Guardian poem of the week With Joe on Silver Street by Helen Tookey Tuesday 1 August 1967: Said goodbye to Kenneth this morning. He seemed odd. On the spur of the moment I asked if he wanted to come home to Leicester with me. He looked surprised and said, No. – from the diary of Joe Orton In scratty fake-fur jackets, jaunty caps and baseball boots we saunter Silver Street, skiving our ls: its Siwver Street to slack- mouthed Midlanders like us, who cant be arsed with alveolar laterals. Of course, RADA and elocution did the trick, but still you keep a hint of Saffron Lane – it charms the pants off Peggy and the rest, just like the coat: Cheap clothes suit me, you smirked, Its cos Im from the gutter; and it works, theyre all down on their knees, lapping it up. Sometimes I think I hate you, Joe: I can be cruel, but cruelty is something pure for you, a fire that kills and makes things clean and true; and I know anger, but the rage that shoots your star high through the London nights is something Im afraid to face. Youve travelled far beyond me, Joe, and you dont plan on coming back, I know; but here we are on Silver Street, and look, in black and white, that little word you never had the time to strike out from those last blind lines, Joe: home.
Posted on: Mon, 03 Feb 2014 10:31:54 +0000
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