I always Feel Like Smoking When I Sit In This Chair

I always feel like smoking when I sit in this chair,

which isn’t really fair,

since I gave up at eighteen,

And now I’m forty eight.

It seems a bit mean

that after thirty long years,

I still imagine gazing, dreaming,

not bothering to concentrate,

small, thin, hand-rolled fag in small, thin hand,

eyes screwed up a bit, producing tears

against the pale grey spirals curling 

into the air. 

I always feel like smoking when I sit in this chair,

And I really don’t care

about cancer, though I’ve seen

it’s effects and the terrible state

to which it reduces the human brain.

I think the chair is haunted, but no fears,

no apprehension join me in my scheming,

I just feel an urge to sate

A long forgotten appetite whose only demand

is that I relax, dropdown a few gears,

let the stale day’s hours go rolling

up into the air

The Question Everyone’s Asking

Twitter is for nasty, hate filled twittering

so,

Why can’t I get up, then switch Radio 4 on,

Without hearing the bile and mindless wittering

Of some gobshite, democracy loathing moron?

Deal Only With Your Individual Self. (Rondeau Redouble)

Anxiety’s a Devil, always feeds

upon the knowledge of one’s darker side,

will not be quelled.  You cannot meet its needs

by taking on another’s pain. Don’t hide,

it finds you out, don’t try and turn the tide,

nor let the flood engulf. A wise man heeds

alarms, knows acting’s best, he must not bide.

Anxiety’s a Devil, always feeds

upon itself.  But if the life one leads

is comfort filled, protected, one can’t ride

to better art, or reach great heights and speeds

upon the knowledge of one’s darker side.

Awareness is a step, that’s all.  Decide

to face the devil that’s within, his greeds

are endless, gnawing, never satisfied,

will not be quelled.  You cannot meet his needs,

and he who tries, turns cannibal, succeeds

by eating only at himself. Defied,

anxiety just flows, never recedes

by taking on another’s pain.  Don’t hide

behind some group identity, implied

by victimhood, for cultivating weeds

in thousand acre fields deep inside

is not a cure, it sows self loathing’s seeds,

always.

“Policy Based Evidence Making”

Our evidence, on policy, is based.

We speak of those ideas that we hold true,

Defining truth as that which can be traced

To ‘facts’, or statements of our point of view.

Yet when research shows real proof is thin

Or non existent, then we mention lies

And damned lies and statistics, start to spin

And label “Doubting Thomases”, whose eyes

Require substantiated proof.  For us

Our truths and truth itself are one.  Yet still
Ideas alone cannot be left to buzz

About like bees in people’s minds, the will

To make the world in our own image wins,

The sculpting of new, faith-shaped facts begins.

“Dignity Lost Half Its Value Yesterday,“

Dignity lost half its value yesterday,

While self pity made exponential gains.

Wearing ones heart on ones sleeve remains

At its highest level ever recorded, fuelled

By the row about differences in pay

Between men and women at the BBC,

When the Twitterati ruled 

That one must be

Vocal in one’s sympathy

Towards women who earn as little as £300 K.

It was also buoyed by the new army recruitment ads,

Advocating crying as a way of male bonding.

Some commentators are saying

That offence may be over valued,

And are hedging,

While those who make their living cashing it in

Are praying that it keeps on paying,

And if nothing new turns up they can keep dredging

The past.  Others fear that intersectionality

Is such a tangled web it is bound to trip

Up one of the big players pretty soon,

As they can’t all keep up with the latest fads

So the whole edifice will come crashing down,

Which would destabilise modern morality.

The stiff upper lip is at record lows, too,

But of course its advocates are not responding,

Except by drinking a stiff one

While hoping for Divine intervention.

Being ‘over the moon’

Has held its level against ‘checking one’s privileges’.

Strangely, tolerance has taken a tumble,

But needless to mention

it’s not yet quite as low as

Loving one’s neighbour as oneself,

Or being humble.

(Also based on a snippet from Charles Moore’s Spectator Notes, in which he tells us the title and first line were a headline in last Saturday’s Telegraph. Dignity is a funeral directors I think he said, presumably one big enough to make the financial pages.)

Giles’s Gallery: Interiors (Rondeau Redouble)

http://www.gileswood.com/works/#/interiors/

The light in every room is like Vermeer’s,

this quality achieved by chalkiness,

it softens, mutes, lends ancient peace, appears

not as some disinfectant force whose restlessness

requires it to dance on surfaces pursuing cleanliness, 

but rather to diffuse. It guides, it steers

the onlooker towards a deeper truthfulness:

the light in every room is like Vermeer’s,

as the viewer’s drawn in, he nears

an understanding of the owner’s mind in its unconsciousness. 

The lime-washed walls add brilliance to mahogany veneers, 

this quality achieved by chalkiness

contrasted with french polish, beeswax, elbow greasiness,

seemingly applied by long dead relatives and many years.

And something else illuminates - a tenderness,

it softens, mutes, lends ancient peace, appears

unwittingly:  the artist’s quiet reverence.  Those ‘seers’

who ‘foretell’, dictate our future style and taste, pursue an emptiness.

And yet still most of us respond to their sneers

not as (to) some disinfectant force whose restlessness

we must obey, but as a false fastidiousness,

that would eliminate our history, but wouldn’t free us.

We reject the bossy imposition, of year zero tastefulness,

we like our clutter, displayed lineage, it cheers,

every room.

Cathy Newman (Rondeau Redouble)

https://youtu.be/aMcjxSThD54

I am the very model of a modern, right on feminist,

The one thing I cannot abide is masculine intelligence,

No, don’t make well thought arguments, you must shut up, you must desist

It’s sexist when you make me seem some nincompoop irrelevance.

If you like men, then I conclude you're full of pure malevolence,

All men are vile and stupid and you’re just a male chauvinist.

How dare you try and make your case with intellectual elegance?

I am the very model of a modern right on feminist.

I will not listen, I’ll resist

Ideas backed up by evidence,

Let it be known that I think you a nasty great misogynist,

The one thing I cannot abide is masculine intelligence

And don’t point out the dreadful fact of suicide, its prevalence,

Among the population male and then go on and on, insist

That young men need our help, not our despisal and our negligence.

No, don’t make well thought arguments, you must shut up, you must desist,

I don’t care about your years of work as clinical psychologist,

It’s just a cover up, a poor disguise, a silly nuisance

When I know that what you really are is some far right apologist!

It’s sexist when you make me seem some nincompoop irrelevance,

And answer patiently, eyes full of humour and benevolence,

Implying, I’m not any threat, and not a real antagonist,

Just one who toe’s the leftist line without even the semblance

Of one who’s questioned anything, for I am a post modernist -

The very model of!

https://youtu.be/TK2-xYyNpYk

Values (Villanelle)

“values exist in a transcendental realm, they can be neither fought for nor destroyed” (Enoch Powell)

Existing in a transcendental plain,

a spiritual realm, they are preserved -

our values are the truths that we maintain.

They can’t be fought for, they always remain,

they cannot be destroyed, they are conserved,

existing in a transcendental plain

they are beyond debate, we can’t explain

nor prove their place of safety is deserved:

our values are the truths that we maintain,

so we are fed by what we feed, and gain

by symbiosis. Yet we are unnerved -

existing in a transcendental plain

we seem to think they’re fragile, though they’ve lain

around since infancy and not disserved - 

our values are the truths that we maintain

no piled on guilt, or self inflicted pain

can cure them, they just bide, they are reserved.

Existing in a transcendental plain

Our values are the truths that we maintain.

A Prayer For A First Past The Post Marriage.

Lord,
Let our life together be better,

Than some grand, bland coalition;

Let us each do well what we each do best;

And fight and rejoice in opposition.

Let our love stand every test;

Let marriage be a happy competition.

Let us not always accommodate 

The half arsed efforts of the other,

But ‘step up to the plate’,

Father and mother,

Cat and dog, sister and brother.

We are meant to love, not tolerate.

Let us not hinder or fetter,

But let us not turn our life beige;

Let us storm and rage

Certain it is with the best intention,

The desire to win in the joint interest,

And let the winner wear the crown

Don’t always, compromise,
Let us jointly feather our nest,

Holding up each scrap of down

For the other to scrutinise
And let us criticise,

Certain, in our love, that the other is wise.

Amen.

In My Mind's Nose

In my mind's nose, paraffin fumes

On the playroom air

And meths for lighting the Tilley lamp

And hot rubber urging me to chew

My hottie-bottie, kettle filled.

Musty rooms

Old and dusty, suddenly bare,

Lonely:  we shall decamp,

To Harrogate, start anew,

Be again our more sophisticated selves.

Others gone, house stilled,

Just mother sweeping crumbs

From the flagged floor,

Taking damp novels from left behind shelves,

Chucking them into the stove.

Whiff of wet paper smouldering

Before she shuts the door.

In my minds nose, orange, cinnamon and clove,

With fishy Copydex glue,

Christmassy activities, crepe paper frilled,

And chains of plain white,

But that’s partly in my mind’s sight,
I suppose.

In Pursuit Of Emptiness

In pursuit of emptiness

I must confess

That I have found that more is less.

Since I have free choice of so much

I seem to feel I must not touch

The vast array

Of well made goods

The vulgar shops put on display,

Preferring always to restrict

Myself and then 

To preach restriction to my fellow men.

On Two Quotes From Edmund Burke (Villanelle)

“The people never give up their liberties but under some delusion”

“Society can overlook murder, adultery or swindling,

it never forgives preaching of a new gospel.”

Don’t preach your brand new gospel down at me,

I will not live by your invented rules.

I’m not deluded and I know I’m free.

You might convert the sheep, the BBC,

And brainwash little children in the schools.

Don’t preach your brand new gospel down at me.

Your childishness means you can only see

Utopia, and not the fire it fuels.

I’m not deluded and I know I’m free,

While you take up your chains and wish to be

This fettered thing, that wears its guilt for jewels.

Don’t preach your brand new gospel down at me,

I don’t accept your sick philosophy.

The British stick to tried ideas like mules.

I’m not deluded and I know I’m free

As do the silent, vast majority,

Beware of them, do not assume they’re fools.

Don’t preach your brand new gospel down at me,

I’m not deluded and I know I’m free.

Integrate Your Shadow (Villanelle)

That darkness where the carpet turns quite grey

Behind you when you face into the light

It’s not just shadow made of brilliant day.

You might ignore it, it might fade away,

But better far to take this piece of night,

That darkness where the carpet turns quite grey,

Acknowledge it is there, and holds some sway,

It’s purpose is to challenge what is right,

It’s not just shadow made of brilliant day.

It must provoke and tempt and you must say:

I know you’re there, but I’m prepared to fight

That darkness where the carpet turns quite grey

I will not let it rule by stealth, I’ll play

By rules I set. For it is rage and spite,

It’s not just shadow made of brilliant day.

So integrate it, thus keep it at bay

In fits of rage it seems to take delight,

That darkness where the carpet turns quite grey

It’s not just shadow made of brilliant day.

On The Loss Of Nocturnal Wings

I wish that I could fly again, in dreams.

I flew so well, with so much grace and ease.

I flew beside the reservoir and streams

Where I had played in childhood, 

And, just as then, this out door play would lead

To that sudden yearning, inexplicable need,

To touch base,

Return to that fixed and thickly walled in space,

That most secure and solid place,

Where I could start a different game, 

Or seem to ride on empty air beneath the beams.

And there was never any sense that it was fantasy,

I knew with certainty that I’d succeed,

When I took wing I flew straightforwardly, 

Not in an attempt to please,

Or terrify myself, yet knew the thrill

Of swooping freedom and of gliding speed.

Safe Space Soldier’s Darkest Hour

(The quotations to be read in your best imitation of Churchill, the rest in your best camp voice)

“We shall fight on the seas and the oceans”,

Though we shall stop, throughout the day,

Turn to the east,

Kneel down, bow low, and pray

At length.

“We shall fight with growing confidence and growing strength

In the air,”

If we dare,

Because we are not super heroes,

And some of us are gay,

Which means more sensitive about not wanting to die,

But we’ll do our best and have a try.

“We shall fight on the landing grounds”

Though our landing craft are on loan

From the French. We won’t moan

About our lack of equipment

But we might cry, 

Because we are a regiment

Of big girls, which is perfectly OK.

“We shall defend our island

Whatever the cost may be.”

“We shall fight on the beaches,”

And take selfies and go skinny dipping in the sea,

And admire how basic training 

Has improved our glutes, our booty,

So now our little arses look just like peaches.

“We shall fight in the fields and in the streets”,

And it will be real, no cheats,

No jumping to the next level, it’s not a game,

Which is a shame,

Because the only reason I joined up 

Was because the recruiter said it was a ‘Call of Duty’.

“We shall fight in the hills”, even though they’re boring

And nobody takes any notice of you,

You’re not really seen,

Because there’s hardly anyone there,

Except fitness freaks

Deliberately ignoring

How good you look, because they’re jealous.

“We shall never surrender,”

As we’re sensitive and tender

And we wouldn’t want to spend time 

In a foreign prison, where they might be mean.

You see,
Our island is our safe space,

And whatever your creed, gender, or race,

Gay or straight,

You have a right to live without hate,

You have a right to be free.

Project Fear

Because I “cannot comprehend

The difference between a nation

And a commercial enterprise”,

I shall assume that you, my lowly friend,

Are likewise ignorant.  I know that your frustration

With life cannot stem from the sudden rise

In immigration, 

Which only happened to coincide with what seemed to be the end

Of your community. I know that the determination

To make your neighbourhood diverse by increasing in size

The number of its members, not wishing to blend,

Fit in, adopt your customs, make any attempt at integration

Could not have had any ill effects, because the wise,

(That is, people like me) say so.  Instead, I contend

That what you really care about is your financial situation.

I know that you believe the lies

Of those old fashioned, prejudiced, populists, who tend

To appeal deliberately to the nostalgic, conservative population.

But I advise:

Turn a deaf ear, think only of the bottom line, do not defend

The past, or hanker after it.  Do not risk a depreciation

Of your capital assets.  Hark not to the hysterical cries

Of those who look to history, yet would rend

This carefully constructed veil, remove this modern veneer of civilisation,

Our brilliant new world, where only the poor must compromise,

And people like me can preach tolerance and send

Signals of virtue to those who share our political position.

Because this new status quo suits me, you should surmise

That it is also best for you.  I shan’t condescend

To speak of this again, I have given my instruction:

Vote to stick with the bureaucratic institution, do not cut the ties.