I am embarassed at posting such a rush of poems. This hasnt happened
for years, and it is two years since I was seriously writing. The
interest in this poem is to read it in conjunction with Philip Hobsbaum's
interview in the current PN Review. I had an email chat with him about
that.
And I should point out that all my books etc are available on the Web at
http://www.bath.ac.uk/~exxdgdc/poetry/poetry.html
I get 2000-3000 readings of my own work a month. The Robert Burns got
4500 readings last month but Swedish schoolchildren use it for teaching
purposes.
And again I am embarrassed at the glut of poems. But my rule on the
Internet has always been to publish. I sift the dross later.
....
Revenge
I hung tightly to my father's hand
As he lead me from the grey Vauxhall car
To the ivy-clad red brick building.
It was to be my first day at school.
Hurworth House Preparatory.
I was five years old.
The master called me his dog Spot
And used to make me bark for him.
I wet my pants
'cos I was too shy to put my hand up for the toilet.
I won a silver cup for good behaviour
'cos I never said a word.
At Grangefield Grammar School the headmaster would chase me
round the desk in his office where he would summon me.
I must have been a pretty little boy.
The only time he got his hands on my body was in the Main Hall.
Ever since then I have been scared of men.
His name was Ronald Bradshaw.
I dreamed in the greenery of Coatham Hall
Loving the wilderness I have re-invented in Bath.
I explored twenty miles of country lanes on my bicycle.
The rambling old house with its damp walls
Vented fantasies I enjoyed every hour of every day.
I haven't been home for forty years.
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