Pieces of a man, poem

So, at risk of sounding like a broken record... here is another post about, or relating to, Gil Scott Heron. It is nearly a year since he died (May 27th last year). 

Recently there was an event in England all about this great writer/singer/musician (review here) and fans were asked to pass comment about their memories of GSH, their feelings about his music (asked by Lemn Sissay here). I did pass a memory over and found myself remembering the time, back in about 1990, when I used to listen to a lot of Gil Scott Heron (and so therefore his collaborator Brian Jackson too - lovely article by Brian about Gil here by the way). I had a dodgy job in advertising at that time and an all-consuming nightclub and music habit so I spent quite a lot of time in my car (these days I drive very little). I had a couple of GSH cassettes back then (yes, cassettes!) that I listened to again and again. In the end, thinking of folk club tonight and something to read aloud, I wrote this poem today. I didn't plan to write it when I woke up this morning... but here it is anyway. So if anyone else wants to write a poem this week about a favourite musician or songwriter or singer... maybe they'd like to do that in a Poetry Bus (online) stylee. Put the link in the comments and I'll post it here (as we used to... in the old days... see bottom of post). It might be more Poetry Moped than Poetry Bus but you get the idea...

Audio of this poem here.

In a car with the stereo on

So it was just me,
me and Gil,
cruising around the city
in a company car
that I didn't really deserve,
that I couldn't really drive.

We were singing as we went.
Really loud sometimes.
So many songs.

We were singing "Angel Dust”,
not the most family-friendly
singalong chorus perhaps
but I liked it.
And “The Bottle”.
And “Home is where the Hatred is”.
And “Three Miles Down”.
Never mind the feel-good numbers – 

because there are some –
“Lady Day and John Coltrane”,
“I think I'll call it Morning”.

Other times we were just speaking,
chatting almost,
and I was saying “brother” along with him
like I almost knew what it meant.
We covered “Whitey on the Moon”,
“No Knock” and obviously
the whole “revolution will not be televised” thing.
He called it a poem.
That goes without saying.

These were lonely drives
to nowhere in particular –
drives to pick up x
and put down z.
But as I turned the corners
and made the moves
at least a piece of Gil was there,
there with me when he sang
“Get out of the Ghetto Blues”
and “Pieces of a Man”.


RF 2012


Other people's poems

First onto the moped it's Totalfeckineejit (our old Bus driver). Now doesn't that feel good?

Bug goes back to younger days.