I’m lucky enough to have been asked to perform in Jubilee Square on 1st May (the first day of the Festival) and as it is to be a family audience, I thought I would write some poetry that would appeal to all. And what better place to start than with my town, their town, where we live? There’s a podcast up of it… although sheesh! it’s hard to take a breath. Right click here to listen while you read.

BRIGHTON

Brighton, Bright town, my town at 4am,

I bump into a six foot four gnome
striding his way home from an African wedding,
for which he had fashioned
two silver rings from two silver forks
and he stroked his pointy ginger beard as we walked,
his orange suit glowing in the misty orange light,
his green tie clashing in dazzling fashion,
eloquent, intelligent and ever so polite,
we talked about suchlike and so-on,
neither of us promising to meet another night.

Brighton, Bright town, my town at 10am

and the old woman walks towards the wall
on which she sat for two years or more,
day in, day out, with an umbrella to shade
from both the rain and sun,
till the new owners ousted her call from God
by putting in its place a small picket fence,
her calling buried under newly laid slabs,
their mortgage safe from unwanted scabs
and she sighs as she walks on the other side,
worrying.

Brighton, Bright town, my town at 1pm

and the beautiful people emerge,
blinking against the sun,
young guns posing and slip of things preening,
dressed up in their everyday finest,
a basket weave of colour that winds through the Laines,
dodging the London grockles late off the train,
who plough a path to the Palace pier
for dodgy rides and pretend-it’s-like-cod,
while the beach shack sells freshly trawled stock
to those in the know (from Hove actually, probably).

Brighton, Bright town, my town at 3pm

kiddies paddling out the pebbles
that are stuck between their icy toes,
while mum and dad lobster up,
give up their daily niggles
with a deep breath of sweet doughnut air,

and the buskers count pennies,
or if they’re lucky pounds,
tossed their way by the kindly crowds
who’ve strolled past finger clicking,
mind humming with the brave new sounds.

Brighton, Bright town, my town at 6pm

and the old man makes his way home,
his life in three filthy carrier bags –
love letters, a pack of cards,
spare shoelaces neatly tied
his mother’s picture in a silver frame,
and a medal from World War Two…
eyes down past the Wetherspoons crowd
who roll out tall stories from their nicotine cloud
their ruddy complexions cracked into a grin
at the long legged lovelies who gazelle to the gym.

Brighton, Bright town, my town at 8pm

Our lady in the west laments her iron frame,
as starlings waltz their evening adieu
the pastel sky feathering epic poetry for
lovers idling along the prom, hand in hand,
their night long planned,
while the thump thump pulses
from the clubs and hidden quarters
of rock clubs, dance clubs, folk clubs,
theater, komedia, pole swinging, jazz singing,
hard hitting, mind slamming,

partying hippies and old school rockers,
the nutters and the knitters
and the indies and the emos
and the crisp white shirts tucked in safe beige chinos,
and the Goths and the geeks,
and the trannies and the grannies,
and the gays and the straights,
and the in towners, out of towners,
eastenders on a bender,
will remember

this day in the wonderful
Bright town, my town, Brighton.