That Day

 That Day

I wasn’t there that day at the end

When you finally left me

Your sleep became deeper

Then you drifted away

In a quiet morphine haze

I wasn’t there when the snow came

And the roads were blocked

The lawns white carpeted

The old mansion black-shadowed

As if it knew somehow

I wasn’t there when they took you away

To wait alone in that Chapel of Rest

Hosted by strangers

Awaiting their instructions

Before your car-black journey

But I was there on the very last day

When we gathered together

And gave thanks for your life

When it was finally all over

And there was nothing more I could say

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015 

Fishcakes

Recipe for: FISHCAKES

Ingredients:

• ½ to ¾ lb potatoes, peeled, boiled & roughly mashed
• 1lb skinless fish (haddock, smoked haddock, cod, salmon or a combination), steamed for a few minutes until cooked, then flaked
• 2 tblsp chopped fresh herbs – parsley, dill, tarragon all work well
• 5-6 spring onions, white & green parts, finely chopped
• 1-2 cloves garlic, minced (optional)
• Sunflower oil for frying

        ---------------------------------

• 1 egg, beaten (optional)
• 1 tblsp flour (optional)
• 115g white breadcrumbs (optional)

 Method:

1. put the mashed potato, flaked fish, herbs, spring onions & garlic in a bowl and mix gently with a fork (you want to leave the flakes of fish as intact as possible)
2. using wet hands, shape lumps of the mixture into 4, 6 or 8 round patties (using a baking ring makes this a lot easier), but don’t make them too thick or they will be harder to cook properly
3. you can either leave them like this or else add a coating – dip into the flour, dust off, then into the beaten egg, then roll in the breadcrumbs
4. put on to a plate, cover with cling-film, then chill in the fridge for at least an hour, but preferably longer
5. when ready to eat, heat the sunflower oil in a heavy-bottomed frying pan and fry the fish-cakes for about 5 minutes each side, or until golden, using a spatula to carefully turn them over

 What else you need to know:

1. this is a basic recipe, so you can use whatever fish or combination is handy
2. try to get more fish than potato – you only want enough potato to act as the “glue” to hold the cakes together
3. with or without a coating? – both are delicious!
4. serve with a tartare or tomato dipping sauce, or else with a hot pouring parsley sauce

Skin

Skin

This covering, this wrapper I’m within,

This infection barrier,

Protector, keeper of my guts,

Which holds my everything inside,

Stopping me from spilling out upon the floor

And from pouring myself away,

Is under attack,

Both night and day

Infected, itchy, red, rough,

Sore, dry, cracked and broken skin,

A delicate tracery of lines,

A network of flaking layers,

Pieces to be picked and peeled,

Revealing bare tissue below,

Bleeding into crevices,

Creases, valleys and folds

Between fingers and toes,

Dry hair, crumbling nails

Leaving shrinking islands

Of a barely-working epidermis

Oily ointments, greasy creams

And emollient treatments

Penetrate the dermic strata

With cellular, capillary action

Until they quite are absorbed within

Gently rubbing, scratching, stroking,

Smoothing, soothing,

Bathing, seeking brief respite

From this never-ending torment

And the tiny blisters bursting, erupting,

Spreading further poison

Throughout my failing system

Condemned to live within this atopic body,

Torture-chamber of a thousand tiny cuts,

Prisoner of a painful pathology,

Chronic, never-ending condition

Making forever unthinkable

Any contact with another warm body

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Shack

Shack

Charred remains, burnt stick’d tinder from which

the shack was fashioned, hidden

within the hollow, below beech trees, deep

inside the wood, where his body was found

still cradled within his den.

His place now open to the sky, gaping, where the roof once was,

a door, a corrugated iron sheet, tattered tarpaulin, old palings

rope-shackled, and wire that formed his rural refuge.

His suburban semi only miles away, his wife

and children waiting, unable

to understand what eccentric whim

drove him to live this way, abandon

comfort and company, to bury himself

in muddy abode, freezing

in the depth of winter, half-starving

alone in the back-woods.

Alcohol and cigarettes to numb

the pain, and pass the time,

a camping stove, a naked flame to cook

and warm the fingers, to keep at bay

damp and mould, the essential tools

of staying alive, catching alight, spreading

flames or fumes, smoke or steam becoming

the agency of his unseen death.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Holocaust Day - A Tribute

History Lesson

This poem was written a few years ago after a visit to Auschwitz.  We were both very moved by what we saw - it's difficult not to be. And yet it was possible to be even more upset by the poor behaviour of the visiting school-children. It seems that the lessons this place should teach us are still not being learned.

As the first oven door is opened,

She has to go outside

To recover herself and fight back the tears,

As if the enormity of the crime,

The wickedness of it, the evil itself, still lives here,

And the smell somehow lingers

Within the charnel house,

Where the bodies baked,

In those early days

Before the numbers grew too many.

She comes back in again, re-joins the tour,

To visit bloody Birkenau,

The production-line of murder

Its branch-line running right inside the camp,

Its guard-houses, towers, miles of wire,

Its block-houses, machine guns, dogs.

She sees the selection process,

A matter of seconds,

Watches them shamble over to the showers,

Undressing, stripping, leaving everything behind

To be collected later, or so they think,

Herded together, the door slamming shut,

The screams, the panic, the fear,

A roof-top trap-door opening,

And the casual dropping of the Zyklon,

Waiting for silence,

Removing the bodies,

To the massive fire-pits.

She thinks she will faint,

Standing inside the blackened walls,

Imagines where it happened,

Sees where history was made,

In pursuit of a eugenic final solution,

To wipe undesirables

From the face of the Earth.

To Canada then, to bear witness,

To the residues of countless victims,

Suitcases of personal papers,

Glass cases full of shoes, of clothing, of toys,

Of teeth, of hair and of bones,

And every re-useable, recoverable substance.

Exhibitions, reconstructions, documents,

Photographs, testimonies, memories,

The deniers overwhelmingly denied.

Yet these school-children rush past her,

Shouting at each other, and into their phones,

Crisp packets rustling, coke cans drained,

Laughing and joking, cat-calling,

Oblivious to euthanasia,

Ignorant of this inhumanity,

And for whom the holocaust has little meaning.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Floating

Floating

Quiet night on the river

Waves lapping, slapping gently

Against the side of the boat

Grinding oars the only sound

Creaking, squeaking

Milky mist floats above the surface,

Curls and swirls around.

Lamp held aloft

To light the ferryman’s way

Glimmering through the gloom

Catching pale reflections

From the ripples, then a sudden cry,

Shattering the calm.

Something in the water,

Floating, face-down, a body,

Marks, scars and muddy streaks

Naked, white, gleaming flesh

Turned by the boat-hook,

What’s left of a man,

Face half-eaten, far from fresh.

Nibbled and gnawed

By river creatures

Fish and frogs, river rats.

Dumped somewhere upstream

For someone else to find.

Hauled aboard with grudging effort,

Dirt-smeared, stinking, putrid,

A rotten fish to catch

Bruises on the buttocks,

Scratches, bloody wounds,

Tattered torso,

Tattoos and piercings

A victim easy to identify

By those who do such work.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

News from Bromham - Dateline Sunday 25th January 2015

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 25^th January 2015

Here is our weekly round-up of events from Bromham:

1.       Members of all political parties in the Parish Council have acted with dismay after it was revealed that the Piglet report into the 2003 High Street Pothole incident will not now be published until after the Council elections in May. Ted Willeybanned, leader of the Carrot-Rooters’ Action Party (CRAP) commented that it had taken longer to produce the report than it had to fill in the hole in the first place.

2.       And in the annual review from Wiltshire Asset Service Trust Executive (WASTE) it was revealed that five Bromham villagers are more wealthy than the rest of the villagers put together.  This inequality was downplayed by Dave Wentwrong, leader of the Field Land-Owners’ Party (FLOP), speaking via satellite phone from his yacht “Welloff”, moored somewhere in the Caribbean.  Names of the wealthy five individuals were not revealed, but patrols have been set up to watch for delivery-vans from Waitrose entering the village.

3.       For details of these and all other Bromham stories, don’t forget to listen to local radio station Carrot FM.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Early

Early

Risen dawn-early to get about the jobs that must be done

The ghost-light pale and thin

An echoing emptiness and ice-coldness about the place

Mocking contrast to the night before

Of fire-lit warmth and conviviality

The crisp hard silence of morning

Every small sound resounds and rings hollow

The chores of clearing up and cleaning out

The grey grate of soot and cold embers

A grim dismembered mess of cinders

The chill of cold metal brush and pan

Tar-blackened pokers and tongs

The clang and scrape of the battered ash bucket

Its scratched and dirty shovel at attention to do its duty

To shift the clinkered residues

And make way for the laying of new materials

For a future conflagration

Grimy newsprint and candle-ends

Under criss-crossed kindling

Cradling the careful stook of splintered logs

Their creamy grain and hard-twisted knots

Backed by the soft-lichened bark

Of once-glorious greenwood trees

Rough scabbed surfaces scratching fingers

And scuffing dirty knuckles

The colourless morning, bleak and bleached

Leaching into harsher daylight

An involuntary shiver at the deadness of things

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Weather Warning

Weather Warning

I used to fall asleep to the weather forecast,

Barely noticed what they had to say,

Just slightly interested in one thing -

What would be the conditions for next day?

On the BBC it was just information,

There was really no need to get frantic,

About average temperatures,

The fronts coming in from the Atlantic.

But now things seem to have changed quite a lot,

The language has turned rather urgent,

The Met Office is sexing things up,

And talking about a “weather event”.

Rain has become “precipitation”,

Gales have suddenly become “cyclones”:

It’s all about “threat levels” and “warnings” -

I can feel annoyance through my bones.

The jet-stream’s gone all over the place,

They’ve ramped it up to a third-tier “yellow”.

“It’s all because of global warming”

The presenters are ready to bellow.

It sounds like a national emergency,

Extreme freezing due to climate change,

Bulletins filled with hyperbole,

Exaggeration that’s out of the range.

And now it’s come round to the Winter,

It’s not just ice, and hail, and winds that blow,

But frightening graphics and huge arrows,

And the apocalyptic “thunder-snow”.

Severe conditions are a “weather bomb”,

Fahrenheit has become centigrade,

The “alert” level rises to “amber”,

Dire predictions are being made.

Panic sets in over a very slight frost,

Melodramas over the isobars,

Alarmist language because of the storms,

The jeopardy in store for the cars.

Hysteria if it drops below zero,

Or if there’s “severe cold weather action” -

We’ll soon be at warning-level “red”,

If things change by just a fraction.

  

Well, you’ll never guess what, but it’s Winter!

It’s been happening for millions of years!

It can get a bit parky this time of year,

But for us it doesn’t hold any fears.

The weather-men seem surprised about this -

It’s time we put them all in the dock.

This is the usual pattern, you know,

Not really a surprise – no shit Sherlock!

We might expect a bit of a cold snap:

Blizzards, snow-drifts, maybe some floods.

It’s on a par with the Pope being catholic,

And bears taking a crap in the woods!

We live in the Northern hemisphere!

This chilliness to us is no stranger,

We’re familiar with these conditions,

And we’re not really in any danger.

It’s good advice to wrap up nice and warm -

We might consider an overcoat,

Perhaps a scarf, or maybe some gloves,

Carry an umbrella would get my vote.

We might have to scrape the car’s windscreen,

Inconveniences in a many a guise,

But I’m sure we’ll work our way through it -

After all, it’s hardly a surprise!

We’re British! Resilient and hardy!

We can cope! We know how to do it!

We’ll use our common sense and survive -

Somehow, yet again, surely we’ll get through it!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Wot a Stunna!

Wot A Stunna!

The Sun is to end its 44-year flirtation with topless pictures of girls on Page 3

Looks like the country’s going to the dogs,

And the reason for that’s easy to see -

The end of a British institution:

No more topless shots on Page three!

White Van Man can no longer have a gander,

Upon his ogling they’ve put the mockers,

Unable to stare at a starlet’s assets,

Nor gaze with wonder at her large knockers.

Uncle Rupert has decided to call time -

See the shock-wave, as outwards it ripples,

Catching up with the twenty-first century,

And a covering-up of the nipples.

Family values will now lead the way,

And the number of boobs will be far less.

The feminist campaign’s won a victory,

The young ladies will no longer go bra-less.

Yes, the whole business is going tits-up,

A more respectable kind of fun,

So - less jollity, but more equality,

You’ll find in your super, soar-away Sun.

So it can come down from the top shelf,

A publication with rather more poise.

An end to all of the wolf-whistling,

And requests to “get them out for the boys!”

It’s the end of an age, turning the page,

So it’s now time for me to summarise:

Good-bye to the curls, farewell to the girls,

And thanks for all of the mammaries.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Hasselback Potatoes

Recipe for:  HASSELBACK POTATOES

Ingredients:

• 1 – 2 kg large floury potatoes, peeled & cut in half
• Olive oil (plain or flavoured with garlic or rosemary)
• Sea salt

 Method:

1.       heat the oven to 180C/ fan 170C, placing a roasting dish with the oil on the top shelf to heat up

2.       the potatoes need to be large pieces – preferably half of a very large potato

3.       put the flat side down on the work surface, with the round side pointing up

4.       using a sharp knife, cut down into the potato, making very thin slices, but stop short of cutting all the way through to the base.  The potato should remain in one piece, but with a hedgehog back of sliced pieces.  Do this to each potato piece

5.       place the potatoes into fresh water & bring to the boil

6.       simmer the potatoes for 8 minutes, until the outsides are beginning to soften, but the insides remain firm

7.       drain the water into another pan or a jug & use it to make gravy or vegetable stock

8.       let the potatoes sit in the pan for a minute or so to steam themselves dry

9.       gently take the potatoes out of the pan with a slotted spoon & place into the roasting dish with the very hot olive oil, ensuring the whole sides go on the bottom, with the “slices” pointing upwards

10.    spoon the oil over the potatoes until they are thoroughly covered

11.    grind some sea salt on to the top of each potato piece, then return the dish to the oven

12.    bake the potatoes for 50-60 minutes, depending on size

13.    half way through the cooking time, baste the potatoes with the hot oil in the dish

14.    the potatoes are done when the outsides are golden brown & crispy.  The insides should be soft & fluffy.  The “slices” should spread themselves slightly, allowing the oil & salt to penetrate

15.    remove the potatoes into a warmed serving dish, keeping them slice-side upwards & scatter with another grinding of sea salt

The Apathy Alliance

The Apathy Alliance

It seems that someone fired the starting gun

To trigger the Election race,

For voting in the next Parliament.

Well - the politicians think that’s the case.

Tories and Labour will start slugging it out,

With their slogans and their sound-bites,

And all the smaller parties shouting out too,

And the debates descending to fights.

With rows about the economy.

The deficit and the NHS,

I’m very tempted to try and sleep through it,

Cos I’m bored to death by it, I confess.

There’s Cameron and Osborne and Clegg,

The Greens and UKIP with their strident voices,

The SNP and what’s left of the Lib-Dems:

What a bloody awful set of choices!

That guy Farage sounds like a nut-case.

I’m tempted to stick my head in the sand.

It’s all just too awful to contemplate,

And that’s without mentioning Miliband!

But it’s hard to avoid the whole damn thing,

And my response ought to be more hearty,

So I’m speaking for the Great British public,

By forming the Apathy Party.

We’ll not have any policies,

Nor any candidates to be selected,

We’re not going to speak out for anything,

To ensure that we don’t get elected.

No representation in Westminster,

Cos we don’t trust any MPs,

Fiddling allowances and expenses:

No – we don’t to be part of that wheeze.

Our platform will be the living room couch,

And we’ll ignore the debates on TV,

Our key-note will be indifference -

We’re not bothered, we’re full of ennui.

We’re not interested in Government,

Nor voting at a polling station,

We have no kind of manifesto,

And we don’t care about immigration.

  

We set any Alliance at defiance,

We don’t want a power-sharing pact.

As voters we’re just floaters,

But we’re a demographic fact.

And European membership -

Should we be in, or should we be out?

We don’t give a toss either way -

Of that there should be no doubt.

So I’m going to stick my head in the sand

Just hoping it’ll all go away

That the time will pass relatively quickly

Before the final reckoning in May.

I don’t care for the Hustings or ballot

Millions of us in this majority

The polls every morn, produce only a yawn,

You can have that on good authority.

I can’t stand this for much longer

I’m just hoping it’ll end pretty soon

So I’m off to get my head down now

You can wake me up again in June.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Remaindered

Remaindered

No longer upright like soldiers

Neatly shelved, spines straight-stacked

Alphabetical order, fiction authors A to Z

But tumbled, piled at random

Stickered, scattered

Reduced, remaindered

Bargain bin, basement bucket

Rough treatment at many hands

Edges knocked, jackets torn

Dirty, dusty, fingered and forgotten

Marked up and marked down

With little dignity or ceremony

At the end of life

More space is needed

To make way for the new stuff

The spirit of today

What’s happening now

Celebrity authors and TV tie-ins

Titles that sell, units that shift

The next thing, the new wave

Modern, fashionable, exciting

Where it’s at, de nos jours

Moving with the times

The zing of the zeitgeist

And the ring of the till

No room for the out-of-print

Except out of the way

Out of sight, out of mind

Deleted from the catalogue

The stock-code and the index

A slow lingering demise

And a delayed disposal

Awaiting the final solution

Dumped, shredded, pulped

The bulk commodity of paper

A never-borrowed, never-bought

Unread volume

No reviews nor royalties nor renown

He handles a copy, thumbing its pages,

Familiar with every word

And the effort it cost him to write

Regretful, bitter and broken

Flees from the bookshop

The door left flapping

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 18th January 2015

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 18^th January 2015

Here is our weekly round-up of events from Bromham:

1.       The Bromham tractor underpass was closed all day yesterday, bringing chaos to agricultural movements in the area, after smoke was detected.  The Village Emergency Plan was once again brought into operation, stacking lines of tractors along the side of the High Street, as queues built up waiting to pass through. After an emergency lock-down and a thorough investigation, a smouldering dog-end was detected near the entrance to the underpass.  Normal services are expected to be resumed today.

2.       Police were called to quell rioting in The Wounded Ferret on Wednesday, after members of the anti-Piglet Alliance made noisy protests.  They said they had been offended by the publication on the front page of The Bromham Bugle of a cartoon depicting an image of one of the Piglet clan dirtying his hands by picking a head of celery from a muddy field.  They said that it was forbidden in their faith to show a Piglet doing a menial task.  Leaders of all factions in the community appealed for calm.

3.       For details of these and all other Bromham stories, don’t forget to listen to local radio station Carrot FM.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Mouse

Mouse

Alerted by the noise,

the unmistakeable sound of victory,

Growling, howling, crying, mewling,

of his voices mixed together.

Whether pleased with himself

or ashamed of what he’s done,

The hunter stands defiant

astride the tiny bloody body.

Chased away, scolded, shouted at,

he makes a quick escape,

leaving his trophy

To renew his hunt out in the field,

driven by his nature,

a feral instinct to track and pounce

upon creatures smaller than himself,

To eat some warmer, living food.

Meanwhile, prey discarded,

Eyes glittering in terror,

Its body still warm,

snout and tail intact,

mangled limb, gory gash exposed,

life-force seemingly expired,

Lies inert beneath the table.

Left alone for but a moment

while collecting kitchen paper,

rubber gloves, dust-pan, disinfectant,

paraphernalia of removal and disposal

of a corpse unwanted

Intended for a bin, not a burial.

But the deathplace now deserted,

the body gone,

disappeared elsewhere,

smears of blood and body fluids,

shining, wet and fresh,

Crawled away in agony and fear,

to hide and tremble

in place unknown

to look out, spying upon the world,

Watching and waiting,

for a slow and lingering demise.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Beast

Beast

A carcase lies splayed,

Deer dismembered,

Limbs at every angle,

Throat ripped out, entrails spilled,

Ribs exposed, gnawed and bloody,

Its mouth a rictus

Grimace of violent death.

No stoat, no stealthy weasel,

No passing fox, nor badger

Could cause such carnage,

Nor hunt, stalk,

Then haul to earth

Such heavy prey,

Nor rip and tear the flesh,

Leaving here such grisly remnants.

Nothing nearby found

No hair, no skin, no tracks,

Neither teeth-marks, nor DNA,

No photos, prints or evidence,

But then the dogs, nervous, set to barking

As if there’s something out there.

And rough men with guns

Shake their heads

And pull meaningful faces,

As if to say, knowingly,

That a killer stalks these woods and fields,

A creature unseen, sly and stealthy,

Sleuth-like, sloping, sliding,

Slipping through trees,

A reported shape, a shadow

Large, long and lean,

A cunning, catlike killer,

Fierce, feline, feral hunter,

Black, background-blending,

Glimpsed within the greenery.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015

Waiting Room

Waiting Room 

Here we are again, as you lie on the floor,

At the side of my chair, your lead lying slack,

Just one look at you, it’s no wonder

We were asked to sit at the back.

I felt it was the least that we could do,

Because you’re not too strong in the knees,

And they didn’t want the other pets put out,

Nor frightened, nor infected with fleas.

Cos now you’re old, and you’re toothless,

You’re half-deaf and you’re half-blind,

All of which I can put up with:

It’s the incontinence that I mind.

You’re becoming increasingly forgetful.

You just look puzzled, you old wretch.

And you stop half way to the stick:

You’ve forgotten what you were going to fetch.

You’ve become an economic burden,

And now that you’re not very well,

You’re neither use nor ornament.

And, on top of all that, you smell.

So here we are for your last journey,

The end of the road for you as a pet.

The life-force of you will soon be ended,

By that needle in the hands of the vet.

So don’t you look up at me like that,

With those big, brown, trusting eyes.

I’m sure you can see into my purpose,

This visit is one way – it can’t be disguised.

You’ve grown up with me and the children,

You’ve always been faithful and loyal.

You’ve put in your years of good service,

And to us you’ve been a friend quite royal.

Dammit, everybody loves you,

Though you’re a toothless old hound.

You’re just a part of the furniture -

I think that it’s time we turned round.

Let’s leave this deathly waiting room,

Let’s walk right out calm and steady.

You don’t need to be pushed into this,

We can do it when I’m finally ready.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015