"wakefield" poems
Crest of the wave shoulders
moulded into the final box;
Russian doll soldiers
have nothing on this once free-bus-pass holder.
Open the windows to the let the fresh death out,
past the PVC French doors, triple glazed
and no doubt worth their weight in gold.
Tidy up her lips with thread reinforced with care
and a careful hand tidied up in a well healed white gloved pair.
The next-to-the-cemetery funeral home sits not far from Wakefield
Aug 29, 2013
Aug 29, 2013 at 2:49 PM UTC
Can we go back...to where life met laughter. To when love had more value than fame. To how we used to respect those who came before us. And family extend far beyond the limits of your doorsteps. Can I get back to a gap toothed smile and fill em in puzzles. To puff bread and pecan candy. To walking my hanging with the homies at Dunbar. Who want to go back to walking from Oak St to Wakefield. Playing ball at Centennial Park, East end community center and MLK Elementary. Somehow I've wipped away a lot of my memory, however, I'll never forget my homies playing their makeshift drum set and me winking at their sister behind their back. Childhood crushes right. I have erased dates and events but the way you all have influenced me is engraved in me like the chiseled details on Donatello sculptures. I just want to go.....
Mar 21, 2018
Mar 21, 2018 at 9:52 PM UTC
Cattle
In the photo
she’s striding across the yard
following Blossom and her procession of cows,
from the stack yard to the Home Field
twice a day
after we fed them from bales of hay
untied and thrown in chunks to the manger.
They wheeze and munch,
shuffle and ****
never to be hurried,
their patience exemplary.
Dec 24, 2012
Dec 24, 2012 at 3:02 AM UTC
I regularly ask myself what have I achieved in a year
and no thoughts come near
to the ones I should tell myself,
like where did my grace go?
how did I get here?
was that house right to rent?
wasted money that got spent on what?
Existence is tiring,
though it's all we've got and nothing more,
ideas yet to be printed, screenplays
yet to be tested,
theory's waiting to be put to the test and laid to rest in a textbook
in a classroom, in a school.
We'll end up in creases and creaks in
the chair at ten to 2 with misty eyes,
tired though they’ve seen shadows turn
to nights, streets to lamplight,
socks to feet at the bottom of bed sheets.
I'm from red bricks and Hulme backstreet corners; Manchester born and Wakefield bound, stuck somewhere in between.
Sep 10, 2013
Sep 10, 2013 at 1:36 PM UTC
Kings
As choristers we saw them
Regularly in their black
Limousines, their aides
Carrying gifts for display
In the royal apartments.
Kings, whose gait spoke
Of the heavy matters of state,
bent grey heads
To converse with the Majesty,
A small woman in a pale green coat
Carrying a large handbag
Dec 16, 2012
Dec 16, 2012 at 3:55 AM UTC
That’s Wakefield out the window,
kept between four corner walls
landing flat and rising tall,
this is how it walks and that’s the way it goes
and its red brick timber lined walls
are pieced back together
with a forever piece of wire tether.
That same wire would have led down
back streets and alleyways,
turning into a hardened mess of grey lined,
grey hound steel,
that ran around as tracks for the trams,
the Chantry Chapel couple
waiting patiently with their pram
to cross the street,
to cross the bridge,
to get back home-
put the milk in the fridge.
I can hear you cry, Wakefield
your calls are cast so near.
I can hear you cry Wakefield,
your fear distilled within the hum of the traffic outside,
spilled onto the road deaf and dead,
caught within the grooves of another tyre's tread.
Jun 11, 2013
Jun 11, 2013 at 10:06 AM UTC
Mary
It was her sandelled foot
and bared calf I noticed.
She was kneeling.
A strong young woman
convinced in truth,
a plain flawless face
hair spilling out
under the required scarf.
In stone.
Larger than life-size.
Niched in the Chapter House.
Now I know her touch,
her attentive gaze,
her restless mind.
Dec 21, 2012
Dec 21, 2012 at 12:26 AM UTC
you’re not an addict if you don’t enjoy it.
i’ve only done it
once or twice. last night
i awoke from a dream
in which you were playing johnny cash
and i was reading the buddy wakefield poem
that goes a little like ‘forgive me’
and ‘every day is one day less.’
we were staying in an airbnb
and the room reeked of gasoline
and blown-out candles and paper-mâché
and i was thinking about how you told me
you didn’t have as many freckles
as you wished you did
as i peeled the sticker
from the front of the book.
tell me you have enough
to pay for what you want in life
and tell me you’re not an addict
cause you’ve only done it
once or twice
and let me tell you about mountain lions
and how the chlorine in the swimming baths
used to taste like cider and cough syrup
like ginger ale and painkillers
that dissolve on your tongue
before you swallow them down.
i whisper to you that my mother
used to lick matchboxes
(speak louder, love, come on)
before her daddy left her too
not because he didn’t love her
but because it hurt too much
to love her in the way
only he could understand.
last night i awoke from a dream
in which we filled our suitcases
with shampoo and sugar packets
and i recited the final lines
of my favourite shakespeare play
as you sat up on the windowsill
and lit yourself a cigarette
and said: don’t look at me like that.
you know i don’t enjoy it. i’ve only done it
once or twice.
i’m staring at you from the carpet
and i can still hear you saying:
‘i never think about love’
and suddenly i’m crying
because i know you’re crying too
and the world makes less sense now
than it ever has before.
i used to say that some cynics die
and that i don’t need that stuff
to be happy
cause i’ve only done it once or twice
and i’ve only told you
a thousand times
and i was reading the buddy wakefield poem
that goes a little like ‘forgive me’
when i thought about what i’d done to her
and what i’d tried to do
to myself.
last night i awoke from a nightmare
in which the walls were
bleeding red
and then the trees had broken arms
and i got my ankles caught
in the mud
and i’ve been crying more
than i know i should
because i hate the way it burns
but god, i don’t enjoy it. i’ve only done it
once or twice.
so let me tell you about mountain lions
and people who no longer think of me
and who will never think
about me again
and how that’s the kind of thing
that reeks of gasoline
and blown-out candles and paper-mâché
and ‘i never think about love, you know
i never think about—’
how some cynics die
but they often die so young
and suddenly i’m crying
because i know you’re crying too
and ‘every day is one day less’
and every breath
is one breath less
and that’s what tastes like chlorine
and that’s what tastes
like cough syrup
when you haven’t even
got a cough
but you’re not an addict if you don’t enjoy it
and i’ve only done it
once or twice.
i wanted to tell you
in the way i always do
(pieces of paper between my teeth)
that my prayers are just nicotine
and the man hasn’t touched a cig
for as long as my parents
haven’t each other
but that’s just gasoline
and blown-out candles and paper-mâché
and i don’t need that stuff
to be happy
like you don’t need as many freckles
or as many mountain lions.
i’m staring at you through the phone screen
and i can still hear you saying:
‘i never think about love’
and suddenly i’m crying
because i know you’re crying too
and the world makes less sense now
than it ever has before
because last night
i awoke from a dream
and i didn’t remember a thing.
Oct 28, 2018
Oct 28, 2018 at 9:45 AM UTC
** Star**
Viewed from the pilgrims’ path
As it turns inland
Fields of stars cross
The heavens, a roof
above the chequered pasture
from Anelog to Rhiw.
Such cloud-depths
of constellations
pulsating into infinity.
The eyes wide-open
shut in the biting wind,
fill with tears of wonder.
Dec 15, 2012
Dec 15, 2012 at 6:13 AM UTC
i'm going to wake up tomorrow.
i'm going to wake up and i'm going to go into my bathroom and shave. i am going to look in the mirror. i'm going to look in the mirror and i'm going to tell myself a story about who i am.
i'm going to say, "i am Patrick Wakefield. i am 25 years old. i am Patrick Wakefield, i am 25 years old, in the winter my hands get dry and crack around the knuckles and bleed. i am 25 years old, and one summer i fell in love. one summer i spent a hot week in a small room. it was hot, and i was in love. and i don't drink normally but i got drunk on plum wine. i got drunk on plum wine, it was hot, and i am 25 years old. in the winter my hands get dry and crack around the knuckles, and bleed."
Jan 28, 2013
Jan 28, 2013 at 6:10 AM UTC
You are commanding the presence of an audience of children
Who do not, for a couple of hours, feel like children.
They feel like lightning bolts, and lovers,
Congregates of "The Broken Axe Handle",
Even if they hardly show it.
You’re telling them their own story
For which they haven’t yet learned how to form the words.
And after it all,
The crowd moving in a waking dream cloud,
You come into my focus,
And you practically whisper, “Seeing you there, you made me feel
Centered”
And I felt humbled by the honesty.
What a surprise to have such a weighted job!
How impossible it is to take crumb of credit
For the beauty of your poetry!
I, entirely teenaged with endogenous anonymity,
Someone’s fulcrum!
In a decade since,
I, (un)entirely grown and still ontologically unknown,
Still live your language,
Still aim to be the rock or
The hook on which to hang a hat.
Even when I don’t think I can
Even when I don’t know I am,
You make me feel daily that
In just receiving someone’s truth,
Eyes up,
I can make the return to be
Someone’s somebody.
Aug 12, 2019
Aug 12, 2019 at 11:08 PM UTC
The Shepherds
There’s a lot of standing about
and shouting at dogs.
Meg and I tried it once
with **** young and impetuous,
though trained since a puppy.
December
in the pale sunshine of
Carrig’s fields,
One shepherd, two dogs,
sort and partition
their multi-coloured flock.
**** can’t help himself.
He knows his role
and plays it way back
in the outfield.
Deep extra cover.
Dec 19, 2012
Dec 19, 2012 at 1:09 AM UTC
Visitors
Coming together as friends
we usher ourselves into his presence.
He’s waiting there, ready for us
in stillness and silence:
to place our lives, our gloves
our car keys, under the chair
and face him;
a baby,
a child in the temple,
a young adult at the river’s edge,
a thirty-something who cared;
for those who’d failed,
and had been failed.
Failing in our so different ways
we come as visitors to tell him so.
Dec 20, 2012
Dec 20, 2012 at 1:12 AM UTC
The Family
When we were three
(there was a fourth on the way)
he discovered this summer place
in mid-September.
(there were brambles in the hedgerows
and it was windy and cold)
Later when we were four
and then (an accident) five,
we returned (regularly)
to remind ourselves
who we were,
who we are.
Dec 23, 2012
Dec 23, 2012 at 2:33 AM UTC
The Child
After five of these miracles
you’d think
you were prepared for that moment
the child greets your waiting arms.
For some months
you’ve slept together,
even come
so really close
in the act of love.
Now her eyes look up for food
you cannot give.
You place her next the gentle curve
of the waiting breast.
Her presence dominates your waking self
and now it’s your turn to carry her.
This gift from God,
this wonder of innocence and truth,
she will become everything you are not,
and much more besides.
© Nigel Morgan 2010
Dec 24, 2012
Dec 24, 2012 at 8:46 PM UTC
Written with Nannette Wakefield and I :
*Rose petals in the tub
are waiting for you and
I to jump in. Waiting
desperately to caress
our skin.
The night has come and
door bell never rang. Your
phone turns me to voice
mail. I'm all alone crying
on the bathroom floor.
Minutes after I get a
text that your with
someone else.
I cried as I took a few pills.
In the tub I went with my
night gown. The water
covered my every inch.
as I planned to drown. To
drown my sorrow to drown
my misery and shame.
As I was feeling low and
cheap I wanted to shut my
eyes under the running
water and sleep. So much
pain had filled my heart
and lungs. So much hurt
flowed along the blood in
my veins.
I heard echoes under water
of your name. I heard the
promises you've once told
me while I was in your bed.
How could a human heart
be so cold. How could you
kiss one's innocent lips and
play them like a magic trick ?
How could you fake love just
to please yourself and sin ?
How could you expect me
to cope with all of this ?
As I begin to sink slowly
down into the tepid water
I feel so disappointed to
have put my trust in you.
I feel so betrayed and
isolated and alone.
I start to feel the affects
of the pills I had carelessly
taken and then I start to
reawaken.
Who the hell are you to
make me want to end my
life when its you that chose
to cut me deeply with that
sharp knife.
You will not win. And as I
see a petal float across
my face my heart seems
to be brought back to life
and race.
I sit up still groggy with
the effects of the pills but
with a new sense of my life
my purpose my will.
So don't come begging
me once more. Because
the girl you once knew
and loved does not live
at this door* ~
Jan 16, 2016
Jan 16, 2016 at 8:41 AM UTC
Choir
It’s whom you stand
Next to
That makes it so
Special,
Someone who knows
The next note
And when to sing it.
The trick is to let yourself go:
To float on others voices;
To be carried aloft on
A cushion of sound
And joy.
Dec 18, 2012
Dec 18, 2012 at 1:18 AM UTC
Joseph
He’s afraid of her basically.
She organises everything,
his food, his clothes
his children, their time together.
She wasn’t prepared;
it happened.
She made it work.
but . . .
She belongs to someone else,
and ponders this mystery
in her heart.
He shuts himself
in his workshop.
A good and gentle man.
Dec 22, 2012
Dec 22, 2012 at 1:26 AM UTC
Elizabeth and Mary
You wait and wait
for the moment (they say)
you can’t face milk in tea.
Long past caring it happens,
and the inevitability of it all
propels you into discomfort and pain
. . . then this girl you taught last year
smiles at you in the street.
You suddenly know she is enceinte,
and so surprised by her passion,
a dream no less: innocence blessed.
Dec 17, 2012
Dec 17, 2012 at 1:10 AM UTC
The dribbling Head in That Hideous Strength
A man behind a curtain, pulling cords
How many fingers, Winston, six or five?
Mrs. Wilson holding the president’s pen
Doctor Wakefield will see your children now
Sender Gleiwitz is very clear tonight
Reporting North Vietnamese attack boats
Sailing in crop circles to Area 51
A child abused upon The People’s throne
Go to the rostrum
We will tell you what to say
Oct 3, 2019
Oct 3, 2019 at 3:45 PM UTC