For the Inquiry

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FOR THE INQUIRY poetry of the dirty war

Nigel Mellor


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FOR THE INQUIRY

Copyright Nigel Mellor 2010All rights reservedLimited edition 1989

British Library Cataloguing in Publication DataMellor, Nigel 1946 For the Inquiry.1. Title

821.914ISBN: 978-0-9513862-2-4

e-book edition for sound files and text available at www.nmellor.com

Design by Adny for Dab Hand PressDab Hand Press, Newcastle upon TyneVisit http://sites.google.com/site/dabhandpress/

Environmentally conscious book production fromwww.printondemand-worldwide.com


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For Mary


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Acknowledgements

The man who knew the make: New Poetry 1, The Arts Council.

Official secrets: Time Out

Afterwards, The clouds, Chernobyl, At times like Spain, Preparations,Opposition and Interrogation: Tribune .

Detention, Doing accounts, War crimes and Might: 7 Days.

Voices from a bike: The Third Half . Kevin Finney and Two foot of 3 by 2 pitch-pine: Nutshell . Lingering and Premonitions of memories in old

age: Writing . Vigil at Lavoite sur Loire: Weyfarers . On Souter Fell:Ostinato . Feeling used and Following an unusual conjunction of the moonand the sun and certain planets: Jonathon . Party: Torchlight .

Annie at Medlam: Newcastle Evening Chronicle poetry competition, prizewinning entry.

Corruption: Federation of Worker Writers and Community Publishers Post-a-Poem competition, prize winning entry.

Kevin Finney and On Souter Fell: set to music by Rick Potter for a performance at Newcastle Playhouse, Mar 7 1989.

Reprints

Preparations: M.Mellor Breaking the Boundaries (Virago)Might: J.Tierney Criminology (Prentice Hall)

Notes for the current edition

I have re-titled the poem on page 35 to avoid giving offence to a community.In Kevin Finney, hinny is a local term of endearment; Cherry refers toCherry Blossom, a shoe polish.


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PREFACE

At some point, there will be a reckoning. Those whowere responsible will be held to account. This is myevidence FOR THE INQUIRY .


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CONTENTS

Unease11 The man who knew the make13 Lingering14 On Souter Fell15 Feeling used16 Vigil at Lavoite sur Loire17 Kevin Finney19 The craft of the poet20 Party22 Premonitions of memories in old age23 Spider 28 Annie at Medlam29 Voices from a bike30 Following an unusual conjunction of the moon

and the sun and certain planets

Signs33 The clouds34 Two foot of 3 by 2 pitch-pine35 Speelam on a Sunday36 Corruption37 The re-burial of Lord Haw Haw38 The Bronze Age horn39 Preparations40 Doing accounts41 Chernobyl

Crisis45 At times like Spain46 Might47 Official secrets48 Opposition49 Detention50 Interrogation51 War crimes

Collapse55 Afterwards


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UNEASE

At first, there was nothing you could put your finger on; but as we carried on in the same old ways, welooked back to an age which, in reality, had all but

gone. Flowing through it all was a sense of unease.Something had to change unfortunately, we were notready.


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The man who knew the make

I

Cannot see I do not Understand WhyThis body no longer lives.

I cannot remember.

Yes

Clearer now I do remember.

I remember the day the mill broke down.I remember the feel of the air The very colour of the lightThat day the engine died.

Ever with us in our workplace

Made the ground beneath us thrill No matter where or what the season,That engine bound us to its will.

But then, that day, at first a falter Then a most peculiar cryThe engine shifted in its halter The engine slowed, began to die.

A vital vein in vital clockwork Pulsed an oily, wasteful streamA gear seized and pistons weldedCrying out with vented steam.The wheel lurched once, spun, jammed then settledWhile boilers cooled and metal ticked.

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But then they called up first the foreman,Then the man who knew the make.

Then the craftsmen, then the guildsmenThen the room grew thick with skill.Soon that wheezing, dying engineLived and turned and shook at will.

Now, show me please, oh please I beg youShow me how and where to mendFix this corpse, this solid waxwork Restore to life my loving friend.

Bring me up no mumbling doctor With Yes and No and Just PerhapsSend away that bloody surgeonWith cut and probe and gouge and hack.

I want right fast that engineeringOily-handed Lord of LifeThat overalled, certificated

Metalmaster, Lord of Life.

Drag him from his dusty cavernDredge him from that coaly slakeFind him, pay him, sign and bind him,Find the man who knows the make.

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Lingering

I know you are there

When I come inVoices suddenly fadeThe air is not quite still

Its sillyI cant tell anyoneTheyd think I was madBut you are thereDont play games

Show meJust a little more.

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On Souter Fell

Latchs rasp on rough plank door

OpeningTo the sad half lightOf Souter Fell

Through draughty kitchenTo sodden heathPast rusting spares of farm machinesHe trudged unmarkedReturned ungreeted

With logs to burnWith thoughts to speak

This bloody fellThis mean poor pastureUnfit for men

Not fit for beastsStones it growsThey spring up daily

Grass it yields A misers treats

He drove his thoughts like simple creaturesAnd turned them to a well trod path.Perhaps a woman, warm and tender With odd off days and secret waysWith things to dust and rinds to render But not some farmers coarse-grained maid

A voice to still the killing silencePerhaps another tale to tellIn place of days all worn out hopelessSoaked up there on Souter Fell.

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Feeling used

If you only knew

The power of your faceYou would simply smileWhen you visitAnd share a bottleAnd ask no more of me.

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Vigil at Lavoite sur Loire

I waited for you that night

You and Jean LuisBreathing in the darknessOn the corner near the chateau

No one came.

Brave at firstBeside the railway lineRehearsing all our movesI almost stayed the time

But I remember runningThen, back along the hillI saw the sentry halt you bothSaw him shoot to kill

I said that we were youngWhenever people asked.I said we had agreed

To try another day.

And now for thirty years and moreIve owned the house which hid that nightAnd stood each day to watch the roadAnd waited by your grave.

ICI SONT MORTPOUR LA LIBERATION DE LA FRANCE

HILAIRE AUBENASJ. LUIS RAYMOND

2 AOUT 1944

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Kevin Finney

Little Kevin Finney

Was pale weak and skinnyLittle skinny FinneyAs the kids called him

Running Kevin FinneyGlasses held on grimlyPanicky and screamyAs the kids chased him

Crying Kevin FinneySobbed on his mothers pinnyYouve got to tell me mammyWhy the kids hate me

Listen Kevin hinnyDont be such a whingeyFrightened little babyAs his dad told him

Trying Kevin FinneyWas beaten in the spinneyCrouching in the alleyAs the kids left him

Growing Kevin FinneyLeft his school so quickly

Never been so happyWhen the kids lost him

Apprentice Kevin FinneyThey blacked his balls with CherryShoved him down the lavvyOn his first day in

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Working Kevin Finney

Made a job so tinnyThicky Tinny FinneyAs his mates called him

Called up Kevin FinneyPut him in the armyPut him in the barracksWith soldiers baiting him

They tormented Kevin FinneyFor months and showed no pityYoull have to learn to take itAs they all told him

Hanging Kevin FinneyTook his life on SundayLeft no note to ask themWhy they hated him

Buried Kevin FinneyForgot him very quicklyBrought it all upon himself They all said of him.

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The craft of the poet

The craft of the poet

Is not to set jewelsInto the walls of a hutBut to take old stoneAnd build a cathedral.

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Party

No one

Ever knewWhat went on atTheir parties.

No one ever saidOr hintedOr by any signGave any indication whatsoever About what went on at

Their parties.

They sat waitingFor their latest guestWho, with sweet enchantmentWould accept that invitation

EveryoneMust know

What goes on atTheir parties.

Later Much later In the house outside town

Near woods Near rings Near all manner of unusual thingsThe partyBegins.

Lock that door Says man to wifeWear your crossSay your prayers

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Stay in

Tonight.Shes left here nowThe latest oneThey never stayAnd tell.

And no oneEver knew

What went on atTheir parties.

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Premonitions of memories in old age

In the kitchen, family calm

August storm and tempers doneClothes hung damp upon the lineTo hear a tape of birthday gone

Recorded voices somehow madeThe present telescope and fadeSo that the rows and spiteful waysOf that quite ordinary Summers daySeemed like a once remembered play

Recalled in distant future timeBut dimly, from an old mans mind.

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Spider

The male St. Andrews Cross spider attracts his much larger mate by

tickling her feet. Unfortunately he ends up being eaten.The female St. Andrews Cross spider traps moths by emitting a scent that mimics the female moth. Unfortunately, a species of predatory wasp laysher eggs in the belly of the female St. Andrews Cross spider.

Smooth smooth silky smoothSpin and spin and spinFirst the long long leapsWatch, my sisters

Branch to branch and branch againSmooth so smooth so silky smoothAnd now the danceCrossing crossing criss and crossMake my webAnd spin and spinMmmmm spin and spin

I see you sister

Hiding in the bark Mossy colouredStillWatch! The bird! Watch!Still and still and stillMmmmmFeel my webSinging twangingWaiting

Sister in your holeJump. Grab. Pull. Bite bite biteThats it

Now drag that ant

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That juicy eaty squashy

Anty anty anty antMmmmmWatch me sistersIn my webStill and still and stillMmmmm

Whats that?Web bouncing

Thread pingingWhere?Other sideFeet. My foot.Third one back Second leftOhhhhOver thereOn his thread

Feel it. Oh feel it sistersOh feel it. Feel him play itI must goMust go to himMust go along his silk Come to me lover. Come on. Come on.Feel your palps.Oh I feel your palps.Quickly. Come on lover. Find me. Come on. Find me.Let me squeeze you

No. Dont go. Not now. Come back.Come back. Come back.I have your armI want you all

Now. Come on. Now.Promise I wont eat.Promise.

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Watch me sisters

Eat this weakling.Hah.Three legs. Half dead.All gone.MmmmmSpin. Spin. Spin.

Quiet. Quiet.Watch your sister.

Who do we want?Want that mothThat tasty mothThat tasty lasty mothy mothUse the webThat sticky web.Like my smell, lover boy?Its me, yes me. All you ever dreamed of.

Not your dowdy little wife

That boring little frumpIts me. Its me.All you ever wanted.Im ready.To hold you. To fold you. To love you.

To eat you.Sucker.

Still. Still. Still and still.Watch me sisters.Feel my babiesFeel my spiderlingsSpin. Spin.Broad and flat. Great swathes.Beds for my babiesBeds so smooth and soft and warm.Watch me sisters

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Spin and spin.

Now my babies. Now.Ohhhhhhh. My babies.

MoreMust spinSpin some moreCover my babiesSpin. Spin.

Tired! Must stop. No!Spin. Spin.My babiesWrapped in silk Dappled brownBirds wont find youWarm and safeMy spiderlings

Spin. Spin.Im tired. So tired.Sisters. Cant you help me?Spin. Spin. Spin. Spin.

Still.Must eatSoon.

Wasp!Wasp!Too weak Cant move.

Not there wasp Not me. Not me. Not your eggs in me. Not me.

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Weak. Im so weak.

Cant move. Not your eggs in my belly, Wasp.Please. Not me.

Still. Still.Must eat.

My babies?Safe

GoodRestMust eat.

Something growingTwitchingIn meInsideEating

Eating me. Me!The waspIts babies. In me.

Too weak.Too weak.Too weak.

My babies,My spiderlingsThe waspBeware the wasp.

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Annie at Medlam

Father drank

And when he leftMother couldnt copeWith awkward Anne

Took her off to MedlamSaved her from her mumLocked her up in MedlamMother couldnt come

But Medlam helps girls like AnnieLeaves them calmLeaves themWalking up and downLeaves themQuite forgottenLeaves themThe way mothers never could

And whod believeAfter sixty yearsWhen Ancient Annie passed awayJust in case of any hintOf favour in the home

No flowers would be allowed from life-long friendsAnd to mark her placeJust a number on a stone.

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Voices from a bike

I feel sorry for the Chemist on the corner

Although I usually cant stand small businessmenI rarely see anyone in his shop.The Chinese does a steady tradeEven the butchers has a queueBut while trying not to stare past his displayI can see him standing, looking.

I would go in

But who needs shampoo every dayAnd who can pay their prices for developing and printing?I checked, then sent mine off to BootsI felt richer But cant go in today.

I dont like her - the woman he employsI know she feels the sameYet she still resents the times I dont come in.

He comes from behind somewhereAnd stands and smilesAnd nods

Not in agreement, but because he cannot stop.She glares and wants you outAnd him as well.

Cycling past on MondayUp the lane to miss the carsI passed him walkingTurned to smile and shout helloHe glanced, but that was all.

Years of not knowing are not cancelledBy voices from a bike.

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Following an unusual conjunction of the moon andthe sun and certain planets

There were exceptionally high tides that year

And in one of the few places still accessibleWhere the Harbour and General Works DepartmentHad recently laid piles and infillTo strengthen the quayside against the eventThe river swelled up to be touched

That floodDragged upstream by the moon six hours beforeAgainst its natural order

Surged back At such a speed that even the best swimmer Would not make the bank But face down and lifelessWash outAnd under the Northern sea

At low tideMudflats were exposed which

Until that day had never driedAnd beyond the breakwater Weed choked pools of unsure depth

We hesitated too long in that openingThen the planets movedAnd the waves returned.

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SIGNS

Their first actions cut deeply. We tried to escape theconsequences, to deal with it alone. We could not seethe pattern. That came much later.


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The clouds*

You laughed

When I said that the verbTo ownDid not describe a natural state

You smiled at my poor attempt to reason thatEven though this ownershipWas never questionedI could prove it wrong

You listened, painfully,While I describedThe possibility that someoneWould build a meter large enough to hold the air And send me billsFor rent and standing chargeAnd so much fuel adjusted costPer breathAnd that armies would defend

This meter And this manAnd you their rightTo deny me air.

As I say, you listened, painfully.Since that time Ive heard complaintsThat someone tried to steal the rainFrom Denver, ColoradoThe problem there it seemsIs that no one knows who owns the clouds.

* For the 50th anniversary of the death of Robert Tressell, author of The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists

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Two foot of 3 by 2 pitch-pine

Two foot of 3 by 2 pitch-pine

To mend the door where the burglars had beenBut itll be hard to getWarned the joiner

And it was Nobody keeps it these daysExcept Southerns at JarrowAnd I didnt think theyd bother For such a small order

But, despite hard times, they wroteTo say the job was ready

Bit of an unusual requestI suppose it caught his interestA hard softwood, high resin contentWithstands the rotUsed for building piersAnd sometimes for boats

Never heard of it in a door

Couldnt find it in the machine shopWhere the hell!Chocking up another stack of wood.But there it wasHeavy, smooth, warmFrom the CaribbeanMust have been planted before the Russian revolutionAnd been growing through the DepressionAnd two world warsThen felled and somehow brought to JarrowIn decline

Two foot of 3 by 2 pitch-pineTo mend a door Broken open.

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Speelam on a Sunday

Speelam Harbour sits in pools of engine oil

Not leaking, thick from a tanker But thin and wastedFurtively disposed

A beach of stonesAnd half-bricksRound, but not quite smooth enoughTo hide the brickworks stamp

Leading to this sorry tipWere many pathsBut mining fallsAnd erosion by the weather And neglectHad cut them jagged.

Harbour to unwary folk Is promise of a welcome scene

But in Speelams worked out mazeOf walls within wallsThe coal stained seaSucks up beaches oblong, flatAnd squirts through concrete cracks

Further downAn abandoned mineral lineAnd staring outSomeone remembered SpeelamFull of men.

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Corruption

One hundred feet

Below the canopy of the equatorial rain forestKnown as the KarossAmongst the hectic but delicately balanced activityOf little known life formsThe stink ant goes about its businessUntilIt inhales the spores of a harmless looking fungusWhich drift about the forest floor Then, for the first time in its life

The ant begins to climb

On reaching the top of the plantThe ant sinks its jaws into the stemAnd gripsUntil it dies

The fungus however Continues to grow inside

And in timeThrusts its way out of the brainTo fruitAnd cast new spores

There are always ants, belowTo complete the cycle.

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The re-burial of Lord Haw Haw

Hanged at Wandsworth

Thirty years this monthHis body placed in sackingIn an unmarked graveSoaked with quicklime within the prison walls.

I had thought that justiceHad progressed.Surely death was quite enoughFor traitor and betrayed.

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The Bronze Age horn

No one could blow one single note

On the Bronze Age hornFrom the Irish bogExcept the captain of the military band

Deep in the mudOld swords and axesSucked and pulledWaiting for the hand.

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Preparations

What the hell

Is a well?I mean, do you just dig a holeAnd up it comesReady to drink?And wheat.Ive squashed bits of what I thought was wheatBut nothing came outLooking at all like flour.Sheep make wool

We all know thatAnd potatoes grow in the groundBut how do you stick woolly hairs together And where do the seeds come fromWhich make the potatoes grow?You seeWhat Im worried aboutAlongside all those othersReturning to nature without knowing why

Is how to survive.

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Doing accounts

For chipboard, catfood and two cents off the burger

There goes the butterfly, Giant BlueThere goes the whaleThere go the Indians of BrazilThere go the trees

One day its going to be youBrother,One day its going to be you.

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Chernobyl

We lay in the dark, scared

Alone, because in the endWe are aloneIn the rain.

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CRISIS

We wanted to fight back but there was nothing to fight back with. The rot was too far gone, they had laid their groundwork well. Even so, their success turned sour and the dirty war began.


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At times like Spain*

O.K.

So Alec often gets itWrongAnd hes workeristAnd just a bit of a sexistBut he kicks arse(When camera men from the Frontwant photos for Bulldog)And thats not niceBut at times like Spain

Looking back Words were not enough.

* For the 50th anniversary of the end of the Spanish Civil War

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Might

They are tough now

And so sure of themselvesThat we even begin to accept itBecause they dont try to hideAnd they dont care who sees.They are so confidentAnd thats what makes us weak But when the change comes(and it will)The truth will shift

Because they are wrongIt just happens thatFor a timeThey have the power.

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Official secrets

We are in greatest danger

From the freedoms we haveThey do not become a part of lifeBut a way of forgettingThe struggle which gave them life

When we no longer have to fightWe forget why and how to fight

To be free is not enough.

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Opposition

We talk

At timesAs if they came with hammersAnd iron barsTo kick and splinter An oak door.It wasnt like that at allThe door was hollowRotted throughThey hardly needed to push

And we did NothingTo hold it.

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Detention

If you come for me

Then youre lost Not now No, I accept that.For the time the movements finishedAnd so am IWe were both weak in any caseBut thats the pointIf you have to come for meAnd Im no threat

Then you dont know where to stopAnd because you cant stop(since to do so would mean denyingall you have ever believed in)You must carry onAnd destroy me and others like me.

But they have family and friendsAnd their friends

Have family and friendsAnd soon, within the terror you createSome will feelThere is little left to loseAnd the nightmareWhich you have spent your life opposingWill finally arriveAnd consume you all.

You seeThats why I can smileIn the little time I have leftBecause if you come for me nowThen youre lost.

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Interrogation*

I wont hold out for long

Soon youll get the lotThe namesAnd more besidesI will crawl at your feetI know thatBut in the long dark night of your soulYou must finally face what has been done to youThat you can do this to me.

* For the fortieth anniversary of the Declaration of Human Rights

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War crimes

Now listen to me

You have one jobAnd one job aloneDo not resistYou have no power to stop the screamsThey would kill you anywayDo only thisRemember Remember the namesRemember the faces

It may be a lifetimeBefore you can stand thereAnd accuseSo do your job wellJust surviveAnd remember.

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COLLAPSE

This was their only way out.


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Afterwards

It would have been about three in the afternoon

If there had remainedSome trace of reason in the world

The man continued to cradle the childFrom time to timeShe appeared to sleep

They faced ruined wallsBut made no attempt to turn

Or seek shelter As the walls were everywhere

It did not comfort the childBut when awakeThe man spoke of times pastUntil her sickness returned

For a long while

He had held a housebrick But could not use it

It would have been about three in the afternoonWhen the child beganA cry that would not stop.

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