David Riley (extreme right) with early members of LDGPS
He was an historian, a tutor with the Open University, and a writer of science-fiction, plays and poetry. I saw David read at a couple of open mic nights and prevailed upon him to write a trio of short pieces as a guest blogger but he always seemed to maintain a relatively low profile. The last time we met was at the funeral of fellow Dead Good Poet Christopher Heyworth in the summer of 2017, when David announced that he was relocating to Ireland to undertake an MA in Poetry at the Seamus Heaney Centre of Queen's Belfast. He passed away in September 2018 just after having completed his dissertation.Divine Mystery
In Whitechapel, hell clings to brick and stone
Grim residue like smog that never lifts
Blue populace wades, ankle deep in death
Behind a window's bubble-spotted eyes
Bone-handled orphans rest in caskets lined
With velvet. Feathered pens and vessels, cracked.
A desk, marked deep and faded as the day
Is strewn with cups and wands, lovers and wheels
A form, ancient and present, points to change.
Her fingers at the deck, old woman smiles
Reeking of gin and smoke, wrapped tight in tweed
A body's surfaced and she knows the hand.
EmigrantAlehouse drink was attracting attentionto the ending of thingspreceding Skipool's frigate who'd blur all consequence."Carried away to Amerikay,"the stillborn song no one could finishamong the fledgeling emigres.Anyons, Bambers, Silcocks, Hullsmost busy telling absent Hornbys Stanleyswhat they could do with their bulls.Brave on their last night in Poultonthat gentry at a safe distancethey waited on high tide to follow the sun -
"aye, where it sleeps, just beyond therethey've men with faces for chestsand dogs' heads for their hair.
It's true as I'm standing herethey've got pictures down south somewhere."The stories were getting as strong as the beer.
They wanted a world of adventurelied for it, stole for it, lent wives for itand tomorrow on the shore
they'd look where horizons should belosing touch, moving oninto the sky and the sea.
3am argue blackpool blackpool's cash chair class come cost council day deckchair deckchairs emro end forward gazette go golden happen id including just mile modern move need new other place police process prom pub resort say seaside seem shame sight spent stock talk time town visitor vital working year
Thoughts For Christmas
Is poetry always religious?Is religion always influenced by the politics of the day?
Therefore, is Christmas poetry always political?
Do you need to understand religion before you can understand most poetry, from Beowulf to the Canterbury Tales to Eliot?
Do you need to know the nativity story to understand Coleridge, Rossetti and Wordsworth?
How much Christmas themed poetry have you seen in the shops recently?
Are poets making Christmas commercial?
Is there extra exposure for poetry at this time of year?
Does it help poetry?
Are Christmas carols poetry?
Are some more Catholic than Protestant (and vice versa)?
Do they all have the same message?
Is Christmas relevant any more? Is Christmas poetry important?
Is it as saccharine as Christmas card verses?
Are these big questions?
Happy Christmas.
Customs Man
The child's wrapped to hercurves reserved for him now,maybe husband too.She does the dance of motherhoodsoothes the boyrefuses to entangle eyes with mebut I know her secret nameand the one she sharessince she's been goodwife to him.I add themto Anyons, Bambers, Silcocks, Hullsclerk them out of Englanda last rite,pull them up by the rootsthrow them out to sea.I look at the child's red fistdeclining to go so easilycatching his mother's impatient hair.I murmur small pleasantriesclose my bookwish them God speedwatch them walk the plank.I wave. No one turns back,she doesn't look.
RIP David Riley, 1955-2018
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