ALAN BENNETT

Sort yourself out Alan Bennett

You lack swagger and stride and hold raincoat in hand

You are the documenter of a filthy age

Not one that holds the reflection of a revolution on the Thames

You may quiver and shiver and fray at your prey Alan Bennett

But do you think we remember you, or your words?

You are the keeper of a secret rage

Not one that holds sanction in glorious Catholic churches

You are not confused for David Hockney as often as you think Alan Bennett

His opinions are not national treasures

You are the one who murders the fly on the page

Not one who thinks of the death as your own

Alan Bennett, I’ve never been to the queen’s country

I’ve never seen the river polluted by a thousand ghosts

Never seen your poets buried in fourteen rows

Never had my bruises healed by the kiss of a Molly

Alan Bennett, What exactly is a history boy?

Am I one?

Are you one?

Is Hector the last?

I wonder if the first draft of his thought kisses your bruises…

Alan Bennett do you wake in the middle of the night? Do you slam your eyes open like the oceans slam against one another, do your thoughts get caught up in one another like harmonies, like voices, like the sounds that make a choir, enough to make you cry? Sorrow, Alan Bennett, is the night’s most bitter pill.

No, I have never been to the Queen’s country

But, one day, I may

And I might see you

Or I might see your play

And what if I was to meet you Alan Bennett? What then?

Well I would shake your hand

Hug you if I could

For you are a knight, a soldier, an Ossie

And you inspire…