This is an old picture of David Allenby, my partner of forty-something years, who died today. He was a man of many names - William Braquemard, GOD (Good Old Dave), Dr Allingham. He collaborated with me on the book and I don't think it would have made it into print without him. I did mention him in the acknowledgements, likewise he has a name-check on the film, but I can never thank him enough. I shall miss him forever.
This is the first poem I wrote about him -
Breakfast with Doctor Allingham
(for DJA)
He prefers it Continental-style.
The obscene dripping sausages of the Britons,
the bacon with its visible fat and cunt-taste,
the almost too-symbolical eggs -
these disgust his sensitive palate.
He sits like an emperor in his bay-window
which overlooks the fertile cemetery.
It is almost October. Fruits are in season.
Ripely they fall to his open hand.
Breakfast with him involves all of the senses.
"A woman for children," he pronounces,
"A boy for pleasure. A melon for ecstasy.
Old Turkish proverb, that." He sinks his teeth
up to the gums in moony flesh
and relishes the juices as they flow:
his fine moustaches are clipped back daily
lest they should trap one liquid drop.
His breakfast-companions, whether male or female,
listen, and watch his gourmandise,
and find that they are almost flattered
to see themselves so deliciously betrayed.
He breaks the tight skins of small, sweet apples;
probes with his tongue a fresh-split fig;
succulent oranges bleed for him
as he strips a pear to its naked core
or kisses the velvety cleft of a peach.
Clusters of grapes like Diana of Ephesus
he crushes and sucks with lascivious appetite;
strawberries that bruise at the touch of a finger
lie virgin, lapped in smoothest cream.
Melons, whether musk or honeydew,
nectarine, apricot, muscat, medlar
yield to this promiscuous epicure.
All flesh is fruit, and should be plucked
while glowing, fragrant, plump and lush,
ripe to the brink of rottenness -
not hang and shrivel untasted on the tree.
Or so says Doctor Allingham, replete,
and gazing from his breakfast-room window
at the opulent autumn cemetery.
And here is his photo blog Hull and Hereabouts. I hesitated to post this because he ended it in 2020 with several rants. But which of us reacted well to lockdown? And, with a PhD in biochemistry, he knew rather more about "the Science" than you or I. But you can skip those bits.
He had some wonderful photos and witty commentaries. The blog is a joy, do scroll through it. You'll get more of a sense of the man than I can convey.
Au revoir, Davey-Jo
