Ben! Stop messing with my head

Thanks to his gift of Katie Price's Perfect Ponies, Amazon now recommends more Katie Price, alongside books about Letter Carving and typography, thanks to my previous purchases. At some point their computer will blow up in the face of the contradictions. Perhaps it thinks I'm planning a monumental (well, it would have to be) statue of Jordan, with an inscription in Comic Sans…

I've just finished teaching for the week. For the poetry seminar, I'd asked the class to bring in poems which were important to them. They surpassed my expectations. Eliot, Silkin, Betjeman and some by amateur poets. Silkin's 'Death of a Son' brought me near to tears, the selection from The Waste Land was a fascinating example of modernist writing and Betjeman's 'Slough' was serious and funny. Agard's 'Half-caste' was a great poem to talk about poetry as its practiced and read. The students talked about the poems emotionally and intelligently: a success.

Here's the Silkin (1955) and you can hear the poet reading it here (about half way through the recording):


Death of a Son

(who died in a mental hospital aged one)


Something has ceased to come along with me.
Something like a person: something very like one.
And there was no nobility in it
Or anything like that.

Something was there like a one year
Old house, dumb as stone. While the near buildings
Sang like birds and laughed
Understanding the pact
They were to have with silence. But he
Neither sang nor laughed. He did not bless silence
Like bread, with words.

He did not forsake silence.
But rather, like a house in mourning
Kept the eye turned in to watch the silence while
The other houses like birds
Sang around him.

And the breathing silence neither
Moved nor was still.

I have seen stones: I have seen brick
But this house was made up of neither bricks nor stone
But a house of flesh and blood
With flesh of stone
And bricks for blood. A house
Of stones and blood in breathing silence with the other
Birds singing crazy on its chimneys.


But this was silence,
This was something else, this was
Hearing and speaking though he was a house drawn
Into silence, this was
Something religious in his silence,
Something shining in his quiet,
This was different this was altogether something else:
Though he never spoke, this
Was something to do with death.

And then slowly the eye stopped looking
Inward. The silence rose and became still.
The look turned to the outer place and stopped,
With the birds still shrilling around him.

And as if he could speak
He turned over on his side with his one year
Red as a wound
He turned over as if he could be sorry for this
And out of his eyes two great tears rolled, like stones,
and he died.