(A Tribute to Ted Slade - poet, 1937-2004)

This new friendship. This journey on which we were just setting out.

How will we work it now you've...well...gone?

It was going so well. That's the way I saw it anyhow.

It had only been a year - we two - back in each other's circle...

Same planet - different orbit. Though I'll never know now what your thoughts might have been..



This 52 year gap in our 'acquaintance', for that's all you'd ever say it was
,
it closed at dad's (your Uncle Bud's) funeral - as he leapt 'on-flame' to the ether.

He didn't half want to go..."Why don't they just let me slip away?"
And then it was you I wanted to know amongst those finger buffet scoffers.

Those ribboned aces never knew that Bud just kick-started their Lancasters and 'Spits' at Leconfield and Liberia.



Bud's morphine muted passing proved positive, and thankfully at last - 

(he might remember now) - he helped kick-start too this belated kinship between us.

Jack would have been pleased about that...(Bud too I know)

"a good trade" he'd have called it. "I'm knackered anyway".

I was always curious about our respective dads - they only ever sent Christmas cards...no letters. No love.



Bud gave me a book  before he swapped "heaven's hopper" for the "take & bake".

"Eer-yar" he wheezed...this is more up your street than mine..."

"Yer what?..."Poetry?...No... I can't make head nor tail of it. Like Shakespeare...Where's me glasses?"

and, with that ,the "Last Arm Pointing" welded that closing gap between us tight shut.

I read 'Mystery Tour' to Bud...about Jack's 'motorised passing' and he cried. So, it was up his street. after all.



Your words filled me in on distant memories...made solid.
Missing chunks I'd seen but never written down
.
Of Withernsea and its winter isolation

of Jack, his life - and how it intertwined with yours.

I've not found too much yet about Phyllis. Is there a darker story there? Who'll tell me now?



Your final work, tireless as ever, from your New Malden 'crow's nest'...

was steering your second collection to print...and then...

Your literally-literal Mugs and Sweats - flying off the shelves of a California warehouse.

Disabled? Pah!  Why should they ever know the what & why behind the who and when?

Your 'disability'...would only 'publicly' let you down if your trike sustained a puncture in Richmond Park.



"Hi Cuz...Where do I go to get mugs and sweat shirts printed?"

And then, whilst I was looking through directories & old invoices,

you whizzed across the earth on the wings of your laser guided mouse.

By the time I'd got the phone numbers of long distance, half remembered contacts -

you had designs submitted, distribution and royalty deals sorted and were planning the next big thing.



Your freehold on the planet was the web...your very own super-short cut.

Who needs invalid cars when you can 'fly digital'?

You were a lover of the dub-dub-dub which loved you back in floods.

Now, even when your body has deserted you - it still throws us pages and pages - of you - and about you.

The Noddy Holders and Wes the Western Gun-slinger, pale by comparison, they'd envy your PR knack.



Instead of trying to phone, (these heavenly BT - or is it ET-connections often end in wrong numbers)...

and, because a lot of the time talking took it out of you, I'll keep writing like I did before.

Replies would be good. But I often used to write out of turn anyway.

So yes, things could get a bit one sided...forgive me if I 'go on', and... you don't!

But I'll keep writing to Ted@poetrykit.org and read the answers in your books and old e-mails of the family's past.



Cheers Ted...Lots of love Chris (Cuz) Slade.

Ted Slade • (my cousin)
Withernsea, Holderness, East Yorkshire

Last night the sea ripped the beach from its bed.
We heard the screams
but know too well not to interfere
in these family disputes.
In the morning we gathered to look,
ghouls at a death,
the sea at our feet, calm,
sated, gulls riding at anchor on it shoulders.

The meadow’s gone the same way,
yard by yard, year by year.
Now the house sways on the brink.
When he saw his rose bushes
scattered down the cliff, Jack cried.
Finally we moved out when
the garden shed was launched
one winter’s night.
Very Important Persons
brought their sympathies,
and went away nodding.
Perhaps we’ll become little islanders.
Though surely not.
... New Atlanteans at least.

Ted Slade • 1939-2004

Friday night, half five. Offices, factories,
fish docks, shops’d unload…
Pan-stick applied, lippy, slap, fresh scent…
ancient Brits in finest 'warpaint' woad.
Oxford Bags, double breasted jacket, 10 ****,
Brilliantine and Brylcreem.
The Hull to Withernsea train stood ready
with a full head of steam.

The preened, the pummed - the chancers, romancers…
loves young dreamers, the loved up dancers - .
Laden with laughter, the Friday night
‘With’ Special lurches out of Hull…
15 miles of glistening steel…
an escape route from the drudge, the cludge,
to ‘Crazy Night’ chances of a naughty weekend.
It’s anything but dull…      

Paragon to Scullcoates,
Southcoates & Marfleet
the carriages already full to burstin’
and the wackiness awaits.
Hedon Speedway, Rye Hill
and Burstwick trundling by…
Hedonists through Hedon’s Gate
sleepy Patrington, Hollym… With!

Piling off the platform toward digs
and guest house fun, stuffed weekend bags…
A thruppeny bit to the sack truck boy
and one of your precious ****.
We’re carousing down the street,
half the city must be here
and the feeling… well it’s reet!
Gagging for a beer - but first…

“Ooh, Mr & Mrs Smith is it?”…
the landlady asks with a knowing wink.
Bags in, **** out - into The Alex  for a drink…
before tripping to The Queen’s and 'Crazy Night!'
Tuppence and a jam jar (don’t ask) gets you in
and it’s mayhem - out of sight!
What a din! Lively band, cheap drinks… what a night!

Girls giggle in gaggles,
dancing round their bags…
The lads... a beer, a laugh, a leer
and passing round the ****.
The whole of Hull turns out in our With
on a summer’s Friday night.
1935… the town’s throbbing…
will it, ever again, see the like?

This is something I wrote to be read at my Cousin Rene's funeral.

Oh My! I'm zooming down the Spanish coast... dipping my toes in the Med.
But you might find me on a Cornish Campsite drinking Pina Coladas instead.
Or it could be me, arm-in arm with good pals in pre-war summers... painting Withernsea red!
To all of those who saw me through the darker days I am thankful that you helped & guided...

Oh My! ...But I'm better now... I'm free... it's been a trying time, but once again... I can be me!
And there's something else I've just realised. Do you know what? I can see!
The last few years haven't been kind to me. Apparently I hadn't been making much sense.
I knew inside what I wanted to say... being with me must have made people nervous... tense.

But now the pressure's lifted, for loved ones and for me.
I was ready - went on too long. Now I'm on the 'other side'.
From now you’ll hear me on the wind in the trees and my whispers, in the surf and the tide.
I'm pain free, light and frothy again, teetering on heels... I’m a dizzy apricot blonde... No need for me to hide...
I might even drop in on you as I'm told you can... to say a quick thanks for all who helped - or tried...

Oh My!... and yes....people to thank? It's like an Oscar speech...
there's a list....but amongst all one stands out... shines like a star...
My Chef... my Chauffeur... my Ears.... my Eyes... my Angel... my Wingman... My Ken!
By my side through bad times, the good times and all those difficult bits... Not the now - but the then...
My Multi-tasker, My Carer...My Rock... My 'Rock & Roller'...
I remember we used to jive way back when...
And as the old song goes, I'm sure ... We’ll meet again!
Oh My!

Dean's found a pebble on the beach today
a warning of a meteorite coming our way
it shows of their route from the planet 'With'.
in the constellation or 'Urn' -
sent 6 million years ago to the day,
just letting us know they’re on their way.

It's a prophé 'See' - It’s all to do with our own growth,
our development from the primordial slime
and to miss their arrival would be a crime…
So get down to the beach for about teatime.
Tell them when they turn up - and before they exit
they’re just in time to help us eradicate Covid & Stop Brexit!

Night raids on Salt End
were legendary… It were a
giant chemical works with ship docks,
silos, storage tanks, fuel dumps,
an ideal 'drop off point' for Gerry…

But Salt End plant’s night raids
on Hedon Road
weren’t gonna daunt our lot,
they lived a mile or so down the lane to Preston
and seemed unafraid of gerri’n shot.

But they built a shelter across’t main road
in a field… On the outside It were a haystack
within the walls, six foot thick… proper beds
on hay bails to the front and back... cosy.

Down the middle was a ‘lounge’ with chairs,
lights, a radio - electric run from’t big ‘ouse
It’s better than being at’ome our Charlie used to say
For the eldest (and the architect) he’d not much nowse.

Me mam (then 19) told me she bussed it into Hull
“****** the Doodlebugs” She needed Jitterbugs…
and they still danced at City Hall.
******* to Gerry and his mates.
Margie & her pal René,
dauntless, they had a right ball!

Last Bus to ‘Withernsea’ from town
dropped her off at the junction
by the Speedway on Hedon Road.
Just as her way was lit by fire bombs - all about
when Gerry dropped his final unaimed load
Maybe ack-ack’d sort him out.

She was 2 miles from home… every few seconds another blast.
Scuttling …dodging whistling incendiaries,
running fast, whippet like…
any second could’ve been her last
anything too close she’d have to jump in't ****.

She couldn’t mek it t’t shelter or house so picked
the coal shed - instead… threw herself down
on coals…noise lifted - silence dawned… all clear
heavy breathing - not hers -  she wan’t alone
What if it’s one of them - a downed ***** airman.

Nervous, terrified more like she let out a little shudder
a gentle cough… to test her nerve
“Is that you Margie?… You daft ******!”
It were brother Tom… He’d been t’t Nags Head
and he’d run the opposite way from the village instead.