The Write Out Loud Poem of the Week is ‘The black and the white’ by Martin Elder, a recollection of the wintry shades of yesteryear – “Everywhere marked with a ring of soot, smoke and steam.” Not so much looking back at the past through rose-tinted specs, as through grime-streaked glasses. The poem ends with the world of black and white appearing to turn to colour during the 1960s: “In an effort to hang loose and turn on /The sun and love were apparently born / And grey and brown / Became a purple haze.” Martin, who attends Write Out Loud Stockport, started writing poetry on a regular basis four years ago. Here are his replies to Write Out loud's questions: 

 

 

What got you into writing poetry?

I started writing poetry about 20 years ago as another expression of writing,  as I was already
writing short stories with no particular agenda other than to write. I showed the poems to a friend who said he did not like them, so I stopped. I then got stimulated to write a poem regarding a job that was coming to a close called 'Return to Bolton'. I suddenly found myself in the
groove and haven't stopped since. That was nearly four years ago now, so I guess that answers the next question, how long have you been writing?

 

Do you go to any open-mic nights?

I generally attend my local Write Out Loud event in Stockport and have infrequently attended other open mic gigs in the north-west such as Sale, Wigan and Prestwich. Last year I found myself in Eastbourne.

 

Your favourite poet/poem?

My favourite poet would have to be Dylan Thomas, and favourite poem probably Under Milk Wood , though I am not sure whether it is more a play. Either way it is a great piece of writing

 

You're cast away on a desert island. What's your luxury?

This is a hard one. But I would have to say probably a cow so that I could make cheese!

 

 

THE BLACK AND THE WHITE

by Martin Elder 

 

 

In the early rising dawn

When I wore shorts all the year round

And winter was just another blister

On the sole of life

The world in which we lived

Ate dressed and walked was

Mainly black or white

With just a few shades in between

The people

The buildings

The cars and the streets

Were all a dirty shade of brown and grey

There was of course the odd exception

Like something out of time

A bus, a tram or a train

But even they looked tired forlorn and filthy

In varying shades of green, brown and cream

Everywhere marked with a ring of soot, smoke and steam

Men delivered sacks of back breaking nutty slack

Shovelled broken and pummelled

Offered up to the hungry fire

Their backs bent with years of lifting

Half a hundred weight

Sometimes wet and steamy

Hissing cracking

Oval black nuts

 

In winter men in long khaki coloured coats

Where rain would eventually soak through

And become a heavy soggy dripping mess

Topped off by a Windsor, flat or bowler hat

Brollies only for the sophisticate or city gent

Pinstriped sparkling fresh and clean

To the office on the seven twenty three

 

And in the heat for those who could afford it

White flannels

Always rolled up sleeves

Any other way would seem undressed

All of this and more was how it was

Until winter turned to summer

In an effervescent explosion of bloom

And of colour

In an effort to hang loose and turn on

The sun and love were apparently born

And grey and brown

Became a purple haze