The Toll E-Book

Luke Wright

• Herausgeber: Penned in the Margins
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 53

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Beschreibung

An escaped lion roams the streets of Essex; a lonely pensioner holds a tower block fete; ,brand a young woman dreams of leaving home. Travel the unfashionable A-roads and commuter lines of England -'where industry meets marsh'- with poet Luke Wright. In his stunning new collection, discover a country riven by inequality and corruption but sustained by a surreal, gallow's humour. The Toll combines the elegaic with the anarchic, placing uproarious satire cheek-by-jowl with wild experiments in form and touching poems of parenthood. In this mature follow-up to his best-selling debut, Mondeo Man, Wright captures the strain of austerity Britain, speaking truth to power and registering the toll it takes on us all.

Leseprobe

THETOLL

Luke Wright is a poet and broadcaster. His poetry stage shows have toured the world and played sold-out runs in London and Edinburgh. He is a regular contributor to BBC Radio and his verse documentary on Channel 4 was nominated for a Grierson Award. His first collection, Mondeo Man, was published in 2013. His first play, What I Learned from Johnny Bevan, won a Fringe First Award, The Stage Award For Acting Excellence and The Saboteur Award for Best Spoken Word Show. He lives in Suffolk.

ALSOBYLUKEWRIGHT

POETRY

Mondeo Man (Penned in the Margins, 2013)

The Vile Ascent Of Lucien Gore And What The People Did

(Nasty Little Press, 2011)

High Performance (Nasty Little Press, 2009)

VERSEDRAMA

What I Learned from Johnny Bevan (Penned in the Margins, 2016)

NON-FICTION

Who Writes This Crap? with Joel Stickley (Penguin, 2007)

PUBLISHEDBYPENNEDINTHEMARGINS

Toynbee Studios, 28 Commercial Street, London E1 6AB

www.pennedinthemargins.co.uk

All rights reserved

© Luke Wright

The right of Luke Wright to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patent Act 1988.

This book is in copyright. Subject to statutory exception and to provisions of relevant collective licensing agreements, no reproduction of any part may take place without the written permission of Penned in the Margins.

First published 2017

ePub ISBN

978-1-908058-54-6

Print ISBN

978-1-908058-42-3

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

CONTENTS

‘O England Heal My Hackneyed Heart’

The Slow Days

A12

Dad Reins

Essex Lion

Hoax

SPAD

The Ballad of Edward Dando, the Celebrated Gormandiser!

Thunder, Lightning, etc.

Port Eliot

VAD Hospital, Saffron Walden, 1915

Watch

The Pretender

The Much Harpingon One-way System

One Trick Bishop

The Bastard of Bungay

IDS

The Toll

Kelvedon — Liverpool Street

The Back Step

Family Funeral

Sue’s Fourteener

Ron’s Knock-off Shop

On Revisiting John Betjeman’s Grave

Sick Children

The Minimum Security Prison of the Mind

David, at 68

Lullaby

Hungover in Town, Sunday Morning

Burt Up Pub

The Ballad of Carlos Cutting

Swimming with Aidan, aged 4

Essex Lion (... continued)

‘When your wardrobe towers like a soldier...’

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I would like to thank Tom Chivers at Penned in the Margins for his editing prowess and all-round decency.

‘A12’ was first written for The Rialto, and then broadcast as part of BBC Local Poets on National Poetry Day 2016. ‘O England Heal My Hackneyed Heart’ was written for Rebecca Goss’s Heart blog. ‘The Slow Days’ and ‘Hoax’ were originally broadcast on BBC Radio 4’s Saturday Live. ‘VAD Hospital, Saffron Walden, 1915’ was commissioned by Essex County Council for Now The Last Poppy Has Fallen. ‘The Ballad of Edward Dando’ was originally a commission for Homework; the poem became a broadside ballad beautifully illustrated by Katie Utting, who is a constant source of inspiration.

Tim Clare spent ages editing ‘The Much Harpingon One-way System’ for me, so thanks for that. Joe Dunthorne ripped all the rubbish bits out of The Toll. Thanks Joe! Thanks to Clare Pollard for continued edits, support and wisdom.

My love and gratitude to Rosy, Katie, Tom, John, and Old Man Newell. And to my Mum and Dad, for obvious reasons.

Special thanks are due to Molly Naylor for saving my life. And finally to my two boys, Aidan and Sam, who are often a lot wiser than their Dad.

To my gentlemen travelling companions —

Dr Garry, Mr Broad and Dr Clarke

§

O England heal my hackneyed heart.

It’s shot with guilt and all those nights.

I’ve shared it far too often, England;

bled it almost dry for eager eyes;

traded it for other hearts

that turned to gristle in my grasp.

Nothing stirs this heart these days;

the party tricks have left it sick.

England heal my hackneyed heart.

O England heal my hackneyed heart.

Show me clumps of pastille homes on hills,

a couple holding hands in Hayle

and chalk-stone words of love in Dorset fields.

Give me roads the motor clings to,

herons over tidal mud

and skinny kids on wild swims —

that Constable-bucolic thing.

England heal my hackneyed heart.

O England heal my hackneyed heart.

Wash it in the North Sea foam,

wrap it up in honey dawn,

make poultices from April dusk

and chicken soup from sleepy days

until it leaps and bangs its cage;

until it thumps me with its thud

and gives me all the grief it should.

England heal my hackneyed heart.

The Toll

The Slow Days

The slow days down to New Year’s Eve arrive.

The sherry fug of Christmas afternoon

is swapped for sodden walks and turkey pie

and wrapping paper turns to ash in grates.

In Falmouth, Fishguard, Fakenham and Frodsham

cabin fever seizes naughty boys.

In Narbeth, Nayland, Normanton and Nantwich

fathers rip the batteries out of toys.

And life plods on like boiled Brussels sprouts.

The papers ration out what news they can:

it’s floods or sales or National Archive scraps.

Obituaries march sombre to the front.

In Droitwich, Douglas, Dewsbury and Dawlish

the grown-up single children leave for town.

In Bolton, Bedwas, Basingstoke and Barrhead,

the tinsel round the bannisters slips down.

And so we turn to retail parks and malls,

roam listlessly from shop to shop to shop,

half-dazzled in the vast resplendent halls

then join the traffic slowly shunting home.

In Greenock, Glynneath, Glossop, Goole and Gosport

chocolate tins are cellophane and air.

In Halstead, Harlech, Holyhead and Hexham

Grandad guffs with gusto in his chair.

And minutes fall like needles from the tree

as neighbours call round: is it bins tonight?

The last aunties are taken to their trains

till finally the last hurrah pulls up.

In Colchester, Kirkcaldy, Cowes and Croydon

they’re counting down, all pints and lily-flesh.

In Potton, Prescot, Portishead and Paignton

they snap the dead year off and start afresh.

A12

England’s crude appendix scar,

the Essex/Suffolk artery,

salt-baked, potholed, chocked with cars