The Brownfield Research Centre - The Brownfield Anthology - Simon Corble

As the deinstallation of this part of our Brownfield Research Centre project begins, we have the words of Simon Corble, our commissioned creative writer running through our heads. Simon created a Brownfield anthology and the full set of site specific poems and thoughts is here... plus a special bonus reward after Simon's final poem.

The Brownfield Collection 
A response in poetry to the brownfield sites around Stoke-on-Trent, by Simon Corble. June 2018.

Open Access

  

Despite the tens of thousands spent

         on keeping people out,

it’s easy to gain access and

         going in there’s no

         “Exhibit One”.  No order –

free as bees to wander

         wander round these

aisles of free-for-all

         these open galleries,

all the work anonymous or

         even accidental…

Proper walls in very short supply

         hold works in

    vibrant orange, yellow –

golden swirls as rich as flowers

         unvisited ‘cept by passing bees

and me, today; under-privileged

glimpse of

         spray-on-brick

         creations, childish-looking

         installations, existential

         manifestations,

                  CAMUS

                  CAMUS on a wall

Who’s the strangest of them all?

The isolated sparring glove lying

where it fell; a pair of dark grey

boxer shorts, screwed up,

wrung out, slapped on the asphalt,

bone-dry now in summer heat; a

scrunch of tortured creases crying out

for justice or a damn good iron.

“Oh, you want it like that do you?”

         Suddenly it’s Peter’s Empty Space;

         darling ghosts of past performances,

         jumbles of props and cast-off

         costume scraps – it all makes

                  zero sense –

         a feeble victim’s bomber jacket

         captured by the brambles; the

         white surrender handkerchief waved

         head height from a tree

         turns out to be a plastic bag…

         A plot full of deceptions – the

         blanket weighted down by four

         half-burnt bricks

         hides naught

         but its own mystery.

 *********

Demolished Dog-Track Stadium Anthem

Squares of lino lying scattered,

                  Tell me – was it vinyl flooring then?

Two-tone squares, grey,

                  dark grey, scattered like a

pack of cards, discarded;

                  a discarded deck.

A vinyl disc, a 45, is wedged between

                  two hollow bricks,

upright, it’s remembering

                  a juke box, flashy,

                  retro, even then,

weightless, waiting, weighted down,

                  waiting for a coin to drop,

                  machine to lay it, play it flat…

The label in the middle’s gone;

                  selection very tricky…

I hope for Ghost Town, by The Specials;

The Selector – Too Much Pressure;

Elvis – Hound Dog – better still…

                                                                       

The shadow of a plant stem, dead

                  plays armature and stylus,

                  moving as the sun records

                  a silent tribute song; tracing

the untraceable dog-track anthem in a

                  groovy, kind-of love.

Daily he reaches that

                  central, circled space:

                  enigma.

                  Dark

still point of the turning wheel.

                  Stuck; but never sticks;

                  a greyhound sticks to the track…

                  He never caught that rabbit yet.

                  He ain’t no friend of time.

 *********

Bit Like

In any case that 45 rpm

has a semi-circular

chunk bit

out

bit like

in Alice the Mad

Hatter’s teacup rim

  *******

  

Vinyl or Lino?

Vinyl or Lino?

I’ll be floored

if I know.

I screed, you screed

we all got scared

and disagreed.

 *********  

A Noise

A lady on a tannoy

         annoys across the land

Would so-and-so from such-and-such…

         the painted bricks do not respond

         the dumped child’s cot

         refuses to be rocked

         the bee heads for the neighbour flower

         reckless in delight

         the roses laugh, they’re dog roses…

And it’s nothing to do with me.

*********

Biodivercity

blackbirds buds dunnocks butterflies bugs

and bees Bombus abounding

crowding the flowering rambling bramble

Bombus hypnorum bumbles about

a lemon-coloured hybrid rose

new to science

                           hairy hypnorum

humming the spell of sleep a

cinamon ginger innocent jinx

in a trance of a dance over wind

bobbing shrub shaded slabs and sunk

in cement the paint flaking

stakes of steel valiant stanchions

withstood a bulldozer's blundering snout

stout in defiance

                           when all else falls

Staffordshire brick crumbles and

fails tumbles and walls collapse

in waves beneath blows and roll in

the reckless wrecking ball ruthless

result of balls up or cock up or

cooked up conspiracy who knows

who badly thought through what not

thought through at all through

no fault of their own decisions

decisions decisionz the bees

buzz on oblivious

now that's what I call

non-compliance

  *********

Escaped

under Blair

under Prescott

under that

under this

the latest the greatest

the rabbit from a hat

now turned into a fatalist

he’s lost inside a waiting list

the soul destroying weightiest

                  wave of collapsing

         hopes for a new start

         fresh start

         sure start

but something forced these bars apart

         something

something makes the eyes smart

         escaped

 *********

Invisible

The roses here have

hybridised from

those suburban gardens

looking on, looking over

ineffectual palisades.

Another world in parallel:

a lady, balanced like

a Libra walks weighing

her two shopping bags,

she’s safely on a pavement

past the barricades

no head is turned;

another in a sari and her friend

push pushchairs up a hill,

perhaps towards a park up there?

And one who loads the boot of a car

with heaven knows what stuff

looks up to the sun,

looks not quite very miserable…

No one looks in.

We ARE invisible.

 ********* 

Fossils

Brambles snake exploring stems

across the concrete screed;

springs uncoiled, their smiling cups

         of primitive flowers

held up to the Pagan sun

         for blessing’s warmth.

The concrete mottled, thinly moss’d,

         patchy like savannah seen

         from space.

A swinging sixties floorer left

         his swirling mark upon this

         vinyl tile’s reverse; whorling

like a fingerprint; thumbprint

         from an innocent giant.

We don’t know what this vinyl floor was for.

We don’t know what this plastic pipe

                                    was for;

         nor the wiring curled up with it

         like they belonged together,

         electricity and water.  Alright,

         it seems, in steam irons,

         kettles and in ruins.

         “In case of fault call

Southern Electricity”

But nothing feels at fault,

         not here, not standing here;

the randomness of everything

         run riot.

  *********

Fault Line

Who would I get, I wonder,

         if I called that number now?

Perhaps, like Kafka’s nightmare trial

that number is still waiting – never

         has been dialled – was not meant

for this moment, but one always

         to come.   An ever-aging

office clerk, stares at a Bakelite phone;

knowing nothing of their hopeless fate,

         but sure the caller is alone.

  *********

Fragments

That lone brick, fractured by the frost,

baked and shattered by the summer sun

to fragments, insignificant; a pile

of terracotta dust, waiting for

the breath of wind.  Grains of pollen in

the giant hands of daisies, shaken by

the fumblings of bees; the flakes of paint,

yellow, breaking, falling down; the odd

dead leaf falling, falling down.  No.

No, you cannot, may not choose, you

the after-comer, you who never saw

a dog race round the track.  You stand

there, pondering.  You love that shattered brick

the best.  You want to take it home, somehow,

where it would find no place.  And anyway

it’s un-transportable.  You let it be.

  *********

Freedom

            But, no one is at fault, you see?

         Not standing here with the

         randomness of everything

         reigning all around.

Here’s a new approach:

Hold your latest scheme and

come and stand right here with me

to just take in this scene:

There’s ironies in the ironwork,

bent so the eye can see

the “extra” crowning Tesco

between the lethal palings…one, two

         Someone will know how many,

         has the calculation, not

         now in some office drawer,

         but on some whirring hard drive

         somewhere neat and,

         were you so inclined,

         you too could calculate

         the percentage it took

         from your council tax

         to keep this gypsy-free.

“Freedom of Information”

         I believe.

         You’re welcome.

  *********

Dead Centre

At the centre of the site

a child has made a simple wall

from bricks, in good supply and

for a touch of wonder

a window, or unlikely door,

is a sheet of circuit board

ripped from a computer.

It comes complete with ports,

soldered elements, all set

in a green, translucent base.

Some city futuristic,

future-proof because

it’s safe in that imagination.

  *********

Garden Escapes

                                            

Sweet Joe Pye hopped over the wall,

Sweet Joe Pye went crazy.

Bud Leia shot up far too tall

Now butterflies are lazy.

  *********

Thrive

I’ve seen defences like this

against invading tanks

from World War Two

sticking up from pebble beaches

along the North Sea Coast.

Some of these flowers thrive there, also,

where their names earn some respect

in their natural habitat.

   *********

True Nature

Brick, brick, brick upon brick;

brick-built, bricked-in…

         clay brick.

A brick’s no more than

         baked mud.  Just like

that mud we wode across

         on that Staffordshire farm

         not five miles from here,

ankle-deep, fifty-fifty cow muck,

watched across a barbed-wire fence

by cattle, curiously, the culprits

         and the farmer: “The path

         runs by the hedge!”

         “Yeah, thanks!”

His land, clean above that stinking yard

         is pure, terracotta clay.

         Looking down, boots catching,

         sticky with it:

If I farmed this I’d kneel right down,

right here and start from the very beginning;

         make me a cup of clay.

  *********

“The path runs by the hedge!”

His firm voice

half-angry shout

the while we wobbled

on hasty rugs

of plywood boards

some cow had chewed

thrown down to bridge

the heaving swamp

of mud and muck

that day everyone

and I mean we three

         everybody went surfin’

         surfin’ ST12.

 *********

So Much for Granted

If this were in the third world,

         the heart of a third world city,

all this would be a city in itself,

that brick wall much prized

complete with swirling, uber-trendy mural,

the firmest wall of someone’s simple home;

a palace by the standards of

a deplorable place.

Authorities would bulldoze

        the people come again;

another wave of nature

taking hold

take possession

taking back control.

But, lawless in this law-abiding,

         lean, but pleasant,

         strangely pleasant land,

         I walk, I loiter here

                  alone.

  *********

Okay

I might at least have been mugged by now,

or questioned by police,

or trailed by two minders,

detained without release.

Instead, I’ve sent my escorts home

confident, okay;

not sure it’s even trespass

to stumble about this way.

It’s not that no-one bothers here;

no-one even sees me.

         That voice again, the tannoy

         calling for Mr. Beasely…

 *********

Atonements

And what, in holy innocence,

did they want here with these dolls?

Scattered, not-so tattered, in fact

perfectly unbattered children’s things?

One dressed as if for first communion

lies thrown, or fallen; a tiny hand

clutching at a thorn.  And there,

a rolling, severed baby head is

smiling sideways at a lump of brick.

Another baby’s had its cotton innards

ripped inside-out – by birds;

I really, really hope it’s birds.

Its blue eyes shine up to the stars.

            A pillow for a baby doll

         nestles, quite suggestively

         up to a packet, emptied of its fags.

         It’s all discarded merchandise:

         The one adorned with fairy,

                           namely Annabelle,

         And one with graphic, photo-

         graphic portrayal of an open wound,

         following surgery to remove a lung.

         In both, pink features heavily.

         The shadow from the pillow’s logoed tab

         curls coffin-lidded over stark works on

         black, uncompromising packaging:

                           “DUTY PAID”

 *********

Green Codes

“Take nothing but photographs.

Leave nothing but footprints.”

One half of this rule I broke,

stuffing my canvas backpack

with buds of pungent Mugwort

to brew for inspiration.

Wild weed, totally legal,

subtle in its effects;

promoting lucid dreams.

And footprints left I none.

 *********

So where were The Spiders?

And once, on a very personal note,

I went to stand in the flooring section

of B&Q, Stretford, Manchester, just

to stand where Bowie had stood when

Ziggy played guitar. What

once had been a theatre there,

with the stage where now lie laminates,

the Wild-eyed Boy had strut his stuff

and The Spiders woven magic,

                  not carpets.

         And when that orange shack is gone

         there shall be spiders again:

         Sun spiders, jumping spiders,

         spiders brought here in Tesco bananas -

         urban-mythical spiders, big as your ’and,

         crawling across the web of roads

         to find this cosy, nichey ruin and

         the spider she swallowed down

         inside ’er

         spider.

         The one to catch the fly.

 *********

A Calling

That voice again, announcing.  Hark!

Whence is thy voice, oh, cheery Tannoy?

Superstore?  Car Showroom?  Retail Park?

I look around:  All their flags are flying,

Flying everywhere; pennants ‘gainst

An azure sky, flapping from white poles;

Medieval armies, merry, camping out,

Singing from their corporate hearts. Their

Shining armoured vehicles, colours brave,

Circling the orbital, they have

This little land and me surrounded, almost.

There’s only that modest stretch of boxy sixties

Housing, over the graffitied wall:

It has not fallen – or am I much deceived?

I still don’t know what that thing was – the thing

He loaded into the boot of his car, that guy,

Parked up against the generous pavement.

The enormous bulk of Victorian church stands

Forgotten on the hill; a fortress, forlorn;

It’s the only building still totally caked

In soot and grime, the real, the proper stuff,

The deadly stuff of long, long, long ago.

That voice again:  I’m waiting for my name.

 *********

Unknown

What

odd rituals

have been performed

since this place fell

apart like this lost all

sense of purpose after the

last dog ran his breathless race

last crowd wept the sun dialled on

the shadow touched another stanchion

or settled in another groove of that rev-

olving disc forever wedged forever young

though never ever played again?

 *********

That’ll be the Day

But not forever

one day one fine day

one pen will move

one finger click on send

an order be received somewhere

sanctioned actioned despite

perhaps objection over-ruled

one man sat at his controls

just doing his job will make his

one machine lurch forward

or move with smooth accord

for let’s be kind to him

who cannot be to blame

and cause the wave of bricks

to bulge fold rise

to break to fall again

and I see him hop down

bend down and pick up

that 45 and take it home

Simon Corble is a poet, playwright, writer and photographer based in the East Midlands. 

 ************************

Wasted Space

Nina’s Story

The sun flickers in a haze over the waste land as I allow myself to accept that familiar feeling of acceptance which follows the escaping of the world through the fence.

A vast expanse of what was once the entertainment of so many.  The flowers, breaking through the asphalt - praying to the heavens to let them be free, anywhere from this work of grey - remind me of myself.  Hoping, yet going nowhere. 

Around this plateau of tarmac are remnants of happier times; the bathroom tiles waiting to be mopped, a lost doll, bewilderment within the eyes – and a lost glove.  A lone glove waiting for its owner to reunite the separated pair.  An owner that will never come.  Everyday the objects seem to shift positions restlessly.  I think it’s a message.  To show they still have faith – perhaps in the hope that their owners will finally realise their lack of presence.

I see myself within the scattered bricks.  No longer wanted.  That’s why I come here.  I feel less alone and somehow, cared for and caressed.   I have never met another soul here.  Well, actually, that’s a lie – I saw a silent mystery within the intertwined brambles.  I was intrigued the moment he appeared that day, although as to why, I cannot say.  There was a familiarity in his demeanour, or, in the piercing blue eyes that were striking, even from the distance. 

A bramble strikes its claws across my flesh; you must, even in the most secure of places tread carefully.   Everything in life seems wound up in such an intricately devastating knot – which seems impossible to ever undo.  This is where the smallest rays of sun beam so brightly in the dark cavern.  It’s the space.  I fix my eyes upon an eruption of life from the grey confines and fantasise an ideal life.  Not much, but a life.  Where to start?  The flowers…

I imagine a picturesque, rural area of lush greens and flamboyant flowers.  The cottage is surrounded by guards of apple trees, a secluded spot, yet brimming with all the life in the world.  I imagine playing with two friends as loyal as dogs.  A full family with no despicable revelations to be discovered, awaits within the walls…

I enjoy those few moments of joy before I realise that wishing never made a map to the gold.  Here awaits the box in which I belong – a blur of grey and yellow, smattered with other lost belongings of Earth, like myself.  And something else – a silent mystery.  A silent mystery that is gradually advancing nearer to where I crouch, protective over My land.

By Rowan, aged 13.

Rowan Corble is Simon Corble's daughter