Derek Mahon’s wonderful poem A Disused Shed in County Wexford has picked up a couple of mentions on Substack recently.
The first that caught my eye was on
’s Some Flowers Soon, where he used the opening line to launch his article ‘in defence of academic inspiration:Even now there are places where a thought might grow –
The other was on another
’s Substack, A Poetry Notebook, where he wrote about ‘The Middle-Distance Poem: An Elegy’, an article the first Jeremy responded to very fulsomely.Jem ends his post with this witty conclusion:
All I am doing here is clearing the ground and, I hope, sending a smoke signal up to other enthusiasts. Perhaps you’ve spotted one yourself recently? Perhaps you’d be able to spare a few hours a month to help us maintain a middle-distance poem in your area? All correspondence should be sent to the Society for the Preservation of the Middle Distance Poem, c/o A Disused Shed in Co. Wrexford.
His thought-provoking article got Shedman thinking about whether any of his poems might qualify as ‘middle-distance’. He’s in no sense an Emmanuel Wanyonyi (world champion in the 800m) or even a Max Burgin (7th), much more of a local park runner. But see what you think.
Here’s Maximum Shed, written a few years ago as a special commission from Jonathan Bridgeman for his oldest friend Max to mark the opening of his new shed.
Let’s go down to the shed again, my old mate, Let’s go down to the shed again and talk until it’s late, till the bottles lie empty in the grass and stars fill the sky. We’ll put the world to rights, you and I. Do you remember those rainy days, school in Builth Wells? The old library, the cigarettes and those inaccessible girls? Forest brought us together, Forest took you to Notts. Forest draws us together again in spite of all they’ve lost— that unbeaten League game record, the glory days of Clough. Supporting the Reds over the years has been surprisingly tough. But through them we’ve won our friendship, stronger as each year goes by— though now your shed’s bigger than mine, I’m starting to wonder why? And Max, what a shed you have for yourself a maximum shed at a stroke, somewhere to carve your name with pride —and enjoy a sneaky smoke. Though you may have sown the seeds of change allowing a drum kit inside. Still, amidst the snare and the high hat young Pepe can follow your lead and learn the arts of the shedman, those moments of solace and grace. (We’ll forget the odd occasion when you’ve been off your face.) Those times when the wind seems to listen as the afternoon curls into dusk, when words between friends aren’t needed and nothing is too much to ask. Gone are the days in West Bridgford with the old allotment shed, where you spent so much time inside it you never grew any veg. No apples, no courgettes, no marigolds, just weed as thick as thatch. That’s when the old folks decided to drum you off their patch. But now—you’ve got a shed to be proud of, with room for your cat, dear old Laugharne. Now I guess you won’t be away so much in your Volkswagen camper van. But how do you solve a problem like Maria? She’s the love of your life no doubt. But a word of advice from me and the shed put a sign up: Women! Keep Out! Let me say, once for all, it’s a pleasure, and an honour I’ll never forget, to be asked to cut the ribbon to open the way to your shed. Here’s me in banking and finance, you a psychiatric nurse. No doubt we’ll be friends forever, even beyond the hearse. And whatever we’ve shed to get here, whatever we’ve shared in the past, let’s shed much more in the future and share a full life to the last. So, let’s go down to the shed again, my old mate Let’s go down to the shed again and talk until it’s late, till the bottles lie empty in the grass and stars fill the sky, and we’ve put the world to rights, you and I.
