John Clare, Jimtom, Me as Well | Bruce Hodder

John Clare sits, hat between his knees,
on a bench outside the local council building.
Night has come. It’s a little chilly now,
and Jimtom, Northampton’s greatest bard,
is behind me, reading from a well-inked book.
I can’t hear him because of passers-by
who look and wonder what we’re doing here.
We’ve come tonight to praise the peasant poet,
who’s cast in bronze to add a hint of culture
to a town that locked his body up in life.
There must be ten of us around John’s seat.
The others, genteel but slightly threadbare,
have read Clare poems that they brought or borrowed.
One shared an extract from his play on Clare.
He’s comfortable, like two cars on the drive.
But Jimtom’s got a big white worker’s van
with decals on it, and his accent’s strong.
He has a tone that speaks to me of earth and trees,
of ancient stones, and of the natural spaces
where the spirit breathes more easily.
I get that from him, though I can’t explain it
and I think Clare gets it just as keenly.
He sits, bronze hat between his knees,
looking pleased as Jimtom weaves his poem.
When the others leave, perhaps we’ll all hang out
in the gloom, Clare, Jimtom, me as well
and as a thickening fog makes ghosts of us,
we’ll smoke and tell each other Shoe Town stories.

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