Speaking with a few poet friends we’re all at similar stages now, counting poems, whispering in the small hours, asking: Do I have a book? Might I actually have a book? Surely I don’t have a book? It’s exciting and terrifying: thinking, for the first time, of book as medium, book as form. How the poems might speak across pages. How one might use repetition, sequence etc. I definitely didn’t set out to write a book. It’s always been poem by poem for me. I think the second I decide to write a book will be the second I never write a poem again. Or the book I end up writing will resemble some kind of dreadful concept album. I tend to just write about whatever I’m preoccupied with.
In my mind the poems featured here are adolescent – emo poems if you will. Long hair ripped jeans lip ring cigarette behind the bike sheds poems. But not in any self-deprecating way. I don’t use adolescent as a qualifier for childish or unfinished. I say adolescent because the poems, like me, are still very much obsessed with childhood trauma; they are, for want of a better phrase, trying to make sense of childhood. I think it was Chen Chen who said: ‘my poems are braver than I am’ and this applies perfectly to me. The poems featured here are me at my bravest. Because they are me at my most vulnerable.
Mental illness, alcoholism, domestic violence run in my family. As a kid they were my reality. They are my reality. And for this reason I’m particularly interested in the violences we inherit. Habitualised, generational violences, be they big or small, be they directed at oneself or a loved one, and to what extent our lives are predetermined. Can we write a different story? I could reel off a list: working class masculinity, loss, fatherhood, Guinness, grizzly bear, field, shotgun... but I’d rather not. I think these poems are me asking the future if everything will be OK. I think these poems are me asking the future for forgiveness.
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Six Lies
The Minotaur tells his sixth lie of the day
to a colleague, seventh to the bus driver,
eighth to himself as he pays for a Twix,
smiling down at the woman behind the till.
His ninth he tells to a pooing dog,
tenth to its shadow, eleventh to its walker
who nods gravely, opening a pink plastic bag.
The Minotaur finds a bench by a fountain
and there he unwraps the Twix, promising
as he peels away the shiny paper
that he won’t eat chocolate again for a month.
A man in a suit and six o’clock stubble is asking
where the nearest train bridge is and are they frequent?
In the corner of the room the radio speaks words
like rips of Velcro. The Minotaur pads the landing,
golden wrapper rustling in his pocket like a bird.
All the Devil’s Mess
Because this is any other Saturday
the Minotaur is walking his invisible dog
in the park, clumping through snow
towards the iced brown pond
where the quilted backs of silver-
haired men huddle at the jetty,
whizzing their remote-controlled
boats across its island of melt water.
Because this is any other Saturday
the Minotaur is unsheathing
a tennis racket and ball. He’s winking
at the men, his eyelashes lined with snow.
This evening, in a pub’s dark corner,
hear them whisper of horns, of a bark and a ball
and boats lost and ice snapped like chipboard,
of a pond folded once, like a table.
The Moon
The Minotaur is convinced he has swallowed the moon.
He googles irrational fear of moon swallowing
and walks the park at night looking up at the moon,
touching the spot where he knows
the real moon is lodged. A baby on the tube
pokes the moon in his throat
and the Minotaur’s flinch short-circuits
the carriage lights, makes the baby cry.
The Minotaur tells this story to Dr Reynolds,
swallowing it deeper and deeper with every word.
Have you ever tried throwing up the moon?
On his 40th birthday the Minotaur lifts the moon
from its place above the dusty paperbacks.
He pockets it, takes it swimming
the following day with his six-year-old daughter,
forgets the moon in a café one afternoon, tells no one.
Every time a horse lies down in a sunlit field
an island goes up off the coast of Alaska or Peru
or in the middle of a lake south of Stockholm.
Every time a whale is born albino
a man doesn’t die of liver failure and every time
it rains at sea a child speaks first words.
Every time you watch the football
in your alcoholic father’s flat
on his little settee that unfolds into a bed
in case you ever wanted to stay
a forest disappears and a doorbell rings.
Every time the ref blows the whistle
and your father boils the kettle and somewhere
islands are going up and oil rigs just watching.
If no answer please leave parcel behind rhododendron –
if storm hits and rhododendron blows away
please leave parcel inside wheelie bin with brick on top –
if crying baby can be heard on approach
tap three times on bottom-left panel of shed window –
DO NOT ring doorbell – if rainbow windmill
spins slower than usual open phone and call alcoholic father –
if rainbow windmill stops spinning at any moment
come back in month with picture of alcoholic father
eating fish and chips in park – if phone rings out
wait for nesting swallows to return from Africa
then call again – DO NOT mention alcoholic father
to friends colleagues woman you love – DO NOT
kiss woman you love – DO NOT eat sleep
shit watch TV until alcoholic father is spotted
leaving Tesco with Guinness and Hula Hoops –
DO NOT I repeat DO NOT drive to 24-hour Shell garage
spend following afternoon outside alcoholic father’s flat
old ladies watching – bay windows blue with Countdown.
on the muted screen a ball lands
one side of a line
and this means that a person has won
the camera jiggles
zooms out refocuses on a crowd
who are cheering
which means that a person has won
yes clapping
back smacking drink dropping
all signifiers
that yep a ball has landed
one side of a line
one side not one side but ONE
SIDE of course right
because a person has won
a ball has landed
people are happy and although this is not
a metaphor for grief
I cannot deny that a ball not a ball but
THE BALL
has landed is landing will land
until it stops being
THE BALL and starts being a ball
at the edge of
a roofless room lots of people are
jumping around in-
side of lots of sound lots of screens
lots of open sky and
did I mention my dad has taken a
shotgun to a field
and I haven’t realised because I am
watching tennis
which means my dad has decided
is deciding
will decide to become not a dad
but THE DAD
is asking a man for a shotgun is
saying can I buy
yes bring me this much and it’s a
man from the pub
someone I’ll walk past for years
which means I am
existing in relation to this moment
my sister is
eating a choc ice romping around
the garden holding
a toad in relation to this pocket of
time my mum
zipping up our puffer jackets pulling
down our hats
while my dad walks through rain
to an ATM
leaves a room with a shotgun in a
duffle bag
this moment almost encased in
glass
this skyscraper I am not really watching
tennis inside of not
on my lunch break not
twenty six
but nine years old being pulled out of
maths
my sister four whole years
barely taller
than a table and we are not children
anymore
but THE CHILDREN THOSE CHILDREN
THAT CHILD
After Buddhism at the British Library, 25 October 2019 – 29 February 2020
Father Cosmology
This cosmological map depicts the heavenly
realm called 82a Wytham Street with palaces, gardens
and marketplaces for the 33 fathers who reside there.
In the middle is the settee of the father
Daniel who is lord of this heaven. See
the hot rock hole, the ancient shape of a backside.
Take a seat. Oh, you’ve done that before. This is one
of six heavens or celestial realms.
Fathers of Previous World Cycles
In the Theravāda tradition, four fathers are believed
to have attained Nirvana. The history of these fathers
is given in a text which is traditionally read
to sons in the bath. Kukusandha father
(top) is the first father, Koṇāgamana is the second
father, Kassapa is the third father and the
historical father Daniel born as Our Prince Danny
is the fourth and final father of this era. Every
father has always achieved enlightenment
in the shadow of a certain tree.
Great Peacock Wisdom King
This manual contains paintings of altars for
sons who will one day become fathers
and may end up alone in a flat or may not.
One father can be seen riding a peacock, a bird that
keeps a territory free from snakes. Can you spot
the note left three years ago saying I’ve hoovered?
Yes, a faint smell of skin and Hula Hoops. On the right
a father appears in a stylised wheel. Between
the spokes are the names for certain kinds of shadow.
Life Father
Fatherhood is described as a series of manifestations
that are impermanent. It is thought that there
is no ultimate reality in things – every father
is subject to change and to some extent
dependent (dep / en / dent) on perception.
Sonhood does not encourage
belief in a creator deity or
supreme being. However, where
have you walked to this Sunday morning?
Get up from this settee. Close that empty fridge.
See the years of letters at the door?
Gather them up.
Is tea an exact science / Are willow trees categorically sad / Can a house have a face / Are astronauts real / How many bad things have been witnessed by just deer / Is hiking peaceful / Are skyscrapers pretty / Was there an imposter at the wake / What does flamingo taste like / Are bees kind / Is the BBC right / Do lemmings understand / Are children who lose a parent to suicide more likely to die the same way / How many kettles are whistling right now / How many tractors will break down today / What did the first nectarine smell of / Where are all the dead ducks / Do whales dream / How many Boeing 737s have successfully landed since 2002 / How old is the oldest tree in Alaska / Which shade of orange was your son’s bedroom this morning / How many rivers are there between my body and yours / Is stilton your favourite cheese / Have you ever been to Budapest / Do you have an opinion on Coldplay / Do you remember your ninth birthday / Do you fly well / Do you burp more often than you think you should / Are you hairy / How many mugs have you dropped / Have you ever stroked an elephant / At what age did you stop believing in Santa / How many weddings have you attended / Do you enjoy French films / Have you ever been operated on / Is your garden south-west facing / Do you own a pair of secateurs / Would you call yourself a family man / Were you ever any good at tennis / Is your penis longer than mine / Does it rain in your weather / Is there a bus / Are you waiting by the frozen fruit in Aldi / Wearing a beanie / Listening to Eminem / Did he tell you what he wanted it for / Did you ask / Did he smile / Did you touch / Talk much / Had he shaved / If you could use a number to describe his laugh would you use 1000 or 3 / Did you put the money towards a loft extension / Is that a lasagne in your oven?
just sitting, like a grizzly bear I shoo away in June.
Back hunched, staring at the ground, a red biro
tucked behind his ear. I like to think
he’s marvelling at the patio we dug,
the pebble path I skipped school to help lay,
or planning for another pond, another
row of sunflowers by the wall.
Right on cue
the cat arrives and figure-of-eights a plant pot
as my father itches the back of her neck with the biro,
flicks greenflies from his shirt.
I can never wake early from this dream,
never sprint fast enough down the landing, never
unzip the blinds, swing open the window in time to hear
the thud of his footsteps over the shed roof,
branches bouncing back to stillness.
And I’ll never know – how could I? –
that in this dream he’d grow old, grow fur, eventually.
The locals think I’m crazy –
they say you shouldn’t feed the bears – dumb Brit.
They say a grizzly will return for a lifetime to the spot
it once found food, the exact kink of river,
stubby bush, overflowing garbage can;
but I do it anyway, always at night, barefoot, just in case
he comes, my father, sniffs me out,
calls off this silly game, crosses the Atlantic, Canada –
and I’m already gone –
he’ll see my shoes tucked behind the glass,
laces still in a bow,
and he’ll think no different; he’ll wait, he’ll sit,
back hunched, staring at the ground,
till August ends and the bears, wide-eyed,
come for him too.
It happens next summer when the car in front turns left
at the motel sign and a doe notices just in time
to blink and a man with a bag of beers looks
but doesn’t slow any.
Or tonight, when I wake
to your naked arm cold and too heavy
so my breath holds as I pretend not to feel, pretend
I didn’t catch its eye and, for a second
consider braking left
on a year I’m yet to live. It happens
on a bridge over a train track, a father back for a weekend, a son
propped on the railings
arms in a V, altogether unaware of the light’s red to amber,
the freight around the bend, its horn
an impact that will whoosh through him, keep him
quiet all the way home
up there on his father’s shoulders.
they
must
have
known
more
than
they
let
on
the
birds
you
would
probably
laugh
both
hands
deep
in
your
pockets
and
looking
up
as
you
do
because
hey
I’ve
got
this
radio
I
can’t
give
you
and
there’s
a
wheel-
barrow
in
my
garden
full
to
bursting
with
feathers
I
didn’t
ask
for
In my dream you are almost drunk,
struggling with the lock on the french doors
of my childhood, a lit cigarette
cupped in your palm.
Seconds before I wake, I realise
I’ve no idea which side you’re on, which side
of those huge lime-scaled sheets of glass
you huddle to, hunched and cursing
the key which catches as you turn it. Sure,
the garden lurks behind, the gravel path,
but so does the television, the empty fish tank,
the cat’s water bowl. So, which side are you on,
and where does that leave me?
Give me a clue – nod, blink, catch my eye,
crunch a snail shell, ash your cigarette,
flick the butt so I might hear it land.
If I could reach I’d pluck a silver hair from your arm,
just one, like a dream’s very own pinch,
a dream we’ll both wake from, at the same time,
on the sofa, some film playing ... Did you feel it too?
v. Draw a circle around the city you grew up in
look / the field you lost your virginity in / isn’t far from the field your dad stopped breathing in / isn’t far from the field he taught you how to ride a bike in / isn’t far from the field normal families (which included yours for a while) used to picnic in / isn’t far from the field he coached your football team in / isn’t far from the field he watched you play cricket in / isn’t far from the field you smoked your first cigarette in / isn’t far from the field your ninth birthday went well then went wrong in / your tenth birthday went well then went well then went wrong in / your twelfth birthday went wrong in / isn’t far from the field other families went quiet in / isn’t far from the field a few birds lifted from the trees in / isn’t far from the field your mum refused to remove her sunglasses in / the restaurant / parents evening / even at breakfast in her dressing down her coffee smoking her lip only slightly puffy
vi. Epigraph
rain / school play / next week / Scheherazade / beggar / face paint / field at the edge of / dog’s name / letter P / maths / sitting next to / Lucy Hollingsworth / Helly Hansen / field at the edge of / come outside / corridor / against this wall / book bags / coats / dog’s name / Abingdon Road / past Londis / field at the edge of / Mrs Burton / offers you / a custard cream / a special chair / your sister is / waiting / your sister / field at the edge of / maths / school play / six miles / rain / Helly Hansen with the / yellow toggles / Lucy Hollingsworth / brown hair / empty chair / fractions / book bags / face paint / school nurse / field at the edge of / sister / behind a window / past a PE lesson / Matt Fricker shouts / skipping rope / Londis / school play / next week / willow trees / fractions / beggar / face paint / field at the edge of / come outside / Mrs Burton / biscuit / dog’s name / for once / not frowning / but also / not / not frowning / your sister is / rain / six miles / field at the edge of / say it / field at the edge of / goddammit / say it / Mum’s on the way / just fucking / say it / brown hair / empty chair / against this wall / say it / field at the edge of / willow trees / field at the edge of / deep breathes / field at the edge of / sister is / saying / but he was / snoring / this morning / field at the edge of Kennington field at the edge of Kennington field at the edge of Kennington field at the edge of Kennington field at the edge of Kennington field at the edge of Kennington field at the edge of Kennington field at the edge of Kennington field at the edge of Kennington
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JOE CARRICK - VARTY is a British-born Irish writer and co-founder of bath magg. He is the author of two pamphlets: Somewhere Far (The Poetry Business, 2019), which won the 2018 New Poets Prize, and 54 Questions for the Man Who Sold a Shotgun to My Father (Out-Spoken Press, 2020). His poems have appeared in the New Statesman, Poetry Review and Poetry Ireland Review. He lives in London.