David Robison

Tag: childhood

  • The bilberries are out

    I don’t get along with myself.
    Never fully have.
    I wear it like a badge of honour now, I guess.
    I wouldn’t answer my name to the register
    and cried when my mum forgot to wave.

    Seeing me alone at the wrong side of the ground,
    Mrs Rhodes said, and not kindly, “You always were a bit different, David.”
    Not sufficiently, just having an American dad, or being summer-born,
    unready.

    Not the worst at being bullied,
    I shouldn’t complain.
    I’ve not been raped, but the trombone teacher
    put his hand down my trousers once,
    to show
    how I should push air.

    I could probably take it up again,
    but I don’t get along with myself,
    so I’m not sure I’d want to.

    There are other things I’d hoped to do:
    Write poetry or stories, but instead,
    I’m always moping or sad about something –
    something small or something big, out there in the world.
    I still think I’m right, which makes it worse,
    and it’s not pleasant to be around.
    I’m always worrying about it.
    I don’t smile properly in photos.

    When I punched Mark Teamby in the nose,
    he ran crying to his mum, dripping blood.
    It wasn’t good, but the council house kids made me,
    and Ivan who was older and supposed to be my friend,
    shoved me in as they chanted, encircled, so I had to fight back.

    I think about these things too much,
    I can’t just let them go.

    And I don’t like the adults here,
    with their stupid big cars.
    They blame the wrong person and say,
    “It’s just what we used to call summer,” and it’s not fun to be around.
    Maybe they should work on that.

    And then I thought, what if I don’t love you either?

    But there is sing-song in your voice.
    You’re just on the sofa.
    Your dog is with you.
    You’ve been on the moors, collected bilberries, seen the sun set –
    It was lovely. Did I see it?

    Written by

    David

  • In images still

    It is only a ghost that preoccupies this space.
    A curve of your hair, photographed at the mirror’s edge.

    I can own that absence in images still:
    Your hand holds a dish, or a ceramic dog,
    intuited in slips and glazes.

    Your fingers do cusp the solid ceramic, 
    but a boy’s longing swells from Autumns past –
    Forlornly there, I incanted,
    from cold steps overlooking the valley.
    Sad now, for that melancholy boy.

    On the valley’s far side, the night’s amber necklaces glowed and said nothing
    from a field of new houses, where other girls lived, 
    to whom I’ve written nothing.

    This brings up a question.

    I didn’t ask what is it,
    simply went and made that visit.

    And I bravely drove the car,
    through another county’s countryside.
    Here we sat, stilted.
    My novice driving was noted.

    Beyond that, we did play chess,
    remotely, flashes,
    exchanging messages.

    And the more is in the mind, for being
    not much in the day.

    Unexpectedly, I received an urgent warning of heartbreak.
    From a genuine friend, speaking earnestly, from a true heart.

    So with sure effort, reluctant intent and new found strength,
    my jaw set by a clear and rational adult mind,
    I bedded myself onto life’s firmer path.

    True to my word, shoulders squared,
    I forked away, with another’s hand and with no means back.
    And true, I gained my beloved daughters and this solid home and chair.

    So, bravely now, expecting indifference,
    I, the boy, we ask of the image.

    Is is only a ghost that preoccupies this space.
    A curve of your hair, photographed at the mirror’s edge.

    Image: Copyright Charlotte Salt (www.instagram.com/charlotte_salt_)

    Written by

    David

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