76. David Willis
David landed, in August 1956 in Hackney, as one of six kids. He went to Goldsmiths’ in 1992 taking a BA in English/History of Art. He was the old boy in the class there. Then moved around the country for his wife’s work. He went to Sheffield Hallam University in 2019: took a Masters in Creative Writing and won the Ictus Prize for Poetry. He lives with a cat and wife. He’s a gloomy sod at best. Reeves and Mortimer make him laugh though. Nothing really excites him. He’s been published in Dreich, Northern Gravy and wildfire words, so far.
Poems
Me and Mr Jones Play School The Baker's Dozen We Went Out Walking Check My Life "He's Your Brother..."
Me and Mr Jones
I never wanted to learn about the Sarawak in Geography back in 1968. I wanted to know how coal formed, like way up north, in the mines. Coals to Newcastle I’d heard, is there’s coal under Hadrian’s Wall? Ships are built at Wallsend. Wall’s end. Hadrian stood there. Not a Sarawak to be seen in Mare Street or on Lower Clapton Pond. Yeah, so they had houses on stilts. We had circus clowns in exploding cars. And the Krays. Same difference. I did wonder if Sarawak’s had gangsters though. Trading in a handful of beads for a Matchbox Rolls Royce Silver Ghost. Minutes pass as hours in class. I bet there’s a Men Only stuffed in a privet hedge on the way home. Someone’s daughter showing off her tits. * Mr Jones looked sallow and ill today. He took a big swig of his medicine. I noticed him tremble as he did it. He wasn’t at school next term. Or again. <<<
Play School
We were almost sat together, Brian Cant and me in the staff bar of the BBC a happy accident, not design. He was down at one end of the bar me, at the other. he looked at me as I came in. Then nodded and asked ‘What brings you here?’ Waiting for a mate I replied. ‘Come join me.’ He seemed to have a lonely air. He pulled back a bar chair, Then and there, I decided to share my party booze. The barman muttered and shook his head, as Mr Play School and me drank down the beer. We sat together Brian Cant and me, within the respected walls of the BBC. We spoke of nothing sometimes something, but more of nothing or even anything, that would cure, remedy, or resolve the pressing struggles of the world. We sat together, Mr Play School and me, sipping on cans of Special Brew in the staff bar of the BBC. <<<
The Baker’s Dozen
Grodzinski, the Yiddish baker’s get there early to buy their beigels warm, tempting, soft and sweet. Twelve in the bag, then the 13th. Rose the shop assistant curt and distant smelling of sickly perfume. A warm sticky, circular comfort, stolen manna, sweeter than a Bazooka Joe better than Golden Syrup on white bread. Eaten on a slow walk back to the house, straight past Muston, then at a snail's pace along Mount Pleasant. Turn up Sach on the evens side then past the bomb site. Aunty Peggy might wave from 31. Up to 28, ‘You’ve been a while’ came the chide as he got in, ‘They were busy.’ From the baker’s dozen, now 12 between the 6 kids, Mum knew, she knew. <<<
We Went Out Walking
I find another corner of the room to sit and brush the dust-webs off your coat. Your scarf and hat are still on the radiator both had dried out months ago. Your perfume has gone from both. Your shoes have newspaper stuffed inside, you said that helped them to dry out quicker. I saw the yellowing date on it the other day. The mud we scraped off them left a shadowy footprint on the mat. I still haven’t brushed that off. They might need a polish soon, I’d happily do that with you, or now, someone never quite like you. You said when you’re gone to clear out all your old tat. Loss now walks with denial. <<<
Check My Life
A man they call Bob, Robert Nesta stormed, landed, musically into my life coming on strong in 1974 with a natty head, and a reggae album he called Natty Dread. The words in his songs gave me hope. I’m referencing Marley, not Dylan. Marley and his talking blues, roadblocks and ital. No gesture of soft revolution, a Trenchtown sound. They spoke louder than any other lyrics, more riotously, than any electrified Dylan to me. Jamaican sunshine boomed in Hi-fi speakers with a righteous indignation that moved the souls, the hearts, of so many people around the world. Lyrics of passion, hurt and hope, words composed of revolt, pain, poverty, and resistance. Family Man’s strident bass pushed into chests, with the pulse-racing-led rhythm of a beating heart. You know? We all tek a walk down first street, to that seventh street with Bob Marley there, right by our sides. Right by our sides. <<<
“He’s Your Brother…”
Two Hasidic Jews stopped the fight between the wrestling boys rebuking the bigger one for being a spiteful bully. The boy laughed - mimicked their foreign accents. “He’s my brother mate.” The older man shook him, glared into the boy’s face. The faded blue numbers on their forearms shouted, they had met bigger bullies than this pale, insignificant one.