One of the greatest sins (Rondeau Redouble)

One of the greatest sins is generalisation,

The slippery slope means things get out of hand,

Our greatest achievement is globalisation,

We needs must make idiots understand

A country is merely a mass of land,

We must end the very concept of nation,

Mention of such things should be banned,

One of the greatest sins is generalisation

We must push for global organisation,

All men are the same and we needs must expand,

Another great curse is polarisation,

The slippery slope means things get out of hand,

Our future must be imagined and planned,

We must bring in powerful legislation, 

The herd must behave as we command,

Our greatest achievement is globalisation,

Natives must never vent their frustration, 

Never make any general demand

Our ideas don’t need examination

We needs must make idiots understand

That men are the same, they’re like sand,

There’s no useful point in self realisation,

The single grain merely makes up the strand,

Contradiction of this is misinformation,

One of the greatest sins. 

The morning Light

 

First morning sunlight, always that light,

The first, both of this day and of each day before,

Though pouring now through 8 foot sashes,

Penetrating closed old lids and a thin, short lashes,

It is the same, the one electron giving sight,

As slanted once through smaller panes

Held between well sculpted mullion stones

The one electron lighting up the view,

It lit up childhood in its fresher way,

Illuminating empty air and muddy ground,

Yet never old, unknowable and never new.

Bathed in its calm strength we are secure,

Feeling warming physics in our bones,

Knowing all we loved and lost is evermore,

That time is just perception or a sense,

Dividing up the weight of the immense,

Distributing the force of the profound.

Geezers of Slime

 Someone on X had written geezers of slime instead of geysers.

Even such is slime, it forms a crust

About our youth, our joys, our all we have,

Because it’s damp and clings, attracting dust

Hardening as we head towards the grave,

With growing age it forms a carapace,

Protecting our self worth from our disgrace,

Until, at last, at death it seems we  must

Jet wash our souls or die in self disgust. 

Cannibalism for the Cannibals, Liberalism for the Liberals

You can’t tell me what I may eat.

Don’t attempt to lay down the law.

It’s my culture to dine on human meat.

What is freedom for,

If not to allow the oppressed and poor

To live as they choose? What conceit.

But surely your ways are worth dying for?

You can’t tell me what I may eat,

I wish to roast liberal pig, it’s tender, sweet, 

I’m surprised you’ve not tasted it before,

Given your penchant for novelty, you’d find it a treat.

Don’t attempt to lay down the law,

Just because it’s your flesh, my maw,

I have an ancient family receipt,

I was going to cook the girl next door,

It’s my culture to dine on human meat,

But liberals give of themselves whole, complete,

Poached kid sticks in the craw,

Liberal slips down freely, leaving me replete.

What is freedom for? 

I prefer brutality, which I keep in store,

With onions, spices, stock which I’ll reheat. 

Diversity is strength, mine. No time to jaw,

I know you approve from all that you Tweet.

You can’t tell me. 

Reel To Reel

Music At Night, Radio 4, May 1st 1968

(A harpsichord recital by my father, Alan Cuckston)

From a cupboard full of memories I did not share,

A store of music hidden on a reel,

Not catalogued or stored with any care,

Some minutes of your life I can reveal.

Hearing what they speak and yet conceal

The brilliance, the intellect, the flair,

Beside a tension none must sense you feel,

From a cupboard full of memories I did not share,

Some damaged now, beyond repair?

An obsolete machine now turns the wheel

And winds the tape on to its empty pair,

A store of music hidden on a reel,

Your playing now the means deep grief to heal,

Yet no intention of that kind is there,

Just pure musicianship expressed via brass and steel

Not catalogued or stored with any care,

But yet retained and so I dare

To dull my pain as by the heap I kneel

And bag up tapes to take to where

Some minutes of your life I can reveal

And sense the intellectual appeal

So lacking in this present day, so rare

When all is ‘relative’ and there’s a zeal

For dumbing down. I’ll send you out once more upon the air,

From a cupboard full of memories.

I cannot stop

 

I cannot pause to think at all

Lest I should weep and break the spell

And so I stretch to paint the wall 

And stoop to dip my brush again

And reach and daub and slap and then

Repeat the process, never stop,

Use a pole to reach the top,

Climb the ladder to the ceiling

Fill the cracks to numb the feeling,

Decorating can be healing.

Dressing For The Collection Of A Teapoy

How to dress when taking collection

Of an item from an auction,

Is not a matter on which much reflection

Is usually required,

But one yearns to be admired,

When taking possession of a teapoy.

One wishes to convey the air

Of a connoisseur

Who knows that next season teapoys will be de rigueur.

So one must spend time deciding what to wear,

And yet take great care

Not to give the impression 

One has a mad obsession.

Tweed is essential as a foundation,

And various shades of green,

Should be given consideration,

For shoes, a sensible brown brogue

Think of our late queen,

Rather than something from Vogue.

For you wish to imply

The object you’ve come to collect

Will be the star of next month's magazine,

And yet,

Somewhere you know and regret,

That the publication in question

Is the Antiques Trade Gazette.