Captain’s Log 13/12/23 09:08

I am walking through Hebden Bridge on my way to deliver the poems for Molly, Kate and Nicole. Last night, I read them out at the Trades Club on an episode of Radio 3’s The Verb.

It felt a bit strange reading the poems out when the residents hadn’t heard them yet. I wanted to deliver them before the recording, but I was running 4 hours late on account of a wardrobe malfunction. Why I felt so concerned about what I looked like for a recording on the radio remains unclear. But after I’d decided exactly what shoes I was wearing, there wasn’t really time.

The other snag is that none of the people I have written the poems for are free for a delivery today, or any of the days around it either. I like to perform each one on the doorstep, but Kate is on holiday, Nicole is busy with work and Molly actually lives in Leeds. In other circumstances, I would have arranged this trip around them. But the recording was set by the BBC for the 12^th and there was no way around that. It’s fair enough, one of the other guests was Jackie Kay. You can’t be asking the former Makar of Scotland to change her plans at a moment’s notice. She’s got stuff to do.

Everything feels a lot more Christmassy since the last time I was here. There are lights and tinsel hung over the lampposts. I walk past a shop selling boughs of holly, a Christmas tree in the market.

It’s funny how the project’s turned out. This was meant to be a Christmas special, but the poems I’ve written don’t have anything to do with Christmas. Maybe it doesn’t matter, I think. The residents spoke their truth. Maybe that’s the most important thing.

Once again, I scale up the vertical incline that is Birchcliffe Road. Halfway up, I stop to look at the buildings in the valley below. It doesn’t feel as hard to climb today, like I’m being pulled by an extra set of legs.

At the top of the hill, I get out my list of addresses and check which one is Molly’s. I check it again. I put my briefcase down on the doorstep, then rummage around for the envelope with the poem in. I hold up the letter, check the list one last time, then push it through the door.

As it gently thuds on the floor, I remember something important: I remember this is a gift. I’ve been so busy getting ready for this, I’d forgotten that until now. Admittedly, it’s not a gift Molly has particularly asked for, and I have no idea if she’ll actually like it. But it is a gift nonetheless.

I lift up my briefcase and carry it back into the street. It’s got various things in for my trip home- food, laptop. It’s heavy. You might even say it was… sack-like?

I get out my list again and look for Kate’s house. I am checking it once. I am checking it twice. I head over and carefully push the envelope through the door.

By the time I’ve dropped off Nicole’s poem, I feel lighter, jollier even. I wasn’t expecting this to make me feel so much… like Santa? The fact that all the doors are next to each other, that none of the residents can see me. I am flying from house to house, dropping little gifts of poetry through every letterbox. And I am loving it.

As I stop to take a selfie, it occurs to me that I’m dressed all in green and red. It’s all I can do not to let out a big Ho Ho Ho!

I’ve had such a brilliant time in Hebden Bridge. It’s meant so much to get to do this, to discover that people are still open. I don’t know if I will ever do Door-to-Door Poetry again. This might be my last outing. If it is, I feel grateful that the people here have taken the time to help me, and that I’ve been able to give them something in return.

And isn’t that what Christmas is all about? Helping each other? Spreading the love in the best way you can? As I turn towards home, I break into a smile. I came to Hebden Bridge looking for the spirit of Christmas. Maybe I’d already found it.


COMPLEX PETS

Let’s praise the pets
who are not photogenic.
The pets who will never win
‘Best in Show’
or become a social media hit.
The pets who can’t skateboard
or operate a human toilet,
the ones who’ve set their own terms
and are very much sticking to it.

Let’s praise the pets
who are strange,
the OCD dogs,
the vegetarian snakes,
the hamsters with kleptomania.
The pets who are uniquely shaped,
who never learned their right from wrong,
the ones who would rather walk than run.

The pets with a past,
who’ve seen enough in their short lives
it shows around the outskirts of their eyes.
Who don’t express their love boldly,
or very regularly,
but occasionally find a way
to try and let you know.
The pets who won’t dress up,
no matter how fantastic the costume.
The pets who will not be owned.

Because these are the creatures
who are too occupied to be our property,
who refuse to be an item
designed for amusement.
And so often we forget about
these quirks of personality,
about the many different reasons
for not joining in our games.

So let’s give praise,
to the fish hid in the castle,
the cat wrapped in the duvet,
the quiet
and the cautious ones
who do not want a fuss.
Let’s let them live out their days
in a way that suits them best,
far away from jet skis,
or any kind of fancy dress.


KINDNESS CLINGS ON

It was the way she never
blamed the doctors
as she counted the late, painful
hours for them to arrive.
Held tight
in the A&E waiting room,
all the while not knowing
if this was the last time.

It was the way
she spoke to every nurse with respect,
though the equipment was broken,
his diagnosis delayed,
the ceiling above them
cracked and caving in.

She told me
nobody wakes up in the morning,
irons their shirt,
takes on a task like this
unless they’ve felt pinpricks
on the insides of their fingertips,
seen family members
in the faces of strangers.

When those who hold the purse strings
would rather pay for celebrations,
when panic and confusion
underscore our final days,
kindness clings on
in the most uncertain place.

THE LAST AVOCADO IN HEBDEN BRIDGE

A sign of the apocalypse,
a delivery gone rogue,
interference from an enemy,
some kind of cosmic joke.
There were many theories floated,
but I could not say which
had brought the last avocado
to Hebden Bridge.

At first it was a rumour,
muttered softly round the market,
till a crowd began to gather
and the panicked people started
pulling shelves out at the grocer’s
and checking every fridge,
but there were no avocados
in Hebden Bridge…

O the chaos, the madness,
the pushing and shoving,
the filth and the fury,
the tears of despair,
as a bloodthirsty mob
armed with butterfly nets
quickly ransacked the town
for the coveted pear.
From the Afghan rug shop
to the crystal dispensary,
every cupboard was rummaged,
every poke bowl was bare,
as a hippy on his knees screamed
Anything but this!
It was the last avocado
in Hebden Bridge.

A militia was formed
by townspeople of note.
They sent off a van
to the neighbouring village.
But as soon as it came back
all laden with goods
every soft avocado
was instantly pillaged. 
The army were drafted,
they struggled in vain,
some people tried tofu,
it wasn’t the same,
while a PR consultant
tried to trade her two kids
for the last avocado
in Hebden Bridge.

In the smouldering ashes
of what was the town,
people lay in the rubble
bewildered and dazed.
Every greenhouse was smashed,
every veg box upturned,
every mossy green rock
had been squeezed just in case.
They sighed and they wept
and they counted their woes,
for their lost guacamoles,
their plain sourdoughs,
for the torn social fabric
that couldn’t be stitched,
for the last avocado
in Hebden Bridge.


Two of these poems were broadcast on BBC Radio 3’s The Verb 22/12/23. Search for The Verb in the BBC Sounds app.

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