Friday, 10 March 2017

Rapid Cycling

The sky was streaked with pink,
At six twenty five,
Which made me think
There was joy in being alive.
And I was full of happy ambition.
But by six twenty seven
the sky was dull and pale grey
And my glimpse of Heaven
Had become a premonition
Of a pointless, crappy day.

'Brown Furniture'

There are three types of old, fermented grape juice:
Red, white and pink.
It's OK to buy your own, like Michael Heseltine,
All wine is fine, 
Anything goes, everything goes,
All down and out the same way,
All just p*ss waiting to happen, as they say.
But if you are lucky enough to inherit,
Don't worry about formalities
Such as which is more valuable or desirable,
All old grape juice has merit.
Just think, 'what would my guests and I like to drink',
And say things like: "I know we'll have three bottles of that old Tokay 
Made into a punch with some of that Prosecco from Lidl
To go with the chicken pie I bought for lunch".
It's a much more quirky and modern approach.
It doesn't matter at all if you're entirely ignorant
About grapes and vintage and soil and climate.
That's the advantage of relativism,
You can just claim all things are equal, 
No need to discriminate.
Nothing has intrinsic worth,
And this way nothing goes to waste,
It's all just a matter of personal taste.


(This was inspired by an article in The Spectator money section about how to fit out your Georgian rectory.  Apparently 'brown furniture' is acceptable)

Wednesday, 1 March 2017

Spring



Today I have been mostly
Painting the coal stains on the Chinese carpet, chrome yellow.
Using Dylon fabric paint, 
But it may as well have been emulsion.

And yet this strange compulsion,
Which is part of spring cleaning and lent,
Restoration, resurrection
Is not really a sign of insanity,
It is quite artistic and intelligent
And the sort of thing Duncan Grant and Vanessa Bell
Might have done, and not even needed to justify their actions
With historic argument
In favour of Chinese yellow in an 18th century, English drawing room.
And it is cheerful and looks forward to daffodils 
And sprigs of forsythia in the blue and white vases on the chimneypiece
And banishes winter gloom.

I know other people's reactions 
Might be less appreciative, and that they may think old cocoa spills
More suitable additions to the colour scheme
Than my efforts to capture something of the garishness of the carpet's pre coaly days.
And though the original shade was more subtle,
Less gorse or skip or number-plate,
Still, there is a certain authenticity
A certain realistic Chinese flavour,
A dash of visual monosodium glutamate
About this one and there's nothing wrong with a little eccentricity
If it is an act of preservation.
And besides, I have been wearing grey tweed all winter.

Sunday, 26 February 2017

End of Feb.

The grey days weep
And the waters run where the paths are steep
And the waters seep when they cease to run
And the ways grow deep.
Great winds sweep
And we glimpse the sun
And sense life emerging from winter sleep
As the days grow longer
And seem to bring
A sense, quite false, that we grow stronger,
For we seize and limp
And fail to spring.






Wednesday, 15 February 2017

Hate Crime

I wrote this and the rondeau redouble about Hilary Clinton's women's march in the voice of a hysterical lefty, a sort of modern day Rick from 'TheYoung Ones' and his female counter part, in resposnse to two articles in 'The Spectator': this one was about the true nature of the new 'Hate Crime' statistics, by Brendan O Neil, and the other about the hypocrisy of the women marchers by Douglas Murray.  On both occasions I posted the poems as comments on Disqus, beneath the relevant articles, and on both occasions people mistook them as the voice of some real, hysterical lefty.  Strangely they continued to criticise my writing even when I pointed out it was a joke. I had succeeded in doing what I set out to do.  It seems odd that even the last line of this, with the dreadful use of 'enzyme' to fit the ryme scheme wasn't sufficiently awful to show I was just having a bit of fun.





I hate crime, as a matter of course, I hate all crime,
I hate most of all a Hate Crime. One can't comprehend
the mindset of someone who hates all the time.
I can't stand people like them. They intend
to cause hurt, I am sure: they are vile, low life, pond slime.
They may not say aught to offend,
but one feels they are fascists; I'd like to drown them in quicklime.
I hate crime, as a matter of course, I hate all crime,
but Hate Crime is worst, there's no rhyme
or reason behind it, nobody can defend
thieves who hate their victims, ungrateful tapeworms living on chyme.
I hate most of all a Hate Crime, one can't comprehend
the attitude.  I'd be tempted to send
any found guilty of such to the gallows, I'd like to watch them climb
the steps, then see them drop, legs kicking. Bring back hanging, I'll gladly attend!
The mindset of someone, who dedicates his time
to hating others, because they are different, is alien, does not chime
with my way of thinking, at all. I would never spend
a minute meditating on how much I detested others, unlike these vermin, living in grime.
I can't stand people like them, they intend
to cause maximum suffering what with their insults and looks, but we'll get them in the end.
we beat Adolf, remember, and they're just like him. Imagine the joy, sublime
elation, ecstasy, we'll feel, knowing every hater's to be put on trial. And let's extend, 
redefine, include Tory thinking:  since Tories are scum we should digest them with an enzyme,
as a matter of course.

Saturday, 11 February 2017

After Reading A Spectator Review of "Death Of The Poets".

I must consider how I am to die,
If I am to be thought 'one of the greats,'
For though I write with humour, I must try
For fame.  Shall I: end up in dire straits
All riddled with disease that lingers, eats
Away at me from the inside; reach death
By accidental poison which depletes
My haemoglobin so that every breath
Is precious, wonderful; try suicide?
For how else shall my writing be imbued
With deeper meaning, something dark implied
Between the lines? And how shall what is crude
Be e'er transformed so that snort and chortle
Become tears and I become immortal?



Thursday, 9 February 2017

Soliloquy for boosting my self esteem

I am not now, nor have I ever been
A mad old cow.
Be gone dull care, for you little know me.
Indeed, it is my sanity, my real disposition,
Tells me silly things I say
Are not true, are flippant, not worthy of me.
This most average quantity, my share
Of sense, this brain all working normally
Is empirical proof.
Vanity might desire
That I am different, some other thing than most,
But that does not mean that I am a stupid old loony.
What a calm, quiet life I have led,
Have lived through each season
In sympathy. The quality
Of each and every task that I have undertaken
Has not been always the highest,
But that does not mean that I have failed.
As duty shapes my life
There isn't room for arrogance
And yet, I ask, what is this great hatred, disgust?
Self must never be
The central focus
Though by my writing I seem to say so.