Adrian Henri
The Liverpool Poets and The Mersey Sound
08/05/08 22:24 Filed in: Poetry | The Liverpool Poets
A few years ago I got to do a trade with a journalist that I knew: I would write reviews for a local newspaper in return for being able to go and see and hear concerts and eat at restaurants of my choosing. How could anyone refuse an offer like that?
Two of the Liverpool poets, Brian Patten and Roger McGough, were giving a reading of their work at a local concert hall. These were men who I had seen time and time again back in my college days so I was enthusiastic to go off and hear them again. I was apprehensive too about the possibility of finding them to be cynical, grey and jaded in their late middle age.
Here are a couple of their poems and the review I wrote at the time. I like both poems for different reasons.
The Ambush by Brian Patten
When the face you swore never to forget
Can no longer be remembered,
When a list of regrets are torn up and thrown away
Then the hurt fades,
And you think you've grown strong.
And you sit in bars and boast to yourself,
'Never again will I be vulnerable,
It was an aberration to be so open,
A folly never to be repeated.'
How absurd and fragile such promises.
Hidden from you, crouched
Among the longings you have suppressed
And the desires you have tamed,
A sweet pain waits in ambush.
And there will come a day when in a field
Heaven's mouth gapes open,
And on a web the shadow
Of a marigold will smoulder.
Then without warning,
Without a shred of comfort,
Emotions you thought had been put aside
Will flare up within you and bleed you of reason.
The routines which comforted you,
And the habits in which you sought refuge
Will bend like sunlight under water,
And go astray.
Your body will become a banquet,
Falling heavenwards,
You will loll in spring's sweet avalanche
Without the burden of memory,
And once again
Monstrous love will swallow you.
At Lunchtime by Roger McGough
When the bus stopped suddenly
to avoid damaging
a mother and child in the road,
the younglady in the green hat sitting opposite,
was thrown across me,
and not being one to miss an opportunity,
I started to make love.
At first she resisted,
saying it was too early in the morning,
and too soon after breakfast,
and anyway, she found me repulsive.
But when I explained
that this being a nuclearage
the world was going to end at lunchtime,
she took off her green hat,
put her busticket into her pocket
and joined in the exercise.
The buspeople,
and there were many of them,
were shockedandsurprised,
and amusedandannoyed.
But when word got around
that the world was going to end at lunchtime,
they put their pride in their pockets
with their bustickets
and made love one with the other.
And even the busconductor,
feeling left out,
climbed into the cab,
and struck up some sort of relationship with the driver.
That night,
on the bus coming home,
we were all a little embarrassed.
Especially me and the lady in the green hat.
And we all started to say
in different ways
how hasty and foolish we had been.
But then, always having been a-bit-of-a-lad,
I stood up and said it was a pity
that the world didn't end every lunchtime,
and that we could always pretend.
And then it happened…..
Quick asa crash
we all changed partners,
and soon the bus was aquiver
with white mothball bodies doing naughty things.
And the next day
and everyday
In everybus
In everystreet
In everytown
In everycountry
People pretended
that the world was coming to an end at lunchtime.
It still hasn't.
Although in a way it has.
My review
“In college and university halls, darkened rooms and smoky pubs…in the 1970's, I had read, seen and heard the Mersey poets many times. Roger McGough, Adrian Henri and Brian Patten. McGough always appearing with some zany band of jesters, poets and musicians….there was hope, innocence, energy and exuberance in this group – an ability to find the absurd in the mundane. Harangued by the literary establishment of the time as trivial and naïve, it was often these qualities that drew people to them. Theirs was a poetry of everyday life with guts and bite.
On Tuesday I approached their recital with curiosity. What would these men be like now? Would they be tired, jaded and cynical? Would they be quieter, contemplative, reflecting on life's lessons? Would I be looking at my watch hoping to leave after the first twenty minutes? Overall their performance was charming but time had brought its divergence in style to these two poets.
Brian Patten's performance was riveting; drawing one in with the skill of a conjurer, transporting one between joy and tears in seconds. Here was a man giving expression to all of his life in all of his work. It was the work of the deep soul and the playful child.
Roger McGough was different. His performance was slick, professional but lacked Patten's depth. Patten could have been of any age. McGough felt like a faded pop icon of some past generation. Perhaps he is seeking to develop his career with the BBC now. He did say that the BBC had commissioned his poems, on three or four occasions. And he did host BBC Radio 4's “Home Truths programme” last Saturday standing in for John Peel. Now there's an idea! Perhaps I should send the BBC an e-mail message now and suggest that they let Brian Patten cover in future.” (Review ends)
There was a third “Liverpool Poet”, Adrian Henri, who sadly died in 2000. Henri, Patten and McGough had risen to fame in the sixties following the publication of their excellent poetry anthology, “The Mersey Sound”. Published in 1967, and republished in 2000, then again in 2007, this book has sold more than half a million copies to-date. I am not aware of any other collection of modern poetry that has sold so well. The "Liverpool Poets" succeeded, in the words of one critic, in "wrestling poetry out of the hands of academe and taking it into pubs, clubs and the lives of everyday people."
I’ll end here by including three more poems, one from each of the "Liverpool Poets" starting with Adrian Henri:
Tonight at Noon by Adrian Henri
Tonight at noon
Supermarkets will advertise threepence extra on everything
Tonight at noon
Children from happy families will be sent to live in a home
Elephants will tell each other human jokes
America will declare peace on Russia
World War I generals will sell poppies on the street on November 11th
The first daffodils of autumn will appear
When the leaves fall upwards to the trees
Tonight at noon
Pigeons will hunt cats through city backyards
Hitler will tell us to fight on the beaches and on the landing fields
A tunnel full of water will be built under Liverpool
Pigs will be sighted flying in formation over Woolton
And Nelson will not only get his eye back but his arm as well
White Americans will demonstrate for equal rights
In front of the Black house
And the monster has just created Dr. Frankenstein
Girls in bikinis are moonbathing
Folksongs are being sung by real folk
Art galleries are closed to people over 21
Poets get their poems in the Top 20
There's jobs for everybody and nobody wants them
In back alleys everywhere teenage lovers are kissing in broad daylight
In forgotten graveyards everywhere the dead will quietly bury the living
and
You will tell me you love me
Tonight at noon.
You and I by Roger McGough
I explain quietly. You
hear me shouting. You
try a new tack. I
feel old wounds reopen.
You see both sides. I
see your blinkers. I
am placatory. You
sense a new selfishness.
I am a dove. You
recognize the hawk. You
offer an olive branch. I
feel the thorns.
You bleed. I
see crocodile tears. I
withdraw. You
reel from the impact.
The Minister for Exams by Brian Patten
When I was a child I sat an exam.
The test was so simple
there was no way I could fail.
Q1. Describe the taste of the moon.
It tastes like Creation I wrote,
it has the flavour of starlight.
Q2. What colour is Love?
Love is the colour of the water a man
lost in the desert finds, I wrote.
Q3. Why do snowflakes melt?
I wrote, they melt because they fall
onto the warm tongue of God.
There were other questions.
They were as simple.
I described the grief of Adam when he was expelled from Eden.
I wrote down the exact weight of an elephant's dream.
Yet today, many years later,
For my living I sweep the streets
or clean out the toilets of the fat hotels.
Why? Because I constantly failed my exams.
Why? Well, let me set a test.
Q1. How large is a child's imagination?
Q2. How shallow is the soul of the Minister for Exams?
Two of the Liverpool poets, Brian Patten and Roger McGough, were giving a reading of their work at a local concert hall. These were men who I had seen time and time again back in my college days so I was enthusiastic to go off and hear them again. I was apprehensive too about the possibility of finding them to be cynical, grey and jaded in their late middle age.
Here are a couple of their poems and the review I wrote at the time. I like both poems for different reasons.
The Ambush by Brian Patten
When the face you swore never to forget
Can no longer be remembered,
When a list of regrets are torn up and thrown away
Then the hurt fades,
And you think you've grown strong.
And you sit in bars and boast to yourself,
'Never again will I be vulnerable,
It was an aberration to be so open,
A folly never to be repeated.'
How absurd and fragile such promises.
Hidden from you, crouched
Among the longings you have suppressed
And the desires you have tamed,
A sweet pain waits in ambush.
And there will come a day when in a field
Heaven's mouth gapes open,
And on a web the shadow
Of a marigold will smoulder.
Then without warning,
Without a shred of comfort,
Emotions you thought had been put aside
Will flare up within you and bleed you of reason.
The routines which comforted you,
And the habits in which you sought refuge
Will bend like sunlight under water,
And go astray.
Your body will become a banquet,
Falling heavenwards,
You will loll in spring's sweet avalanche
Without the burden of memory,
And once again
Monstrous love will swallow you.
At Lunchtime by Roger McGough
When the bus stopped suddenly
to avoid damaging
a mother and child in the road,
the younglady in the green hat sitting opposite,
was thrown across me,
and not being one to miss an opportunity,
I started to make love.
At first she resisted,
saying it was too early in the morning,
and too soon after breakfast,
and anyway, she found me repulsive.
But when I explained
that this being a nuclearage
the world was going to end at lunchtime,
she took off her green hat,
put her busticket into her pocket
and joined in the exercise.
The buspeople,
and there were many of them,
were shockedandsurprised,
and amusedandannoyed.
But when word got around
that the world was going to end at lunchtime,
they put their pride in their pockets
with their bustickets
and made love one with the other.
And even the busconductor,
feeling left out,
climbed into the cab,
and struck up some sort of relationship with the driver.
That night,
on the bus coming home,
we were all a little embarrassed.
Especially me and the lady in the green hat.
And we all started to say
in different ways
how hasty and foolish we had been.
But then, always having been a-bit-of-a-lad,
I stood up and said it was a pity
that the world didn't end every lunchtime,
and that we could always pretend.
And then it happened…..
Quick asa crash
we all changed partners,
and soon the bus was aquiver
with white mothball bodies doing naughty things.
And the next day
and everyday
In everybus
In everystreet
In everytown
In everycountry
People pretended
that the world was coming to an end at lunchtime.
It still hasn't.
Although in a way it has.
My review
“In college and university halls, darkened rooms and smoky pubs…in the 1970's, I had read, seen and heard the Mersey poets many times. Roger McGough, Adrian Henri and Brian Patten. McGough always appearing with some zany band of jesters, poets and musicians….there was hope, innocence, energy and exuberance in this group – an ability to find the absurd in the mundane. Harangued by the literary establishment of the time as trivial and naïve, it was often these qualities that drew people to them. Theirs was a poetry of everyday life with guts and bite.
On Tuesday I approached their recital with curiosity. What would these men be like now? Would they be tired, jaded and cynical? Would they be quieter, contemplative, reflecting on life's lessons? Would I be looking at my watch hoping to leave after the first twenty minutes? Overall their performance was charming but time had brought its divergence in style to these two poets.
Brian Patten's performance was riveting; drawing one in with the skill of a conjurer, transporting one between joy and tears in seconds. Here was a man giving expression to all of his life in all of his work. It was the work of the deep soul and the playful child.
Roger McGough was different. His performance was slick, professional but lacked Patten's depth. Patten could have been of any age. McGough felt like a faded pop icon of some past generation. Perhaps he is seeking to develop his career with the BBC now. He did say that the BBC had commissioned his poems, on three or four occasions. And he did host BBC Radio 4's “Home Truths programme” last Saturday standing in for John Peel. Now there's an idea! Perhaps I should send the BBC an e-mail message now and suggest that they let Brian Patten cover in future.” (Review ends)
There was a third “Liverpool Poet”, Adrian Henri, who sadly died in 2000. Henri, Patten and McGough had risen to fame in the sixties following the publication of their excellent poetry anthology, “The Mersey Sound”. Published in 1967, and republished in 2000, then again in 2007, this book has sold more than half a million copies to-date. I am not aware of any other collection of modern poetry that has sold so well. The "Liverpool Poets" succeeded, in the words of one critic, in "wrestling poetry out of the hands of academe and taking it into pubs, clubs and the lives of everyday people."
I’ll end here by including three more poems, one from each of the "Liverpool Poets" starting with Adrian Henri:
Tonight at Noon by Adrian Henri
Tonight at noon
Supermarkets will advertise threepence extra on everything
Tonight at noon
Children from happy families will be sent to live in a home
Elephants will tell each other human jokes
America will declare peace on Russia
World War I generals will sell poppies on the street on November 11th
The first daffodils of autumn will appear
When the leaves fall upwards to the trees
Tonight at noon
Pigeons will hunt cats through city backyards
Hitler will tell us to fight on the beaches and on the landing fields
A tunnel full of water will be built under Liverpool
Pigs will be sighted flying in formation over Woolton
And Nelson will not only get his eye back but his arm as well
White Americans will demonstrate for equal rights
In front of the Black house
And the monster has just created Dr. Frankenstein
Girls in bikinis are moonbathing
Folksongs are being sung by real folk
Art galleries are closed to people over 21
Poets get their poems in the Top 20
There's jobs for everybody and nobody wants them
In back alleys everywhere teenage lovers are kissing in broad daylight
In forgotten graveyards everywhere the dead will quietly bury the living
and
You will tell me you love me
Tonight at noon.
You and I by Roger McGough
I explain quietly. You
hear me shouting. You
try a new tack. I
feel old wounds reopen.
You see both sides. I
see your blinkers. I
am placatory. You
sense a new selfishness.
I am a dove. You
recognize the hawk. You
offer an olive branch. I
feel the thorns.
You bleed. I
see crocodile tears. I
withdraw. You
reel from the impact.
The Minister for Exams by Brian Patten
When I was a child I sat an exam.
The test was so simple
there was no way I could fail.
Q1. Describe the taste of the moon.
It tastes like Creation I wrote,
it has the flavour of starlight.
Q2. What colour is Love?
Love is the colour of the water a man
lost in the desert finds, I wrote.
Q3. Why do snowflakes melt?
I wrote, they melt because they fall
onto the warm tongue of God.
There were other questions.
They were as simple.
I described the grief of Adam when he was expelled from Eden.
I wrote down the exact weight of an elephant's dream.
Yet today, many years later,
For my living I sweep the streets
or clean out the toilets of the fat hotels.
Why? Because I constantly failed my exams.
Why? Well, let me set a test.
Q1. How large is a child's imagination?
Q2. How shallow is the soul of the Minister for Exams?
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