THE GRAINGER MARKET WAITER

photo: peter dixon

Should I know you from somewhere?

Your eye brows raised in thick liquorice black.

You and your hairline gone bald as plaster.

Or your puffed face, was that the cherub I knew?

Separate, alone, stuck in time’s stiff relief,

all-round solid, middle-aged spread, that’s you.

But do I detect a grin? What’s comical?

If I’m right, you never were the private man

enjoying lingering here among market souls.

Being statuesque has made you look so calm,

that dickey bow, tight waistcoat, long green apron,

the red towel hung rigid over your arm,

ever your big hands grip on that shiny plate;

And to think you used to like a flutter

from equine tips to extras of your trade.

Nameless, ghost-looker in perpetual gaze.

The same man? Could it be? I don’t know – what hope?

My pockets jingle with loose change, and yes,

I’d like to put something on your plate but don’t.

G. F. Phillips

percy street 1931

Brass ‘n’ Silver, Red ‘n’ Gold

(For the Big Meeting)

Brass ‘n’ silver! Brass to blow away muck

From dusty throats, polished brass with silver

Notes played to perfection. Keep in step, mark

Time and count, everyone counts, so each note

Achieves full value through labour-power

Of lungs, working lungs, workers’ lungs, with skill

Always at their fingertips. According

To ability, according to need

For harmony.

Some of the seniors

Recall playing banners on the long march

Back to the pitheads, banners high, banners

Proud, banners truncheons could not batter down,

Red banners emblazoned by golden words:

UNITY – BROTHERHOOD – LIBERTY – PEACE

And SOCIALISM of course, inscribed round

Likenesses of militant advocates,

Working class standards upheld.

This bold

Confluence of solidarity ebbs

And flows, wheels and winds along venerable

Galleries of Durham’s thoroughfares.

Silver ‘n’ brass. A silver bullet to

Blow away those monsters that devour

Lives with too much relish, without conscience.

Brass tacks required for nailing down the truth,

Brass necks needed to demand sum total

Of silver and gold that’s the common weal.

And still the bands play on, and still banners

Billow with the breeze blowing in across

Salted coalfields, and still there’s a hundred

Thousand, more, gathering around the Big

Meeting in defiance of those whose minds

Are closed as the mines they’ve shut, whose cold hearts

Are as black as the coal they’ve sealed away

From posterity.

Beat the bass drum, boys,

Let the horns blare, steady with the banner,

As Gresford echoes from the city’s stones

And along the commercial facades while

Shop workers desert their counters and tills

To stand and clap and cheer. Keep marching girls

Having taken your full place in the ranks,

Draw down Durham air and swell the music,

Keep marching onwards all, don’t step aside,

For history has not done with you yet.

Dave Alton