I WAS A GARETH GATES FAN

for JD

I was just like my grandmother,
phoning for both in case either

would lose. She'd told me she'd rung up
eight times, and each time a flip-flop

decision as who was her Pop 
Idol. I plumped for the young pup

who stammered and looked like cute sex,
and voted the once more. My ex

was indifferent and said both my
Nanna and I were insane. Say

what you will about phone votes,
my nan is officially nuts.

She'd gone for Will Young and for Steve
Brookstein on X-Factor. Believe

me, she's crazy but loves choirs
of stutterers as much as queers.

THE GRANDMOTHER SHUFFLE

for MH

My Grandmother shuffles the cards in her palms,
but boxes them. These days her palms

are smaller, she remembers. She remembers the Luftwaffe
bombing Coventry better than dinners. She boxes them.

She does not notice. The shadows are creeping
over the kitchen like Luftwaffe. Those gentlemen

she courted in Birmingham remember the prick
of her hat pin. They got too fresh. It was only a first date

that slipped from her grip like a butterknife.
The Luftwaffe are thunder, sending her running

under the stairs. Now she is shuffling.
Her small palms boxing the names of her nephews

and grandsons.  She remembers them like a husband.
They get fresh each time they meet. The Cathedral is burning.

GOODBYES

for MH

Trains are leaving stations leaving

women waving handkerchiefs from windows

leaving lovers, aching in their braces, on the platform,

standing, leaning in the heat, leaving wives

for others, children, lovers, waving off

the past and turning from their grief and tears

to laughter, leaving wrinkles round their eyes

and mouths, their stockings falling down,

their trousers loose, growing thinner, smaller,

older, turning inwards, turning bone, leaving life

and lives, the quiet in their eyes that says goodbye.

Soundcloud recording of this poem here: http://soundcloud.com/gavin-hudson-1/goodbyes