Maureen Almond

Maureen Almond was born in County Durham but has spent most of her life on Teeside. She was awarded an MA in poetry by the University of Newcastle-upon-Tyne in 2002, and now works in schools and communities as a poetry tutor. She has held several community-based residencies, and her most recent collection is The Works which was published by Biscuit Publishing in 2004. Two of the poems below, after Horace's Epodes, are taken from this collection. More information about Maureen Almond's work as a poet and tutor can be found on her website: www.maureenalmond.com.

Ode to An Arvon Course Writer

Mist creeps up on Lumb Bank like a sly old fox
and the valley shivers.
Death-curled leaves clack against branches brittle as bone,
to settle on the narrow, lonely path.

Bring in the logs, fill the scuttle
my precious young writer,
drop your money into the honesty box;
draw whites from the kitchen
and reds from the dining room rack.

During this special week,
forget everything you've left behind.
Don't worry about the poems whirling in your head
or the ones left floating over editors' desks,
your work will settle in its own good time.

Stop thinking about tomorrow and its needs,
live for today. You have no ties, look around,
enjoy yourself while you're young.

Now's the time to pour the wine
and leave the experience of my grey hair, my little protégé.
Look at all the bright young things around you;
find a new life with them.

It was good while it lasted,
but now, join our young tutor over there,
the one who's been giving you the eye,
and fly.

Billy Puts his Cards on the Table

(after Horace, Epode VIII, Rogare longo)

Do you really have no idea, you silly tart,
why I don't fancy you?
With your big tombstone teeth and your man's voice,
and furrows in your forehead so deep,
I could plant leeks; and your hands stinking of trotters.
Your arse is like a house-end
and your jugs are all but down to your knees;
honestly, I've seen neater cows.
The last time I saw legs like yours,
they were dangling from a nest.

Never you mind though - God bless you, Aggie.
I'll see that you get a damn good send off,
one that you would have been very proud of,
decked in your Sunday best.

But tell me pet, what's with all this reading
by the fire at night?
Book-learning does nothing in my trouser region;
in fact, it's a proper turn-off.
So, if it's action you want, there's nothing for it
but to take me in hand again.

Trafalgar Street Men

(after Horace, Epode II, Beatus ille)

"It's a lucky man who can follow
his dad into the works,
tread in his footsteps, use his know-how
and not get into debt.
Why would you need an education
or little bits of paper?
You won't be buying and selling shares
or knocking at Number Ten.

No, you'll be hammering at white-hot ingots
welding them to each other
dirtying your hands; doing something useful
making the sparks fly,
or you'll shovel the crackling, curled filings
to decorate fences,
or store them for another blast,
or sweep them into heaps.

When the final buzzer of the week sounds,
anointed with your sweat,
you'll clasp your pay packet; the fruit of your graft,
rip the top off and pocket the small change.
You will be king of the bar, ruler of the snug.
In The Burton, or in The Commercial,
your homage to the bitter god will know no bounds.

You'll love leaning your elbows on the smooth, hard wood;
resting hob-nails on the kick-rail,
watching while pumps keep the amber liquid flowing
and cares start drowning in the foam
and worries pop like bubbles on your lips
and every swallow means a deeper sleep.

When the low siren of Monday's six-till-two
calls workers back again,
with a billy-can hanging from your side,
you'll march off towards the furnace,
or run, so you won't be quarter-houred;
earning every halfpenny.
You'll pull your oily cap down over your eyes
and clock on - save your pay.
In the middle of such manly pleasures,
you'll forget your problem love life.

But if you find a nice girl, get married
have a couple of kids, settle down,
someone like your Mam to look after you,
a lass who's not afraid of hard work,
she'll put a nice little home together,
have your meals ready on the table,
there'll always be a clean starched shirt for you
and the cupboard will be full
There'll be a bottle of brown ale waiting,
maybe a little rabbit pie.

I'll tell you this, if I had going what you've got,
I wouldn't bother with the fancy food
even if it was handed to me on a plate,
offered completely free of charge.
Nothing complicated, exotic or foreign flavoured
would pass across my lips,
or taste as fine as good old fish and chips
from Tubby Turnbull's chippy
or twopenny ducks from Metcalfe's butcher's shop
or thickened, home-made chicken broth, pearled with barley
or pigeon freshly trapped and wrapped in brown paper
or ham bones from Bob Bartley's.
What a fabulous spread all that would be for me.
How good to see your children thrive,
your wives, up to their elbows in the flour bowl
counting out the fadgies
while little ones buzz round them
waiting for 'tasters' straight from the oven."

When landlords said all this to Trafalgar Street men,
pretending, trying always to be one of them,
they'd call in all their dues; the arrears,
and on the first of the following month put the rents up.