The Plumbing Cantos: Canto XVIII

March 14, 2018 Michael Radcliffe

blog, general, poetry, the plumbing cantos, work-in-progress

The vantage point from sitting on a beast
like Geryon, (the one I rode before)
gave us an overview of things – at least

this circle, made of separate levels. More
like looking down a spiral staircase or
the atrium of a department store.

They’re marching single file on every floor,
alternate clockwise/anti-clockwise all
without a stitch of clothing (as before).

All levels joined by bridges through their walls,
all bridges head towards a central well,
all draws us through the fires and sewage falls.

Horned devil’s eyes surveyed this sewage Hell,
in Hi-Viz orange, holding scaffold poles
and cracked them over anyone who fell.

“I’m sure that guy is someone who’s well known.
A politician maybe? Let me ask…
Err… could you tell me why you’re here?”
“Er. No.

Not really.” Eyes unblinking, cold and hard
until he breathes: “Well maybe then I guess.
I compromised a politicians star

by blackmailing my sister into sex
with her to get her out the way. She begged
me not to make it known.” He smirked and said

I’m not the worst down here by any stretch.”
A devil said “You’re still a fucking pimp.”
and swung a scaffold pole down on his neck.

They ushered him away before I blinked
as Patrick tried to guide my thoughts elsewhere
and walked us to a bridge down through the stink.

“You see that figure? Royal looking? There.
That’s Jason, as in “Argonauts”. Not like
the film though. There’s a story section where

he lands at Lemnos Island where he strikes
up with the Queen there, fathering a child
then starts his quest and walks out of her life.

Madea too.” But Patrick doesn’t smile.
A deep red triangle blush has grown
on both his cheeks beneath that frown he styled

for TV. “Jason. Is he someone known
to you?” A beat. Then curtly: “No.”
“I feel
like you’re annoyed with me or something.”
“NO!”

Then silence. “This is where they punish me.”
I’m not sure what to say. I knew it laid
there somewhere near that frown’s temerity.

He mumbles that “It’s just the way I’m made.”
It’s more though lack of insight that I’m loathe
to speak, and hear the things he needs to say

“I had two families at once back home
and other things besides that no-one knows
but that’s enough of that.” I force a groan

from him by asking: “What did they think though?”
“They seem to learn to live with it OK
I s’pose.”
“What really? No-one minded?”
“Oh,

of course they struggled. Things were tense some days.
It was my curse to bear, and I’m cursed here,
but everybody copes in different ways.

But that’s enough for anyone to hear.
Let’s put that smile back on our faces now
and head on over to the next one near

that bridge that leads towards the groaning sound.”
The next concentric circle, full of crap
and people writhing on the shitty ground,

so full of folk, so covered in it that
you couldn’t tell if they were priests or not.
One face looks up. “What are you staring at?”

I looked at Pat. “I go to church a lot.
You learn that there are certain types of priests.
To break a dull routine becomes their God.”

I shout down: “Tell us why you’re here at least.”
“It’s my own fault!” Regretfully he slaps
his forehead which explodes with shit and grease.

“I needed things and flattery became a trap.
I could be overly obsequious
for bishopric…” But Pat has turned his back

observing something else. “Oh look at this!
My old friend Thaïs the whore! You two must meet…
Just lean a little over the abyss.

You’ll catch a sight of her, but be discreet.”
At first I see her shitty nails. Hands grip
a horizontal scaffold pole. Defeat

behind her eyes, she turns to me and squints.
I see her, feet apart. She’s squatting up
and down repeatedly. I hear a wince

escape my throat, as Patrick looks me up
and down. And also her. He laughs to log
my obvious disgust. “Oh, what the fuck

is wrong with you? For fuck’s sake Patrick. God…”

The Plumbing Cantos: Canto XVI

February 23, 2018 Michael Radcliffe

poetry, the plumbing cantos, work-in-progress

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After a bit of a break (sorry!) I have returned to the Plumbing Cantos in an effort to finish at least a first draft by the end of the year.

This one feels like it should be accompanied by some sort of glossary. But I guess if you really don’t understand some of the words, there’s always Google.

I did actually do quite a bit of research for this, so if you want to see where my mind went, I’d recommend you view the excellent docu “One Mile Away” and also “Hard Stop” about the events around Mark Duggan’s shooting in North London.

CANTO XVI

I may have said before, I cannot stand
the chaos sometimes people bring to life,
as if they thrive when things get out of hand.

I hear the distant water from the tide
that plunges down the next part further on.
A group of people pass us by. Inside

I’m thinking “Maybe something here is wrong.”
as three of them peel out and head us off,
confirms what I was thinking all along.

I’m trying to think of how to brush them off,
but Patrick says: “When I say “run”, run. RUN!”
“That’s not a very good idea.” I scoff.

They then begin to circle us for fun
before their leader ask me “Postcode, bruh?”
and flicks his shirt as if he has a gun.

“You step to me in Hell? How tho?
I kill a man dead, bruh. Don’t lie to me.”
I look at them through raining fire flows,

when one looks round at something I can’t see.
I notice that his jacket hood is burnt
away, his melting flesh throbs visibly.

The flames have penned them in. I can’t be hurt
by them. “I live up Brixton Hill.” I say
“That’s my endz, G.” He pauses, then reverts

to something softer. “TIME, I’ve been away.
You know Six Seven? Where they at now G?”
I don’t know what he means but take the bait.

“So why are you guys here in Hell?” “Believe
just repping our own endz, you get me blud?
We light up any people on the beef

until they got us lick down from above.
My name is Jacko by the way. That’s WARZ,
and he’s TG from S.E.15, blud.”

That’s odd. “But shouldn’t you two be at war?
You’re South West Two, he’s not, so why is that?”
“I never sat with other mans before

from other postcode, sitting down like that,
you realise our pressure is the same
from different sides, G.” Looking back on that

I couldn’t see why they would play the game
and stay alive, but my life wasn’t theirs
as Jacko (frankly generously!) explained:

“That’s all I knew since I was nine, and bare
mans all the same. They say that no-one chose
this life, it chose me. Swear down. Be aware

that’s how it is.” But while I couldn’t know,
I wondered who created this Set-Up,
and why they weren’t in Hell in place of those

guys right in front of me, who ask me: “Blud:
remember me to mandem”, looks at WARZ,
then turn and shuffle slowly off through mud.

At this point Patrick interrupts my thoughts
again. And asks me for my belt. This belt
is only for my working clothes I bought

specifically because my knees had felt
a little sore, and these ones had the pads
built in the trousers so that when I knelt

on building sites it didn’t hurt. Pat grabs
my belt and drops it down the pit before
I have a chance to speak. My thoughts began

to float away. I want to think some more
about these three we met just now and make
it change the way I am. But life ignores

your best attempts to change and contemplate,
with silly things like paunch from middle age
necessitating belts for trousers – takes

your mind away from following the rage,
or wondering: Are these three tropes or real
ideas for my imaginary stage?

I will say this: Despite what you may feel
I swear by this book in your hand (or phone
or laptop/Kindle/Tablet): This was real.

It happened: circling with screams and moans
a creature swims up through the air
as if it freed itself from hooks below

the water, ordering my thoughts right there.

———————————————

The Plumbing Cantos: Canto XV

October 14, 2016 Michael Radcliffe

blog, poetry, the plumbing cantos

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The concrete river’s mist makes harder work
of walking through the burning sandy plain.
Carcinogens in concrete tend to lurk

for days and lodge in paranasal veins.
But nothing else protects us from the fire.
It barely keeps our narrow route maintained.

The dams of Holland’s Delta Works are higher
than flood protection anywhere UK.
You think the past few Cornish floods were dire,

you wait till London’s Chelsea floods one day.
From Ranelagh Gardens up to Holbein Place
and Eaton Terrace – flood plain all the way.

But still – there’s more protection there than here.
We’ve next to nothing keeping us from burns
(The forest now has all but disappeared),

when from the fire another group emerge,
and one guy in particular affects
a mocking campness as my stomach turns

in recognition. Just how I’d expect
he taunts: “Ooh ‘Allo, Curly!” (though my hair
is straight and Curly’s not my name), detects

my obvious discomfort, smirks and asks me where
I’m going. We don’t have a choice. He comes
along beside us. Hiding my despair

with lack of interest, he starts to run
ahead “You shouldn’t stop here. If the coals
land on your head it fucking ‘urts, old son.

You plumbing still these days?” I start to fold
my arms and tell him yes, and now am lost
somewhat before he cuts across me cold:

“It’s Dog Eat Dog, mate.” Does he give a toss?
I think. He strides ahead, his shoulders straight,
exactly as he was until he crossed

from life to death, as if we’ve made him late,
like we’re the ones who can’t keep up with him.
“I’ll sort out anyone who tries it, mate.”

His cold eyes blink as coals land on his skin.
“I said to one guy “I will fuck you up
the arse” and then…” (the coals sink further in)

“…I knocked him out.” I hope that we’re not stuck
with this bloke that I knew too well, but stop
and looked around as Patrick has slowed up

without a warning making my jaw drop,
unzips and takes a leak right there and then.
The other guy has cocked his head and knocked

me on the arm. “This fella – He’s your friend?
So is he gay? No, is he? Is he gay?” I can’t
help thinking that his punishment won’t end

because he has an unexamined slant.
He keeps on saying “That’s so gay.” As though
to insult people by it. Then this plants

a thought he wouldn’t want his wife to know
and I’m too scared to say in case he flips.
“Well when you’ve got to go, you’ve got to go!”

says Patrick, running, trying not to trip
to catch us up. My mouth is dry, but wide
and open, leaving concrete dust to strip

the moisture from my throat. I have to try
and ask a question. “Don’t you wonder where
you are?” But though he doesn’t break his stride

I know this bloke reflects on being there.
“No. When you’re dead, you’re dead. I don’t know what
all this shit is.” He scratches at his hair

and flicks a cinder out. “No, that’s yer lot.
You’ll learn.” He doesn’t look at me, but stares
at something far too far away to spot.

“But what d’you think it is?” I think I’m spared
an angry snap. He sees three people come
towards us. “Oops, I’ve got to go.” He tears

himself away. “Learn lots. Ta ta.” He runs
the other way from them. Amazing how
a man can move like gilded lead from guns

as soon as someone bigger can be found.

Canto XIII. The Forest of The Suicides

September 27, 2016 Michael Radcliffe

blog, poetry, the plumbing cantos, work-in-progress

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CANTO XIII

We left behind the Nessus and the blood
but new oppressive feelings followed on
while hiding in a sickly blackened wood.

Above the trees, the Harpies sing their song
the Forest of The Suicides below –
those female tropes are still not dead and gone.

When more men kill themselves while sinking low
often where’s there’s lurking shame, there’s blame.
Down there is where tomato plants will grow.

“The best tomatoes grow here,” Pat explains
“in sewers being fertilised by shit.
They’ve been through several people. All the same

they’re different, better, but… No, DO NOT pick
them. This is why your stomach’s always wild.
You work with waste and keep on getting sick.”

I pop a fruit off anyway. The riled,
resigned tomato plant responds: “Dear boy…
You have the maladroitness of a child…

The omnipresence of my gout annoyed
me less than your behaviour at this hour.”
I mumble “sorry” quickly to avoid

the mood becoming any further soured
I try to speak without appearing rude
discovering tomato plants can glower.

He sighs, “My many years of solitude
are better than your facile questions, sir.
My placement here, to which your words allude

is from a suicide attempt referred
to often (though it happened in my youth).
I shot myself while feeling quite disturbed

while in Marseilles (though I’m a Pole in truth)..”
“YOU FUCKING POLISH BASTARD” floats across
from River Enoch Powell. “How uncouth…”

Tomato Plant goes silent in the moss.
Despite my prompts he sullenly stays mute
“Are you OK mate?” thinking that I’ve lost

him, then he shudders gently “Savage brutes…”
I small-talk gently, asking “What’s your name?”
“While Konrad Korzeniowski won’t impute

a meaning, that I’m Joseph Conrad, famed
for writing might.” “Oh yes, I’ve heard of you,
but not your suicide though – that’s a shame.”

“I didn’t die from suicide. My view
is that the gout contributed to death
at 66, depression it is true…

But such self pity! Why should we waste breath
on foolish youthful misadventure now?
Intemperance in passion should be left

behind us.” “Isn’t talking better? How
are feelings processed if you never speak
about them?” “But I simply won’t allow

unfettered caterwauling, not unique
in darkest Africa perhaps, though…” “WHAT
did you just say?!” I realise the reek

of British Empire hangs around his hot
and stinking space. And while I sympathise
about his being ill, it’s what is not

acceptable to me. Dismantle lies
to get to somewhere better, yes, perhaps,
or do I bother venting my surprise?

He splutters, clearly taken quite aback:
“But I detested that King Leopold!”
I’m sensing his defensiveness has tapped

a nerve beyond an explanation, old
and baked in Empire’s sunburn hardened boats.
“You haven’t BEEN to Africa!” he scolds.

I realise his generation floats
along a tide that never should have been.
I must refuse his navigation notes.

He died before Frantz Fanon had been seen
to write about an overtaken world
colonially creased, depressed and screamed.

Now reason, whispers, shouts and silence hurled
between us doesn’t seem to make a case
or let our hidden prejudice uncurl.

I have to go. There isn’t time to waste
when suicides have so much more to teach
than how to reinforce our thoughts on race.

I look along the row of plants at each,
their fruit uniquely glowing in the fug –
communities of people out of reach.

I ask: “What was it forced you to unplug?”
“It isn’t really like that”, ventures one.
“You can’t just cure us with a few more hugs.”

“Before I’d even tried to to aim the gun,
I’d lost all sense of what was down or up,
but I was clear what needed to be done.”

“It wasn’t that I didn’t give a fuck”
another speaks “about my family
and friends. You don’t see straight.” I cup

my hands to catch tomato juice and see
how late I am for them. “And how’s things now?”
Then nothing. Silent. Waiting carefully.

The silence breaks “Well when I’d left the house
I’d left some notes of course. For Mum
and Dad, my sister, friends, and feeling proud

that I had got control back from the hum
of pain, I walked to Hornsey Lane (the bridge)
and looking at the cold and grey A1,

(it’s easy climbing up the fence’s ridge)
the way I’d planned so carefully ahead,
I jumped.

It isn’t so romantic being dead.
That second past the point of no return
a final shift takes place inside your head.

There’s something then that isn’t often heard,
that in that moment, you don’t have control,
ironically the lesson that I learned

that everything that tore away my soul
I had the power to act and change it all
but couldn’t now. The choice I had, I stole

from my own self. And now that I recall
these things for every day I’m here a plant,
I’ve lost a better life there after all.”

There’s more I want to understand here, but I can’t;
a Cane Corso dog full coloured coal
has sniffed his way across the mossy slants.

As he begins to tear and chew and roll
tomato flesh and stems and fibres break
between his teeth. Their screams unfold

their form of living death while still awake.
“OH GOD. PLEASE. STOP.” amongst the gurgled chokes
arise and land too sharp and hard to take.

We have to plug our disappearing hope.
But as we leave somewhat to my surprise
I feel Pat’s curiosity is stoked.

“So how can those plants photosynthesise..?”
he asks, “There’s total lack of sunlight here.”
The question isn’t answered, but he guides

my thoughts in what I always knew and feared.

Canto XII: VIOLENCE

July 26, 2016 Michael Radcliffe

blog, poetry, the plumbing cantos, work-in-progress

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Canto XII

While sliding down a steep escarpment, scree
and faeces twisting ankles while we try
to slow ourselves enough, though hard to see

it’s possible to feel the lime applied
by builders from Victorian times preserved
by fetid air for years and trapped inside

the sewer made it hard work and unnerved
us way before we saw the Minotaur
along by where the blood red river curved.

“WHAT THE FUCK YOU COMING THIS WAY FOR?”
he thundered at us never blinking, pale
for someone bull-headed and rendered poor

and stunted, but particularly male,
conceived by non-consensual sex with bulls
as if his violent nature never fails

but due to someone else’s failing pulls
away his own responsibility.
But here he is in Hell. The fault is full

and his and his alone. He rounds on me
“YOU FUCKING GAY” and comes at me to punch
me in the head. I totter back and see

his half-drowned van, still white but scraped and crunched,
embedded in the river bank, and hide
behind it, neck and shoulders pinched and hunched,

my throat is catching on the left hand side
and sharp as if some food has caught and stuck,
my legs slo-mo, my stomach tightens dry.

“YOU FUCKING FOREIGN CUNT COME HERE YOU FUCK”
his bradawl focus doesn’t see our signs
between each other hoping for some luck

we start to run along the bank behind
the wide perspective from the van improves
the further on, the running calms our minds.

Until we hear the sound of horses hooves.
Three centaurs canter over drawing bows
and one says “Back in the River before I lose

my shit with you.” Though somehow Patrick knows
we’ll be OK, a centaur trots up close
and shoulder-barges us then smirks and slows

enough to smell the alcoholic boasts
he fires at us; me noticing my flank
already sore with tension stress the most.

“He isn’t dead, we’re travelling this bank
of River Enoch Powell. Let us pass
– and you’re obliged to guide us, being frank..

I know about your Father being crass,
his love of horses…” “Let me give you him,”
he points to Nessus “He’ll be good. He’s fast.”

The anxious toxic sting of breathing thin
that comes to my attention in the lull
is crawling like a poison under skin.

Distracted though, by Nessus; “These we cull
with arrows every time they bubble up.”
He points at River Enoch, at the dull

lit feet and heads and body parts and muck
of mostly men of violence below
the surface of their bloody stinking rut.

“There’s every kind of violence here you know
from anger disproportionately done
to physical but also mental blows

and through to those who torture just for fun
to see you crumble in emotions terms
or break you with the barrel of a gun

when psycho bosses pushing till it burns
while smirking like your empathy’s a crutch
and for the weak as far as they’re concerned.

when those who think that non-consensual touch
is not a problem: punished here as well
for sexual violence even once too much.

when blackpowder will leave an acrid smell
when skull meets pavement, single punch, and cracks
when blood will clot before the final bell

when eight police will knee her in the back
when IEDs throw Humvees in the air
when slavers must ensure the boat is packed

when threatening a child with a stare
when neighbours dogs have jumped the fence and bite
when dragging somewhere hidden by the hair

when doggedly insisting on a right
that’s luxury by any other name
from oil and sweatshops working through the night…”

“Please. Stop.” I beg. The slow encroaching pain
from waves of nausea start to amplify
the background hum of violence that drains.

“Who are these people?” I begin to cry
“I don’t know where I am or what to say.”
“We’ve crossed the Enoch to the other side.

You’re on your own.” He slowly trots away.

Plumbing Canto IV

September 24, 2013 Michael Radcliffe

blog, poetry, the plumbing cantos

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I slowly woke to Patrick’s ashen face.
A muggy thunder stirs me from my nap
and taking in the God-forsaken space

I see I’m standing knee-deep in some crap
(as plumbers often do) but can’t see far.
Though catching Patrick’s eye, he turns his back.

“Now follow me, as I’m your Guiding Star.”
“Are you afraid?” “Well, no. You fear the worst.
Just pity makes me somewhat under par.”

Then finally we enter in the first
and foremost circle mostly hearing sighs
from people I knew well, but never cursed.

“Now what’s the deal with this? This just denies
my expectations, feelings, let alone
the thoughts I had about my clients lives.

The people here were nice! I want it known
that these ones paid on time, and more than asked!
Not like the stingy ones with hearts of stone.

And she was one who listened in the past,
and he was one who left me with a beer
and these ones found me extra work at last.

I do not understand why they are here.
If this is Hell, then where’s the justice Pat?”
He looked me in the eye. A smile appeared.

“I’m sure you’ve got a list as long as that,
of people that you’d love to put in Hell,
consign them, mark them “trash” from where you’re sat.

But learn and understand this lesson well:
The thoughts that some are wholly “bad” or “good”
are concepts that you really must dispel.

Just put the nasty ones in here? You would!
When really all of us are mixed up mess
of motivations, circumstance and “shoulds”.

So don’t be so surprised or get depressed.
Your clients will surprise you every time
And knowing this will save you much distress.

I pointed at a man: “Ah! Was his crime
to treat me with suspicion from the start?
He watched that “Cowboy Builders” all the time

He couldn’t see me honesty and heart.”
“Ah no. For watching way too much TV
is why he’s here. I know it’s hard. Now please

We have to reach that castle. Follow me.”
This castle was surrounded seven times
with walls that were the highest I had seen

and once inside I saw a well designed
and tended meadow, somehow feeling wrong.
We found a little alcove, hid behind

some shrubs where we could watch it all go on.
I saw some people who I do respect
and idols who I thought could do no wrong.

Old Patrick, staring hard at me, detects
the conflict in my feelings: “Let me hear
and help you work things out as you reflect.”

I ask if Pat’s in here (to make things clear)
He nods. “So what’s your crime? What are your sins?”
“But tell me why should I tell you my dear?”

“Look when your plumbing clients ask you in
by all means take an interest, BUT don’t pry!
You’re in their house! They’re other people’s things!”

I took his good advice, so while I try
to write this down I won’t be naming names
although it’s true and carefully described.

Then Patrick stands and shuffles down a lane.
I follow him and try to read the signs
towards the place where there’s a constant rain

and let’s just say that nothing really shines.

Read the previous Canto or Read All The Cantos

The Plumbing Cantos

July 25, 2013 Michael Radcliffe

blog, poetry, the plumbing cantos

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Hello everyone.

I thought I’d create a single page for the Plumbing Cantos where you can find links to them all in one place.

I’ve started writing a series of Cantos about my experiences of being a plumber, based on Dante Alighieri’s description of the 9 circles of Hell in his “Inferno” poem. I am drawing heavily on Dante for guidance, but setting it in the modern world. It is peppered with real and imagined experiences, a smattering of plumbing references, allegory and humour. Oh, and Patrick Troughton.

Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental of course.

So here they are: