Adlestrop. Not only the name Edward Thomas (1885-1915)
adlestrop
just a name / for a game
where i look / picture book
want to see / poetry
when i look / in the book
adlestrop / steam train stop
why no go / i don’t know
whistle blow / steam train go
all birds fly / in the sky
oxfordshire / gloucestershire
young boy kissing mum
wasp on my tongue
co-op shop
cricket, making run
cowboy i enjoy
train spotting / name jotting
robin thrush / bird nest
willow tree
adlestrop
just a name / for my game
no it ‘s not / not for me / cannot be / memory
Tynewydd
Yes. Adlestrop
a book of colour poetry
that was a special place
pictures
a present at that early age
council house, no car, or tv
just book, train, wildlife
the birthday Raleigh bike I knew
had scratching, was not brand new
but, of course, no children knew why
mum’s money was in short supply
railway wallpaper in my room
I didn’t notice winter
long back garden, grass, flower
where summer went on and on
when you’re only a few years old
there is no bitter winter
embankment blaze, firemen
sparking trains ran near the house
one mile away, the castles went
to Newport, Hereford, and Crewe
forgotten now just what he said
but catapult my neighbour’s head
angry noise from my mother
now the time she made my brother
thick hedgerow, bird nest, willow tree
on rusting metal cut my knee
in unkempt wilds, roaming
tonight I checked, have the scar
rocks of walnut on orange mat
cowboys, indians
painted figure, a holster gun
feather,
transfers of birds by kitchen door
paraffin heating landing
by Avondale, train spotting
with the book, name-number jotting
platform, broken station
waiting Granddad’s train, elation
didn’t see us as he flew past
gradient meant he went so fast
August Coleg Harlech where
cascading grounds breathe warm sea air
tough castle, sky, rock coastline meet
pricking beach
Bertrand Russell philosophy
that didn’t mean a thing to me
but earnest adults flock to him
the youngsters play in musty gym
pipe-smoking bike-clip Granddad brought
me to his work hut in the port
where, with a saucer he showed me
how quickly one could drink hot tea
walk with Dad to Ninian Park
there was no dank dull autumn dark
western avenue, where I saw
Heinz tins tumbling to the floor
warm terraced house, school, Canton pub
railway bridge, crowds, football club
floodlights, grandstand, bright grass pitch where
fast orange ball flew through the air
Singapore
Then, Llanyrafon away
my father now teaching in Singapore
we flew there old Britannia turbo prop
watch the fuel burn
when the start-up rotor began to turn
In those days of the whispering giant
the pilot and crew were not reliant
on computers to adjust trim or flap,
but had to fly the thing and read a map.
Sitting backwards, twenty hours or more,
from London winter to warm island shore,
and on emerging from the tired plane,
met first hand the belt of tropical rain.
Into car, and then to the Guest House, where
I wore shorts all day and my feet were bare.
the hot air
or insect chorus in whirring tree
the wet morning of warm perfume rain
pungent fruit basket by raw monsoon drain
Chinese umbrella varnished with oil
polished wood flooring, mosquito coil
hot night street-market, smell and noise kissing
bouillabaisse fair, bright gas lamps hissing,
chattering commerce, bargaining price
eating from rice bowl, chopstick pecking
grey Chinese housewife, shopping bag
Indian sari, Malay skirt flowing
my father brought back a hawker curry
wrapped up in, I think, a banana leaf
chicken or fish, maybe in those days, beef
although, of course, I didn’t eat a lot
after I found out that it was too hot
my eating tools were downed in a flurry
ice cool water was sunk in a hurry
he though I were rather silly.
the truth was then, I knew nothing of chilli
Bukit Sedap
the flat in Bukit Sedap by the narrow-gauge railway
had shutters where the night cicak came
used by the Japanese in World War Two
garden flotsam, palm frond, dry copra husk
cream frangipani with warm sticky aroma
orchid, hibiscus, rough grass cutting you
the roar and clanking of the Johor train.
one day, I was bitten
by mosquitoes, on a wet kampung track
stupidly careless, shirtless in the sun
with the kebun, who was Indonesian
whose wife, our amah, Saouda, was Malay
the first second-hand car, two-tone light grey
registration number 2061
push started once early morning
by white navy men, the battery
back at that time, I didn’t understand why
my thankless father just raised his hand, kept chugging
but didn’t slow and go back and thank them
parents went off once, left me in the car
I played around with the gear
then blissfully unaware of the clutch
their puzzlement showing why
after the shopping, the car wouldn’t go
once, the kitchen brush I put
just under the amah’s quarters wire
it broke; there followed a terrified cry
as with one mighty bang, the lighting went out
rough communal garage, an open-air
concrete floor-wooden post- tin roof
no-licence mother
engaged car to post with a hefty blow
heard the raking scraping noise
flat downstairs, Georgina and Julian
their father had a pale green Citroen
a navy commander, Australian
Chinese prayer table, tea chest from Tanglin
on Bras Basah Road, was taught violin
by Mr Bacsafra, LTCL,
who got me grade one, grade two
Tang, on Orchard Road, super shop from where
came my weather set
and a train set, Marklin, from Germany
and in almost mint condition now
I refuse to let anyone else play.
although now that I have children of my own
maybe they can use it
In the Island Golf Club swimming pool
learned breaststroke, backstroke, crawl, and butterfly.
Gunfight at the OK Corral
Wyatt Earp, Doc Holliday in a fight
Headmistress Mrs E M Boswell MBE
my prefect badge stripped from me
because of talking on the outside stair.
now, a teacher myself, I think unfair
to cause so much hurt to a young boy
the same teacher asked the class to find out
what ‘raining cats and dogs’ meant
I cheated, because my father helped me
by looking it up in the dictionary
two of us were bothered enough to get the answer
he gave the other a star; I got nought
Malaya
the Causeway, the Gap, then up Fraser’s Hill
where warm days contrast with sunset nip
winding road climbing to two thousand metre
where light mist, tall fern, bamboo tree meet
in tropical range, jungle row, bungalow
old English style
forest fringe nine holes, golf clubs for hire
walk back for dinner, evening log on the go
Malacca, Segamat, east coast Mersing
pineapple lorry
I had the chance in Kuala Lumpur to meet
Capucine, William Holden…
Italy
time to say goodbye to that time Singapore
we went back to Wales, but this time by boat
through Bombay and Suez, then Italy
Esther and Chas waving us off from the quay
a now flickering film capturing the moment
those days no soundtrack, a sea-ballet mime
Italian ship, Indian Ocean
alphabet pasta table by the trio
the ship bouncing
many were seasick, but not hero me
on deck, watching twenty thousand tons ploughing
through open ocean, foam over the bow
engine room, white propeller shaft yearning
for a quick tea break from routine
Night of the Iguana
there are times these years come back to me
but from now, I’m in reminiscence fade away
hazy or lazy they move away
a few hours exploring Bombay
the ship bunkering
The Gateway to India welcoming
built in the British imperial game
North-east Africa coast haze
brief stop at Port Said, the canal the ship’s width
but from here, the brain keeps rejecting
requests, and has trouble recollecting
the horse carts of Messina
unconnected points on my tapestry
three weeks to Naples, Montecassino church, Roman Pompeii
Mediterranean hotel room
I take off part of my thick eyebrow hair
thinking the opening razorblade fun.
parents not exactly pleased with their son
car journey through Europe, a blank
French customs post flag, ciao Italy
chequering tablecloth, Paris café
lorry men fading down memory way...
Croesyceiliog
then to Jones West Monmouth
where blazer badge, cap and tie
cold indoor pool, hard playground romp
misery rugby on wet hill
watched the All Blacks beat Pontypool / Cross Keys
11 points to zero
Bryn Eglwys
where my angry mother swatted me
with a wooden spatula on my arm for being
out too late; she thought no joke
but the nice part was when the thing broke
then, many years later by an old dry Cotswold half-wall waiting here
bare land where farming birds raucously call to the air
off the main road, some miles after the antique-shop Stow
a place windswept in summer, in winter, a blanket of snow
a flask of tomato soup, fresh buns, hot Cambridgeshire tea.
through Cheltenham, Gloucester, Ross-on-Wye
next time I’m back I must make an effort
to stop at the now unused station and read the poem
I wonder what Thomas would make of it now
if he were able to see the shunted sleeping railway
but that’s a promise many times broken, with regret
it would be a nice pilgrimage for we two
for my not-too-old mother passed away some years back
in Bronllys, but not before they were both able to go
back to Singapore, enjoying their time
maybe recollecting when they too, were a young father and mother
when they were in tropical love in that small flat where
the night breeze came kissing the slow turning fan air
of course I don‘t know
a quiet Gloucestershire hump bridge
bare hedge, autumn leaf tree
broken railway, Monmouthshire
a book of poetry, me
No, I won’t forget Adlestrop
‘no-one came… Adlestrop...the name.’
no it’s not / not for me / cannot be / memory / poetry / come to me
you don’t know / where I go
come to me / memory / going on / going on …
