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]
•••
I read a book once 'Feel the Fear and do it anyway'[2]
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]
•••
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]
•••
The waters compressed me about, even to the soul; the depth closed me about, the weeds were wrapped about my head[5]
•••
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]
•••
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]
•••
The headline: Horrifying new detail on death of “Jamaican men in wheel wall of JetBlue plane: Men found in the landing gear[8]
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] 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] 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] 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] 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]
•••
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]
•••
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.
(Matthew 10: 23 Kings James Bible (KJV) ↩︎
Jeffers, Susan. J. (1987). Feel the Fear and do it anyway.' Fawcett Columbine ↩︎
Jonah 1:3-5 KJV ↩︎
Inset dictionary reference here ↩︎
Jonah 2:5 ↩︎
Adapted from Online Etymology Dictionary https://www.etymonline.com/word/Jonah ↩︎
Jonah 1:8 ↩︎
Daily Mail News Article. 7th January 2025 US Reporter Joe Hutchinson ↩︎
Hymn lyrics taken from Psalm 55:6 sag by Bob Marley and the Wailers. Also a popular funeral song in the Caribbean Community ↩︎
When Doves Cry – Prince and the Revolution (song) 1894. ↩︎
Genesis 8:9 ↩︎
I’ll Fly away – Albert e. Brumley (hymn) 1932 often song at Caribbean funerals ↩︎
Glissant, Edouard, 1928-2011. Poetics of Relation. Ann Harbor: University of Michigan Press, 1987. P.5 ↩︎
Jonah 1:12-13 ↩︎
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
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