Carrying The Elephant — Poetry is for everyone #14
What do discontinued sausages and RADA have in common?
I am sat at a desk in a business park in Uxbridge, part of a copywriting team tasked with transforming a major UK supermarket’s Customer Service standard letter library to respond to the thousands of letters and emails they receive every day. I help to respond to the emails mostly for now — this was my bread and butter before I was an actor.
I receive a message from someone named Michael. He’s wondering what’s happened to his favourite sausages — they’ve been absent from his local shop’s shelves for a few weeks now. Hmm. Let me see. After some enquiries I discover that those particular sausages have sadly been discontinued. I craft my apologetic response in the ‘House Style’ we are retraining the supermarket’s staff in and notice Michael’s full name for the first time — it can’t be-not the the real guy-but maybe the real guy?
I let him know that the sausages have been discontinued nationwide but if enough people write in like him, their messages will be passed on to the product buyers and the supermarket may reconsider. He responds with enthusiasm — I shall rally my friends! He says. Great idea, a letter writing campaign? I ask. Yes exactly, says he, that’s kind of my thing. I thought it might be, I dare venture. Are you He? I am he, he says with humility. I’ve read your poems since I was a child, I confess, they mean a great deal to me. And now you’re writing yourself, he says. Well, of a sort, I reply. I really want to be an actress, so this is just my in-between. Like my decision of whether or not to beat a path towards drama school or university. If it was him, he offers, he’d go the education route. Thank you, I say. I really will pass on any more messages I receive about the sausages. Thank you, he says, good luck!
I didn’t follow Michael’s advice in the end but he did inspire a poem of my own for that gift of an exchange. Maybe I’ll share it some day.
When I finally made it to RADA, Michael Rosen had a new book out — Carrying the Elephant, it was called. It wasn’t one for children but I picked it up anyway. Whipping through it at warp speed, it pierced my soul to the depths of my being. Seventy-two prose poems ‘A Memoir of Love and Loss’, I’d never read anything like it. The elephant in the room was his grief, the sudden loss of his son to meningitis the great burden that he bore. I remember that same epidemic sweeping its way through my own school, devastating parents everywhere. I wondered if he was working on it whilst we corresponded about sausages. I read it over and over. When I had to choose a poem for some god-awful drama school assessment I had to live out in front of my peers (I’ve mentioned a more detailed account of one of these before) I ever so carefully made a selection from the book, piecing together six from the seventy-two. Though they did capture an essence of the collection it wasn’t its whole, which really should be experienced in full.
At some point after that, I blindly gave my copy away to someone, a boyfriend I think, with love but always thinking I could just replace my own copy in the weeks that followed. In a terrifying moment a while later, I found that the book was no longer in print. I treasured that book so much I then did a terrible thing. I had borrowed one from a library in the interim but decided to claim to have lost it, reimbursing them the full cost of the book as standard, but still. It kept this book from just as inquisitive readers as I, or worse, heartbroken mourners who it could potentially offer solace to — it truly is an astonishing companion for anyone in the throes of grief. I’d actually forgotten that I’d done this until now and have decided to buy a copy for the library I borrowed it from if I can find one, the copy I have is far too well-thumbed to be returned — but then might we call it an extended loan, as opposed to theft? Good grief, I feel like one of those gloriously notoriously awful children from the first poetry collection of his that I ever read Hairy Tales and Nursery Crimes.
Michael Rosen, now in his seventies has published over 140 books many of which have been illustrated by the inimitable Quentin Blake - he himself is of course arguably the closest a human can get to looking like a Quentin Blake illustration, to his credit, by the way - he has amassed a wealth of accolades and was the appointed Children’s Poet Laureate from 2007-2009. He is probably most famous for his children’s works but today I am going to share with you those six poems from Carrying The Elephant which I believe to be his most seminal work. May these poems act as a gateway into the extraordinary humanity and delicate power of this raw and beautiful book which is very much for grown ups, especially those who have experienced or are experiencing, loss.
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For those who resonate with his writing, he has also written two further companion pieces to go along with it; This Is Not My Nose: A Memoir of Illness and Recovery and In The Colonie: A Memoir of Separation and Belonging; though I can vouch for their literary wonder I can’t for their wide availability sadly, as they too are out of print.
Given the challenges accessing these works - especially with people pilfering copies off library shelves - as a special treat this week I’ve decided to include a reading as well. It’s obviously one I’ve read before albeit twenty years ago, but it doesn’t read like poetry to me it’s much more narrative in its structure. This is a bonus for paid subscribers so if you would like to listen, upgrade below then come back to this post and the full piece including the recording will magically appear!
Carrying the Elephant
Michael Rosen
Pg. 40 The last night together. He lay on the sofa where he loved to lie. He was feeling groggy he said. Didn't watch TV. Tired as usual, I thought. So hard to wind down after evening work, I thought. Staying up late, seeing his Melissa. Kipping during the day on the sofa here with me. He got up once to check his Pager. Melissa was buzzing him. He seemed fed up, aching. Just like his sister had the night before. Lying just where she had been lying. Temperature, aching, - Hey, I said, a book of riddles has come through the post. They wrote round a set of poets and asked each of us to write a riddle. I wrote one. I read it to him. - Do you get it? - Yes, he said, your bum. -That's it, I said. Your bum. Yes, those were his last words. Pg. 41 There were ways of figuring how big he got. Like where his eyes came to, face to face. The way his finger-tips edged beyond mine, hand to hand. His wrists peering out of the ends of his shirtsleeves. The way the guys couldn't keep hold of his body bag as they tried to slide it down the stairs. Pg. 42 It wasn't a good idea to leave him in the morgue. He came back to the house and people went in to see him. His hair was still growing. A short blond fuzz came out round his hairline. I put my hand on his chest and it rustled. Under his shirt they'd dressed him in a bin bag. They must have cut him about to find out what happened. I mucked about with his hair. His shoes were where he left them. His shoes are where he left them. Pg. 43 Next door neighbour Rob works late, talks football, enjoys parties, goes running, washes up. He didn't drop in or leave a note. I didn't see him for several days. Those first worst days. Then, in the alley between our houses I saw him. He saw me. We stood face to face. - Rather you than me, he said. We went on standing. - And best of luck Saturday, he said. I thought, but the funeral isn't on Saturday. - And he said, Arsenal playing Spurs. Pg. 47 dear joe, your wild noisy huge brother is dead. I couldn't do what my parents did: bring two boys, four years apart, through the maze. I don't know if I'll find my way as well as they did, seeing as they lost one back near the beginning. Pg. 48 thank you for your card. I can't answer your question: 'What can I say?' as I don't know what to say either. You're right, it is a loss. It reminds me that I lost him. He was there. Then he wasn't. Though in between, he was blue and stiff and landed with a thud when 999 told me to pull him to the floor. Yes, it is unfair and cruel. It also makes me tired with a tiredness that hangs on like a dog. It's nice of you to say you'll always remember him. You won't.