Tuesday, 30 April 2019

The Lefty Vicar’s Dilemma (psychopathy?)



“Man, oh not men” let’s stick with abstract thought,
I did not answer God to deal with this,
I am above these petty things, and nought
That has its basis in real life brings bliss. 
Who are these local people who don’t die
On whom I needs must waste my weekly prayers?
I cannot love my real neighbours, I
Love man, in general and the world’s cares
Are mine to wrestle with, not petty, local
Problems which affect my mere parish, now.
I cannot love my neighbour, he’s yokel,
Slow and dull and impervious anyhow
To help. Give me notional man, instead,

The neighbour farthest flung I cannot dread.

Sunday, 14 April 2019

When Drax is in Mist.



Because I cannot see it, then it isn’t there.
All there is is the river and the field on the other side.
It does not tower above the Georgian trees
Gargantuan concrete blot,
It is not waiting near the grazing pigs, looming.
Because I cannot see it, then it is not where
The distant grass touches the sky, as the tide
Runs in below the willows and the grey seas
Swirl with the river silt beside the plot
Strewn like a pigsty under the blooming
Sloe, white blossom littering the ground.
Because I cannot see it, then I do not care,
I am in a children’s book, where the river is wide,
And all the ducks are swimming and the only sound
Is that of small boys with pink legs and fat knees,
Singing.

Because I cannot see it I stand and stare.




Saturday, 6 April 2019

So Different from Neglect



I wonder when it settles on a place,
That air of ‘nothing matters much’
One finds about a house and in its grounds,
So different from neglect, neglect without disgrace. 

I wonder if it creeps up gradually
Or if one wakes and finds it there,
That air of ‘nothing matters much’
That fills the space
With gentle, silent sounds.

To whom does it belong?
Does it just emanate
From happy souls who live in sunlit peace?
And can they find the energy to concentrate?

Or does it work the other way about?
And bathe with calming balm until no trace
Of tension or anxiety can touch
The minds of those who dwell within the bounds

Of ‘nothing matters much’.

Thursday, 4 April 2019

One Vote




Whose vote shall I consider it to be,
The one that killed democracy stone dead?
Whose vote said voting’s not for you my friend,
Far better left to better men, like me?
Whose act of sabotage, could it be said,
Brought universal suffrage to an end?
Who had such arrogance, yet will pretend
He acted in my interest?  Guto Bebb,
Shall I blame you, or Steven Brine in stead?
Whose vast impertinence do I discern,
Justine Greening’s, that of Djangoly, 
Ken Clarke, or mindless Philip Lee, 
The Gormless Letwin creature’s, Mr Burt’s,
Spelman’s, Gymah’s, Sandbach’s, whose vote cast
Our nation into purgatory, to last
Until a foreign power sets us free?
I needs must fit a face to this, you see,
Imagine him who thought me such a pleb
My vote should count for nought, while his should weigh
More heavily than gold.  Who can defend
This theft, this giving Sovereignty away,
To watch it disappear on the ebb,
Unsure of its eventual return,
Whose vast conceit would lead him to inveigh
Against collective wisdom, and attend
To voices from the continent and bend
To their will, glad at being led astray?
I view you all with absolute disdain, 
Go straight to you know where, and there REMAIN.






Tuesday, 2 April 2019

Tory Party

They lie, still scattered in the long dead weeds,
The remnants of a once important church,
Which in its day had grown so vast and broad
Its old foundations had begun to sink.
Its congregation did not spot its needs,
Its slipping went unnoticed, save one lurch
To Port, but shifts like that could be ignored,
No need for restoration, or to think
Of consequences. Further damage caused
By cracks and widened joints might weather well,
And concrete, reinforced and grey cement
Would save the day, if such a day should dawn.
So nobody took stock and no one paused,
As first the slates and then the timbers fell,
Though one old warden sang a sad lament,
His fellows turned their backs, quite full of scorn.
The congregation quickly moved away,
They felt a sadness, but did not despair,
Knowing it was something more than pale stone
They loved about the place, an old idea
Of something greater than themselves. They say
The old place might be built again, with care,
But better leave it scattered here, alone,
A broken monument to those who sneer,
And won’t hold fast to what is proven good,
Preferring to destroy with kitten heels,
By chipping at the pillars and the vaults
And ploughing blindly on oblivious,
While beetles eat away the ancient wood.
Yes, better leave it be, for it reveals
A clearer lesson on our human faults
insidious.





Jon Snow’s Prayer

The white people have gathered here,
I wish that they would disappear,
They dress in Union Jacks, they shout,
Each one of them a vulgar lout,
They love democracy, I fear, 
Please Lord, don’t let them get too near,

I can’t suppress the urge to sneer.