{"id":9921,"date":"2018-11-22T12:17:26","date_gmt":"2018-11-22T11:17:26","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=9921"},"modified":"2018-12-06T16:56:00","modified_gmt":"2018-12-06T15:56:00","slug":"there-back","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=9921","title":{"rendered":"there & back<\/strong>"},"content":{"rendered":"

<\/p>\n

there & back<\/h5>\n

<\/strong><\/p>\n

i. there<\/strong><\/p>\n

Victoria<\/strong><\/p>\n

At ten, my globe
\nwas this tiled atlas,
\ncrimson-black veins
\nthe neural pathways
\nof Yorkshire,
\nLancashire. Here,
\nit\u2019s always evening <\/p>\n

and I\u2019m holding
\nmy dad\u2019s hand, asking
\nwhat\u2019s Huddersfield?<\/em>
\nbut now we\u2019re moving,
\ntravelling backwards
\ntill we\u2019re out of sight,
\nnow I can\u2019t see
\nthe curve
\nof his face.<\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

Moston<\/strong><\/p>\n

Dear Cottonopolis, dear town
\nof moss and bog. I like your empty
\nbenches and your bramble-twine. I like
\nyour leaves of peeling paint. You look
\nlike the teacher I never had –
\nflint eyes, cloud-coloured hair.
\nStay with me, Moston. Tell me
\nsomething I don\u2019t know.<\/p>\n

\t– Hasty, 9.27 to Leeds<\/em><\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

Mills Hill<\/strong><\/p>\n

It\u2019s LOVE backwards in the window
\nof a terraced house: magenta capitals.
\nIt\u2019s the frayed ribbon of Oldham Road
\nand the gate that reads STRICKLY
\nNO DOG WALKERS. It\u2019s grandad
\non the platform, waving, jogging
\non the spot, pretending
\nto keep up with us.<\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

Castleton<\/strong><\/p>\n

Two black dogs on leads
\ndrag a man the length
\nof a hedgerow. The day
\nis a caught scent.
\nMy heart fills slowly
\nlike the level of a lock.<\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

Rochdale<\/strong><\/p>\n

You were George-Clooney-grey this morning
\nand you had your neat industrial tattoos on show.
\nYou were holding an oil-bright magpie
\nand a single newspaper. I tried
\nto read over your shoulder
\nthen the sky took all the words away.<\/p>\n

\t– Speechless, 9.47 to Leeds<\/em><\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

Smithy Bridge<\/strong><\/p>\n

An old man unseats himself
\nsays give my regards to Ilkley<\/em>
\nand his friend answers I will<\/em>
\nbut Ilkley doesn\u2019t exist here
\nonly a stately home
\nwhere the slim windows
\nseem to multiply
\nlike frogspawn<\/p>\n

and wind turbines
\nhorizon-close
\nturn the day over
\nand over, making
\nmore of it
\neach time.<\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

Littleborough<\/strong><\/p>\n

Your small name
\nand your big ridges
\nplanted with pylons.<\/p>\n

How the horses all turn
\nto face Manchester
\nas they graze.<\/p>\n

The tinder of felled birches
\nand the match of 10am
\nunused, unstruck
\nthis store of
\nsunlessness.<\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

Walsden<\/strong><\/p>\n

I was flying from a tunnel.
\nYou were edged by vivid rocks,
\nwrapped in a woodland shawl. You
\nhad rooks in your hair. I was
\nmoving too fast. Meet me
\nnext time at the junction
\nwith your flashy redbrick jewellery on.<\/p>\n

\t– Speedy, 10.01 to Leeds<\/em><\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

Todmorden<\/strong><\/p>\n

Everything is painted sage<\/em>
\nor landrover<\/em>, or brand new wellingtons<\/em> –
\na deeper colour than the lichen
\nof the church. The hillside
\nturns away, shaded with jealousy.<\/p>\n

A weathervane. The cool, black tracks.
\nThe unsmudged lipstick of the station doors.
\nThe breath of passengers
\noutside the waiting room
\ntransluscent, rising, mingling.<\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

Hebden Bridge<\/strong><\/p>\n

Come with me, Dee from Bradford
\nwith your tiny silver nose stud,
\nwalk with me from the bridge.
\nWe\u2019ll laugh at ourselves in the windows
\nof vegetarian caf\u00e9s, our faces
\ntasteful bric-a-brac. There\u2019s time <\/p>\n

and we\u2019ll run off with it,
\nfind the hills you used to long for
\nfrom the carriage window as a child
\nthe bleached, frost coloured flanks
\nabove Heptonstall, like snow hares
\npatient, tentative, pausing
\nto test new air.<\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

ii. & back<\/p>\n

Todmorden<\/strong><\/p>\n

Small bullet slicing the afternoon
\nseeks expansive market square,
\nproud chimney tops and spires
\nfor long journeys into summer,
\nmud and cuckoos, leaf-canopies
\nMust have own Post Office.<\/p>\n

\t– Ambitious, 14.24 to Manchester<\/em><\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

Walsden<\/strong><\/p>\n

The poster pinned to the fencepost
\nsays talk to us<\/em>, so I do.<\/p>\n

I describe the low and high places
\nof the land, the rabbit-coloured
\nundergrowth, the leaning
\nimprobable sheds. I say what I mean<\/p>\n

by stranger<\/em> and by homecoming<\/em>
\nand rooks settle in the branches
\nand nothing contradicts me,
\nnothing murmurs its assent.<\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

Littleborough<\/strong><\/p>\n

Little lover, stealing
\nthe duvet of the sky
\nand curling into it
\nswitching off
\nthe valley moon
\nand reading alone
\nby the light
\nof the silver canal.<\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

Rochdale<\/strong><\/p>\n

As if I could step down from
\nthe train, walk blinking through
\nthe birth and boom of wool,
\nthe clamour of the Rochdale Pioneers,
\nas if I could touch baize,
\nkerseys and flannels
\nmy body whirring
\nspun like cotton
\non the river\u2019s spindle.<\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

Castleton<\/strong><\/p>\n

You say \u2018mind the step\u2019
\nand I think of you climbing down
\nfrom heaven, treading gingerly.
\nI know your secrets,
\nBlue Pits Village, know your given name,
\nyour ancient boundaries.
\nOh, build new walls
\naround me, Castleton. I promise
\nto tread carefully.<\/p>\n

\t– Cautious, 14.45 to Manchester<\/em><\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

Mills Hill<\/strong><\/p>\n

I\u2019m still a kid
\non the sandpapery platform
\nwith my Reebok Classics on,
\nwaiting for the arc of track
\nto sharpen with sound,
\nwaiting for the rails to sing,
\nwaiting for the train to show itself,
\nsmelling the vinegar
\nand hops of home.<\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

Moston<\/strong><\/p>\n

Orange flowers
\nand autumn leaves
\nthe size of dawn
\non the Welcome mural.<\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

Victoria<\/strong><\/p>\n

I used to dream of flying
\nabove Accrington and Burnley
\nBury, Radcliffe, Pendleton,
\nfast over Skipton, Gisburn,
\nNelson, Colne and touching down
\nsomewhere this map could only
\ngesture to – black margins,
\ndaubed white with Zeebrugge
\nAntwerp, Ghent, all the
\nthe world after Oldham<\/p>\n

and now, all I want
\nis to ghost the tracks at night
\ngo unnoticed
\nto the boundary
\nof the place I was born
\nand the place my name\u2019s from
\nthrow stones
\nat the terrace window
\nwhere my grandad\u2019s pianos
\nstill keep their music
\nland just one right
\nand hit the keys
\nwith a noise
\nthat might be
\njoy.<\/p>\n

by Helen Mort<\/strong><\/p>\n

Helen Mort was commissioned by Manchester Literature Festival and Northern to write a sequence of poems inspired by the journey along the Manchester to Hebden Bridge line. The poem was performed on a special poetry train event on Sunday 13th May 2018. <\/p>\n

Manchester Literature Festival
\nThe Department Store
\n5 Oak Street
\nManchester
\nM4 5JD <\/p>\n

www.manchesterliteraturefestival.co.uk <\/a><\/p>\n

Copyright \u00a9 Helen Mort 2018<\/p>\n

Manchester Literature Festival would like to thank Northern, Arts Council England and Manchester City Council for their generous support. <\/p>\n

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

there & back i. there Victoria At ten, my globe was this tiled atlas, crimson-black veins the neural pathways of Yorkshire, Lancashire. Here, it\u2019s always evening and I\u2019m holding my dad\u2019s hand, asking what\u2019s Huddersfield? but now we\u2019re moving, travelling backwards till we\u2019re out of sight, now I can\u2019t see the curve of his face. 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