Paul Bura, farewell my friend

Today is the funeral of my great friend Paul Bura, a talented poet, writer and performer.

His sister Melly emailed me to say it would be a “Celebration of Life” service. Paul would appreciate that.

Paul died on Tuesday 5^th February and I wrote a tribute to him, which you can read here.

I can’t attend the funeral but Melly said she would be reading out my blogpost about Paul at the service. I am truly honoured.

Paul has never been far from my thoughts this past week or so since his passing. On my old Blogger blog I started a series entitled Pause for Poetry, which featured such poets as John Betjeman, W. H. Auden, Shakespeare and Philip Larkin among others. In all, there were 24 poets featured in the series.

I chose Paul to kick off the series. This is the blogpost from nearly six years ago. This poem still moves me after countless readings.

 

Tuesday, March 13, 2007

Pause for Poetry (1)

In an attempt to inject some decorum into The Other Side of Paris, in an occasional series, I shall select a poem from a favourite poet.

And what better way to start the series than with a poem from a great poet and friend, Paul Bura. He has written hundreds of poems and the following one first appeared in his anthology Behind The Joker (1973) and later in The Drunk On The Train and Other Poems by Paul Bura (published by The Bosgo Press, 1997). The poem was also broadcast on BBC Radio 4. And now I have the honour of publishing this wonderful poem.

THE DRUNK ON THE TRAIN

It was late.
My leg was hurting
With the strain of walking
And dodging the train-commuters
As they stampeded toward me.
My only defence was to close
My eyes and pray that they
Had theirs open.
I was becoming weaker by the minute.
I managed to buy my ticket
And was informed that my train
Left in two minutes.
I walked as fast as my legs
Would allow me
But they were no match against time.
The train doors were slamming
Their terrible, final sound;
The guard was drawing in his breath
Ready to sound his whistle.
I flung open a door
Bursting with 5 o’clock people:
“Please, I have to get on this train.
Would you take my bag?”
Nobody moved.
“I have a weak leg and the train
Is about to leave!”
The whistle blew.
“Wait, you bastard!” I said.
From amidst the turmoil
Of twisted, sweaty secretaries
And bowler-hatted city gents
A red-faced drunk appeared
Like Christ on the water,
He stretched forth his hand,
Grabbed my bag and hauled
Me into the carriage.
Reeking with beer he led me
The length of the swaying train
Trying to find me a seat.
We must have appeared like
The blind leading the blind:
I holding on to everything,
As my balance is so bad,
He, like the drunk he was,
Trying to hold the train still.
At one stage we had to pass
Through an empty baggage-truck,
Seated on the floor were three men.
Somehow I had to walk from one side
Of the truck to the other
Without falling over.
The drunk had gone ahead of me.
I spoke to one of the men:
“Would you help me across, please?”
No reply.
The drunk came back for me
And lent me his shoulder
That suddenly seemed as firm as a rock.
The men on the floor must have thought
I was as drunk as he.
With gentle persuasion
That only a drunk possesses,
He talked a man out of his precious seat.
I thanked him
And told him I would
Never forget his kindness.
He didn’t understand
But bought me coffee instead
Then gently disappeared.

This poem is for you, my friend,
And if your tears are filling
Some gutter somewhere,
They are not in vain.
What you did for me
Would make the blackest hole
Seem like the sun itself.

(To find out more about Paul Bura and his poetry, novels and other writings click on Paul Bura on the icon on the right to read his blog).