> ## Content Index > Fetch the complete content index at: https://thebeemagazine.com/llms.txt > Use this file to discover other available public pages before exploring further. # Three poems for Tony Harrison - URL: https://thebeemagazine.com/three-poems-for-tony-harrison/ - Published: 2026-10-07T13:13:39.000Z - Updated: 2026-10-07T13:13:39.000Z - Description: On the eve of our commemoration of Tony Harrison’s poetry at the Durham Book Festival, we share three poems written as responses to Harrison’s seminal v., by Malika Booker, Jo Clement and Paul Farley. The poems were commissioned by New Writing North, in a project chaired by Andrew McMillan. - Author: Malika Booker - Tags: Lead, Poetry ### Tony Harrison’s poem *v.* was written in 1984 during the Miners’ Strike and describes a visit to his parents’ graves which had been vandalised and covered in obscene graffiti. The poem explores class, alienation, anger and Northern identity. A televised performance broadcast on Channel 4 in November 1987 made headlines, with Harrison’s use of profanity prompting Conservative MPs to try to have the programme pulled from the TV schedules. Conservative activist Mary Whitehouse called it ‘a work of singular nastiness’, while award-winning theatre and film director Richard Eyre believed it should be a set text and read in every school Four decades on, Durham Book Festival and poet Andrew McMillan brought together three acclaimed Northern poets to re-imagine this seminal piece of public poetry in newly-commissioned poems. ### Jonah at the Border ### *by Malika Booker* It was the day to behead the chickens. The chicks I fed scattering grain in they brown cardboard box home. Cooing to them. Stroking they yellow. Then just so dry, they turn full blown and cranky, only pecking ankles, when ah collecting eggs in the coop. It is the day to behead the chickens. Watch how sun smiling pon concrete like is an ordinary day. Watch how birds peck the ripe soursop on we little tree. Father sharpening, he cutlass. While I beg for them. Meh little brothers catch and clench the top of their wings in one hand. Father stoops into position. He places the first offering between he feet. Stands on them wings. I flee. If you see how fast, I tear up the wooden backstairs. Then slide under meh bed. Silent. Meh heart a beating speaker. Fingers shaking, lying under meh bed reading Nancy Drew. All how ah turn I can’t help think - Is what does summon the legs? What or who decides the direction of our blasted feet? Figure out how I reach under meh bed before even meh brain decide to run. Downstairs in the yard, decapitated friends flap clumsily into they deaths, with no brain to direct them, how long do they flap before the body knows it no longer has a brain, before the body is beyond their fear? ••• *But when they persecute you in this city flee to the next: for verily I say unto you*[\[1\]](#fn1) ••• I read a book once 'Feel the Fear and do it anyway'[\[2\]](#fn2) The author Susan Jeffers made it sound so easy twelve years later I still cannot jump into water (swimming pools or the ocean) for fear of water invading my eyes. ••• *But Jonah rose up to flee unto Tarnish from the presence of the LORD, and went down to Joppa; and he found a ship going to Tarnish: so he paid the fare thereof, and went down into it, to go with them unto Tarnish: from the presence of the Lord. But the LORD sent out a great wind into the sea, and there was a mighty tempest in the sea, so the ship was like to be broken. Then the mariners were afraid, and cried every man unto his god, and cast forth the wares that were in the ship, to lighten it of them.*[\[3\]](#fn3) ••• Asylum - from Latin asylum, “Sanctuary from Greek asylon refuge,” noun Use of neuter of asylos “inviolable, safe from violence,” especially of persons seeking protection,[\[4\]](#fn4) ••• *The waters compressed me about, even to the soul; the depth closed me about, the weeds were wrapped about my head*[\[5\]](#fn5) ••• Did not Jonah seek to hide on a ship? Hide esp. take cover so as not to be seen or found. 2\. Lay low as in secrete, huddle up, knee to chin, palms cradling the underside of gut, while the poor boat bobbles like dumplings bubbling up in soup. All how he turn is vomit he want vomit in all the bangarang. How he start reason with he-self like prophet. How he start wonder is when rasta man like he end up crump up down here? ••• *Jonah meaning Dove, Hebrew equivalent Yonah.* *In nautical use meaning sailor or person on board* *a ship bringing bad luck. Meaning a person jinx…*[\[6\]](#fn6) ••• Man every passage is a risk, see how emptiness erupts pon we tongue, sandpaper gently scraping we dark skin, that’s how you know is bad, when grated skin comforts more than what we left behind. You aint see the way news reports full up with our perilous crossings, more comforting than land left behind. The way we get painted as crowds of cockroaches skittering over wooden floorboards. Steups! And you blind worms can’t see we as paper dissolving in water, vanishing bodies. These days when we get flung overboard no whale swallows us whole to resurrect us on the third day. ••• *Then the questions begin:* *Tell us, we pray thee, for whose cause this evil is upon us; What is thine occupation?* *And whence comest thou? What is thy country? And of what people art thou?*[\[7\]](#fn7) ••• *The headline: Horrifying new detail on death of “Jamaican men in wheel wall of JetBlue plane: Men found in the landing gear*[\[8\]](#fn8) *but the Dove found no rest for the sole of her feet* so it start climb in then crump up inna the wheel wall and so he lay coumblé trembling body beating against the wheel wall humming *if I had the wings of a Dove*[\[9\]](#fn9) till lips too heavy inna the wheel wall till the body start lick up itself pon wall like stick pon drum inna the wheel wall lying crump up crump up black skin resting on white metal inna the wheel wall singing *this is what it sounds like when doves cry*[\[10\]](#fn10) till fingers & toes start tingle inna the wheel wall scared so till he could not hear the sound of his own heartbeat inna the wheel wall the sole of his feet turn ice fingers turn ice ears turn ice inna the wheel wall who will *put forth his hand and*[\[11\]](#fn11) pluck him from this flight as he flees inna the wheel wall till he head start get bazodee, when the plane start rise higher inna the wheel wall thinking *I’ll fly away oh glory I’ll fly away*[\[12\]](#fn12) right now from inna this wheel wall till he belly start talk in a strange tongue to turbulence bass inna the wheel wall till he start reason call out Jesus call out God call out ‘À mwè’ inna the wheel wall how he could not even take flight when ice start cover him like coffin blanket inna the wheel wall ••• As I compose this poem I hum this Guyanese folksong Itaname that we used to sing in school. Intaname speaks to the challenges of navigating treacherous water namely the jungle rapids. Captain, captain, put me ashore! I don’t want to go anymore. Itaname too much fuh me! Itaame gun friken me! Itaname! Itaname! Itaname! Itaname! ••• *For in your poetic vision, a boat had no belly, a boat does not swallow up, a boat does not devour, a boat is steered in open skies. Yet the belly of this boat dissolves you precipitates you into a nonworld from which you cry out. The boat is a womb, a womb abyss.*[\[13\]](#fn13) ••• *And he said unto them, I am an Hebrew; and I fear the LORD, the God of Heaven, which hath made the sea and the dry land. Then were the men exceedingly afraid, and said unto him, Why hast thou done this? For the men knew that he fled from the presence of the LORD, because He had told them. Then they said unto him, What shall we do unto thee that the sea may be calm unto us? For the sea wrought and was tempestuous. And he said unto them, Take me up, and cast me forth into the sea; so shall the sea be calm unto you: for I know that for my sake this Great tempest is upon you. Nevertheless the men rode hard to bring it to land; but they could not: for the sea wrought, and was tempestuous against them.*[\[14\]](#fn14) ••• My aunt tells me in those days they taught you to swim like Bad John: she in that fishing boat, she father belly high beyond pregnant she brothers grinning in khaki short pants, how they palms circled she wrists and ankles. How they stretch she out like rope, swing she round and round then dash she in the water. That is how they use to teach you to swim in them days. *Sink or swim girl* they start shout after they just throw she out like garbage. How she just make one big splash then start sink, how she never fight when water start blind and deaf she tail, till she father had to jump in, haul she out, flip she over then thump she back, till the entire sea spill out she mouth and nose. Till she scared water bad bad to this unholy day. ••• They leave abrupt, under midnights umbra to become shadows, forever vanished between boundaries to be seen as fleas who took flight to suck blood from reluctant hosts with rich bloodstreams. Some react by begging for death to clasp their hands. These too are risks. Here too the body took flight before the brain had a chance to intervene. --- 1. (Matthew 10: 23 Kings James Bible (KJV) [↩︎](#fnref1) 2. Jeffers, Susan. J. (1987). Feel the Fear and do it anyway.' Fawcett Columbine [↩︎](#fnref2) 3. Jonah 1:3-5 KJV [↩︎](#fnref3) 4. Inset dictionary reference here [↩︎](#fnref4) 5. *Jonah 2:5* [↩︎](#fnref5) 6. Adapted from Online Etymology Dictionary [https://www.etymonline.com/word/Jonah](https://www.etymonline.com/word/Jonah?ref=thebeemagazine.com) [↩︎](#fnref6) 7. Jonah 1:8 [↩︎](#fnref7) 8. Daily Mail News Article. 7th January 2025 US Reporter Joe Hutchinson [↩︎](#fnref8) 9. Hymn lyrics taken from Psalm 55:6 sag by Bob Marley and the Wailers. Also a popular funeral song in the Caribbean Community [↩︎](#fnref9) 10. When Doves Cry – Prince and the Revolution (song) 1894\. [↩︎](#fnref10) 11. Genesis 8:9 [↩︎](#fnref11) 12. I’ll Fly away – Albert e. Brumley (hymn) 1932 often song at Caribbean funerals [↩︎](#fnref12) 13. Glissant, Edouard, 1928-2011\. Poetics of Relation. Ann Harbor: University of Michigan Press, 1987\. P.5 [↩︎](#fnref13) 14. Jonah 1:12-13 [↩︎](#fnref14) --- ### **if class is invisible these days** ### *by Jo Clement* how come I can’t unsee myself running a pen knife down the lock like my mouth that summer lifting the wooden sash and stepping inside the greyscale classroom how he spun the blackboard and daft kids that we were, we threw red chairs about and tore down flags in the drawer was a pack of Regals, silver wedding matches, a Snickers and a whistle breaking into little school wasn’t half as bad as what he did later when we lit up the smoke alarm went off and we legged it, I swore down I wouldn't tell because I’d seen his mam slap him silly for getting caught along the side of the new houses pissing the ‘N’ word, badly she taught us it, of course, like the others, when she finished a tinny: pulled her pet lip down, like this, made another of her tongue, then aped and chanted *he came for a fight* *so we set him alight* and didn’t we cry laughing, until we knew better --- ### PLAYING WITH FIRE ### *A poem/film for Tony* ### *by Paul Farley* I nearly put my fingers in the flames of elegy, but then put down my pen and found the script and walked with you again. EXT: A CITY STREET In memory it’s dusk, and Leeds is lit by Atkinson Grimshaw. The streets are wet. But the script confirms we did go in the market. Me asking what’s a Loiner. You pointing out Leeds Empire, where you saw Laurel & Hardy. An overdub of laughter and applause. The clock above the jewelers shop on Briggate where Time still swings his scythe and speaks in Latin. INT: A CITY BAR Then there’s a scene we had to cut for time: a bar next to the Station. Cold white wine. A close up of my face as you explain we’re sitting in the shell of the News Theatre where you saw death camp footage on the screen, and heard the newsreel speaker’s jarring tone. EXT: TERRACED STREETS We slip back a few hours: Tempest Road where you grew up—the scorch mark on the street, a huge black circle from the bonfire for VJ Day. Paint blistering in the heat. All gone now but the memory’s never far away, just held in place by a furnace door. You talk about connecting fire with fire. You wrote about a hemisphere with no stars. And now a scene we didn’t record at all being filmed behind my eyes. A cool calm voice out of the past describes in level tones how to build a shelter out of toilet rolls and sticky back plastic (whatever that was), how to avoid fallout, the basic routine for wrapping up our dead loved ones in polythene, remembering to tag them for ID. Flashback. A blinding flash flooding the screen. INT: A CLASSROOM, 1980 If I *is* someone else, like Rimbaud said, then *this* *I* is a character long ago in the classroom of a comp where kids would read aloud, then take turns staring out the window. *This* day it rained outside. Inside was sweat and chalk dust, bleach and floor polish, the fumes from gristly canteen cooking and cigarettes sneaked in the yard or savored in the staffroom. *I* must have spent hours clocking that view and longer since roaming its muddy pitch, its white flats and the black path leading to a cooling towered skyline, the very edge of Lancashire’s coalfield. *I* didn’t know that *then*, mind you—it was just The Beyond, a place where you could screen daydreams and go to play before the bell, when class would end and in the yard the boys played Murder Tick, the universal thump, the volley of spit in skirmishing between A, B, and C Block. The last thing *I* wanted to be was *it*! And so *I* wrote a poem. *I* was bored, and angry that the *world* was going to end in fire, from those skies above the yard. The last thing *I* wanted to be was *burned*! *I* carried around an idea: that phrase Mutual Assured Destruction burned a hole in *I*’s pocket—and on this day its acronym was too good not to spend… *They are all fucking MAD…* Mad, M-A-D. *I* was made up with that. The edgy truce that guaranteed world peace turned into poetry! *I* read it out in class. All hell broke loose. (*I* didn’t feel so clever when *I* found out M-A-D *itself* was a given line, designed by US strategists to land exactly in this way. *I* didn’t know it *then* but there were probably kids in other schools detonating acronyms and looking to land a blow against warmongering grown-up fools. Though none of this explains *I*’s use of *fucking*.) Maybe a little wordplay makes us word blind— *I*’s eye might have been taken off the ball and allowed a word out of the yard to find its way into a poem. But that’s not all. *I* might have known something I’ve since forgotten, how delicacy and displays of wit won’t get the *fucking-wake-the-fuck-up* job done. Though there’s a time and place. This wasn’t it. Or *was*—to reckon by the level of fallout. *I* sheltered in the sky beyond the glass, in the silence before the first laughter and shouts that day *I* dropped the F-Bomb on our class. EXT: HOLBECK CEMETERY, PRESENT DAY Flashforward. On the brink of Beeston Hill, the city now in wide shot: you point out your absences, the places that still stand in the short December daylight. Snow has found its way in from another film and deforms headstones that lean and list like rotten teeth. Close up: There is a map, with a YOU ARE HERE and signposts to your grave! And you *are* here, saying no-one will have to search quite hard today, here in the next millennium. You joke and ask me: Have you brought your spray can! Then another scene that didn’t make the cut: I tell you how the poem that I saw you reading here ignited many of us. I’d dropped the rhymes and put poetry aside and turned to other things… In other words I blinked. But you had long looked into fires and fueled your thoughts and dreams and didn’t flinch… INT/EXT: BLANK SCREEN I nearly put my fingers in the flames of elegy… The film flaps on the spool, the line goes dead, the signal turns to noise. I nearly tried to write your epitaph! You already did that—and it isn’t resigned. It asks the reader in the graveyard at the edge of Beeston Hill to look behind and try to understand… The work requires we tend to graves, and also tend to fires. --- Photo: [Phil Mellor](https://www.flickr.com/photos/63046082@N06/7181442319/in/photolist-ePxwhq-cdY8hW-eNJPJJ-eQ9GCZ-eNKTYG-cdY9qQ-cdY7aJ-bWANcv-cdY82w-cdY9cW-bWALB2-ePxyuU-eRzvUa-6iMhkc-bWAM4T-2iXyygr-2nrCyDi?ref=thebeemagazine.com) --- [Tip the Bee](https://thebeemagazine.com/#/portal/support) All donations go towards supporting the Bee’s mission to nurture, publish promote and pay for the best new working-class writing.