I wake at 5am and work on the poems. A car picks me up at 8.05 and by 9am I am on air for BBC's Saturday Live. I have had about three or four hours sleep between Budapest and here. The first poem is about the Far Right and the second poem is about the guest Heather Piercey daughter of Lord Haw Haw who was tried for treason and killed in the 1940's. The First Poem came on at the beginning of the programme and the second at the end. Pater means father in German and Tateh is Yiddish for Daddy.
The Politics of
It’s kicking off at kick off – the defence has crumbled
The far right wing takes the initiative
The opposing left wing’s gone
The left back is left back in the changing room.
tactics could have forseen this situation
The crowd's ecstatic.
There’s a pitch invasion
Oh there was no need for that.
The centre forward made a dirty Attack
He’s trying to shift the goalposts there’s nothing clever about that
In the golden commentary box I contrive
A rhyme. It’s time. It’s Saturday. It’s Live.
Shhhhhh Tatehh shhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
The white noise of
airwaves sounds like a downpour, like the sea
Like after the the bomb blasts the reign of debris.
Stood in the wreckage
as a child – tears of dew
Through the rain and the
dust I saw you
All fathers must bretray their sons and daughters
All fathers are liars and cheats bridging troubled water
With gushing offspring to dilute their past
All fathers mix their parents secrets into the cast
In hope each mould loses the imperfection
Each birth a sacrifice and resurrection
The imperfect lurch for perfection.
“Oy.” On the cross a daughter asks
Why forsake my presence with your past
I am not your mother I will not dry your tears
The salt will sting and my heart will ring as air clears
Of all nightmares and their
There is no final
I danced when you
sang laughed when you lept
Waited for you to come home, screamed when you left
You. Take your
secrets to your death,
It is not for me to forgive nor forget.