{"id":4742,"date":"2015-06-14T22:24:30","date_gmt":"2015-06-14T21:24:30","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=4742"},"modified":"2015-06-14T22:35:14","modified_gmt":"2015-06-14T21:35:14","slug":"two-poems-22","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=4742","title":{"rendered":"Two Poems"},"content":{"rendered":"

Value<\/b><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/i>Reflections on <\/i>Joseph Mayer, at the Walker Art Gallery<\/i><\/p>\n

The jeweller reckons up his treasures \u2013
\nlets the words, proof<\/i> of life<\/i>,
\nslip to silver goblets.
\nFrom his window you watch the clock
\ngauge Lime Street station.
\nDepartures trouble arrivals \u2013
\nthere\u2019s an ache in each welcoming kiss.<\/p>\n

Silence blooms through you
\nlike a longed for nothing,
\nuntil his patter of words blurs
\nyour gaze. In failing light
\nyou\u2019re brought to your knees,
\nbecome a darkness \u2013
\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/i>a bruise unpressed.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n


\nThis is how I remember <\/strong><\/p>\n

the four bedroom house, reduced
\nto a rope-handled box beside my bed:
\nthe red Newnes Dictionary Dad bought,<\/p>\n

thumb spaces for the alphabet, the fine paper,
\nthe proverbs, \u2018Bird in the hand,\u2019 he\u2019d say,
\n\u2018worth two in the bush, Dad.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Never a borrower,\u2019 he\u2019d say,
\n\u2018or a lender be, Dad.\u2019 He should have added,
\n\u2018Do as I say, not as I do.\u2019 He didn\u2019t need to.<\/p>\n

I used to stand outside the betting shop,
\nhis lucky mascot, dressed in red \u2013
\na double breasted coat and bonnet.<\/p>\n

This is how I remember Dad: his efforts
\nto order and document life. He started a logbook
\nin 1967 recording news and the cost of foods.<\/p>\n

In dad\u2019s precise block capitals pressed into
\ninvoice paper: Christiaan Barnard performs
\nthe first heart transplant on Louis Washkansky.<\/p>\n

1970: a loaf of bread, one and two;
\na quarter of tea, one and four; the bill
\nfor Joe the milkman, seventeen and six.<\/p>\n

I leaf though black and white newspaper cuttings,
\npower cuts, three day weeks. Headlines in Franklin
\nGothic: Divided Britain; Millions set to beat pay curb.<\/p>\n

On a shelf beside my handwritten diaries,
\nDad\u2019s World Almanac Book of Who <\/em>
\nwith its spine split remains.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Value \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Reflections on Joseph Mayer, at the Walker Art Gallery The jeweller reckons up his treasures \u2013 lets the words, proof of life, slip to silver goblets. From his window you watch the clock gauge Lime Street station. Departures trouble arrivals \u2013 there\u2019s an ache in each welcoming kiss. Silence blooms through you like […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":122,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_is_tweetstorm":false,"jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":[]},"categories":[320,322],"tags":[],"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"yoast_head":"\nTwo Poems - The Manchester Review<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=4742\" \/>\n<link rel=\"next\" href=\"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=4742&page=2\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Two Poems - The Manchester Review\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"Value \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Reflections on Joseph Mayer, at the Walker Art Gallery The jeweller reckons up his treasures \u2013 lets the words, proof of life, slip to silver goblets. From his window you watch the clock gauge Lime Street station. Departures trouble arrivals \u2013 there\u2019s an ache in each welcoming kiss. 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