Illustrated Poem 'A Coastal Town' by Steve Walker

A COASTAL TOWN was written in the July of 1978 and published as a booklet by Platform Poets the following month. It was my first publication. I don't have copies of many of my early poems, which are scattered in long dead magazines. But poetic bloodhounds are sniffing right now and the swalk1.com archive will eventually include a comprehensive selection of the early poems.
A Coastal Town
A Poem with Five Line Drawings

A MAN WITH SEVERAL NOSES
A man with several noses:
a wide faced freak is
always alone, doting on his goldfish
in a windowless room.
Pocketsful of handkerchiefs
are the belongings of his unease
and in the rooms around him
noises noises noises noises.
If he dozes in the afternoon
his own stifled breathing wakes him up
to make friendships among the blind
(but what if they ask to feel
his face - the horror on their cool
lips, a twitching even unto the slack
muscles about their eyes, a shudder
along their smooth fingers).
Above he hears it
the rain the rain the rain the rain
as he eats his evening meal,
a blackcurrant drink and a beef sandwich.
He contemplates his glass:
purple purple purple purple.
Going for a walk he is seen
watching autumn leaves
by men who have never seen him before
- who shout to the trees, to the air,
to the wind, to the crows on fences, that
there is a man with several noses in
this coastal town.






THE JEW AND THE SENILE MAN
A Jew and a senile man
who contemplate each other
as quickly as they can
and move away down the slant
of the street
are never to talk, never to meet
in the way they may have done,
years before, when the senile man
was a schoolboy and the Jew a
Rabbi's son - at a cricket match
in this coastal town
on a warm September evening
and the darkness falling down
and down and down and down.






A MAN STANDING ON HIS HANDS
If we could but isolate his eye
and contemplate ourselves in its water
we would see other faces
marked by other years than his, lines
and shaped by other attitudes.
And if we could but see in the corners,
behind ourselves, to the scenery of our
lives. Would we see low-ceilinged rooms?
Or skies in which the black-browed albatross
flies down towards the sea? Or would there
be green fools smiling at us from a
comfortable place in whose eyes would be
reflected the scenery of our future lives,
or darkness, or the glum club of he
who would topple the man who is standing
on his hands?






A MAN WITH A YELLOW BEARD
In the museum of this coastal town
there is a man with a yellow beard
who believes that Christ did not die
on Golgotha, but was buried in a
trough of resin and dropped into the Baltic
by his most obscure followers.
This man has supporters in Albania
who send him parcels of seasonal fruit
and photographs of themselves, climbing
rocks, and with the sky at the ends
of their arms.
Where he dallies at the museum's entrance,
picking arguments with priests, many have
seen him - and laugh at him on
particular days when their minds are not
dulled by the considerations of their
employment.
But he is earnest as they pass him by
and fierce in his learning
that he believes will create
the atmosphere of the pacification
of the world.






THE NERVOUS MAN
On the day they dismantled the fairground
This man walked about the strange landscape
with a paper flower in his buttonhole
as delicate as his state of mind.
While he sat on a stone, pondering
upon the shape of things, dwarfs
made jokes about him. They were
eating their afternoon meal, holding
hamburgers in two hands, and thinking
how amusing it would be to confront
the nervous man with perverted mirrors.
But when they did
he screamed and ran off towards the
sea.
When the fairground was gone
and only bright papers and yellow grass
and heavy air in the place where it had been
his wife found him hiding in a hole
he had dug in the sand.
Holding his hand on the way home,
discussing the troubled night,
she was the first to see
a many coloured cylinder.
Looking inside they saw one of the dwarfs,
breathless and agony faced, his cruelty fading
in his drying eyes.






A BOY
A boy
with tired legs
having run away from home
and heading inland
with his only friend,
a greyhound dappled
about the eyes
and searching for food
in the black grass,
sees a man with several noses
weeping on a rail
who is asking for justice from
the heavens
but all to no avail.
He seems to the boy
like a clean-cut gentleman
bemused on medieval ale
and in the night they look down
over the coastal town as
the greyhound sleeps beneath
bearded trees
             and
though enemies approach them
over rutted fields
they know that - what greater glory
can their be than a boy, a dog, and
a fantastic man, with one more look into
darkness darkness darkness darkness
before shallow eyes
separate them
and wheel them back towards the sea?

Home Poems If you have any questions please email me: author@www.swalks.com


A MAN WITH SEVERAL NOSES A man with several noses: a wide faced freak is always alone, doting on his goldfish in a windowless room. Pocketsful of handkerchiefs are the belongings of his unease and in the rooms around him noises noises noises noises. If he dozes in the afternoon his own stifled breathing wakes him up to make friendships among the blind (but what if they ask to feel his face - the horror on their cool lips, a twitching even unto the slack muscles about their eyes, a shudder along their smooth fingers). Above he hears it the rain the rain the rain the rain as he eats his evening meal, a blackcurrant drink and a beef sandwich. He contemplates his glass: purple purple purple purple. Going for a walk he is seen watching autumn leaves by men who have never seen him before - who shout to the trees, to the air, to the wind, to the crows on fences, that there is a man with several noses in this coastal town.

THE JEW AND THE SENILE MAN A Jew and a senile man who contemplate each other as quickly as they can and move away down the slant of the street are never to talk, never to meet in the way they may have done, years before, when the senile man was a schoolboy and the Jew a Rabbi's son - at a cricket match in this coastal town on a warm September evening and the darkness falling down and down and down and down.

A MAN STANDING ON HIS HANDS If we could but isolate his eye and contemplate ourselves in its water we would see other faces marked by other years than his, lines and shaped by other attitudes. And if we could but see in the corners, behind ourselves, to the scenery of our lives. Would we see low-ceilinged rooms? Or skies in which the black-browed albatross flies down towards the sea? Or would there be green fools smiling at us from a comfortable place in whose eyes would be reflected the scenery of our future lives, or darkness, or the glum club of he who would topple the man who is standing on his hands?

A MAN WITH A YELLOW BEARD In the museum of this coastal town there is a man with a yellow beard who believes that Christ did not die on Golgotha, but was buried in a trough of resin and dropped into the Baltic by his most obscure followers. This man has supporters in Albania who send him parcels of seasonal fruit and photographs of themselves, climbing rocks, and with the sky at the ends of their arms. Where he dallies at the museum's entrance, picking arguments with priests, many have seen him - and laugh at him on particular days when their minds are not dulled by the considerations of their employment. But he is earnest as they pass him by and fierce in his learning that he believes will create the atmosphere of the pacification of the world.

THE NERVOUS MAN On the day they dismantled the fairground This man walked about the strange landscape with a paper flower in his buttonhole as delicate as his state of mind. While he sat on a stone, pondering upon the shape of things, dwarfs made jokes about him. They were eating their afternoon meal, holding hamburgers in two hands, and thinking how amusing it would be to confront the nervous man with perverted mirrors. But when they did he screamed and ran off towards the sea. When the fairground was gone and only bright papers and yellow grass and heavy air in the place where it had been his wife found him hiding in a hole he had dug in the sand. Holding his hand on the way home, discussing the troubled night, she was the first to see a many coloured cylinder. Looking inside they saw one of the dwarfs, breathless and agony faced, his cruelty fading in his drying eyes.

A BOY A boy with tired legs having run away from home and heading inland with his only friend, a greyhound dappled about the eyes and searching for food in the black grass, sees a man with several noses weeping on a rail who is asking for justice from the heavens but all to no avail. He seems to the boy like a clean-cut gentleman bemused on medieval ale and in the night they look down over the coastal town as the greyhound sleeps beneath bearded trees and though enemies approach them over rutted fields they know that - what greater glory can their be than a boy, a dog, and a fantastic man, with one more look into darkness darkness darkness darkness before shallow eyes separate them and wheel them back towards the sea?