Wednesday, 29 June 2022

Fit Bit



Know thyself, thy pulse,

Keep fit, drink water, nothing alcoholic,

Know thy blood, its pressure, sys and diastolic,

And oxygen, its level several times a day.

Know thy temperature in centigrade

Eat only healthy, wholefood, home made,

And meat do not consume or not much, anyway.

Be preoccupied by how you are,

Take endless exercise, run far,

Monitor each day your steps,

Lift weights, develop biceps.

Keep clean and glowing you’re a star,

Walk or cycle do not take the car.

You have no limitations, but this one,

Your vital stats are dull, when all is said and done. 

Monday, 27 June 2022

When We Were Funny, Half-Made Creatures




When we were funny, half-made creatures,

You snapped us, caught us,

Your spotty, awkward daughters,

With 1980s features,

And style that friends had taught us

Was de rigeur, despite the fact you thought us,

Weak, for giving in to fashion.

Still you bought us 

Fabric and cut and stitched and pressed

With strange, maternal passion,

That let us know we dressed

As well as all the rest,

Or better, even best.

And yet we did not value

That care you took,

Although we named our style self expression,

We wished to make the same impression

As all our friends,

And deeply craved the shop bought look.  

Wednesday, 20 April 2022

The Seven Sonnets Of Michaelangelo, Song Cycle, Performed By Benjamin Britten And Peter Pears

 https://youtu.be/hNa378n3QwI


Such perfect beauty can’t manipulate,

One is not pulled about, on listening,

One hears, and one must truly concentrate,

Engage the mind, no tears glistening,

No need for self absorption, one is still,

And lets technique and knowledge work their charm,

One knows that real beauty lies in skill,

And satisfaction of the mind is balm.

This work is one of gratitude, both prayer

And gift on being free to work in peace,

And demonstrates that art is taking care,

And striving for perfection must not cease,

Despite destruction, death of fellow men,

Art preserved can rise in peace again. 





Tuesday, 12 April 2022

Rightmove 2

 

I feel bored at your place,

Even though I’m only there on the internet.

It’s filled with light, a well-proportioned space,

And yet,

I couldn’t stand anything so bland,

Where are your books?

I don’t care for your designer taps, all the rage,

You seem to forget,

That not everything is about clean, bright looks,

It’s no good muttering, about decluttering,

I want lots of stuff, second hand,

I want to covet some old, artistic find,

To remind me I’m a human, with a mind,

Not some animal, satisfied with a clean cage.

 

 

 

Saturday, 9 April 2022

Vintage Curtains, eBay

 


I don’t know why I think it strange

Intelligence can be detected in design,

And yet one does not think of the desire to arrange

Foliage and birds and abstract shape, in line

(And then to make such subjects interlink)

As based on the ability to think. 

One feels that artists’ skill in placing right,

Such shapes are pleasing to our sight

As separate from normal intellect,

And yet we pride ourselves on being able to detect

Superior beauty when we spot it, as we scroll,

Through fabric draped or hung or on the roll,

And surely it’s our intellect we prize

When hunting with our image hungry eyes,

And stop and there amongst the dross we find

The product of a clever human mind.



Rightmove

 Philosophy’s no use to me today,

Give me property instead, I say,

For Plateau’s cave won’t do, it’s small

And has these dancing shadows on the wall.

Show me something big I can’t afford,

The green eyed monster's getting fractious, bored,

Show me something tasteful and Queen Anne,

With gables mannerist and artisan,

And though it’s sexist, let the owner be a man,

Or better still, two men, with perfect taste,

For women follow fashion, act in haste,

And idly dream and wish, but hardly plan.

Oh, let me scroll the April hours away,

Through endless lists of houses on display,

Oh let me lust o’er something with a park,

Interior scenes in paint shades, subtle, dark,

Like aubergine, sloe black or ink of squid

And bargains all, at several million quid.

The Saleroom Dot Com

 I have retreated from the world of thought,

The world of politics, ideas, war,

I have decided now I must ignore

The world of subjects, things which can’t be bought.

I want things listed, labelled, catalogued,

The soothing world, where all is stuff,

Through which one scrolls and never gets enough,

Of all that’s classified, explained and flogged.