Roy Ashwell: Poems 2014
Roy Ashwell: Poems 2014
Here is, if you ever needed it, evidence that Roy has been writing poetry for at least the last 60 years. That is the length of my relationship with him too and I can see in this collection of poems, many of the chapters and even paragraphs of these minutes and days.
This is the first time that I have interpreted and recompiled his work; the first three iterations of his website were almost entirely dictated in his instruction to me as the web designer. All I had to do was create a structure, a container into which we could tip his efficiently crafted verses. Making a website for a poet should be easy; after all we just need simplicity in presentation. The task gets more difficult each time; poets agonise over the similar issues of structure, sense and meaning.
I was recently very touched when, one morning Roy asked me to email a poem to my son Xander. He owned that he had got up that very morning and put the final touches to a couple of verses that he'd written some time ago but, like many of his kind, left lying for lack of a suitable polish. This poem he dedicated to his Great Grandson Max, my first Grandchild and Xander's Son, born in 2013. Max is 60 years younger than Alison, Roy's daughter, born in Cameroon and, sadly died in London 10 years ago.
Roy is surrounded by life and death and to make some sense of his latest anthology, “In this garden”, I have chosen a few of the more than forty poems and arranged them here in an order that makes sense to me, a sort of chronology. I step outside the 'Garden' only once to juxtapose his poem for Alison alongside that for Max just to demonstrate, if you ever needed it, Roy's continuing delight and fascination in life.
The poems:
For my daughter Alison
At length
Who shapes the garden now?
Almost in sight
A list
Knots
Listen
Actress
At evening time in Islington
For my father, obit 1975
Next of kin
So next morning, the bedside quiet . . .
Letter from the garden
Is it you, then?
For my daughter Alison
When you journey from my heart
Blue morning's maid,
I shall not see with your horizon
Nor hear the music in your land.
I shall not build the mansion of your mind
Nor cut your footholds in the bitter ice.
When you journey from my heart
On your own true road, forget me,
For my ghost has gone before and blessed
The walls and hearthstone of your house,
And when your heart leaps to delight
And courage, my whisper in your blood,
My wishes flying find their home. 1952
At Length
Always the same: a poetry of beginnings;
for sixty years writing the same poem!
What pleasures, what disgusts!
Now in the sunny window of an evening
blazing with the smoke and rain of a beloved city
this is the chair to which, somehow, I have come
And think of others, old navigators, old men
With their hands on new maps, Hesperides
Rising in the West, peaks breaking above waves
And children crowding to the bow! 2013 (for Max Ashwell)
Who shapes the garden now?
Admit so much.
We are voyeurs of the real,
Migrants, maybe, who only stay
To feed and breed and fly.
But we need more of this
I mean these lost places,
Where people rest and speak of
Benign trees, the smell of winter fires,
Ice biting under autumn heat,
Bells ceasing and sounding
Inside the secret mind.
Almost in Sight
Calling calling
as the fog smoke drifts
calling
or at the wood's end
hidden in leaves
that falling
should with the wind
open falling
open as the door turns
the window to the garden
and to the wood
where smoke fogs all
the gate opens
and all is almost in sight.
And to follow then
into mists into woods into rooms
into language into music
haunted by meaning and then
into every sense and all
that flares within the falling flesh
sight speed speech place.
Ah! To follow then that
almost in sight and calling.
A List
Today
Chuck medicines away.
Ring
Peter, Robin, John.
(No Julian, he's gone).
Food and stuff? None!
Has the dust cart come?
Look up meanings.
Kindred,
Heredity, Kind. A cure
For lawn clover.
No news, letters, duns.
Cancel charities.
The War is over.
Feed
The small black cat.
Pick up the peacock feather.
Put away the left hand glove.
Look up
Ocean, shanty,
The etymology
Of love.
Knots
Moving hands and feet
thread these rooms together
balance them on stairs
are busy daily keeping
the basement under the walls
carpet under chairs
and the slates from flying off.
Unpeopled houses drift
dishevelled to the breakers
floors unpinned and treads on end
and lofts staring at the moon.
Now, taps rasp
children murmur like pigeons
under the eaves and
laced to these dependent
stones and flesh
I draw your fingers towards me
tying the last knots.
Listen
I listen to the slight and broken tunes
you half sing about the house
or whistle to the thrush outdoors
as if you knew its need
for leaf and food and echo.
You can float a day
upon this inner sound
which enters with the air
and carried there shapes
the pieces of your song
as it falls and starts and fades
with the rhythm of quiet hands,
folding, turning or perhaps
when the bird is doing nothing
tunefully, it is as sleepy lovers’ talk
when one half hears the other speak
and half replies.
Actress
I thought it must be you on the train tonight
just after five o'clock and London breathing out.
You sat down loose on the coloured seats;
plain but a broad clean jaw level to the hairline
and hair itself cut in a bell. No make-up, no ring,
spectacles on a string, a cheap pair
tied to an anorak bandaged with badges
but all routine; none signalled savage
discontent or passionate charity.
Text in your right, pen hooked in your left,
not writing yet. Fingers capable, neither thin nor fine.
Then you marked, read a line, looked sideways
at the mirrored faces flying past
out there beside us in the dark.
Now we stop; getting your things together, yes,
it is you; that face shaken by grief to loveliness,
your eyes open on the dark but lighting us within
when you came downstage
to speak the last lines of the play.
Flat shoes, a big rubbed leather bag,
a slow, light movement, distant and familiar
as if one's own voice spoke back from the night.
Already six o'clock. No show tonight.
At evening time in Islington
An aunty cruised on the piano overhead.
Downstairs my father put away his Slazenger
And, quite the Go for 1922,
Stepped out from College Cross
A Rajah, the Union Chapel’s own, off
To join the the fancy dress dance of the world
Walking towards my mother’s body
And to me who have gone out
Further than either before tonight
I reached this chair.
For My Father, obiit 1975
If you were here tonight, if you should come
Expectedly to stay,
We would talk a little about the world,
More about your grandchildren, much
About your father and how
You loved his steadiness,
His knowledge of horses, dogs and soil,
But most about our old holidays,
My mother’s ways of charming us,
Your jokes, your dances once,
The cricket fields of very long ago.
And tomorrow, if the wind were right,
I’d drive you to the hills.
We’d walk a mile about their tops
Turning the vale beside us,
Your bird sight tracing how
We had threaded fields and woods
To come up there.
We would see the old graves,
The green forts on the downs,
The farms like castles and the sun
Going westward like our journeyings together
In the fifty years that we have nearly shared.
I could find the way up there and home again
And the rooms would be warm for you,
If you were to come.
Next of kin
A box of your ‘personal effects’ has come.
Not very large in size or hard to open.
Yes, my hands will open it, my eyes see
Pieces of a uniform, a belt, an epaulette,
A silver disc with numbers rubbed smooth
From you wearing it. No money,
Photographs with heads like rows of pearls,
The regiment that disappeared last winter.
And one unrifled truth. In a pocket my letter to you,
Words not very hard to read like ‘tomorrow’ and ‘love’,
Words I posted towards you
Reaching out for your vanishing body,
Unknown words for only you to read
Before you became nothing but one
Of the thousands of dead brothers who have gone.
Then it was not so hard to write such words.
A box open forever. Impossible to shut.
So next morning, the bedside quiet........
So next morning you walk out as you have always done
But it is not quite as before.
The paving stones are buttered with leaves as every year
And in the playground
The children are in their winter overcoats but make no sound.
Your foot steps are as light in age as in infancy
And silent too.
The same over-arching sky is the same steady blue
When you turn into the High Street.
All as it is and you fancy you could sing
That song, the old one about highlands looking over the sea
And a small boat.
But that you don't do.
When people pass or you pass them, their faces do not change.
From cares or smiles.
They look beyond you down the long avenues of their own days.
You turn to watch them go.
Nearby is a little gate you recognise from all the miles and miles
Of walking on past it,
Quickly or sauntering, curious or dismissive,
But now it is open
And you turn aside and enter it.
Letter from the garden
The blue cracked seat in our arbour
looks westward, small noises crowd about me,
birds opening up,
magpie, ringdove, late blackbird,
all of you have my ear till others
rustle past to talk of what
I may remember when you've gone.
I turn the chatty water off.
StillI I want all this.
I mean, the lost corners
shared with benign trees
and the smell of winter wood fires
the sharp ice under spring heat,
sky brim full of rainy light;
a steeple and steeple bells that
arrive on time to chime conclusion
where there is none.
This nearly forever is
nearly all I know.
Is it you then?
Is it you then? I did not know it was so late.
But come, you cannot know one number from another
in this street, one neighbour from the next.
All are waiting for you, prayer-full or angry.
Some have had their cases packed for years,
others, and I for one, sit with empty pockets
and then in you come utterly indifferent
to what we thought we were till now.
For most of us, as the lieder said,
you are less feared than strange,
a derangement of ordinary manners.
So, how to greet you, shadow on the glass?
Let the same gesture that bows you in
take me out. But, is it you then?
I did not know it was so late.