78. Incident

A woman with a dog, in Central Park.
A man is in the bushes. It turns out
that he’s a birder, but she can’t tell that.
Her dog is off the lead, despite the sign.
The man points at it. He is in no doubt
what she should do, but she refuses, scared
because he’s filming this. She gets too near
for social distancing. She won’t move back
although she’s frightened.Says she’ll call the cops,
tell them she’s being threatened. He says, fine.
He keeps his cool, keeps filming, and the police
decide that it’s just verbal. No arrest.

I should have said. The woman’s white,
the man is black. Does that make this all right?

77. Blinkered

I’ve been reading Robert Lowell’s The Dolphin,
a sonnet sequence where he not only used his wife’s letters
without permission, but rewrote them.

Yet why not say what happened? was your line.
You know it’s not that simple. You pursued
these facts and fictions, speeches you made up.
You chased down characters – your daughter, wife;
the woman you would leave them for, yourself.
A classic triangle, you even said,
as if familiarity excused
the broken plans, the cruel uncertainty,
your teenage girl exposed. That’s not the worst:
the letters Lizzie wrote, which you then changed.
Didn’t agree – she didn’t even know –
but on you galloped, down that lonely road;
acres of hurt, forgotten for the fear
that you might die before your book was out.  

76. Going loco

The information in lines 1-7 comes from “Pale Rider”,
Laura Spinney’s histpry of Spanish Flu.

Twenty years on from independence day
there are a lot of microbes in Brazil.
Doctors define its new identity:
this country is one giant hospital.
The next year’s carnival revives the joke
as groups like Holy House and Midnight Tea
sing bawdy songs about “the Spanish whore.”

Since then, a century of progress made:
respect the Amazon, the local tribes,
the future of the world’s environment.
But now their leader says “It’s just a cold”
and ridicules ideas of distancing.
No-one tells Bolsonaro what to do;
he drags them, screaming, back into their past.

75. Starmer and Johnson

Starmer has done his homework. PMQs.
He deals out questions in a steady stream.
“World-beating tracing plan? Is that on track?
You said it would be ready, but it’s not.
You’ll take control. Who was in charge before?
How much has Cummings damaged public trust?
Collaborate on schools? Got no reply.”

And Johnson’s floundering. Didn’t write back
because he rang instead. He’ll always choose
the quick response – “I’m doing this. Here’s why.”
He doesn’t answer questions, hasn’t got
the patience for a careful detailed scheme
worked out together. This is hell or bust.
“Shut up and back me. I can win this war!”

74. The Deal

The precise terms offered by mubi.com have recently changed,
but this is how it was for most of lockdown.
I’ve watched 25 films in two months.

This streaming service wants to be my friend.
A three-month trial run, for free? It seems
too good to be believed. What can I lose?
To start with, I am dazzled by the mix –
variety, but grouped in thoughtful ways.
French noir; Italian classic, that I saw
way back; an indie hit with grim reviews;
a Spanish dad, Brazilian politics,
artist and sitter with converging dreams.
A world of good stuff, and there’s always more
but not for ever. Wheel keeps moving on
stops briefly, every day, for thirty days.
New films come on, old ones approach the end
so there’s still time. Watch me, before I’m gone.

73. Champions

“Our contact-tracing scheme,” the PM said,
“will lead the world.” Easy for him to tell
because we are the best. It’s natural law.
We keep on saying it. It must be true.

The other countries envy our success.
Our briefings show that we do really well,
among the best in Europe, you will find
(though we don’t show those tables any more).

Dream on. Although we say that we’re ahead
foreign observers know we’re in a mess.
On planning, testing, managing supplies,
protecting staff, strategic overview,   
being straight with people – we are way behind.
We top the league for self-important lies.

72. Re-reading Illywhacker

The normal pattern is a tidal flow
as books get published, and I order them.
The library supplies new titles, thoughts,
writers I do not know. But now it’s shut.

It’s always us and them. The actors age
as we do, so that teenage Judi Dench
stays in my head, uncompromising, tough.
Now Peter Carey’s history rewinds –
before the acrimonious divorce
the doting husband. Here, he dedicates
this novel to his parents. Monster book
teeming with rediscovery. I know I’ll find
that buzz of energy, a young man’s joy
in all that words can do – just watch me play.

71. The End of the Line?

A fresh supply of nonsense every day
keeps satire factories booming, on a roll.
Injecting disinfectant? Great idea.
Next up, he takes hydroxochloroquine.
The experts hide their faces in dismay
and surely voters must now realise
this man’s not safe. He can’t be in control.

Don’t be so sure. The re-election plan
is ready. Boom economy, it’s clear,
won’t fly. So now it’s CHINA GETS THE BLAME.
Ramp up the hatred, generate the lies
on social media, keep it fast and mean.
It’s losers who acknowledge doubt or shame
and only one thing’s certain. He’s the man.

70. Staple

Back in the old days – February, say –
Linda would bake. If she had too much on
no problem, I could saunter down the road,
nip in the shop, buy granary instead.
Not now. Eight weeks of lockdown is a load
of pressure, where a journey to the shops
means notes to neighbours, necessary delay.

So now I watch a belt that never stops
producing things of beauty, dense but fine,
these golden oval ingots, shaped with care.
Our kids help out, when flour’s almost gone,
and find alternative supplies online
so always there’s an answer to the prayer
which asks – give us this day our daily bread.  

69. Getting it right

Kerala is a state on the west side of India’s southern tip,
with 35 million inhabitants.

Kerala works together that bit more.
The communists made sure the land was shared;
strong public health, good schools for everyone.
Old folks live longer, fewer children die.
Shailaja is the minister for health;
wears glasses, in her sixties, organised.
The teacher does her homework on Wuhan
and when the virus comes she’s well prepared.
Testing, surveillance, quarantine – it’s done
like clockwork, with a fraction of the wealth
the West has got, and they are mesmerised.
Five hundred cases. Total death rate: four.
Can she explain her magic? Will she try?   
“No secret. But you have to have a plan.”

68. Drawing the Line

“We’re following the science.” Long ago
he sold us this approach, the humble way
his government would listen. But not now.
The scientists are saying they were ignored
and Cummings’ arrogance has trashed their work.
The cause of unity takes three steps back.
There’s angry voters out there going berserk
who didn’t realise they could afford
to ditch the guidelines, trust their gut. Somehow
that memo didn’t reach them. Now, a hack
is asking senior scientists to say
how Cummings’ line affects them. He says no.
“They do the science, we do politics.
The two are separate, and they mustn’t mix.”

67. La Bête Humaine

(shown on mubi.com, dir. Jean Renoir, 1938)

Start with the train, hot metal on the track,
the driving camaraderie of steam.
The railbound certainty that life is hard
but somewhere down the line you’ll have this dream.
An engine driver, station-master’s wife
are drawn like magnets, make their rendez-vous
in heavy waterproofs, dark black and white,
rain hammering down on the railway yard.
The human animal is hunting for its life;
a girl abused, a man who’s not quite right -
both held, imprisoned by her husband’s crime.
They get their taste of heaven, amour fou,
but as we watch we know there’s no way back.
The rails are fixed. It’s noir before its time.  

66. Paul's Scarlet

(The name of the pink hawthorn tree in our front garden)

To see it now, in its May glory, pink
against a bright blue sky, you’d never guess
how close it was. The ivy tries to creep
around its trunk, now thicker than a thigh,
but as I pick it off I never doubt
this tree’s survival. Fixture in our lives,
the star of our front garden, here to stay.

I wish I had a photo. But the way
its wrist-thin body buckled in the wind
stays with me. Young head bowing to the ground
as I, in dressing gown, frantic for rope,
forcing it upright, lashed it to the fence.
In daylight, the relief that it still stood,
not snapped, but hopeful of these years to come.

65. Lions and Donkeys

Yes, it’s a crisis. Relatives will die
but they don’t panic. They can find the heart
to care for one another, to support
the front-line staff who know how heartbreak feels.
People make masks, run errands, spare a thought
for those alone, at risk. They make that call,
set up that What’s App group, they dare to dream
of hope, of pride. They’re lions, after all.

And who’s to lead this effort? Where’s the team
who might connect with locals, find the smart
solutions? They’re too full of making deals,
of ramping up, of rolling out; they try
to make themselves the heroes, night and day.
That is what donkeys do. They love to bray.

64. Special Case

It’s mayhem in the media, where we hear
Dom Cummings, rottweiler and mastermind,
was sighted breaking lockdown. Not once. Twice.
Wife ill. Their child at risk. OK, the heart
says go; the head says, not a good idea.
You’d think it was straightforward. Here’s the plan
and top advisers who transgressed the rules
have undermined it; that’s why they resigned.
Tory MPs think they’ve been had for fools.
Health workers, who’ve kept families apart,
demand to know who is it grants this man
the arrogance to spurn his own advice.
Will Johnson bite the bullet, stop the rot?
No way. Dom is the only brain he’s got.  

63. Freedom Fighter

i.m. Ernesto Cardenal (1925-2020), Nicaraguan poet and priest

In 1983 the Pope’s in town
to greet the smiling rebels who lay claim
to independence. Now Somoza’s gone
their Nicaragua can at last be free.  
The Pontiff smiles at each of them, bar one;
Ernesto is the priest who crossed the line
that separates the church from politics.
What line? He is a poet, couldn’t see
the tidy boundaries men in power lay down.
God, love, his people. They are all the same.
Ortega comes to power, gets his fix,
gets hooked. He can’t see why he should resign.  
At 95, it breaks Ernesto’s heart
to watch his country being torn apart.

62. Normal People

BBC’s Normal People has been my fourth comfort viewing series (see no.s 36, 45 and 52. With great restraint, I’ve limited myself to one episode per night - a real pleasure.

These are not normal people – sexy, smart
and knowledgeable way beyond their years.
They’re high, drunk on the drowsy disbelief
that anything this good is shared and free.
The dialogue of sex – each speech, each glance
a chess-game move. Now watch it come to grief,
that tide of young love crashing on the rocks –
her wounded bitterness, his stubborn pride.
Locked in a mix that’s half debate, half dance,
these kids are choreographed to test the dark,
turning a writer’s world into a stream
of bite-sized chunks that anyone can own.
We tune in, in our millions, isolates,
each of us sure this is for us alone.

61. Going forward

People are dying, so we can afford
to ditch the stuff they always said was true.
The massive debt imposed on National Health
can be wiped off. It functions just as well.
Turns out the universal credit scheme
need not be cheap and hostile as hell.
Intricate networks of support, sliced through
for short-term gain, would make a difference now.
The stockpiles cut, the warning signs ignored…
those billions, on a bomb we’ll never use…
cutting pollution’s not a distant dream…

The crisis taught us we are free to choose
what really matters, how we spend our wealth.
We know what we would change. We’re not sure how.  

60. False alarm

There’s paranoia out there. Dangerous days.
Armed police patrol the countryside in Kent,
a helicopter buzzing overhead.
A tiger has been spotted; where it went
is still unclear. Authorities don’t know
how it escaped, how many might be dead.
Or somebody saw Tiger King, maybe.

The sculptor, Juliet Simpson, 85,
fashioned this creature twenty years ago
from chicken wire mixed with resin. She
had thought she’d sell it, but it comes alive
and seems to own the wood, so there it stays
part of the landscape, rooted in the scene.
Not wild, not savage; sensitive, serene.

59. Viv

I’ve been reading Clothes Clothes Clothes Boys Boys Boys Music Music Music
by Viv Albertine.

A gang of girls, devoid of skill or thought,
run riot through recording studios.
But then you read the book. Each chapter’s short
and vivid – what they said, and what she wore;
how tenderly she loved that nervous man.
Learning to play guitar, to write a song
under the spotlight of a cult success.
The bloody grind of trying to get it right,
of how it is to be a group, to plan
and play, to crash and burn, clear up the mess.
It’s witty, poignant, painful but she knows
some scathing judgements that she made were wrong.
She’s not afraid of honesty, despite
the slur that she’s a girl. She wanted more.