Drinks with Dead Poets

by Glyn Maxwell

  *

  And the rest is rather a blur. They mostly wanted me to drink as much as them, and very soon I probably had. The fireworks blazed away on high, but every girl and boy and lady and gent smiled up at them and slowly was accustoming to awe, going on with conversations, and the display must have ended while I was chatting at the mulled-wine stall with a couple of the suits in anoraks, admin types from the Academy. ‘The mauve form!’ this guy was imploring, you know the future is mauve!’ At some point Barry rocked up with a fat envelope and said he’d collected all my birthday cards! I do remember parting from Jimmy, he’d bumped into some ladies who knew him, they insisted he went dancing, and the last I saw of him he was pretending to be dragged away, ‘blimey here we go’ – there are gaps then – I do remember there were people I thought I knew, from long ago, from not that long and we all kept making the same old joke – that we’d all be ‘home for Christmas!’ – and someone promised me this, I can’t remember who, saying ‘we do know you’ll be back! We do know you’ll be back!’ then I think I got upset because I heard that Barry and Rowena had gone in the milk-float and I kept shouting (I’m told) ‘How the hell do I get home now?’ and this must have been annoying because it truly wasn’t a problem, it was organized, I had my own seat near the back of the dimly-lit warm coach – ‘No one wants to sit with you, Max,’ said Mimi, swaying in the aisle so I could swig from her hipflask, ‘we decided you’re no fun’ and I’m saying you fucking drugged me, and she’s saying ‘what did you think they were tic-tacs? you said to scare you Max,’ and Syrie and Blanche were turned round from the seats in front of me, saying ‘3P is the bomb, man, we were out, we watched ourselves in The Sound of Music,’ and then – I think the coach had to stop and reverse itself laboriously in the dark, there was a great communal groan at that, and I remember being woken up by someone sliding in next to me: ‘It’s not a lot to ask to be waited for. I’m not blaming you Maxwell,’ and later, with the coach dark, rumbling, warm, silent, the one solitary light I could see was Tina Yeager beside me, she had a tiny bulb clamped to her clipboard and was working away on some schedule while everyone else was whispering or snoring, she was scribbling numbers with a blue pen, putting it back between her teeth so she could write some words with a black pen. She didn’t look, she just said through clenched teeth: ‘Not a lot to ask to be waited for, when you’ve gone to so much bother.’

  *

  Somehow I still had the packet of birthday cards, as I remember them all tumbling out on to my doormat when at last I staggered in. I even remember saying distinctly: ‘Not my birthday any more!’ to no one, but I did crouch down to gather up the cards, I even filled out my mantelpiece with the cards, which were bright or sweet or funny or whatever – the only exception being Barry’s, whose birthday greetings were scribbled on the back of some old postcard. But I only know this because I found it on the day I left, it had fallen behind my bookcase, and even then I didn’t bother to read the back of it, I didn’t read the back till long after, long ago, when I was home again and that — that is Time’s last word on my birthday.

  POST CARD

  FROM:

  Pte.2493 Maswell Victoria stn, 6 a.m.

  6th batt. King’s Lancaslise reg. C coy.

  5th Juna, 1916

  Dear Ma, Arrived Euston at 4 am. Have not seen Ted yetc – no doubt he will come heare to see us all. we had Eggs ans Bacon at thr YMCA so feel a trifle refreshed – but nevertheless feel pretty down in the mouth – I will be glad when the journey’s over Love to all Jimmy

  THE ADDRESS ONLY TO RE WRITTEN HERE.

  Mr & Mrs Maswell, 2 Hereford Lane, Wevertree, Liverfool, Engand

  * * *

  Week Eight – November 14th

  Summer pleasures they are gone, like to visions every one,

  And the cloudy days of autumn and of winter cometh on:

  I tried to call them back, but unbidden they are gone Far away from heart and eye and for ever far away,

  Dear heart, and can it be that such raptures meet decay?

  I thought them all eternal when by Langley Bush I lay;

  I thought them joys eternal when I used to shout and play

  On its bank at ‘clink and bandy’, ‘chock and ‘taw’ and ducking-stone,

  Where silence sitteth now on the wild heath as her own

  Like a ruin of the past, all alone

  *

  Back to work, at a new age.

  As I heard, then saw, that it was grey and dull and dutifully raining, I renewed my dialogue with the transformations of the sky and accepted the point this one was trying to make: that the last two weeks had swung me wildly hither and thither from where I’d settled in my merry world, and it was high time I returned to the work it had assigned me.

  This pendulum was heavy, solemn, centred, holding to whatever cord came down through the low cloud from whatever the cords are roped to. Today I would tick and tock quite soberly and strictly, at least while there was daylight. It was this austere intent that made me rise from horizontal, stand tall, walk, stoop, open the books on the desk, breathe in, put away my birthday cards – I lost one down the back of the shelves and resolved to retrieve it later – then I sang a song as I dressed, Corinna Corinna, girl where you been so long? impulsively grabbed some papers from the floor, folded them into my leather satchel, got the hell out, and shared with the wet deserted lane the mysterious words I had to hand: Not a lot to ask to be waited for, when you’ve gone to so much bother.

  *

  When I used to lie and sing by old Eastwell’s boiling spring,

  When I used to tie the willow-boughs together for a ‘swing’

  And fish with crooked pins and thread and never catch a thing,

  With heart just like a feather – now as heavy as a stone.

  When beneath old Lea Close Oak I the bottom branches broke

  To make our harvest cart, like so many working folk.

  And then to cut a straw at the brook to have a soak.

  O I never dreamed of parting or that trouble had a sting

  Or that pleasures like a flock of birds would ever take to wing

  Leaving nothing but a little naked spring

  *

  I must provide evidence to demonstrate how I meet the criteria for the grade in which I wish to obtain employment, Nathan.

  ‘Say what?’

  If s not expected that I should present all types of evidence listed for my selected categories, Nathan.

  ‘You applying for something?’

  Doing it, man, going mauve, Im going official, I thought it would be fun but it’s just turning into – words.

  ‘That can happen, that’s for sure. Am I fixing you your usual?’

  Eggs in a way never known before and a shedload of coffee.

  ‘You know it, professor.’

  *

  I know it. Why can’t I do it if I know it?

  ‘Pardon?’

  Kerri you gotta help me.

  But Kerri goes on battling the photocopier ‘it’s really not complex, not like this is complex,’ she hits it and it hums indignantly,

  Am I Academic with Research or Research with Education? ‘You’re I dunno, work, sod you, stupid machine – ’

  And what’s Knowledge Exchange?

  ‘Not a clue, it’s maybe teaching, it says clear I did clear!’

  You can help me in your sleep Kerri, then you won’t know you did.

  ‘I see someone coming up the road who can. I reckon it’s teaching.’

  *

  ‘Glenn Glenn Glenn. . .’

  Sorry do I know you?

  ‘Nice one! Mike, from your birthday bash! How about some coffee, Kezza?’ ‘No thanks.’

  ‘Nice one. You were pretty cheerful on your birthday, weren’t you.’

  It was – my birthday.

  ‘That’s his story and he’s sticking to it!’

  What?

  ‘Let’s see what we have here. . .’

  (Mike i
s in Human Resources. They wear anoraks indoors. He sits on Kerri’s desk and flicks through my mauve form with amusement.)

  ‘Fail,’ he grins, ‘Start agin, buffalo girls, start agin!’

  It’s blank Mike, I’ve not filled it in, how’s that a fail?

  ‘Oh you are one new contestant! It’s a fail if it’s the wrong form.’ It’s – the mauve form.

  ‘Does that look mauve to you?’

  Yes.

  ‘It’s the lilac form. The lilac form’s for Permanency or Promotion, you need First-Time Employment and that form’s clearly mauve. We sang about the mauve form, you said the future was mauve!

  ‘We were rockin’ the night away, my friend. You shouldn’t have been given this. Kezza Kezza Kezza. . .’

  ‘How about some tea Mike.’

  ‘No thanks! little in-joke. . .’

  Look I’ve been employed all over the place.

  ‘Not here you haven’t!’

  When I first got here, Mike, in September, there was a Reading List with my name printed on it. I was allocated a room, a dump I grant you, but a room to teach in and no one gave a damn.

  ‘A dump with a working kettle,’ Kerri reminds me, and a table and chairs. What else do poets need? Especially if it’s a dream.’

  ‘Well we’re still working out how that happened,’ Mike informs us, looking along the shelves for the correct pale-purple document.

  Also, guys, Kerri talked to the agents who talked to the visiting poets.

  ‘Talking of which,’ says Kerri, your man John is going to be walking here, you have to watch the fields between four and five o’clock.’

  Which fields, its going to be dark.

  ‘I don’t know which fields,’ she says, you can use this torch.’

  (This doesn’t sit with Mike) ‘I hate to rain on said parade but if Glenn’s not affiliated this so-called walking man called John is not a Visiting Lecturer. In fact technically he’s a trespasser. And that’s an Academy flashlight.’

  ‘I am still talking to the agents,’ says Kerri stoutly, ‘so it’s official.’

  ‘Does Tina know you are?’

  ‘We have contracts with them, Mike, whether he teaches them or not.’

  ‘His name can’t be on the contracts, Kerri, till he’s affiliated. Tina said.’

  ‘His name isn’t on the contracts. Mike.’

  ‘He says it was. Kerri.’

  ‘He’s Glyn, Mike, he’s got no idea, he thinks he’s dreaming.’

  ‘It’s not Glyn it’s Glenn – oh maybe it’s Glynn, two ns, where’s his form,’

  I am actually here, you know.

  ‘Glynn! Help us! Hand down a ruling!’

  *

  I am actually not here, as I’ve decided to get some mint tea for Kerri and a moccachino for Mike. It sounds like they need it. Kerri had me sign the mauve form, said I could fill in the rest when I’d done my one-to-ones. She’d do the difficult stuff. I said Don’t go to too much bother, just to feel what it would be like to choose to say bother rather than trouble. It felt vaguely concerning, it alerted my cells. One cell sitting by a radar-screen in baleful blue light said: guys, you wanna see this. . .

  Mike said as I was going that he wished it could be my birthday every day.

  I forgot her tea and his coffee.

  *

  When jumping time away on old Crossberry Way

  And eating ’awes like sugar-plums ere they had lost the may,

  And skipping like a leveret before the peep of day

  On the roly-poly up and downs of pleasant Swordy Well.

  When in Round Oaks narrow lane as the south got black again

  We sought the hollow ash that was shelter from the rain

  With our pockets full of peas we had stolen from the grain,

  How delicious was the dinner time on such a showery day –

  O words are poor receipts for what time hath stole away,

  The ancient pulpit trees and the play

  *

  Iona looked sad. Not when she saw me coming to her table at the Keys – at that she smiled her one bright social smile – but I’d seen her first, and she’d looked unusually downcast. I need to believe some people always cope, can always help, will sail through life looking out for ways they can bestow their cheerful care. It’s probably always the same proportion of my acquaintance, and probably isn’t quite true of anyone, but she was one of those, and she oughtn’t to look so sad. Somebody must be coping.

  I assumed she was homesick. I didn’t have it so bad that morning – with Halloween and my birthday out of the way I had my annual lamplit view downhill to Christmas I am going home at Christmas — so I did my level best.

  Missing Mr Iona? (I regretted it already)

  ‘Sorry?’

  How’s long-distance wedding planning? (I was on the opposite of a roll – )

  Aye, well.’

  Right (maybe shut up)

  ‘Long distance,’ said Iona.

  Oh? Okay.

  I’ve brought a poem. Are we still in the business of that, professor?’

  We are. Normal service. Resumed. What you got.

  She had a poem about herself as a child in Fife. But somehow the child was also herself now, grown-up and walking by fishing-boats in the snow unrecognized – it wasn’t clear, I thought she might bring in stanza-breaks to let the transitions happen, the white space could be the ice around her, or perhaps -

  ‘Wedding’s off.’

  What?

  ‘We regret to say.’

  Shit. Elegant sad Iona McNair shook the dark hair from her eyes, took a sip of her Coke, looked askance through the almost empty pub, gazed her way through the walls, stared all the way home.

  How my heart sagged for her. The legendary Alastair, whom all of us had joked about – Lily and Sami and Heath and Ollie, even Niall used to do it – tales of upright gingery Ally in his fictional tweeds shooting fictional grouse with his fictional soft Morningside accent, waiting for his bride to return from down along the glen – no, Over. He’d abandoned our thoughtful gentle queenly Iona: she was far from home, her wedding was off, her hopes destroyed. I hated him.

  Hey (said I),

  ‘I don’t think I’m cut out for poetry, really.’

  You write such lovely phrases, you’ve a good ear, these are stronger every time!

  She took her poem back, didn’t want to go on, ‘but I like it here. I’ll do something else in the spring. Are you teaching in the spring? They say you’re teaching in the spring.’

  I don’t know, maybe, I am joining the Academy, I’m filling in the lilac form!

  ‘You are grown-up,’ she smiled, I wished her so well.

  Don’t stop writing poems. Please, McNair, for me.

  ‘Och. . .’

  You only say och for my benefit, don’t you.

  ‘Mm-hm. Has your Mr Clare arrived? I’ve been reading what you said to. ’

  I went and got us drinks, Marys Bloody and Virgin with straws for old time’s sake, and when I got back Orlando had slid in next to her with a beer. He was her only rival in the field of cheery companionship, though I did have to concede that he’d been a little bit off with me lately, and I suspected there was nothing left of his on-and-off deal with Mimi. That I could understand, but he looked jolly enough right now, and I hoped he was doing okay.

  Cheers, santé, slainte, and it was as we all were sipping that the picture unravelled.

  Now my admiration for those blessed souls who can write in the Third Person is authentic and profound. Yet, on the earth I live on, no one knows the slightest thing. There’s only love and guesswork, and I try my best at both.

  Ollie and Iona were holding hands, were quite evidently one, and my eyes went brightly, innocently from her happy face to his, Iona (love and guesswork) exhilarated yet distressed by what her heart had made her do to her poor fiance, sadly birdying alone on some rain-swept green, and Orlando (love and guesswork) proud and young again, over the moon,
Mimi who? and most delighted I’m at hand to savour the happy ending.

  When Peter Grain steps in with his poems and his pencil-case I buy all four of us a lunch of beer and ploughmans, as if they’ve married with two witnesses who happened to be passing. Now we are four good toasting friends. We look at Peter’s clumsy sonnets in a cheerful little class of our own, and I part from the trio joyfully, watch them set off over the wet green, a very jovial crew.

  Norman.

  ‘Small or large.’

  I don’t know anything, Norman.

  *

  Under the twigs the blackcap hangs in vain

  With snow-white patch streaked over either eye.

  This way and that he turns, and peeps again

  As wont where silk-cased insects used to lie,

  But summer leaves are gone: the day is bye

  For happy holidays, and now he fares

  But cloudy like the weather, yet to view

  He flirts a happy wing and inly wears

  Content in gleaning what the orchard spares,

  And like his little cousin capped in blue

  Domesticates the lonely winter through

  In homestead plots and gardens, where he wears

  Familiar pertness – yet he seldom comes

  With the tame robin to the door for crumbs.

  Heath

  Samira Lily

  Peter Iona

  Niall Ollie

  Barry

  moi

  John Clare’s ‘The Blackcap’. Look at the rhymes.

  ‘Highlighters?’ Ollie and Heath say in unison but only Ollie enjoys this.

  Hush. Underline the last word of every line.

  ‘More mysterious instructions,’ muses Barry, getting down to it.

  ‘It should look like this!’ Ollie holds up his paper.

  What are you Faraday, magic? when did you do that?

  ‘The old class, Maxwell, don’t you remember?’

  ‘Ha!’ cries Lily, ‘dementia, I just knew it.’

  ‘It’s a, fascinating rhyme-scheme he’s got,’ says Peter, underlining with the flat edge of his protractor, ‘in fact it’s not – quite one at all.’

  Rock on, squire. It’s not quite one at all. If the Keepers of the Sonnet were watching they would utterly lose their (I’m not affiliated) shit. The poem starts like it’s in uniform, four pentameters rhymed ABAB (ain-eye-ain-eye), then the fifth bye suggests we’ll stay and play a while in those two sounds – maybe he wants to mash the two famous sonnet-forms together, the two forms being Lily?