I’ve just spent the weekend with poets. At 4am Friday night/Saturday morning, I was challenged to recite a poem I had written. But I could only remember scrappy two-line nonsense verses that I’d dreamed up back in the 20th century.
Saturday night, again, everyone recited poems. And I remembered that I do have a poem, a poem that I’m proud of.
One year ago, Leki died. One year ago, I wrote this poem, and performed it at his wake. And so here – with apologies to WH Auden (but not many of them) – it is.
Start Drawing Cocks
Start drawing cocks, yell down the telephone,
Howl like a dog locked up too long at home,
Kick down your cymbals and unleash the drum;
Prance round the coffin, let rejoicers come.Let aeroplanes circle screaming overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message: PENISHEAD.
Drape thigh-bones round the dark necks of the birds of prey,
Make all the policemen dance the night away.He was our North, our South, our East and West,
Our skanky cut-offs and our denim vest,
Our after midnight chat, our throaty song;
We thought that he would last for ever: we weren’t wrong.Guitars are what’s wanted now: get out every one;
Bark at the moon and party till the sun;
Drink away the ocean and break every mould.
For no-one now should ever do what they are told.Start drawing cocks, exalt the tattooed gnome.