Alphabiog

A memory of Air raids and Bombs,
the imprint of flash and Crash
amidst the Devastation of war
in London’s East End.

Then Exodus to the Foreign north,
a Leeds Grimness, my first school
before the return to Hackney
and Uncle Izzy

and Jack Myer, my demobilised
father who suddenly reappeared;
the same old Mick, but not quite
right in the head.

We were Kosher up to a point;
neighbours might detect the smell
of frying bacon so we sang along,
not questioning the song

although my mother was a Levy
one of the priestly tribes. So what?
We couldn’t afford orthodoxy.
Mick’s work was all that mattered,

the rhythm of Needle and thimble
and fuck Oswald Mosley
as long as there’s Potatoes,
fried fish and chicken soup.

I met the Queen before she was;
Rheumatic fever laid me out
so that she could visit me
with a Smile but no words.

Mathematics, Trafford, University
and Monsal Head Viaduct
were a long way off in those days,
a galaxy away from Whitechapel

where there was no Xmas,
only the warm sounds of Yiddish
and the family of Czapa
now known as Zarrop.