Zebra E-Book

Ian Humphreys

• Herausgeber: Nine Arches Press
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 42

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

Zebra is the debut collection from Hebden Bridge-based Ian Humphreys. These acutely-observed and joyful poems explore mixed identities, otherness, and coming-of-age as a gay man in 1980s Manchester. Humphreys is a fellow of The Complete Works programme (which aims to promote diversity and quality in British poetry) and was highly commended for his work at this year's Forward Prizes.

Leseprobe

Zebra

Zebra

Ian Humphreys

ISBN: 978-1911027706

eISBN: 9781911027799

Copyright © Ian Humphreys, 2019

Cover artwork: ‘Zebra 1’ © Louise Crosby, 2018. website: seeingpoetry.com

All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, recorded or mechanical, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Ian Humphreys has asserted his right under Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

First published April 2019 by:

Nine Arches Press

Unit 14, Sir Frank Whittle Business Centre,

Great Central Way, Rugby.

CV21 3XH

United Kingdom

www.ninearchespress.com

Printed in the United Kingdom by:

Imprint Digital

Nine Arches Press is supported using public funding by Arts Council England.

for Nigel

Contents

I

touch-me-not

Coalscar Lake

Spaceboy

Last poem

POP!

Another boy’s story

Pants on fire

Apple

Bad fruit

Manchester Gay Youth Group, 1983

The cottage

Canal Street, 1984

split personality

Into the frying pan

Telephone box

Stubborn cow

High Society

II

The mind gap

Rottweiler

Dim sum decorum

Bare branch

London, 1997; Hong Kong, 1995

Great Aunt Rosalind

Glamour puss

Clear-out

Stickleback

Darklight

Dancing on the beach near Derek Jarman’s house

Skye and sea

Walking on cliffs

Statutory leave

How the nettle got its sting

Break my bones

Zebra on East 55th and 3rd

III

there were no leaves on the trees

The man in the rah-rah skirt

The swan man of Todmorden

Guttersnipe

Under the microscope

undersong

Etymology

The poetry workshop

Big Brown Baby

Those were the days

Back to where we came from

Earning your stripes

There’s a me-shaped hole in your favourite T-shirt

Two men walking

Look how far we’ve come, Toto

Return of the discotheque dancers

Notes

Acknowledgements and Thanks

About the author and this book

I

touch-me-not

this flower

doesn’t belong

on the canal

hiding

in an airless tunnel

where no-one goes

before dark

rooted

to a thin layer

of dirt

head bowed

butter bloom

an open mouth

that faint smell

of sherbet

when someone

passes

it brushes

a thigh

springs back

against the wall

careful

just one touch

triggers

a scattering

of seed

into the night

Coalscar Lake

Night-time throws me back again

     to Coalscar Lake – silenced birds,

midges fat as flies,

                             the broken plough

and sunken car, a playground dare,

that first dash across the field of Friesians,

     blankness in their eyes, a child-size hole

slashed through barbed-wire,

                             my cousin’s

torn parka, one pasty to share,

felled warning signs,

     ‘Danger’, ‘No Swimming’, ‘Keep Out’,

the twenty-yard march

                             of thorns

that hook our jeans and score flesh bare

and then the greasy slick of water,

     black as the poacher’s shotgun,

coffin black with a lid of green,

keep back,

don’t look, there’s something there,

the policeman shedding his hat,

     a rowing boat, voices cast across the lake,

shadows dripping,

                             dragging it

to shore. The chaplain’s prayer.

Spaceboy

I remember Orion shimmering like a hundred promises. Or was it the glint of the Christmas tree lights against my space helmet visor? Viewed through indestructible plastic, Auntie Joan’s hand-knitted jumper became a cosmic spectrum. My spacesuit materialised a month after our housing development crash-landed into the Cheshire countryside. Our homes glowed like our colour televisions. Parents toasted their good fortune with Party Seven, Blue Nun and Snowballs. Children sharpened their pedigrees on freshly laid tarmac. I wore my spacesuit non-stop for six days. Slept in it. On the second day, I stole my brother’s Spacehopper, hoping to bounce all the way to Jupiter or Mars, or the council estate where we weren’t supposed to play. On the fourth day, I borrowed my father’s torch and aimed its laser beam at the Jehovah’s Witnesses in the house opposite, (they had four bedrooms while we had only three). On the sixth day, my sister cut the spacesuit off my back with a pair of pinking shears she found in the loft. My mother repaired it using NASA-issued titanium thread, but the spell had been zapped. I held onto that spacesuit, it’s hidden under my bed. Whenever I feel the need for astral travel, I decant myself into it and float away.

Last poem

The first poem

I wrote was

scratched in sand on

Dymchurch beach

with the point

of a big whelk shell.

I was four or five.

It read:

HERE I AM

I AM HERE.

As I played

with syntax, rhythm,

Paddy barked

at puddled jellyfish,

mum cracked guazi

with her front teeth and

out-browned

the melon seed husks

under a waning

British sun.

After chips, I held

the hollow spiral to

my shell-like –

so startled to hear

the blood of my rush

I didn’t notice

the sly tide

wash away my words

and leave behind

a blank page.

POP!

My brothers say         our father         hit them         BAM!         oftenWALLOP!      As the baby of the family     I don’t remember    anythingthat dark       HUH?!     Maybe once     a steel ruler      an unsteady lineof children    soft palms    for what we are about to receive     OUCH!