by Jacob Polley
as Jackself slams Lamanby’s front door behind him
Spring-heeled Jack
above Jackself, the night’s
night all the way to the moon
and stars
he’s on tiptoes,
scrabbling a crater-rim
for finger-holds
if I can just climb
into her face,
I won’t have to suffer
her one sad stare
Wren’s at the ghost-hole
watching Jackself as he dangles
by his fingertips, kicks his feet,
then lets go
and drops
oof
to the stubble, claps
the dust off his hands, then leaps
again for the uppermost
edge of the moon
but the sky’s beguns
to float it further and further
away from him
into the blue
I wish you weren’t a ghost
I know you do
The Desk
Jeremy Wren sings
under his breath
gone gone
the sabretooth
and gone
the mastodon
you don’t have any breath,
Jackself says
it’s a figure of speech,
Wren says
Jackself, have you something
to say to the class
no Miss
then put your hands on your desk
where we can see them
inscribed
with pen-knifed knot-work,
its underside fabulous
to the touch with carbuncles
of gum, his desk is where
Jackself keeps what
Wren has bequeathed him
I didn’t bequeath you anything,
Wren says
my rubber, my calculator, my shatterproof
ruler and my spider
in a matchbox
you just took them
what were you going to do,
Jackself murmurs, spend your death
catching up on your maths homework
it’s not long enough,
Wren says, and Jackself snorts
JACKSELF!
it’s Jeremy, he says, and the class goes stiff
with fear
they all think you’re going to cry
and embarrass them, Wren says
do it
and I’ll let you keep my stuff
Jack Snipe
Jackself tramps down
to the water’s edge
in time to watch the day go
out of the estuary
a goose honks
from way up
in the night that laps
at his feet and he drops
after it a pebble
he’s brought from the mainland
of sunlight, then heels off
his trainers, balls up his socks,
rolls up his jeans and wades
in among the stars oh
oh
how cold the heavens are
and squidgy between his toes
Skipjack
the fish owe Jackself
he wants gills,
another element
for a home, the sea
to hold him for a good long while
these demands he takes to the rocky shore
at low tide, where the pools gaze
with new lenses at their grotto walls
flinching with jellies
Jackself rives a limpet
from a crevice in the shell-inlaid floor
the sole of its yellow foot
is a callus that flexes
and draws in
as he cranks his rusty blade around the socket
what comes out is neither eye
nor tongue, but has salt tears
and a root
Jackself chews and swallows it,
then drinks a palmful of sea
from a trap of stone
in the distance the great gears
full of cockleshells turn
and the pool at his feet begins to churn
and swell, then swivels round
to look at him, and roaring in his ears
a voice from fathoms down
speaks coelacanth and dead zone
and conger in a cannon mouth
and in no time the tide is in
and lifting into the dark
brown blistered ropes of bladderwrack
and tiny velvet crabs
but guess who’s nearly halfway home,
the big noise at his back
The Comeback Deal
it’s not as if this is a Jesus-type
comeback deal
Wren is not Jesus
have you thought of a new name yet,
Jackself asks
I think Jesus
has a good ring to it, Wren says, Jesus Aballava
Jackself doesn’t laugh
this is not a resurrection situation,
and we have to stop saying Jesus, he says
Jesus, don’t get your sackcloth
in a twist, Wren says
you know you can’t just walk in
to the life you had, Jackself says
cats will hiss,
light-bulbs flicker,
your mum get a feeling of impending doom
every time she picks your dirty pants and socks up off your bedroom floor
which would be loads
of times, Wren says, and squints
at the fields stricken
with crispiness and cold smoke
Tithe
hullo
Jackself says
cocks his head
nothing
without
doors
slammed curtains
soot-fall certain
silence
his
smooth end
searches his
middle room
nope
ear-pop
of absence
how
this morning
tripped
the kettle
without
giving
nothing
months
dead now
his due
Jack O’Bedlam
Jackself is squabbling in the rookery
he’s bald and black and stroppy
the wind was wound
six times around
before he hatched his copy
Now I can make him do my naughty
his eyes will not betray me
they’re just like mine
but minus nine
times twelve to the power of maybe
Who dropped that eyelash in the basement
who thought that thought behind the door
with phantom ears
poor Jackself hears
the dandelions roar
He’s up in the lofts of Lamanby
rifling through the sun
I pick my way
from day to day
undoing what’s been done
For heart, Jackself has a hairy nettle
his face is greener stuff
a long time goes
between his toes
but never feels enough
Sow the darkness, grow a stone
Jackself is fishing for worms
he baits his hook
with a dirty look
and lowers it into the germs
Tell a story, Doublejack
until our sofas burst
the words are cold
but get it told
or it will tell you first
Bind these days in the book of moons
poor Jackself needs to sleep
if north is south
then Jackself’s mouth
is fifty fore
sts deep
Line a coat, unlace a shoe
Jackself, take off your belt
your mighty skin
is mighty thin
when your studs and buckles melt
I’m in the house of Bethlehem
lying in a manger
it’s my turn then
to turn again
and meet myself a stranger
Jackself, please write an inventory
of all your moving parts
there’s only one
and it’s not my tongue
but my stillness never starts
Just like the rain on holidays
it’s guaranteed to fall
Jackself decides
to stay inside
which is really no choice at all
Wren is hopping on the window ledge
come out, come out, he cries
poor Jackself swears
there’s no one there
and fills in both his eyes
Underneath my keyhole suit
I’m nothing but a knock
if I go through
will you come too
and snap off the key in the lock
Jackself is dancing down the lonning
at the bottom of the world
the day is dust
and Jackself must
be back before he’s old
Jackself
JACOB POLLEY was born in Carlisle in 1975. He is the author of three poetry collections and received the 2012 Geoffrey Faber Memorial Prize for his most recent, The Havocs. His first novel, Talk of the Town, won the Somerset Maugham Award. He teaches at Newcastle University and lives with his family in Newcastle.
ALSO BY JACOB POLLEY
Poetry
The Havocs
Little Gods
The Brink
Fiction
Talk of the Town
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I’d like to thank Bare Fiction Magazine, Ploughshares, Poetry (Chicago), The Poetry Review and The Verb on BBC Radio 3 where versions of a few of these poems first appeared. Thanks to John Alder, for his magnificent and provocative setting of the poems. Jackself had the privilege and benefit of two early readers, Jean Sprackland and Katharine Towers, who gave me great encouragement and to whom I am most grateful.
First published 2016 by Picador
This electronic edition published 2016 by Picador
an imprint of Pan Macmillan,
20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR
Associated companies throughout the world
www.panmacmillan.com
ISBN 978-1-4472-9045-2
Copyright © Jacob Polley, 2016
Cover illustration inspired by Franz-Josef Holler
The right of Jacob Polley to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Pan Macmillan does not have any control over, or any responsibility for, any author or third-party websites referred to in or on this book.
You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Visit www.picador.com to read more about all our books and to buy them. You will also find features, author interviews and news of any author events, and you can sign up for e-newsletters so that you’re always first to hear about our new releases.
