John Cassidy: An Attitude of Mind

Last October it was very gratifying to see such an enthusiastic response to our feature on the work of the late George MacBeth, a poet who, although he had a considerable reputation in the 70s and 80s and was included in A. Alvarez’s groundbreaking anthology The New Poetry, is now not  widely read. John Cassidy, whom we are featuring today,  is another fine poet who first made his name in the 70s. Like MacBeth his presence on the internet is virtually non-existent and his books are now, sadly,  out of print.

Fortunately for us, however, John is very much a live and The High Window will be featuring four new poems by him in our spring issue. John’s work first attracted attention when he was included in Faber’s Poetry Introduction #3 in 1975, a collection in which his poems appeared alongside those of  Gillian Clarke, Valerie Gillies, Paul Groves, Ian McDonald, Andrew Motion, Tom Paulin, Jeffrey Wainwright and Kit Wright.

In 1978, he published his  collection, An Attitude of Mind, with Hutchinson. An outstanding debut, it was followed by two impressive collections with Bloodaxe: Night Cries (1982) and Walking on Frogs (1990).  Today we are featuring four poems from An Attitude of Mind and, in due course, will post selections from his Bloodaxe books.


John Cassidy: Four Poems from An Attitude of Mind


The spread stone town lies quiet as the light.
From some points you can look right down on it,
The valley sides being steep; an almost
Aerial view at the cost of pulled thighs.

Rooftops mark the lines of streets like the splayed
Spine of a fish. Early separate smokes
Finger the air over the houses, still
Wavering and uncertain in the bright

Morning, before their solidarity
Weaves a sunproof jacket for today’s use.
To move out of that valley is to glide
Along the bottom where the railway ran

And over no-man’s land to the next one
Just like it. Unless you clamber instead
Sideways, driving your legs beyond the streets
To stumble up among the tussocks here,

Where now in a chilling sweat you can sit
And spit on those rooftops if you want to,
Or lie and listen to the moorbirds when
They shout their mating noises in the wind.

No roads come up this way against the lie
Of the land. You have to come cross-country.
And there on the opposite hill a wall
Arches itself like a startled eyebrow.


The sheep cries were echoless,
unclear. That was the first thing.
Peaks stark a minute before
were gone now, and the colour
in the grass had been switched off,
half-noticed; but the sudden
dead sound of the bleating spelt
open threat. The rest followed.

Hardly had I resented
the clasp of cold on my neck
than the mist stood solidly
everywhere, almost nudging
my shoulder to stagger me
into peat pools, feet baffled,
unsure of anything, the
very ground untrustworthy.

Getting down out of it was
not the easiest of skills.
There was a full beck running
loud enough to be found if
I wanted to try. Never
follow a river, follow
a wall. Rivers can become
cataracts and rope down cliffs.

You see them streaking the sides
of hills, often the only
glitter in a grey day, loud,
silver and suicidal.
They have a logic that I
hesitate at, a straight-down
get-there determination.
It is the way of water.

But men build walls; they lumber
boulders in incredibly
precarious places, they
manage a balance you can
only gasp at, but where men
have lodged and perched stones there is
a sureness, a sense of place,
and other men find foothold.

Dare as they did and you can
trust them, moving with caution,
palms running over rough grain,
lichen, tufts of wool where sheep
have jumped, reassuring loaf-
shapes settled with so precise
an art, such knowledgeable
hands, that they live as comrades.

Grope for a wall then, wander
stride after slow stride towards
a loom of stone, past sheep skeined
in condensed mist, still, stopping
their chewing to watch you pass.
They turn their horned, alien
heads and stare. This is their world.
Bracken tangles your ankles.

It was as it always is.
The wall was there, in the end,
pushing itself in my path.
I caught hold of it, followed
its side as it led downward,
and came to the valley like
an awakening. Bright fields
were thick with hay being worked.

In the warm smells I walked through
there was friendliness; farmers
asked how it had been on top.
Damp, I said, looking back up
where the slope edged into cloud
and the walls vanished. It was
a word for the difference,
a word. I shook myself dry.

Not far away the rattle
of water flourished again
the river’s dash from the crag
and its jovial bounce through
the valley’s acres. That free
drop sparkled and surged in my
head all day. The wall’s art, too,
was something I was glad of.


It was the night of the mess dance. Ballooons on the bamboo walls,
The twirl of top brass, bags of off-duty bonhomie,
A spin of gin-bright wives whilst the scratched records hissed.
Outside was cooler. I found a night thick with crickets,
And a moon tangled in the thorn scrub.
There were fires glimmering on a far ridge,
And, distantly, the drums of another dance.
By the thin track in front of me frogs
Grated the darkness. Everything pulsed.

A dog came out of the grass, head low and loping.
He stopped, one big foot
Lifted. Heavier than any
Dog. Tail flicking. I stood. Slowly
The head swung at me, and I saw eyes like lamps.
Behind me the music whined and the floor
Jogged. We watched each other, yards apart, waiting.
Then the eyes went out and he wasn’t there.
The grass shivered after him.

Inside again, the lights, the noise, the walls,
The ordinariness held off the night’s inhabitants,
Reducing again to rumour things
That prowled around out there.
Next morning, though, the pug marks
Scarred the smooth damp ground.


The mad whinnying of a starter-motor
Shook the morning awake, and it must have been
A bad morning for engines, from the sound of it.
It looked no better. Light was just touching
A few twigs, furred with rime. Mist hung about.

The night could be remembered.
An owl on a lamp-post swivelled
Its big disc face, one way and then the other,
Querying the grass. A bus rumbled
And hissed under its perch, but ruffled no feather.

The passengers’ glazed faces moved
In another life. If there came in that lamplight
A colourless, noiseless pounce, no one knew.
There would be no more than a squeak as a life went out.
The morning had no tell-tale blood on view.

The engine struggled, coughed a couple of times,
And sidled growling from the kerb,
Slithering over ice-patches and swinging
Away to town. Nothing now to disturb
The mist. No sound but the heart beating.

Rhythms resettled themselves.
The car would be throbbing at the pulse of beacons
Somewhere approaching town. Clocks irritatingly clicked
Or pompously, publicly boomed out another summons.
The day was moving; its metres meshed and locked.

The sky became visible and was much like
Yesterday’s. The usual things were again to be seen around.
That owl was a still to file away and store.
The lights on the road went out at the time arranged.
Newspapers pushed the date through every door.

 John Cassidy was born in Lancashire and studied English at Manchester University for five years after post-war army service with an East African regiment. He has served as a literature adviser for North West Arts and has conducted readings and seminars at venues from prisons to universities. He was a tutor in Creative Writing at Bolton University, who awarded him an Honorary Doctorate. He has published collections with Hutchinson and Bloodaxe, and his poems have appeared in several periodicals and many anthologies. They have also featured on BBC TV and radio programmes.

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4 thoughts on “John Cassidy: An Attitude of Mind

  1. Dear David,

    This post comes timely, because I was opening my email to write you. I’ve been receiving knowledge, pleasure, and stimulation from all of /The High Window/’s posts, but haven’t been writing you anything, I’m so busy with my own projects. And that continues. This won’t be much of a note. I’m “on sabbatical” so the too-much-to-do I’ve got, I’ve given myself, which makes it very good, but still anxiety-producing.

    Cassidy is a new note for me. I admired the four poems greatly and was deeply taken with “Hill Mist”. The meditation on the wall, and even the tone and some of the subordinate perceptions in it, remind one of Frost, of course; but of Frost as engaged in dialogue, not at all imitated. You refer to the earlier feature on MacBeth. Not being one who keeps up much on the flow of contemporary literary history, the ins and outs, I was surprised to hear that MacBeth had faded from view. I remembered reading him with admiration; I have one of his books, and the Penguin anthology or sampler he was in, in that three-poems-per-book series Penguin had. I’ve also read his /Poetry 1900-1965 /anthology from the late sixties, and I have his /Penguin Book of Victorian Verse/. I always wanted to read his Tennyson anthology, /The Falling Splendour/, but have never gotten around to acquiring a copy. Anyway, your feature reminded me of him, provided poems I hadn’t known, and got me to go and find out about him. A terrible ending. I do not know what one can say. From reading him and reading about him, he seems a lovable person.

    For some time now I’ve had and have been reading /After Hours/. Your book has beauties that aren’t unlike some of Cassidy’s, though entirely in your own tone and field of experience. Each of the four parts of this book is excellent. To me, the most powerful are the third part, which the cover copy identifies as concerning your father-in-law, and the fourth part. The translation of “Song of Autumn”, truly a poem as great as Baudelaire’s greatest, is phenomenal (as is the Rilke translation in part 1). “Redundancy” and “The Home” really got in amongst me. I could say that they’re sharp or powerful depictions or evocations; what I think moved me most was that, on top of the power of memory, imagery and tribute in them, the express a view of life without ever, or hardly ever, putting in a word that explicitly indicates it. It’s a kind of total realism that nevertheless remains open, that doesn’t decide, that doesn’t have the philosophy of “that’s all” usually inherent in “realism”. You mention Catholic upbringing. Perhaps you are an (unchurched?) “Christian pessimist”!? It’s hard to characterize such a thing as this vision: which, of course, is why poetry. If one’s attitudes could be put some other way, they would be. In another, but related, way, I’ve most enjoyed pure lyrics, or lyrics with just a whisper of narrative or biographical information, such as “The Fly Past”, “Apocryphal”, “The Railway Lamp” (beautiful…and I guess that one has quite a large measure of biographical content), the “White-Throated Gull” translation (this is a truly beautiful poem); have you read /The Finest Music /early Irish poetry anthology by Maurice Riordan? this poem is not of course “early” but it belongs in that book!), “Caversham Revisited”, “Requeiscant”.

    But enough. No use just listing things. I’ve also read Anthony’s Alain Fournier translations, and I intend to try to do two short reviews for a Canadian magazine down in the fall, when things have cleared out for me.

    This email’s business, though, is to ask you for a mailing address, if you’d be willing to receive a “for the favour of review” copy from my publisher of my selected poems, which we were discussing back when you broached (something that still makes me very happy) the possibility of a selected with you. This book (/The Sparrow: Selected Poems/) will appear soon, in April. I have to hurry if I’m going to be able to provide a list to influence the publisher’s publicity people on where to send review copies. I am not fishing for a review (I’m not against one of course!) but really I hope to get you a free copy in a way that is cheap (free) and easy for me. If in fact they won’t send you one for any reason, such as limited number of review copies, I’ll send you one on my own later in the spring.

    Hoping that you and yours are well,


    Liked by 1 person

    1. Dear Al I am overwhelmed by this message, particularly of course by your kind comments re After Hours. To be honest I find the contemporary poetry scene in the UK quite depressing and frequently wonder whether there is any audience out there for my poems: a middle-aged to old white guy with a fairly decent education doesn’t really tick the right boxes these days I’m afraid. Still, every now and then I get feedback like yours which makes it all worth while. That is why I am doing my best to give some publicity to people like Cassidy. A phenomenal poet who is still alive but totally overlooked and out of print. It’s pathetic really when you look at the kind of stuff that gets lauded to the skies. I’ll look forward to seeing your selected poems and I think I know someone who might review them. Rodney Wood a friend of mine met you recently with Todd Swift at some event in the UK. I’d love to have a copy for myself as well and after your kind words I’ll have to send you more of mine. Here is my postal address: David Cooke, 3 Grovely Close, Peatmoor, Swindon, SN5 5DN. This is sent off in haste after a hard day’s decorating! I’m sure that I will reread the above and have some further thoughts. In due course we could do a little promo on the selected by devoting one of the weekly features to your back catalogue. I’v e started doing them to expand the scope of the HW and fill the hiatus between each quarterly issue.

      Best wishes


      Liked by 1 person

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