Kim’s Game (AKA From The Driving Seat)
Old pubs and new self-storage units,
The Holy Ghost in the rearview mirror,
Wind turbines lit by a break in the clouds,
A sign saying PUT BRITISH PORK ON YOUR FORK.
Bristol Kebab House, a long way from home.
ONE LOVE RIP DJ DEREK painted on the end of a terrace,
Clumps of mistletoe blotting the bare branches of trees,
A man selling carved animals in a lay-by;
An inflatable Father Christmas in Frenchay,
A sign for Keynsham as Echo Bridge plays,
The cathedrals, campaniles and communications masts of Bristol
Competing on a suddenly 3D skyline;
Small parades of takeaways and undertakers,
The source of the Thames,
The arrogance of evergreens against their golden brothers
beyond the hard shoulder.
The bollards by the pub in the next village, painted like infantrymen,
The back of a horsebox, the Hengrove bus,
The upturned hull of Temple Meads
And you, halfsnoozing in the passenger seat next to me,
Beautiful.
When all else fails, you can’t beat a good list poem. The literary equivalent of not just throwing enough mud at a wall to see what sticks, but then scooping up the mud that didn’t stick and doing something with it anyway. I lost faith in that metaphor halfway through, slightly.
Today we were returning from Wells (see yesterday’s Door), having spent the morning having a relaxed breakfast with friends, and in the absence of knowing what else to write about I started making mental notes of things through the windscreen as we wove our way across the Mendips, along the Avon, through the suburbs and eventually city centre of Bristol, and then out, onto the M32, the M4, the M5, and back through the winding roads of Gloucestershire, over the Oxon border and home.
It’s strange – it’s a journey that seems in a way to have certain echoes of Advents past – in 2015 there was a poem about travelling home from Temple Meads, while the road back to Witney also followed the route we took heading back from doorknocking in Gloucester on Polling Day, 2019, passing the pub that served us several post-canvass pints. On the days that those roadsides inspired those particular poems, I was in the passenger seat myself, only relearning to drive last summer. I’ll tell you more about that another day, but today was probably the longest I’ve ever driven for, and so it feels sort of fitting that it was through the tyre-marks of previous poems, previous Advents, previous lives.
When I got home, I tried to write down as many of the things that I noticed as I could remember. Most of them speak for themselves, but for context, Echo Bridge is a superb album by Gavin Osborn, centred heavily on the village of Keynsham, which can be heard and bought here; DJ Derek was a Bristol selector/local legend who coincidentally featured in pub conversation just last night; the Hengrove bus was notable because it featured briefly in Stephen Merchant’s The Outlaws, which is on BBC iPlayer at the moment and is definitely worth a watch; and the pub in the next village is the White Hart in Minster Lovell, where I’m going for Work Christmas Dinner this Friday.
As I wrote down what I could recall from the journey, it became a bit like Kim’s Game, another Collins family pen-and-paper staple, where an assortment of whatever’s lying around in the kitchen on Boxing Day is placed on a tray, covered with a tea towel, and then unveiled and you’ve got 30 seconds to memorise them and a minute to write down as many as you can remember.
I Wikipedia’d it tonight to find out if it was something that existed outside of our family (last night I discovered that contrary to yesterday’s blog, Squeak Piggy Squeak is actually quite well-known) and learnt that it’s mainly played by Scouts, Guides, and the military as a sort-of observation exercise, and that it derives from Rudyard Kipling’s Kim, in which the titular character trains to be a spy. I think. I’m not certain, I’ve not read it. ‘If’ is good though – I’ve got a CD of Des Lynam reading it over Fauré’s Pavane that I bought in a record shop in Exeter for 50p.
As I say, Kim’s game is a festive staple, so it seemed pretty Christmassy to invoke it here – although with an AKA, which I think is the first poem I’ve ever written with an AKA title, and which follows a conversation I had with some friends a few weekends ago about the greatest song to have an AKA title. I can’t actually remember what we agreed on but if you’ve got any suggestions please do comment below!
I’ve digressed again, but it’s appropriate to have a Christmassy title today as it’s the first weekend of Advent (although in religious terms not the first Sunday of Advent) and I am feeling festive. After getting home, I headed up to Mum’s to help decorate the Christmas tree (complete with Angel Bean Baby, Springy Bell, Pervy Santa and the Christmas Cowboy) and then came home to help Luci and the kids do ours (it eventually made it down from the loft). As I type, I’m finishing a mug of mulled wine and getting ready to catch-up on Strictly. Bugger that Sunday evening feeling, this feels good.
It’s going to be a busy week, so the standard, or at least the length, of the poetry might dip slightly over the coming days, but thanks for sticking with it. And even more importantly, thank you to those incredible people who have donated to the 2021 Poetry Advent Calendar fundraiser so far – your generosity means we’ve already smashed the fiver-a-day target, which is just magnificent. We’re raising money for the Ronald McDonald House Charities UK, who help families with a child in hospital and who have helped my own family immeasurably in recent months. If you’d like to donate, head to www.JustGiving.com/PoetryAdventCalendar21 – can we get to the tenner-a-day target of £250 by Christmas Eve?
Whatever your morning brings, I hope it will be a bright one. Goodnight for now.
Be creative. Twenty days to go…
Owen x
The Poetry Advent Calendar 