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About the Author

PENGUIN BOOKS

DEFYING GRAVITY

Roger McGough was born in Liverpool and educated at St Mary’s College and the University of Hull. He has been a writer for many years, and his numerous collections have established him as one of the most distinctive and powerful voices in contemporary poetry. Among his most popular titles are Summer with Monika, Blazing Fruit and Defying Gravity, and, for children, An Imaginary Menagerie, Pillow Talk and Bad, Bad Cats. His recent collections for adults include The Way Things Are and Everyday Eclipses. Many of his books are published by Penguin. He is an international ambassador for poetry and in 1997 was awarded an OBE. Roger McGough now lives in London.

ROGER MCGOUGH

DEFYING GRAVITY

PENGUIN BOOKS

Dedication

The poem ‘Defying Gravity’
is for John Hewson

1

The Railings

You came to watch me playing cricket once.

Quite a few of the fathers did.

At ease, outside the pavilion

they would while away a Saturday afternoon.

Joke with the masters, urge on

their flannelled offspring. But not you.

Fielding deep near the boundary

I saw you through the railings.

You were embarrassed when I waved

and moved out of sight down the road.

When it was my turn to bowl though

I knew you’d still be watching.

Third ball, a wicket, and three more followed.

When we came in at the end of the innings

the other dads applauded and joined us for tea.

Of course, you had gone by then. Later,

you said you’d found yourself there by accident.

Just passing. Spotted me through the railings.

Speech-days ∙ Prize-givings ∙ School-plays

The Twentyfirst ∙ The Wedding ∙ The Christening

You would find yourself there by accident.

Just passing. Spotted me through the railings.

Squaring Up

When I was thirteen and crimping my first quiff

Dad bought me a pair of boxing-gloves

In the hope that I would aspire to the Noble Art.

But I knew my limitations from the start:

Myopia, cowardice and the will to come second.

But I feigned enthusiasm for his sake.

Straight after tea, every night for a week

We would go a few rounds in the yard.

Sleeves rolled-up, collarless and gloveless

He would bob and weave and leave me helpless.

Uppercuts would tap me on the chin

Left hooks muss my hair, haymakers tickle my ear.

Without glasses, only one thing was clear:

The fact that I was hopeless. He had a son

Who couldn’t square up. So we came to blows.

Losing patience, he caught me on the nose.

I bled obligingly. A sop. A sacrifice.

Mum threw in the towel and I quit the ring.

But when the bell goes each birthday I still feel the sting

Not of pain, but of regret. You said sorry

And you were. I didn’t. And I wasn’t.

Snowing Down South

‘It’s snowing down south,’ one girl would say

When another’s petticoat showed beneath the skirt

And, giggling, they would rush off to the Ladies.

Modesty restored, they would return to the floor

And dance demurely, with a poise we could not match

We boys, who stood pretending not to watch.

Then half an hour or so before the Last Waltz

The DJ would put on some rock ’n’ roll

And emboldened with ale, we’d form a ring.

Eyes closed, they’d spin, those girls, skirts swirling high

To reveal… Need I go on? Mid-fifties.

You’ve seen the pictures, heard the songs.

In the spotlight of our lascivious gaze

Fired by the rhythm, our whistles and screeches

Down south, suddenly, everything is peaches.

Spitting Prohibited

When I was a boy (cue Brass Band)

A notice downstairs on every bus and tram

Said: NO SMOKING. SPITTING PROHIBITED.

Then overnight, or so it seemed, things changed.

The second part was painted over

And the sign said simply: NO SMOKING.

Imagine that first morning, when passengers,

Bleary-eyed, looked up and saw,

By omission, an invitation.

Then did everybody, unrestrained,

Leap up, clear their throats and let rip?

Expectorate to their lungs’ content?

Did drip, dribble, spurt and spatter?

Hawk and croak until the windows were steaming

And the passageways awash?

Transport Committee met and unanimously agreed

That every by-law be clearly stated

And the notice then to read:

NO SMOKING. SPITTING PROHIBITED.

PLEASE REFRAIN FROM URINATING AND DEFECATING,

SOLICITING AND IMPORTUNING.

FORNICATION AND BESTIALITY FORBIDDEN.

ARSON, RAPE AND PILLAGE NOT PERMITTED.

(STRICTLY, NO BRASS BANDS.)

How to Become a Sixer

Wait until Akela is out of the room

and the noise level begins to rise.

As soon as you hear returning footsteps

call out in a loud, clear voice:

‘Quiet everybody. We promised to get on

with things in silence. DYB. DYB. DYB. Remember?’

By now the footsteps will have stopped

and the Pack looking to see if you are being serious.

Ignore them, and use the pause

to do something useful, like tying a knot.

Akela will then make stamping noises

and open the door. Everything is shipshape.

Acknowledge the appraising glance

but appear embarrassed, as if you wished

you could bite your tongue off.

Promotion will quickly follow. And disappointment:

Akela in a tent, unfurling his knob.

Dirty Old Bugger. DOB. DOB. DOB.

Maurice

There were no ‘gays’ in those days, only ‘funny’ men.

Enter Mrs Thomas: ‘He’s a bit effeminate

That Maurice. “Funny”, if you ask me.

Bringing his “friend” home on leave

The two of them in bed and her bringing in the tea.

His own mother not knowing. It will end in tears.

What do they call themselves nowadays?

Course, she brought it all on herself. (Queers!

That’s it.) Spoiled from the word go.

Too nesh to play out in the street.

The other boys were rough, and Ho! Ho!

He might be led astray. Him, led astray?

Mind you, it’s none of my business

Live and let live, that’s what I say.

Although, to be honest, if I had my way

I’d put the pair of them on show in the zoo.

I mean, what do they see in each other?

I mean, what do they actually, pardon the expression, do?’

Alphabet Soup

Whenever I went into our local library

I would take out a book for my dad.

An adventure yarn. Something to do with the sea.

Occasionally, I’d bring home one he’d read before.

‘Doesn’t matter,’ he would say, ‘it’s a good ’un.’

And settling down, sign on for the same voyage.

It wasn’t laziness on his part, but a kind of fear.

Libraries were for educated people.

Full of traps. Procedures. Forms to fill in.

They would notice his handwriting wasn’t joined up

So then they would try and catch him out.

Ask questions about Shakespeare. About proper books.

Although a stevedore (Mum preferred that to ‘docker’)

And landlubbered all his married life

He’d have passed four-square on seamanship.

Because he’d been to sea himself when young

And would often talk, with some regret,

Of how he’d nearly jumped ship in Fremantle.

He loved the solitude of the bush. Its stillness,

And the sky a blueprint for eternity.

‘And the names of the places. Now that’s poetry!’

I picture ourselves in the outback

The nearest library five hundred miles away

Him, married to a girl from Manjimup

Me, trying to make sense of alphabet soup.

Wearing Thin

‘You’ll soon grow into it,’ she would say

When buying a school blazer three sizes too big.

And she was right as mothers usually are.

Syrup of figs. Virol. Cod liver oil.

Within a year I did grow into it

By then, of course, it was threadbare.

Pulling in different directions

My clothes and I never matched.

And in changing-rooms nothing has changed.

I can buy what I like and when

New clothes that are a perfect fit.

Full-length mirror, nervous grin,

It’s me now that’s threadbare, wearing thin.

Sacrifices

I was forever hearing about the sacrifices

My parents made.

Little ones almost daily

Big ones when required.

Having me meant sacrifices. Going without.

And then to cap it all, the Scholarship:

School uniforms, violin lessons,

Elocution, extra tuition.

‘If it’s not one thing it’s another.

I hope you’re worth it.’ But was I?

The dictionary confirmed my doubts:

‘Sacrifice, a ritual killing of a person

or animal with the intention of pleasing a deity.’

Sacrifice. No, I wasn’t worth it.

All that blood for a few O-levels.

Having My Ears Boxed

I am waiting in the corridor

To have my ears boxed.

I am nervous, for Mr O’Hanlon

Is a beast of his word.

For the last twenty minutes

I have let my imagination

Run away with itself.

But I am too scared to follow.

Will he use that Swiss Army knife

To slice through cleanly? Bite them off?

Tear carefully along perforated lines?

Tug sharply like loose Elastoplasts?

Acknowledging the crowd’s roar

Will he hold my head aloft

As if it were the FA Cup

And pull the handles? Aagghhrr…

And then the box. Cardboard?

Old cigar-box possibly? Or a pair?

Separate coffins of polished pine.

L and R. ‘Gone to a better place.’

Impatient now, I want to get it

Over with. Roll on four o’clock.

When, hands over where-my-ears-used-to-be

I run the gauntlet of jeering kids.

At six, mother arrives home weary

After a hard day at the breadcrumb factory.

I give her the box. She opens it

And screams something. I say:

‘Pardon?’

Hard Times

(i)

Each year, in early December

Grandma would oblige

by falling over

and dislocating something

In hospital, on Christmas Day

all the family would visit

Sit round the bed

and gobble up her dinner.

(ii)

To eke out extra money

during the summer holidays

my schoolfriends and I

would go nit-picking

Conditions were terrible

and the pay was poor

But there were perks:

We were allowed to keep the eggs.

(iii)

If we could have afforded a bath

We would have had the best. A fine one.

Iron. Broad as a bed, deep as the ocean.

Standing on wingèd feet, proud as a lion.

And oh, what coal we would have stored in it.

Nuggets, big as babies’ heads, still blinking

In the daylight. Black as wedding-boots,

So polished you could see your face in them.

And oh, what stories we might have told.

Seated round the hearth on winter nights

The fire crackling, the flames leaping.

Amber liquor sparkling in crystal glasses.

Unfortunately, we were too poor to know stories.

Bath – Avon

I have a problem with Bath.

I use the short a, rhyming it with math,

Whereas southerners put in the r. Barth.

So my living there would be a kind of hell

(Although a lovely place by all accounts).

Never have an operation you cannot spell

Or live in a town you mispronounce.

2

The Darling Buds of Maybe

Get out as early as you can,

And don’t have any kids yourself.

‘Perfick,’ said Old Larkin

The last kid put to bed

He took the Missus in his arms

Gave her a kiss and said:

‘I’ll pop out for a quick one

If that’s all right with you?

I’ll not be long, I promise

’Cos I’ve got work to do.’

‘You mean the roof,’ said Ma,

‘You’re going to mend that leak.’

Philip stopped.

‘No, “This Be The Verse”,’

That final stanza’s too bleak.’

This be Another Verse

They don’t fuck you up, your mum and dad

(Despite what Larkin says)

It’s other grown-ups, other kids

Who, in their various ways

Die. And their dying casts a shadow

Numbering all our days

And we try to keep from going mad

In multifarious ways.

And most of us succeed, thank God,

So if, to coin a phrase

You’re fucked up, don’t blame your mum and dad

(Despite what Larkin says).

Big Ifs

To the mourners round his deathbed

William Blake was moved to say:

‘Oh, if only I had taken

The time to write that play.’

Nor was William Shakespeare

Finally satisfied:

‘I know there’s a novel in me.’

(No sooner said than died.)

Beethoven in his darkest hour

Over and over he railed:

‘If only I had learned guitar

Before my hearing failed.’

In the transept of St Paul’s

Slumped Sir Christopher Wren:

‘I’d give them something really good

If I could only do it again.’

Leonardo, Mozart, Rembrandt

Led sobbing through the Pearly Gates:

‘If only I’d have…

I could have been one of the Greats.’

The Poet Takes an Autumnal Stroll on Hampstead Heath

Light rain, like steam

from a cup of camomile tea

poured from a copper kettle

heated o’er a sandalwood fire

bids him return home

and consider an alternative career.

Creative Writing

Why can’t I teach Creative Writing in Minnesota?

Or, better still, be Poet in Residence at Santa Fe?

Where golden-limbed girls with a full quota

Of perfect teeth lionize me, feed me, lead me astray.

A professorship, perhaps, visiting in Ann Arbor?

(Nothing too strenuous, the occasional social call.)

What postcards I can write, what ambitions I can harbour:

Hawaii in the springtime, Harvard in the fall.

A Critic Reviews the Curate’s Egg

‘It’s all bad.

Especially in parts.’

The Nearest Forty-two

I want to write a new poem.

What words shall I choose?

I go in. The variety is endless.

Images stretch into infinity.

I dither. Can’t make up my mind.

Inspiration becomes impatient.

Stamps its feet. Panicking

I grab the nearest forty-two,

Word Trap

Sometimes they trap me

Stop me in my tracks.

Thinking my way through

Towards a promising idea

When I am distracted

By a sound. A spelling crackles.

Without a second thought

I am off into the thicket.

The next thing I know

It is time for bed.

Another poem finished

And nothing said.

Planet Babel

‘I found I could not use the long line because of my nervous nature.’

– William Carlos Williams

As soon as my voice is heard above the babble

Which ceases as people turn

I want to disappear. Hide under the table.

My pulse races and I consequently gabble.

Puzzled faces make mine burn

And make it crystal clear – I’m from Planet Babel.

Children’s Writer

John in the garden

Playing goodies and baddies

Janet in the bedroom

Playing mummies and daddies

Mummy in the kitchen

Washing and wiping

Daddy in the study

Stereotyping

Joinedupwriting

From the first

tentative scratch on the wall

To the final

unfinished, hurried scrawl:

One poem.

It’s Only a P…

Feeling a trifle smug after breaking off an untidy,

Drawn-out affair with somebody I no longer fancied

I was strolling through Kensington Gardens

When who should I bump into but Gavin.

Gavin, I should point out, is the husband.

‘I’m worried about Lucy,’ he said, straight out.

‘I don’t blame you,’ I thought, but said nothing.

‘Suspect she’s having an affair. Any ideas?’

‘Divorce,’ I suggested. ‘You might even get custody.’

‘No, I mean Lucy,’ he persisted. ‘Who with?’

We walked on in silence, until casually, I asked:

‘An affair, you say, what makes you so convinced?’

He stopped and produced from an inside pocket

A sheet of paper which I recognized at once.

It was this poem. Handwritten, an early draft.

Then I saw the gun. ‘For God’s sake, Gavin,

It’s only a p…

It’s Only a P… Part Two

A shot rang out. The bullet was not intended for me.

It embedded itself harmlessly into a tall sycamore.

(Harmlessly, that is, except for the tall sycamore.)

Gavin pocketed the gun. I was shaking like a leaf.

I seized his arm. ‘It’s over now,’ I stammered

‘There was nothing in it really. A moment of madness.’

I was lying and wondered if he could tell.

He gave no sign, so relaxing my grip we walked on.

‘You’d better have this,’ he said, and held out the poem.

‘But I’d rather you didn’t publish. Spare my blushes.’

I took it. ‘If not for me for Lucy’s sake.’

‘Trust me,’ I said and crumpled it into a ball.

Behind us, the sycamore rose swaying from the bushes,

Staggered across the ornamental lake

And collapsed against a wall.

Awful Acrobats

Poets make awful acrobats.

Good at barely moving

Idle musing has impaired

Their sense of balance.

Once the horizon tilts

Everything begins to slide:

Cups and saucers, trees,

Buildings, spirit-levels.

Out of touch with the ground

They are out of touch with themselves.

Struggling to make sense of air

They become entangled with it.

The roll of drums:

A few floppy cartwheels

A crumpled somersault

Then up on to the high wire…

After the first falter, the fall.

It is faultless. The safety-net

Holds out its arms. The poet

misses.

(Gravity hangs its head in shame.)

Poets have a way with language

A certain jauntiness with hats

They can make a decent curry

And are very fond of cats

Though some are closet fascists

In the main they’re democrats

But all things being considered

Poets make awful acrobats.

3

The City of London Tour

‘Along Leadladen Street

Into Snarl-up Close

Through Crosspatch

Into Coronary Circus

Past Foulmouth Gardens

Into Fetid Lane

Along Profligate

To the station at Charnel House

Up Dirtneedle Street

Into Destitute Square

Down Pacemaker Passage

(Nearly there)

A quick one in the “Half Lung”

(Leave your gasmask at the door)

Which concludes, ladies and gents,

The City of London Tour.’

Five-car Family

We’re a five-car family

We got what it takes

Eight thousand cc

Four different makes

One each for the kids

I run two

One for the missus

When there’s shopping to do

Cars are Japanese of course

Subaru and Mazda

And the Nissan that the missus takes

Nippin down to Asda

We’re a load of noisy parkers

We never do it neat

Drive the neighbours crazy

When we take up half the street

Unleaded petrol?

That’s gotta be a joke

Stepping on the gas we like

The smoke to make you choke

Carbon monoxide

Take a deep breath

Benzine dioxide

Automanic death

’Cos it’s all about noise

And it’s all about speed

And it’s all about power

And it’s all about greed

And it’s all about fantasy

And it’s all about dash

And it’s all about machismo

And it’s all about cash

And it’s all about blood

And it’s all about gore

And it’s all about oil

And it’s all about war

And it’s all about money

And it’s all about spend

And it’s all about time

That it came to an end.

Stinging in the Rain

Curse

Cyanide in the forest

Dead fish in the sea

A loaded gun

Where the sun should be

May those who sold us

Down the river

As polluted

As the lies they told

Find their banknotes

Carcinogenic

Nuclear active

Their gold.

Repelled by Metal

I don’t drive, I’m afraid.

Never had the inclination or the need.

Being antimagnetic, I am repelled by metal

And unimpressed by speed.

Nor am I being ‘holier than thou’.

Thou art a godsend to be candid

You with the car and the welcoming smile

Without your lift I’d be stranded.

And it’s not that I dislike cars

Though noisy and dangerous I dare say

Money-eaters and poison-excreters, okay

But I don’t dislike cars, per se.

It’s just that I know my limitations.

I’d be all thumbs behind a wheel.

Don’t laugh. Could you park a poem

In a space this small? Well, that’s how I feel.

Neighbourhood Watch

It’s a sin

It’s a crime

Now we can’t tell the time

Our neighbourhood watch

Has been stolen!

Poem against Capital Punishment

I live in the Capital

and it’s punishment.

Fired with Enthusiasm

This morning

the boss

came into work

bursting

with enthusiasm

and fired everybody

Shavings Account

‘Not to put too fine a point on it,’

Said the Bank Manager, pushing my finger

Into the desk-top pencil-sharpener,

‘But you have a larger overdraft

Than I had given you credit for.’

He turned the handle. Turned the screw.

‘Sorry, there’s nothing we can do.

Business is business, we need our pound of flesh.

Next finger please. Put it in and… PUSH…’

Another Mid-life Crisis

3 a.m. Feeling like death

and wanting to end it all

I reach for the aspirin bottle.

Will there be enough?

One by one I count them out. 72?

Need more to be on the safe side.

Rummaging around I add another 30.

That should do it.

Take the first two with a glass of water.

Feel better. Go back to bed. Fall asleep.

Early Morning Poems

(i)

Got up

did my toilet:

Washed

Shaved

Combed hair

My toilet looks much nicer now.

(ii)

Got up

Had shave

Did Times crossword

Had another shave.

Rocker-by

Hush-a-bye, Daddy, don’t you cry

Baby will sing a lullaby

Your duck’s arse

is thinning and grey

Your Elvis tattoo

is wearing away

Your bootlace ties

hang limp and frayed

Your 78s

are overplayed

Not rock ’n’ roll

but aches ’n’ pains

Drainies play hell

with varicose veins

Your blue-suede shoes

now have lead in them

Drunk each night

you go to bed in them

When the music stops

You’ll be dead in them

Shush, old man, your day is done

Where mine has only just begun

Used to Drink

Used to drink Pernod

Till my insides, an inferno

Said ‘No’

Schooners of sherry

Soon as merry

Sick, very

So I drank rum

Yo ho ho as they come

Sore bum

What’s nice is

Gin with lemon slices

Made me grin. Did me in

Turned to lager (Special Brew)

Went gaga

So will you

Downed tequila

Soon down at heel, ah

It’s a killer

Odd dram of malt

Gave the old liver a jolt

Called a halt.

Mineral water

Herb tea

Beers (alcohol-free)

Cheers! I deserve a pat on the back…

(Next year maybe give up cocaine and smack.)

Where It’s At

I’m in the Health Club

I’m where it’s at

Twenty minutes on the mat

Light circuit-training

Gentle jog if not raining

Sauna, jacuzzi

Sit by Suzi

I’m in the Wine Bar

I’m where it’s at

Vino tinto into that

Pig out on tapas

Choose momento, make a pass

Scusi scusi

Chat up Suzi

I’m in the Porsche

I’m where it’s at

Rocks off in Docklands’ flat

Ecstasy, share a smoke

His ’n’ hers, two lines of coke

CD something bluesy

Hold tight Suzi

I’m in prison

I’m where it’s at

Didn’t see the Passat. Splat!

Banged up on Isle of Wight

With terrorist and transvestite

Can’t be choosy

Bye bye Suzi.

Fart

He was lyin there, so I… er

Stabbed him. Just the once.

In the stomach. Crashed out

on the sofa he was. After the pub.

He wasn’t asleep. Some nights

he’d pass out but most nights he’d pretend.

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