up
As we fall.

They're schlepping out
The dusty purple
Reaching down the National sofa
They're scraping British history's barrel
For glory days of imperial rule;
If anything, the royals remind us
That we're bloody-minded
And bloody cruel.

Death Of The Speaking Clock

The Death of the Speaking Clock

Time ticked slowly for the man who
Once was the voice of the Speaking Clock.
Aged eighty-seven, he lay dying in a four-poster bed
With no one but an avaricious sister waiting
For his last breath and inheritance.
His breathe fetid where precision RP used to be.
“I knew Gieldgud...the plays...the parties...has anyone called?”.
“At the third stroke it will be...”

The basso profundo redundant, decades now;
Replaced by youth, though recorded in his youth
His was the voice of an aging and dying generation.
“At the third stroke it will be...”

In a darkening Brighton apartment, “Is my name in the Times?”
He rasped, “The Birthday section?”.
The sister’s fingers froze around a gold watch
“Yes, it was placed last week”.
She lied; he sighed deeply.
She neither cared and had forgotten
As would The Times.
No one came to the door of the man
Who once was the voice of the Speaking Clock
“At the third stroke it will be five, twenty-four and twenty seconds....”

The Gleeman

There he was!
With a staff of soft toys found
With a drum as unstrung guitar
And bells at every beat
Defiantly merry he
Spat his improvised odes to Joy
In your face

I thought my old mate Keith was back
Back standing in a passage in Greenwich
Back from the brink of fabulousness
and alcohol-fueled foolery
But this 'David Joy' was a
Clean-channelling jester

Some in a party of lads
Scornful and mocking threw bottled water at him
Outraged, I was about to protest.
'Nah, Nah! He said
'It's about Joy.
They are just conventional'.

Now he chanted a song
About the conventional
Complimenting a beautiful girl here
Encouraging a smile there.

Some muttered 'Who is he?'
One, in a group or part of a pair
Gave conspiratorial glances
That shamed the others in,
Who momentarily paused to reach out
For escape,
And stamped joy out.

'You are how I feel inside!'
I said shaking at his exhilarating display of chaos and freedom.
(I played his African drum;
'it's gotta get to know you before it sings')

He invited me to
View Point, 'I'm having a Solstice Fire,
I camp up there, a secret spot
You can see the city'.
I know the spot, indeed beautiful.

'Arthur Pendragon knows me well
The power of Stonehenge has faded'
What energy in that little Scot's frame
Shaman Soul, Jester
Bard, Gleeman, Holy-Fool
Joy! Joy! Joy!

The Shanty of Buela and Buela

Come we go

My name is Buela

Come we go

I’m Buela too

Come we go

Then you are recruited

Pick up your face and your back

Who invited you?

Come we go

Up and down stairs

Come we go

Cross to a bar

Come we go

Beast and the beauty

Come we go

Hunch-back and the star

Come we go

You’re not getting in girls

Come we go

I warned you before

Come we go

I promise you later

My friend will reward you

Mister Man-at-the-Door

Come we go

Up and down stairs

Come we go

Buel', go to the bar

Come we go

Beast and the beauty

Come we go

Hunch-back and the star

Come we go

There’re too many people

Come we go

We don’t stand a chance

Come we go

Go mash up the fire alarm

Clear the whole club

So we can dance

Come we go

Out through the window

Come we go

Cross to a bar

Come we go

Beast and the beauty

Come we go

Hunch-back and the star

Come we go

I saw the man first

Come we go

Move out the way

Come we go

He says Listen up girls

If you both want me

You’ll both have to pay

Tsssssssssss!

Come we go

And mind we don’t tump you

Come we go

But we’re in a good mood

Come we go

And anyway Mister

We're not looking for snack

We’re looking for food

Come we go

Buela, I’m tired

Come we go

We’ve done half the town

Come we go

But Buela we’re traipsing

Pick yourself up

How dare you sit down

Come we go

Up and downstairs

Come we go

We cross to the bar

Come we go

Beast and the beauty

Come we go

Hunch-back and the star

Come we go

Somewhere we’re fighting

Come we go

I just couldn’t believe

Come we go

Everyone in that club

Made it quite plain

They would like us to leave

Come we go

Up and down stairs

Come we go

Cross to a bar

Come we go

Beast and the beauty

Come we go

Hunch-Back and the star

Come we go

Excuse me sister

Come we go

I just thought you should know

Come we go

Me just pass your friend

With a whole crowd around her

Fast asleep in the snow

Come we go

Buela I’m tired

Come we go

We’ve done the whole town

Come we go

But Buela we’re traipsing

What’s that stuck to your skirt?

How dare you lie down

Come we go

Up and down stairs

Come we go

Cross to a bar

Come we go

Beast and the beauty

Come we go

Hunch-Back and the star

Come we go

Somebody rank

Come we go,

It’s you.! Come off the floor!

Come we go

Whatever outside froze to our skirt

In the heat of this club

Is beginning to thaw

Come we go

Up and downstairs

Come we go

Cross to a bar

Come we go

Beast and the beauty

Come we go

Hunch-back and the star

Come we go

Somebody’s in there!

Come we go

Mash the lock on the loo !

Come we go,

Stop your noise! It’s your friend !

Look like she’s sleeping!

Covered in doo

Come we go

Buela I’m tired

Come we go

We’ve seen the whole town

Come we go

But Buela we’re traipsing

Clean yourself up

How dare you sit down

Come we go

Up and down stairs

Come we go

Hunch-back and the star

Come we go

Back from the toilet

Beast sees the beauty

Collapsed at the bar

Come we go

Buel’ find me a man

Come we go

Make sure he has wheels

Come we go

But Buela we’re traipsing

Pick yourself up

Now you know how it feels

Come we go

Up and down stairs

Come we go

Cross to a bar

Come we go

Beast and the beauty

Come we go

Hunch-back and the star.

Come we go

Somebody’s shooting

Come we go

Quick, that taxi there

Come we go

Move up and drive on!

Come we go

Said his friend with the shotgun

Jumping into the back seat

With bits of flaked ceiling in his finely locksed hair.

Completing The Circuit

Acropolis falling
There where you see
The sun crest on the hill...
Wavering horizon
That day in Helicon
Zeus appears to Ariadne and said
'Seek, that being unsure in faith
Faith you shall find.
Leave threads of kindness
The whereabouts of which
People treading will be reminded
Of kindness' gift
To lead toward the light.
Souls forever anguished
Never find the way
Yet oblivion has in itself
The hope of light within it
And it is hope's steady
Determination to emerge, -
Seek, seek, seek, -
That distinguishes the human condition
From those of fellow beasts'.

Fallen man fell on the day
Of his perception
Turning in, as one does,
Who, preoccupied with his own reflection
Seeks to build castles, to frame
His image... on water
A good photographer knows
The framing is the soul-light
And not the only picture
That can be made
Nor identified as man's endeavour.
Fallen angels find a way
To ascend in to the sky
Your own case; doubt.
Stilled fear, are those of Hemingway
Still you thought you'd lost
But having completed
The circuit
Left by the trails of crumbs,
The kindness left by Ariadne,
The circuit of the Stag!
I proclaim you man.

Deptford High Street 2017

Uppity people moving in
On areas formerly humble
Can't stand the arrogance,
Well, can you?
Rudimentary flavours are in...
Out, in, out,
We stop in the street and shout
"What's this all about!"
Are they taking over
A 'new breed' you say.
They had a DOG UNIT!
In Deptford, in front of the new Market Yard
Guarding a Craft Fair! Twice,
To keep the locals at bay.

Wearing those badass jeans
Jennifer supping tea
"It's not the South of
Bloody France you know"..


Standing by the fruit stall
"Antny!"
Gripped for a kiss,
Sisters , melons and babies,
Mangoes and nieces;
Next to the Latte Cafe/Van
The intellectuals
"The English are educated
Beyond their intelligence",
Said the examiner.
He looks like Alexis Sayle;
No chance of Baccalauriat now...


Here's Miss Thang!
What's she wearing today
She looks like she swam through a jumble sale
And a tiny plastic policeman's
helmit, lopsided on her...
Now...a blond wig on a Nigerian queen.
"I don't smoke but
I have cigarettes to offer
'Man' " She confides.
There she goes, arse
bare but for fishnets;
Done thinking it's unfair,
And dressed like a rubbish tip!


Eastern European bouncers guarding the entrance to a postage stamp
Why they bother to guard those who
don't want them; I don't know.
A new micro-bar
Micro-Cinema
Micro-Carrot cake
Cake, carrot-cake, cake
"Can I have one".
(need a microscope to see it)
How much! No thank you so
Very much.
That girl at Hilly Field's Farmers market
Was furious when she bought that artichoke;
To well-bred to say; 'and the cupboard was bare'
It's probably still on her mantelpiece now.


"Pattie, dumplin,
One festval and one carrot...
juice, large".
"You wan saace pon yer jerk chicken?"
"Me no wan fe cyarry me belly outa ere".
(Laughter)


Busy, busy, busy
"Some people have
things to do." Says
Earl, salon owner
and purveyor of Tweed
"Nice day to hang out
On the street".
"They're are not hanging out,
They are loitering"
Earl says towards the
gang of fellow
West Indians outside the
Betting Shop
"Hanging out!"
"Loitering!"
"Hanging out!"
"Loitering!"
"Sunning themselves!"
"Loitering!".


"It's the English buy
my stuff".
A fish-wife of a salesman
Of junk
Loud Essex and racist
Day after Brexit he put up a sign
To market entrance:
PASSPORTS PLEASE!
Insulting given the mixed demographic
Around him.
Like that other guy and his son,
Homophobic comments
Got them all together one day.
"How much is this picturebook
On Central Asia?"
Pot-bellied
In a Union Jack waistcoat,
They look at the turbaned
Man on the frontispiece
"Careful he doesn't
Blow you up!" he shouts
Out loud like a Betting Shop King
"It's funny how those
No better than landfill
Think themselves above others".

I Bear You In Mind

I bear you in mind
Because, holding you in my mind
Storing things about you, for no reason but you
Things you hold dear,
Matters to you.

You were studying...how's that going?
Your mother, is she better
How's that book, your garden
The wife and kids?
Devoid of opportunism
Good manners and some...
The Irishman crosses the party
Leans over and says
"Are you okay darling...
Shall I get you another drink, I'm just over there".
And that crumb of attentiveness
Makes the heart blossom
To have someone
Who bears me in mind;
Until then...
"How's your mum...?
"Your partner passed, how does that feel...?
"Your therapy practise...?
"Did you get a second opinion on that...?
And that well-mannered charming man
Crosses the road
"Hi, you were....
How's that going?"
"Well, thank you, and
Thank you for asking".
I bear you in mind
Because, holding you in my mind
Remembering things about you;
For no reason but you
Things you hold dear
Matters to you.

There's A Lot Of Angry Men

There's a lot of angry men about

Barking

At the top of their lungs

Harking

Back to the good old days

Stating

Britain's great, great, greatness

Hating

Any challenge to their supremacy

Farting

Higher than their arse

Smarting

At the slightest contrary suggestion

-Deluded-

That the world has not moved on

-Excluded-

They might like to revise

Presently

In the face of derision from outside,

Pleasantly

Admit that their place in the world

Practically;

Is now a titchy tiny islandy place and so,

Tactfully,

Pipe down.

'And Then We Sever'

Soon my English master will take this not-so-White-Settler away from you
You are wanting to leave, to grow up, become a man of distinction; your own giant
Before you look to Edinburgh, permanently and look away from your dusky Jo’ in England
Remember how we played.
Your lairds along-side those from England as the ships docked at Liverpool, from West Indian shores
Heaving the carriage up the cliff from want of roads;
You, tending your father’s croft
Me, a decorative trinket for a baronet would break the cane
And knee-locking servitude
And run
All the way from Wigtownshire to Ayrshire, my skinny brown legs, heather-clawed
Nay bother, we’ll meet in the middle

Rob, I am an older freer man, in London now
I sigh memories before the destination board
I looked for you in Edinburgh, in a tenement beneath the castle
Unseated on Arthur’s Seat; tobogganing down towards the Festival.
Classy sandstone facades. Did I hear of you running behind Eglantine Maxwell
Riding a pig down the Royal Mile; the mistress has grown wild.
All the way from Edinburgh to Leith, your skinny white legs, heather-clawed
Nay bother, we’ll meet in the middle.

My twenties, the Highlands will always call the Englishman
Striding among the grouse, ‘driven’ and you a famous poet now.
Me just starting out, writing up the red in tooth and claw...Kinrara, Tomintoul, above Aviemore
Remember how we would both ‘run about the braes and pulled the gowans fine’.
Those keen-eyed Keepers could run the length of the land; wains on the backs of bards
From the Cairngorms to Dumfries,
From Thurso to Skye
Loch Lomond to Loch Ness
The Western Isles to the Shetland Islands (stopping for a dram in Orkney!)
From Mull to Aberdeen
Glasgow to Dundee
Their sturdy legs, heather-clawed.
Nay bother. They’ll meet in the middle

My heart is breaking Robbie, The drive away will be long
Remembering chasing pigs around the pen at Knockengorick, that last season of play,
Nessy gave us a knowing wink; our jaws dropping wider for a hoard of words that could not...
(Or was that a distant MacDonald matriarch, latterly O’)
...and then we sever.

I jump off the London-bound train at Carlisle, and cross to the other side.
Running all the way from England to Scotland, Robbie
Your Jo’’ Our skinny young legs, heather-clawed
Nay bother, we’ll meet in the middle.

When Older Men Younger Men Seek

When older men
Younger men seek
A waiting game
To make an old man meek
Who, when young
In turn was once waited on
Well pass the appointed time
Now choice; care-free abandon gone.

Cleaning out the plastic flutes;
A picnic in the park
With that younger man whose promises fade after
After-dark
The bright rose of summer
Will one day the rose of autumn meet
A waiting game
To make an old man meek.

The Owl and The Pussy Cat

The Owl and the Pussy-Cat went to sea
In an animal-smugglers' boat
They were drowned and found with two-thousand pound
And a newborn in the lining of a coat.

How foul the stars looked down tonight
On the water-logged animal farm
No song, no song from the back of the car
'Are we near, are we there, is it far!'
Is it far!
Is it far!
Are we near, are we there, is it far!

Pussy said to the owl, before they both drowned
"Kill our child for I can't bear it's moans".
She said , "His already dead, look here'; his little blue head was relayed round the world by a drone.
By a drone
By a drone
His little blue head was relayed round the world by a drone.

It's indeed far they say, a year and a day
To England from 'Bong-tree land's' bombed-out groves
But despite the sight of menageries in flight you'll still hear racist shite.
From a pig in a wig with a ring of burst veins on his nose
On his nose
On his nose
With a ring of burst veins on his nose.

Borderline

A cold cold family
A trio of witches
Leaves me reeling
They're asking for money for just one days' stay
To pay for a wake at which I've been robbed
As I rain curses down on the rooftop
Backing out of the valley of their heartless exil
Shouting, 'There is no love here,
And there never was!" I feel a fool;
I've left my wallet behind at the red- heads.

There caught all up like dirty litter
Swirling in the street-wind
With the drunks and the beggars
Untrousered and uncouth; my dear old friends
The mad who don't listen to none but their own croaks
For the next coin and drink and 'I haven't any money' choir of the unloved
Shuffling with the Irish sisters amid life's broken biscuits
Laughing like a drain they say, "You're telling tales just to steal our ears".
No one invites me, as they sit down to feast, in that terrible night place, on the devil's haunch.

I Go Into Other's Bodies When I Sleep

I go into other's bodies when I sleep
Not too severe,the worries I try to resolve;
Fear of flying; Sat at a terrace once a plane crashed in the harbour
In the news, the next day.
'How the hell am I going to pay the rent', comes up a lot.

Once, I came back into my house and there I was asleep on my sofa;
Re-entry was...well, like breaking in while drunk.
At least I have a home where my body, comfortable and safe,
Is there, on the sofa to come back to.

What if I returned from buffering a needy soul
Against fear of flying, (something that requires an adrenaline spike),
like 'How the hell am i going to pay the rent', (There's a lot of those these days)
And coming home after a night 'out' could not find my body.
There on the sofa; or those of my wife and my young children
Because I could not pay the rent.

The Dirty Laundry

This dirt cannot be laundered
This speck cannot be dislodged
No bleach remove this grime
That falls down from up above

A large machine won't do it
Dry Cleaning will be in vain
The patina of corruption
Will never unstain

Throw them in the bin marked 'soiled'
or 'whites mixed up with whites turned grey'
Or the bin marked, 'Truth of things hidden,
Made plain in the light of day'.

Everything is rotten now
The Dirty Laundry will not be closed
Nothing will ever be clean again
The wrong kind of grit now sullies England's Rose

To those who listen clearly
Beyond what high-class accents mean
You will hear in Cameron's tones
The muffled sound of dirty pebbles rattling round
An even dirtier machine

The Isle of Arran

If I had tramped these hills,
These high hills of Arran,
These glens carved by ice-giants-
My whole life-long,
Through shades of purple and green,
Deep yellow seasons of gorse

If these had marked my footfall
Through scree, burn and tarn
Every boulder familiar
Each graggy skyline a friend

Then, old and worn
I too would gladly lay me down
Beneath an anonymous cairn of rocks
For all weathers

Home

I am not due to return to Fairyland
Any time soon; work to be done.
But I love Annwyn with all my heart.
The young men, warriors all,
On the ramparts of Caer Siddhi waving
As The Guardian of the Stout Door
Guides me from the Shelving Side
Into the Twilight World.
There below me, the Dale of Devwy
Did Myrddin meet me at the Ninth-Wave?
None but seven returned from Caer Wydr
Home

Sleepwalkers

"Europeans have lowered their voices
On trains and in public places"
"We no longer feel welcome here".
While like automaton we talk
Stocks, shares, trade and exchange rates
When was the drawbridge raised to our hearts
You want figures.
Each of the three million young europeans
We've insulted will tell two people; (mum and dad probably)
That's 6 million who will tell 12 million
12 million will tell a further 24
Mainland Europeans...
In two years time and at an exponential rate through of word of mouth 50% per week -
112 weeks til deadline for article 50 elapses
Til we broker financial deals for ourselves
Over those from the EU we have caused to lower their voices
Ashamed of their accents
-Will amount to...
Well, do the math...
That's all we're good at.

Rosalind

'Her fractured contours dun where soon his ray would show more clear her dereliction'. In Parenthesis, David Jones

Rosalind

Walls of jumbled gilt-framed Arcadian scenes, ornate plate and fine porcelain figurines
Reflecting antique lamp-light; artificial evening sun
And old men in stuffed chairs, essence of Gentleman's Club
Slumped like Vaughan Williams in a corner of Chelsea
Women with strayed straw hair in ankle-length black velvet pass a silver platter of food
And the grand piano too large in the tiny room
Among the golden tat of Empire, they respectfully wait
For Rosalind's arias

Set-posed, dyed black chignon above pale white imperious skin;
No trace of her plantation pedigree
There's conspiracy in holding back a smile, the crack of open laughter at this absurd music box
In this air of salon, like a social pas de deux in an empty gallery; my awkwardness shows
Do not break the illusion

Her husband, an aged child actor fumes at nothing, in the hallway
Maybe at this destination reached, Rosalind's party
He stands on the angry shores of dementia
As Rosalind sings badly in bad German

In Green Fields

In green fields sorrow falls
Blood spatters the daisies
Rustic dreams of rural idyll
Under marching boot
Then cleave to mother homeland
Hearts ablaze with courage
Going home the victors
Beyond this there is no more