Advent Service From St John's, 2022

 

The logs are chopped, the basket full,

The smokeless fuel heaped on the grate,

Mid-afternoon, some winters chill,

And water in the cellar lies,

And drives the mice to venture in.

The sky is dappled pink and peach,

The day has paused, there seems a lull,

And yet it seems the night can wait,

There’s music now, amidst the still,

Advent from St Johns which tries

To balance beauty with the din

Of modernism, which can’t reach

The parts that older carols can.

The prayers are said, the readings read,

A Spotless rose is spotless sung,

Perfection is not really dead.

Is that the old familiar pull?

When yet we know we have, of late,

Fallen short, against our will,

Or often had to compromise,

Can we sense beneath the skin,

Above our thoughts, beyond our speech,

The greatest truth - that God was man?

Barn Conversion

 

 

Tucked away, with appalling views,

Such as those as one might find expressed on the internet

By the kind of troll who still lives with his mother,

In her basement. Down a long bleak road,

Such as one might see on the news,

As the scene of a frenzied murder.

Converted to a dreadfully low standard,

So previously, where there was a perfectly serviceable byre,

There is now only a dingy hovel,

Black with soot and grey with drizzle,

No garden, nothing planted here has ever grown,

And nowhere to play,

Only thick mire

Such as sticks, when thrown.

£950 K.

Your Soul One Autumn Afternoon

I watched the dog as she watched you,

Watched your soul rise up and float across the autumn afternoon.

She tracked it to the door which opened just a crack,

And then she sighed, harrumphed and settled down to doze,

Aware perhaps that you’d return, quite soon, 

While all the while your body lay in some repose,

Not twitching, eyes relaxed, not rolled back.

I wish I knew the basic things dogs know

And had the confidence to feel when all is well,

Happy to observe and to keep track,

Accept that certain things are merely so.

 

A Queue

 

They waited, sadly, hour after hour,

Doing that quintessential British thing,

Putting up, in line, though tired, hungry,

Never really grumbling,

What were aching legs, stomachs rumbling,

Why give voice when greater forces curb the silly tongue,

And silence is the order of the day?

What use are words, when eyes say all there is to say?

What was drizzle, wind that blew a little cold?

When there was History, both noun and verb,

Before that place sophrosyne so lately manifested,

And there was awe that fit it’s place of old.

Milton’s final line from ‘On his blindness’

Never seemed so apt,

As rapt, they gazed with loving kindness,

To see, ironically, at rest,

An embodiment of that which he detested,

Yet changed now:

Power without power.

 

Transitioning

I shall become, such as I am,

By ‘identifying’ as that which I am not.

I shall become something external,

Ready made, off the shelf,

A prêt à porter self

A collection of stereotypes, eternal,

For I shall attempt to cram

Every hackneyed idea about this other creature

Into the new version of me,

Every cliché will feature

While anything unique will rot,

And ALL I shall be, will be that which you can see.

Philip Larkin Muses On How Things Turned Out, And How They Might Have Been Different, On His Anniversary

 

Had I been into boys, you’d have been proud,

No pouring of contempt, or scorn,

My fantasies of being spanked,

And the Sadomasochistic porn 

With, to, about which I have wanked,

Would not have cast a cloud.

Today I Amused Myself, for a Short Time.

 

I have painted them Georgian green,

The shelves and doors and back

Of the cabinet piano, now a secretaire.

A beautiful 18th century shade.

Of course there were no doors, before, only a screen

Of pleated silk, edged with braid

But that is long gone, now the doors are open wide,

Revealing the stringless, dull inside,

And I have placed upon the shelves objet d’art, 

A cut glass vase positioned as to hide its crack,

Some Wedgewood items and a stoneware jar,

An old glass bottle, Napkin rings, a pair,

A Christening cup, a yew wood chamber stick,

A burr wood box, elevated on a brick,

Old tat really, nothing very rare.

And now I feel I need a longcase clock,

Pagoda topped, Chinoisserie, gold and black

To complete the junk shop scene.

So now I am returned to longing and searching,

No longer fulfilled and serene. 

All That Was Left Were The Haloes

 

Strangely, it was the light,

Beaming in with summer force

Through the window, 

Transomed, mullioned, leaded glass unstained, 

And many centuries old,

That made the painting of the triptych disappear,

Into rough, impasto blackness,

All except for the haloes,

Which remained,

Boomerang shaped and returning the gold,

Burnished bright,

Back towards its source.

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. 

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,

One 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 makes all things well again. 

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.

 

 

 

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.

The World of Things, the Human World

 I have retreated to the world of things,

And mostly to the world of things in lists,

The world of coffers, mule chests and kists,

And all the happiness that old oak brings.

The world of Victor Chinnery, MacQoid,

Where all is peace and beauty, solid strength,

Though not all truth, and yet I can’t avoid

Reality in weight, height, depth and length.

I laugh at old attempts to pass things off

As many decades older than they are,

Yet age revered, age as a guiding star

Is not a principle at which I scoff,

Indeed, it is the one by which I live,

And men who tried to make age manifest

Were emulating all that they thought best,

And so it is our duty to forgive

And see the decent motivation with the eye

That prides itself on picking out the lie.

Everything I Thought Before.

 Everything I thought before I now un-think.

I care for nobody no, not I, for nobody cares for me.

Well not quite everything, but most things stink,

Most people are not worth the effort, I'll leave them be.

I care naught for institutions and traditions, 

I've done with signing petitions,

Done with the rule of law,

Democracy, acting my part,

I fart

In the face of notions I valued yesterday,

I don't care for ideas I defended before.

There shall be no way to pin me down, henceforth,

No reliable north,

No path, nothing to guide the way,

No right or left or in between,

Where there was kindness, henceforth shall be mean

Everything I thought before I now un-think.

A Room Full Of Old Furniture

A purdonium beside an old harmonium.

In a sweet little pot, an erythronium,

Which together with a vase of wisteria,

Do their best to bring spring joy,

Without attempting to destroy

The mood of the stuffy interior.

A painted duck, a decoy,

Sits atop a teapoy,

Squashed in beside a lowboy,

Of beautifully figured calamander,

Glows, despite the gloom

At the edge of the room,

As does the veneer

Upon the chiffonier,

Or is it made of solid pallisander?

In the centre stands a table,

One of many,

Shiny, stable,

Which of course 

Leads one to dream of eating horse

Or courses of horses,

Or not any.

A burr wood Davenport,

Hides beside an old oak court

Or was it an aumbry or a livery?

It is ancient anyway,

With some worm and old decay,

And its atmosphere leaves me feeling shivery.

An imposing secretaire,

Inlaid with woods most rare,

Amboyna, birdseye maple and hare,

Takes up too much space

And blocks out the light

With it’s height 

And with its span, 

And the rather splendid sight,

Of an escritoire or bookcase,

Laburnum, double domed, Queen Anne.

A walnut, high backed chair,

With a hand turned barley twist,

Has an air of despair,

Seems aware of the cares of tomorrow,

Worn down and with a list,

As if sat upon by Daddy,

It stands beside a kist,

Or is it a coffer or mule?

Its upholstery worked with crewel,

Is of faded, subtle hues,

Where once there had been pink

I begin to think,

Now were only blues,

And ancient sorrow.

I'll come back and poke about,

When the family are out,

There's a coromandel caddy

I must borrow.

 

“We Let People Die Alone”

We did it for the greater good,

We shut you up and shut you out,

For we knew best, we understood,

Hard heartedness was all about

An abstract theory borne of reason,

Put to use in Covid season,

Made to instil in-group thinking,

To put the self aside.

Tough love required your shrinking

Fear, slinking back to isolation,

Left to sob in lone frustration,

Sans compassion, consolation.

We did our best, we tried,

But your old woman died,

We were not cruel, 

Broke no rule,

Just left you racked with grief outside,

Loud, uncouth, undignified. 

https://www.spiked-online.com/2022/01/14/we-let-people-die-alone/

See also my poem ‘The Enforcing Sadist’ (2020)

Where?

I dream of some grey Georgian town,

Not blackened by industrial years,

But grey within its very bone.

One can perhaps dream new ideas,

But not invent false places

Built of granite stone.

The sea lies to the right of it,

But leaves few traces

Upon the old homes’ faces,

Symmetrical and open

Honest, neutral, not unkind.

And at the sight of it

I’m full of hope and know I’m back,

To somewhere real in my mind,

And wander up dead grassy track,

Bleached stalks turned pink in early dawn,

Are bending slightly in the breeze,

Where the Georgian houses stop

And Gothic villas peter out,

The residential edge, no shop,

Or pub to let it down,

No children here to shout,

No one at all about,

Except the corvids,

Assessing the suitability

Of a coppice of wind gnarled trees,

For nesting?

Calling each other, ‘Jack!’

Beside the old, dead farm

Adjoining its burned out barn,

Its roof long gone

Exposing a fragility

Of rotting beams and holed floors

Empty windows, sagging doors,

And ivy covered to the top,

Square and solid, empty charm,

Steeped in deep tranquillity.