Siren Song of St Francis

I dreamt long last night of San Francisco,
As I have done so many nights before;
I left my heart there thirty years ago,
No more was I waiting outside her door.

Sitting upon summer brown Bernal Hill,
Watching the golden city laid before me   
Like a lover spread ‘cross a crumpled bed,
In no sweeter place would I rather be.

Standing astride the stunning Sunset steps

As the cool fog weaves its wild, wondrous spell,
Slicing Sutro Tower in half before,
In a heartbeat, it returns and all’s well.

Hanging for dear life from the cable car
I crest the hill on Hyde at dawn of day,
Siren song from all the foghorns moaning
As we hurtle down to the glistening bay.

Eating popovers by Pacific shore
Among the tourists and locals well dressed,
Humming along to O Sole Mio
While wrestling a ristretto at Trieste.

Hailing Josh Norton and his doting flock,
As they follow him on the Barbary Coast,
Waiting two hours in Zazie’s lengthening line
For bacon, eggs benedict and French toast.

Hunting for tie-dye tees in Hippie Haight,
Paying Harvey homage on Castro Street,
Reading a novel on the F Streetcar
As it clanks along to a Market beat.

Drinking a cool, tall glass of Anchor Steam
With ghosts of Ginsberg, Neal and Kerouac,
In North Beach’s beloved beat retreat
With Joyce’s peering portrait at my back.

Gorging on Gilroy’s garlic fries at the yard
As gulls circle above to claim what’s left,
Pablo slams a mighty walk off splash hit
To leave downhearted Dodgers fans bereft.

Sharing tales of shows at the Fillmore West
In Martha and Brothers at breakfast break,
The Blackpool boat tram slithers past and waves
To Lovejoy’s ladies taking tea and cake.

The scent of jasmine on our Noe porch,
Sea lions cavorting on the wharfside pier,
Sourdough with Coppola Sauvignon blanc,
And that “bracelet of bridges” held so dear.

These and other images flood my mind –
Painted houses, murals and gleaming bay,
Bowls of cioppino and Irish coffees,
I curse the undue advent of the day.

On an Italian Street

Nimble nuns scurry across the square

Heading for their next service fix,

Neatly sidestepping Vespa riders

Who twist and jerk and shudder

Between the imperceptible lanes

That mean as little to them

As pedestrians and traffic lights.

Perched in the middle of the piazza,

A poliziotta municipale

In pristine white helmet and gloves,

In a whirl of her arms

And ear-splitting whistle,

Valiantly struggles to

Manage the morning mayhem.

Every Fiat Panda or Lancia Ypsilon,

Oblivious to battle scars

Of bumps and scrapes,

Jostles for precious –

And inconceivable –

Parking spaces.

Across the red, rutted rooftops

Dogs howl in unison

With the wail of ambulances

And hubbub of honking,

While disoriented tourists

Are pursued and seduced

By waiters with winning smiles

Into perusing the menu turistico.

Outside a small coffee house

Beside a deconsecrated church,

A middle aged woman

Dripping in Gucci and Armani,

Caresses her cappuccino

(It is not quite mezzogiorno yet),

And takes a slow, sultry draw on

Her third Muratti Chiaro cigarette.

Being Quiet

No more the need to force the pace

While others a back seat will take,

But bide my time and choose my theme

And there my contribution make.

No more to crow of what I’ve done

In lieu of praise from others’ cries,

But show humility and calm

For that is where contentment lies.

No more to crave the company

Of those whose sly promises I scorn

But reciprocate their silence

And their absence no longer mourn.

Find a comfortable corner

Of a welcoming coffee house,

To while away wild winter days

And those elusive words to rouse.

I know too well the time will come

When from the world I’ll no more hide,

To speak again and play my part

But for now I am satisfied

Being quiet.

An October Afternoon in Vesuvio Cafe

I pass through the door

Where they check

IQ instead of ID

Subjected to neither

By the affable doorman

In tweed jacket

And corduroy pants

Lounging on a stool

That looks as if it might

Cave in under him

At any moment.

I take a seat upstairs

At a glass topped table

Resisting insistent requests

From the genial female server  

To have another lethal shot

Of gin and tonic

But I eventually reason

At only seven bucks

Why not?

Twelve feet beneath me

Across the ornamented alley

An ageing Chinese guy

Sells vintage magazines

Punk as well as Beat related,

From a wonky trestle table

Outside City Lights

And chats to a tour guide

Whose Vietnamese party

Scatters to take photographs.

Over my shoulder, James Joyce

Squints at a bottle of Jameson’s

Behind the well stocked bar

And from a yellowing poster

William Burroughs bemoans

The day he killed his wife.

The fleet is in town,

Fresh-faced, well scrubbed

Serious young men

From Jackson, Mississippi

And Greenville, South Carolina

Stare open-mouthed at

Cartoons of bare buttocks

And unpatriotic sentiments

Posted on the walls around them.

“In this far out city

Yet

Even here

On the left side of the world”

Guests line up to

Thank them for their service

And pester them for selfies.

The 8 Bayshore Muni

Meanders up Columbus

And catches the lights

On Broadway before

The Condor sign

Where Carol Doda

Once titillated guests

With her

Twin Peaks.

As my third drink is delivered

At the next table an elderly man

With white beard and pigtail

Tells tales of Gregory and Jack

Hoping to impress

Switched on young women

From Berkeley and Stanford.

While at the end of the bar

Clutching bottles of Boston lager

The best minds of their generation

Prattle of apps and analytics.

“We’re Home, Bro'”

From the days of the Gold Rush and Barbary Coast, and through the last century when celebrated local columnist, Herb Caen, could be found perched on his favourite stool at the Washington Square Bar & Grill or Gold Dust Lounge, San Francisco has been a notorious drinking town. 

For nearly thirty years we have frequented a lot of bars in the City, but one in particular continues to beckon every time we touch down at SFO.

A few groggy steps across Jack Kerouac Alley from the equally legendary City Lights booksellers, we had first crossed the threshold of Vesuvio Café on the final night of our first visit in 1995. Emerging from the nearby Stinking Rose restaurant where they “season our garlic with food” (and wine for that matter), we were parched.

Almost anywhere that sold alcohol would have been welcome.

But this was no ordinary bar.

It gave the appearance of having changed little since the days it was the epicentre of the Beat Generation. The walls were festooned with artworks, photographs and newspaper cuttings of celebrated visitors. Free cultural leaflets and magazines lay scattered on every available surface.

After a show or dinner, this became the place to conclude an evening’s entertainment. Equally, following an afternoon shopping expedition from Union Square through Chinatown to North Beach, it was the natural place to relax. Initially, we would sit downstairs at one of the glass topped tables, preferably at the one with the slatted wicker chair that became increasingly rickety over the ensuing years.

The return visit from the quirky gents toilet in the cellar allowed me to tip my imaginary hat to Dylan and Ginsberg in the photo of them at the top of the staircase.

In later years, we headed for the table in the alcove upstairs beneath the large framed photograph of James Joyce – perfect for people watching and following live Giants action on one of the small televisions above the bar.

Hot days would demand beer (Sierra Nevada Pale Ale or Sam Adams), but especially during the evening, gin and tonics were called for in advance of walking back along Montgomery Street towards Market and journeys back to apartments in Hayes Valley, NOPA, Noe Valley and Bernal Heights, by Muni, taxi, or more latterly Uber.

One seemingly ordinary incident on a quiet Tuesday afternoon in April ten years ago sums up Vesuvio’s appeal.

Two balding young men in hooped t-shirts and navy blue shorts planted their bulky backpacks on the sidewalk while they searched for their I.D. to gain entry. The doorman, in tweed jacket and brown corduroy pants, lounging on a chair that looked like it might cave in under him at any moment, gave them a cursory, but professional, glance, took a heavy drag of his cigarette, and waved them in.

As they threw their swag down on the first seats inside, and took large quaffs of their Amstel beer, one said:

“This is the place, man. We’re home bro”.

As I sit now upstairs at a table overlooking the alley, I occasionally avert my eyes from the Giants game in Colorado to observe an elderly tour guide, with frayed satchel over her shoulder, halting on the corner to recount the night Jack Kerouac spent in the bar when he was meant to be joining Lawrence Ferlinghetti at Big Sur. His small coterie of Japanese students, however, giggle and snap enthusiastically away at the bare bottomed woman sign above the door.

Yes, I was home too.

Interview with a Poet

I was recently asked by a local magazine a series of questions about my poetry, its provenance and future plans. This is a transcript of the “interview”.

Can you remember your earliest interaction with poetry?

I suppose, like most children, nursery rhymes would have been the first poems that I engaged with. And then, as I progressed through primary and grammar school, I was exposed to Shakespeare, Wordsworth and the “classic” English poets. 

When did you realise that you not only had the talent and skill to be a successful poet but that you wanted to pursue a career in poetry?

That is making a big assumption! But, like most adolescent boys, I wrote soppy “love” poetry that, fortunately, has not survived! 

To readers who may not have heard you before, how would you describe your poetry?

I subscribe to Leonardo da Vinci’s claim that “simplicty is the greatest sophistication”, so don’t try to over cook the imagery or make the poems too wordy and obscure. I still, on occasions, like to use rhyme and traditional metre, whereas so much of modern poetry is now free verse (which I also do). If there is one goal I try to obtain in an individual poem, it is the creation of a mood, at atmosphere – show not tell I suppose. 

If you could pick the three most memorable moments in your career, what would they be and why?

I did write a three volume “novel” at the age of seven based upon the Tommy Steele song, “Little White Bull”. I am equally proud of the book on Kent cricket I co-wrote ten years ago which was very well received. But, aside from the adolescent stuff, it is only really since I retired from work and moved to Folkestone that I was inspired to write poetry regularly. There was a significant increase in my output during the first Covid-19 lockdown when I was producing a poem a day for several months. Some of those verses feature in my collection, Tickled by the Turning Tide: The Folkestone Poems, which was published only a week ago on 7^th April. 

You are both stranded on a desert island and can only take one book with you, what book are you choosing and why?

As with the radio programme, I am assuming that I can take a complete works of Shakespeare as well? That is an almost impossible question to answer, and my view might change, dependent upon my mood on a particular day. But I will say – today – Ulysses by James Joyce for its radical approach to the novel but especially its humour and evocation of a place (as my Folkestone poetry testifies, it is a sense of place that often appeals to me).

What do you enjoy most about living in Folkestone and do you have any particular favourite go-to spots in the town?

How long is this piece meant to be?! Being by the sea, with all its benefits, has to be the most important factor, though Folkestone’s creative vibe has helped inspire my own work. And then there is the dining scene – one of my poems is entitled I Sit in Coffee Shops, and that pretty much sums up my everyday life! I could recommend so many places, but Marley’s, Django’s, Folklore (where I had my recent book launch) and Steep Street Coffee House are probably my top four, though there are several others that meet different needs at different times.

Has living in Folkestone and being by to the sea helped inspire any of your poems?

Clearly!

Given the past 36 months and the evolving digital world, what are your thoughts on the current status of poetry, will it still have a future in say 40, 50 years’ time and will it need to adapt to survive?

Judging by the growing attendances at the local Poets’ Corner, Folkestone group, the town’s poetry scene seems to be thriving. Whilst I found that Covid gave my poetry a significant boost, providing me with a mechanism by which I could come to terms with what was happening, I know that others were completely floored and could, or wanted, not to write anything. I believe we have now moved out of that depression and many, maybe even more, people are writing again. Poetry has been with us for thousands of years, and I expect it to continue to have a role in attempting to make sense of the world and articulating it in a thought-provoking and – important for these days – manageable way. 

Do you have any upcoming books that readers should look out for?

I have already mentioned the Folkestone poetry book, which is available online through all the major retailers and also being sold on my behalf in a several outlets throughout the town.  The best way at present to get your hands on a copy – and a signed one at that – is direct from me by messaging me on my Facebook pages or email at tonyquarrington@msn.com.

Do you have a future vision of what you would like to achieve over the next 5-10 years?

Absolutely – I have several projects on the go. For the past twelve years I have been putting together a book about my love for San Francisco, and with the immediate Folkestone project completed now, I can return to that. Since I moved to the town I have been keen to produce a modern tourist guide, based upon my walking tours that I have been delivering for the past six years. And with an Italian holiday on the horizon, I am hoping to write a travel diary, hopefully in poetic form. And possibly a second volume of poetry!

Tickled by the Turning Tide: The Folkestone Poems

I am pleased to announce that my first collection of poetry, Tickled by the Turning Tide: The Folkestone Poems will be published on 6^th April 2023.

When I was first taken on holiday by my parents to Folkestone at the age of ten, I could never have thought that, more than half a century later, I would not only return to the town to live but be publishing a book of poetry inspired by it.

All thirty three verses reflect my adopted coastal home, covering key moments in the town’s history, from its fishing heritage to its role as a port of embarkation for war, and from its period as a fashionable seaside resort, which welcomed royalty and writers, to its decline and subsequent regeneration as an art and dining destination.

I also explore aspects of modern living in a town that is changing rapidly.

Since I moved here with my wife in 2016, I have not only written and performed my poetry in a variety of locations, including coffee houses, bars and even on the steep, cobbled Old High Street, but also created and run a successful series of literary evenings, initially as a lockdown solution but still going strong after three years, and delivered award winning walking tours of the local area.

The official launch will take place at Folklore on Tuesday 11^th April 2023 at 7pm, at which I will be signing copies and reading a handful of the poems.

I will also be delivering more readings at the Steep Street Coffee House on Thursday 4^th May in the coming weeks in addition to running walking tours on 22^nd and 26^th April to promote the collection.

The book will retail at £10.99 in the UK (USA £12.99) but, for the first two months, I will be offering it at the discount price of £8. For those living in and around Folkestone, I will be happy to deliver or arrange collection. I will also be delighted to sign the book (for those wanting its value to diminish immediately!).

It will also be available for sale from 1^st May  at the Folkestone Bookshop, Town Hall/Musuem, Steep Street Coffee House and The Great British Shop on the Old High Street. I am currently negotiating with other outlets to do the same. If you have any questions in the meantime or wish to purchase a copy once it is available, please either message me on one of my social media platforms or email me at tonyquarrington@msn.com.

A Short History of Folkestone – for my poetry collection

My upcoming poetry book, “Dust in my Cappuccino” is a collection of thirty two poems inspired by the coastal town of Folkestone in the south east corner of England. In order to provide some context to the poems for those readers unfamiliar with the town, I have written a short history of the town. This will feature as the introduction to the collection when it is published next month.

Located on the south east coast of England, a handful of miles from the famed White Cliffs, and only twenty two miles from continental Europe, Folkestone has had a long, varied history, boasting both Bronze and Iron Age settlements and a prominent Roman Villa, sadly now perilously close to the cliff erosion that has always afflicted this coastline.

Descended from the the Anglo-Saxon Kings of Kent, Eanswythe, a devout young princess, founded a nunnery in the town in the seventh century AD, and was subsequently made a saint. Her bones, discovered in the parish church by workmen in 1885, were radiocarbon tested and confirmed in 2020, and the church is now becoming a growing site of pilgrimage.

For a thousand years, Folkestone was a modest fishing village and, for most of that time, as a limb of the Cinque Port of Dover, also a busy trading port. Smuggling was a not insignificant business from the eighteenth century too. But it was the coming of the railway and associated cross-channel ferry industry from 1843, and the construction in later decades of grand hotels and white stuccoed family homes, notably in the West End, that contributed to its rise as a fashionable resort that attracted royalty, artists and writers in addition to the Victorian and Edwardian middle class. Much of this development was conceived, funded and overseen by the Earl of Radnor, who still owns land in the town and surrounding area.

The “golden age” that began around 1880 arguably came to a sudden halt with the outbreak of the Great War, which had a profound effect on Folkestone. It became a major port of embarkation for the Western Front, and the final sight of England for millions of troops, many of whom will have marched from the neighbouring Shorncliffe army camp. The bombing of Tontine Street in 1917 brought about the highest number of British civilian dead as a result of an air raid during the war up until that point.

The inter war years saw a revival, with Folkestone exploiting its natural beauty – the Channel views, rolling hills, delightful parks and gardens – by marketing itself as “Fashionable” and “Spacious and Gracious”. Moreover, its popularity as a resort was enhanced by the Earl of Radnor’s “foreshore development” that included the building of the Rotunda, the largest unsupported concrete dome in Europe, swimming pool and boating lake, supplementing the existing Victoria Pier, switchback railway and the 1885 Leas water lift.

The town suffered heavy bombardment during the Second World War, destroying much of the harbour, but recovered as a seaside destination during the fifties and early sixties, which is when my Folkestone story began. The Rotunda, quaint, steep Old High Street with the revered Rock and Joke shops and the popular ferry route to Boulogne-sur-mer, kept the visitors coming and the locals entertained.

But, like so many other UK coastal resorts, it suffered a deep decline as the advent of cheap air fares, duty free and longer annual leave allowance, led to an escape to resorts where the sun was twenty degrees warmer and the beer ten degrees colder. Many of the much loved attractions and hotels closed, were demolished and converted into flats, and trade in the town slumped. Although the cross-channel ferry industry stopped at the turn of the century, Folkestone has retained its role as a point of departure to the continent with the opening of the Channel Tunnel in 1994.

The new Millennium brought a revival, aided by the philanthropy of former Saga owner, Sir Roger De Haan, who renovated and refurbished many of the buildings in the old town, offering the properties to creatives, provided education and sporting facilities (the latest of which the world’s first multi-storey skatepark), and restored and remodelled the derelict harbour area. The construction of up to a thousand apartments along the shoreline between the Leas Lift (currently closed) and the Harbour Arm is also now underway.

Since 2008, the Folkestone Triennial has showcased new works from established British and International artists, around half of each remain in the town once the exhibition is over. There are now around ninety such pieces placed outdoors around town.  

De Haan’s influence and the arrival of the high speed rail link (only fifty four minutes from London) in 2007, has proved a happy marriage in rendering Folkestone more accessible. Comparatively cheap (but rising) house prices, the advantages of living by the sea, a vibrant dining scene and improving facilities, not least for children, have all led to a growing relocation of people, many of them young families, predominantly from London.

My love affair with Folkestone began at the age of ten when I was brought by my parents from my hometown of Rochester, forty-five miles away on the North Kent coast, on the first of a succession of summer holidays to the town. It was my mother’s admitted but modest pretensions to social mobility which led to the choice of Folkestone rather than the traditional “bucket and spade” resorts such as Herne Bay, Margate or Broadstairs.

Once I left home and moved around the country for study or work, visits became much less frequent, though I always retained my affection for the town. In fact, my parents long harboured the desire of retiring to Folkestone (on their last holiday together they had stayed in the Grand Burstin Hotel at the harbour), but with my mother’s relatively early passing, it never materialised. But their groundwork was not done in vain, as when the opportunity arose in 2016, my wife and I had no hesitation in moving here.

I have gathered together thirty two of my poems inspired by Folkestone, in which many of the themes and events I have outlined above are referenced and explored. One particular challenge has been whether to present them in a systematic way, for example, chronology, geography or subject matter, but ultimately, they are laid before you in an essentially random form, at least superficially.

Conversation with a Seagull

As I step away from Bob’s counter,

With freshly caught crab sandwich

(The crab, not the sandwich),

Clutched firmly in my hand

For fear of avian ambush,

I am swiftly joined by an adult gull –

We will call him “Sid” –

(Because he is no ordinary gull,

As we shall soon discover),

Who plants himself

At a respectful distance 

Professing no interest in the carton

Of half eaten fish and chips

Lounging seductively and dangerously

On the adjoining table.

As I take my first bite,

He does that endearing seagull trick

Of pretending to avert his eyes

Whilst slyly tracking the course

The sandwich takes

Between my hand and mouth.  

A staring contest ensues,,

I for one not daring to take my eyes off

My inscrutable guest for one second.

I try to rationalise with Sid:

“Feeding you is not good for you,

In fact it’s cruel;

You will get ill if you

Persist in eating human food”.

After shooing off an interloping chick,

He replies:

“Crab is hardly human food”,

“I’ve been eating it for years

And it’s never done me any harm”.

Taken aback by this surprising development,

I take another, more censorious, tack:

“But you ransack our waste bins

And leave the contents strewn everywhere

In your search for our leftovers”.

Sid remains unimpressed and,

After what he thinks is 

A surreptitious but unsuccessful 

Jab at my sandwich,

Exclaims:

“Well, that’s down to you people

Not putting your bins our properly;

We wouldn’t take the food if it

Was securely tied and hidden away,

We can’t be blamed for 

Your slapdash behaviour”. 

Irritated that he appeared to 

Have an answer for everything,

I resolved to play the excreta card,

That had to be the clincher:

“You have an unfortunate propensity”

(I had decided by now that

He was an educated sort of chap

And would understand such long words),

”For shitting everywhere too,

On our windows, our cars,

And even ours kids, at times’’.

Sid took particular umbrage at this slur:

“Well, on that point, don’t you humans

Claim that it is lucky?

So I can’t fathom your problem here;

And we’re only doing what comes naturally,

We’ve been doing it for thirty million years,

And besides if you didn’t leave so much

Of your crap like pizza and chips lying around,

Our evacuations might not be 

As copious or disagreeable”.

And before I have time to respond,

He tilts his head and 

Turns on the full charm offensive

By saying:

“But come on, admit it, we are cute,

Aren’t we?”

“The way we sashay around, 

Our endlessly amusing repertoire 

Of squawks and screeches, 

And the way we mate for life 

And look after our kids

(Much better than some of you), 

You can’t deny it really, can you?”

I admit defeat gracefully and pass him

My final mouthful of crab sandwich

In acknowledgement of his victory.

As I fold the wrapping, 

Being careful to place it 

In the nearest available bin, 

He flaps his wings,

Checks for any orphan crumbs

Or juicy looking dog ends, 

And scoots perilously past me,

Grazing my left ear,

In pursuit of more sympathetic diners.

East Cliff

 

In every tuft of dew-drenched grass

And every slice of crumbling chalk,

The howl of history is heard

Across this patch of green I walk.

Ferries no longer line the pier,

Nor steam from up trains fill the air,

The view replaced by Folkestone sign

And Burstin’s monumental glare. 

Mouldering Martello tower, 

Former lookout for all that floats, 

Stares out today at pitch and putt, 

And bowling club instead of boats.

Above sharp pointed St. Peter’s spire

The roar of spitfires still turns heads

Of tourists, swimmers, fishermen,

And foragers on fossil beds.

The Chinese Elvis lives here now,

From Old Kent Road to East Wear Bay,

No ghetto or jailhouse in sight,

But bungalows and children’s play. 

On ten thousand year old Jock’s Pitch,

Where breathless dogs now chase balls,

A caldarium bubbles underneath

And another chunk of cliff top falls.