Because in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make. 

the skip

James Fenton, in the most honest of my opinions, is one of the greatest living poets around. Here he is reading The Skip during a tribute to the late Christopher Hitchens.


 
   


The Skip by James Fenton

I took my life and threw it on the skip,
Reckoning the next-door neighbours wouldn't mind
If my life hitched a lift to the council tip
With their dry rot and rubble. What you find

With skips is - the whole community joins in.
Old mattresses appear, doors kind of drift
Along with all that won't fit in the bin
And what the bin-men can't be fished to shift.

I threw away my life, and there it lay
And grew quite sodden. `What a dreadful shame,'
Clucked some old bag and sucked her teeth: 'The way
The young these days ... no values ... me, I blame...'

But I blamed no one. Quality control
Had loused it up, and that was that.
'Nough said. I couldn't stick at home. I took a stroll
And passed the skip, and left my life for dead.

Without my life, the beer was just as foul,
The landlord still as filthy as his wife,
The chicken in the basket was an owl,
And no one said: `Ee, Jim-lad, whur's thee life?'

Well, I got back that night the worse for wear,
But still just capable of single vision ;
Looked in the skip; my life - it wasn't there!
Some bugger'd nicked it - without my permission.

Okay, so I got angry and began
To shout, and woke the street. Okay. Okay!
And I was sick all down the neighbour's van.
And I disgraced myself on the par-kay.

And then ... you know how if you've had a few
You'll wake at dawn, all healthy, like sea breezes,
Raring to go, and thinking: `Clever you!
You've got away with it.' And then, oh Jesus,

It hits you. Well, that morning, just at six
I woke, got up and looked down at the skip.
There lay my life, still sodden, on the bricks;
There lay my poor old life, arse over tip.

Or was it mine? Still dressed, I went downstairs
And took a long cool look. The truth was dawning.
Someone had just exchanged my life for theirs.
Poor fool, I thought - I should have left a warning.

Some bastard saw my life and thought it nicer
Than what he had. Yet what he'd had seemed fine.
He'd never caught his fingers in the slicer
The way I'd managed in that life of mine.

His life lay glistening in the rain, neglected,
Yet still a decent, an authentic life.
Some people I can think of, I reflected
Would take that thing as soon as you'd say Knife.

It seemed a shame to miss a chance like that.
I brought the life in, dried it by the stove.
It looked so fetching, stretched out on the mat.
I tried it on. It fitted, like a glove.

And now, when some local bat drops off the twig
And new folk take the house, and pull up floors
And knock down walls and hire some kind of big
Container (say, a skip) for their old doors,

I'll watch it like a hawk, and every day
I'll make at least - oh - half a dozen trips.
I've furnished an existence in that way.
You'd not believe the things you find on skips.

the love you love

It has been and always will be to me, the littlest moments. For you spend a great deal of your life in the mundane, the routines, the waking up, sifting through objects, rubbing against people. Characterized by the tedium of being ordinary. Humming about from one day to another, cycling from one event to the next, naturalizing the same thoughts on barely dissimilar days. But it is also perforated by blinding moments of clarity, shifts in perspective that never seem to remain still. I never feel like I can remain still as I grasp at these sudden moments of importance among all that is unimportant. And to recognize what you love and what loves you, would be terribly important.

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Note: Pizza base has to be made from scratch. Defrosts just don't cut it. No rush, plenty of time to practice after all.