R A Porter | Write Out Loud

Biography

Manchester born, with Lakeland and Northern Irish roots, I was fortunate to grow up surrounded by storytellers. Influences and passions include John Cooper Clark (naturally), Pam Ayres, Betjeman, Yeats, Heaney, Wilfred Owen, the Romantic poets, Spike Milligan, George Best, James Joyce, Clive James and Billy Connolly. Professionally I have made films for 30+ years and learned a lot about moving pictures, words & music along the way. One thing I helped make that will, I hope, last is Sea Wall, a short film about love, grief and family developed from a play written by my nephew. Superficially it is the simplest of films, illuminated by an incredible performance from the remarkable Andrew Scott. I've always written, generally humorous poetry and prose, but there has been a much more consistent flow since February 2020, hopefully an enduring rather than temporary state!

reflections on life's oddities

What is the point of a poinsettia? What is the point of a poinsettia They rarely stay red for long Holly in a pot would be better And makes a superior Christmas song but every year they appear in their glory Doomed to an early demise Every year a familiar story Gone faster than a plate of mince pies They come from the central American plain Where it’s hot and it’s dusty and dry Where you hardly ever get caught in the rain And snow doesn’t bother to try Yet here in our wet and cold season They sit like red soldiers on shelves Without logic or purpose or reason Amongst Christmas crackers and elves And people absent mindedly buy them To share with their family and friends Knowing full well that they’ll die then And those red leaves will fall in the end To leave some stray stems gently browning A sight so un-festively bad Like a Santa whose face is fixed frowning Or a Snowman that’s melted and sad By Christmas Eve they’re going cheap Alongside Christmas socks for him and her Destined for the compost heap Like last year’s advent calendar No - there can be no decoration less merrier Than the wilting Euphorbia Pulcherima R A Porter The 78 Record Exchange Hands in pockets, denimed, Green Flash on my feet Hunched against the drizzled air that fills the cobbled street Up the hill I bend my neck and seek the Holy Chalice Grooved vinyl and shellac adorn the gilded palace Golden letters gleaming, Roy Rogers on the range Chuck wagons forging Happy Trails to the 78 Record Exchange I step across the threshold and transport myself through time Ella, Oscar, Louis, melody, and rhyme Bakelite and valve sets, faded record sleeves The crackle of Caruso, Billie Holliday, Jim Reeves LPs, tapes and 78s, sheet music, gramophones Little Richard, Bartok, Mozart, Led Zeppelin, Undertones Rare 50s imports from the States, meticulously labelled George Formby, steamy Delta Blues, heavy dark oak tables Time and fingers sifting between album covers Songs of hope and innocence, wanderers and lovers Tchaikovsky ballerinas float like sylphs above the racks Inhaling jazz in Gauloises, Miller echoing in the cracks The shuttered store stands empty inside a metal cage A silent shroud of grey cocoons notation on a page The needle adroitly lifted, no more horns amplified Red Sails in the sunset, the day the music died. R A Porter A Good Innings It was fun while it lasted Now it’s time to leave the crease Take the plaudits, raise your bat Let the innings cease No need to hang around for tea Just take your bag and shuffle off And please, don’t go near the cakes With that painful, hacking cough Looks like rain, did you check the covers? And coil up the boundary rope Without proper preparation I’m afraid there was little hope Reaching fifty can be tough enough You’re hardly in your prime Over seventy’s a bonus After that, well, it’s borrowed time So, don’t be glum, rejoice There’s no cause to wistfully linger You really don’t have any choice When the umpire lifts an index finger Move along, make way Don’t stare from behind that glass At other members of the team Who bow their heads and pass And as you undo your gloves And wheeze to catch your breath Pack your pads and imagine it was Some other person’s death Who edged and lost their wicket A straightforward catch at slip One more collateral victim Of Bozball - “Let it all rip” R A Porter Parish Councillor (after Betjeman) I am a Parish Councillor; no job’s too small for me From facilitating Bonfire Night to lighting up the tree In every avenue and byway of our village small and neat You’ll find me surveying the highway and examining the street. Who’s that? people say, as I stride along the lanes Frowning, nodding, peering down to investigate the drains I deal in potholes, drugs and dogs, whose insanitary waste Defiles our pavements daily when footsteps are misplaced. Holly hedges overhanging, ditches clogged with vegetation Antisocial exhausts banging, thus disturbing contemplation I open fêtes and Rose Shows for the Horticultural Society Judging several Floral Categories with impeccable propriety. For certain off-the record work - I’m talking planning-wise I’m susceptible to lobbying, so come on - don’t be shy! I freelance in development and my impact has been felt On several splendid opportunities within the green belt. A timely transfer or stuffed envelope, handed over round the back Will help expand a project’s scope and keep construction plans on track With my colleagues on the Council, I thus exert my influence To transform woods and verdant pastures into fields of pounds and pence. And if misguided conservationists attempt to block the way With pleas for newts, or bats, or nesting birds, or space for open play I draw upon my knowledge of the relevant procedure To ensure a healthy outcome that will not attract the media. Progress knows no boundaries, to restrict it is insane Whilst gaps remain for residential use across the flood plain - It’s basic market economics on a most impressive scale That fills our countryside with properties; public service never fails. R A Porter Red Stilettos on the Bowling Green In red stilettos on the bowling green I shall dance and drink champagne And for every dumbstruck bowler I will jive around again I’ll tease tiresome golfers at the club For performing under par And assemble risqué underthings To hang them on the bar I’ll scrawl poems on the Honours Board With lipstick, bright cerise Verses laced with jibes and curses, Predestined not to please I’ll stamp on all the biscuits Laid out for matchday teas And though no one else would risk it I’ll descend the roof, on skis Then skate across the pavilion floor To general consternation And float around the tennis courts Giving umpires palpitations On President’s Day I’ll extend my reach With a ceremonial samurai sword To cut off the Presidential Speech Just because I’m bored I’ll reconstitute the drama section Which was surely without peer With its tragicomedy reflections And stagehands gulping beer Do not forget me in this place Be neither morbid nor forlorn But grab your glass and a folding chair I’ll be on the croquet lawn.