Why was I unaware of Maurice Rutherford? I thought I knew about all the great Hull poets; those born in the City such as Andrew Marvell and Stevie Smith, and those who came here, most famously Philip Larkin, Andrew Motion and Douglas Dunn. But I’d never heard of Maurice Rutherford. Having read ‘And Saturday is Christmas’, an anthology taken from his three published books, I wonder even more why Maurice isn’t better known in his home town.’ The Right Honourable Alan Johnson, former MP, Chancellor of the University of Hull

When asked how he would like to be introduced when receiving his Honorary Degree at the University of Hull, Hull Poet Maurice Rutherford replied: “Well I was born at 101 Albert Avenue, what more is there to say…?”

Just a few years earlier, in a moment of prescience, Maurice had had a dream in which he received a degree in Hull, which he committed to sonnet form: ‘My dream last night decked me in cap and gown, hoiked me away to Hull my native town.’

Born in 1922 on Albert Avenue, Maurice says he enjoyed poetry at school but had no opportunity for further studies as the world of work called and he began his first job as a clerk at Hull Graving Dock. He would later write about his experiences here in his first collection of poems, ‘Slipping the Tugs’.

When military service beckoned during World War Two, he fought in both North Africa and Italy. After the war, he returned to Hull, married Olive and spent most of his adult life as a technical writer in the engineering and shipbuilding industry on both banks of the Humber.

A relatively late starter, Maurice only began writing poetry in his mid-50s. Since then, he has published a number of well-received volumes of poetry including ‘Slipping the Tugs’ (1982), After the Parade (1989) and ‘Flip Side to Larkin (2012), a good-natured parody of his contemporary, Philip Larkin. And Saturday is Christmas, a comprehensive collection of new and selected poems was published in 2011. He has been poet of the month in the The Guardian on two occasions and also been featured on BBC Radio.

In his own words, Maurice began writing poetry due to ‘the fact that I couldn’t write poetry and I needed to find out how. Because I’d been stung by somebody reading my work which I thought was very good and it was absolute crap. And he told me so. I went to the library and… I realised that you could get books that were about poetry writing… First: know the rules before you set about breaking them. Because if you know what the rules are and can break them still within the broader realms of poetry, then you’ve got something going for you.’

Maurice can count amongst his fans the former MP for Hull West and Hessle, Alan Johnson, Chancellor of the University of Hull, who says: ‘In ‘View From Hessle Road’ he describes Larkin as ‘Old Bikeclips’ and imagines a typical Hessle Roader’s response to the Bard of Hull writing about them (‘Oozee?’). ‘The Autumn Outings’ is a brilliantly constructed and biting (yet affectionate) parody of ‘The Whitsun Weddings’. Whether in his love poems (‘Love of an Autumn Afternoon’) or his intimate understanding of working life (‘Ship’s Husband’), Rutherford never disappoints and always entertains.’

Having been a late discoverer of Maurice’s work, Mr Johnson goes on to say: ‘Thankfully, this Bard of Albert Avenue hasn’t been discovered posthumously. In his centenary year Maurice Rutherford was made an honorary graduate of the University of Hull. I like to think that the university’s former librarian would have appreciated this belated association with another great craftsman of his art.’

Maurice’s poetry has been described beautifully by scholars and poets alike. Praise from Carole Rumens and John Osborne was cited by presenting officer Dr Edmund Hurst, lecturer in Creative Writing, at his graduation ceremony, when he was presented for the award of Doctor of Letters Honoris Causa:

“All Maurice’s collections testify to this technical mastery, which, coupled with the breadth and humanity of his response to every-day lives and experience, make his contribution to contemporary British poetry an unusual, distinguished and essential one. Manual work, like poetry-making itself, is a significant theme for him. An early poem, “Ship’s Husband,” presents vivid, sinewy portraits of an old seaman “pushing his bow-wave against the brunt/ of years” and his ever-vigorous wife with her “pumice face,/ her busy arms conger-strong…” Rutherford’s characters often refuse to be defined by their jobs: there’s the “Fitter” (“You’ve never seen the badger’s bum/ he’s reputedly as rough as”) transformed to “Rambler, angler, wildfowler when he’s free” and the “Bilge-Diver” with “his shift-long repertoire” of Frank Sinatra hits. It’s not that these portraits are colourful, though they are, but that, like all Rutherford’s observations, they feel authentic. The narratives derive from an intimate understanding of working lives, the physical demands of the different trades, and the sometimes painful psychological accommodations.

“There is in Rutherford’s oeuvre a fund of human sympathy, a generosity of spirit, that amounts to an unblinkered but sustained affirmation of life; what Larkin, in another context, described as ‘an enormous yes’. Maurice Rutherford is a poet of celebration. And today, we celebrate.”

It is hoped, too, that this article is also a celebration of Maurice and the lasting legacy of his poetry.

Below, you can read COMFORTS, a favourite of Hull actor Barry Rutter, a champion of Maurice’s poetry, who often recites one or two of his poems during his one-man shows. Barry read this poem at Hull Truck’s 50th birthday show, which coincided with Maurice’s 99th birthday. A large chunk of the show was dedicated to honouring Maurice and he watched it with family, live streamed from Hull, back home in Kent, as the audience sang Happy Birthday.

COMFORTS
Come back soon to a real Bridlington Welcome
— noticeboards on the main road out.
Those holidays, our nineteen-twenties
parents freed us here, their skinny kids
in hand knit woollen swimsuits —
crotches like anglers’ landing nets —
peeing a catch of seawater
between sun-toughened knees;
and schooldays following, bubblegums
of skin peeled from our shoulders
pagefuls of rubbings-out.
Retirement brought us back to spend
the nineties, perhaps to close our book
in the comfort of this place.
But now we find that holidays
mean all the parking spaces filled,
we’re jostled off pavements
by macro-bosoms from McGill,
ogles by Cyclops beer-guts,
leered at by anal cleavages
escaping from Bermudas;
we’re tripped by men in sandals
and obligatory black socks;
there’s cellulite in armfuls here
and all the very one who ‘really shouldn’t’
force-feed each other burgers.
From Sheffield, Bradford, Barnsley most,
the locals call them Comforts, for the way
they say they’ve ‘com for t’day’.
And when they’ve ‘done us brass’ and driven off
westward past the come-back signs —
to the wife’s part-time, the old man’s emphysema —
what they leave behind for us
(discounting all the parking bays
of dunked-out teabags, disposables and stubs)
is the comfort of a season’s end
in open space, the scour of rough seas
and the culling winds of winter.
You can also find two of his poems in the Guardian from their poem of the month series:

Poem of the week: The Autumn Outings by Maurice Rutherford | Poetry | The Guardian

Poem of the week: Mist by Maurice Rutherford | Poetry | The Guardian
Below is his poem about his dream of being awarded a degree:

A Dream (a Kentish cri de coeur)
My dream last night decked me in cap and gown,
hoiked me away to Hull my native town,
scene of my misspent schooldays, Riley High,
Dotheboys Hall where no boy dared ask “Why?”
Headstrong, reckless, impatient, I skipped school
before my time to climb an office stool.
My first wage brought me status, cash to spend,
and self-esteem became my new-found friend.
Fast forward now, and back in Hull I pray
forget those exiled years and let me stay
in this, the day my parents would have loved,
Mum in cherried hat and lemon gloved,
my father standing taller than his height,
willing this dream hold firm come morning’s light.

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