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.


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.




Sunday, 3 April 2022

Jimmy Savile Isn’t Dead


Jimmy Savile isn’t dead,

We saw him by the A614

Twixt Shiptonthorpe and Holme on Spalding Moor,

He was standing by his car,

Smoking a cigar,

And my husband said, “look, there’s Jimmy Saville,

That’s the way to travel,

Drive a few miles, stop for a smoke,

Hope someone notices you’re that weird bloke,

Off the box,

In lime green shell suit and sports socks”

Just as if it were 1989,

And all fine,

And we only know as much as we knew before.

Saturday, 2 April 2022

Intellect, Wisdom and Doubt

 


The intellect’s a cock sure little sod,

So arrogant it seems to think it’s God,

Keep it at arms length

And use your strength

To hold it down and keep it there, at bay,

Never let it get in wisdom’s way.

Wisdom knows better than to pay attention,

But intellect knows just the thing to mention

In order to instil doubt,

And doubt is part of wisdom so there’s tension,

And intellect starts acting like a lout,

And battle ensues, internal dialogue,

And chaos results and pointless brain fog.

And where there was calm and goodness, clarity,

Now there’s cold, hard reason, lacking charity,

And any imagination

One might have used to process information,

Is put aside and one becomes obsessive,

Fanatical, dog-with-bone possessive,

Self referencing, limited, lost in the self made maze,

Entirely alone and in a daze

With no means of escape, except to hide,

Till wisdom reasserts itself inside. 

Thursday, 31 March 2022

Never Trust


‘Ten Pythagorean Quotes To Learn Before You Die’,

The title tempted me to click 

And yet what really caught my eye

Was one strange line (perhaps I’m thick)

“Never trust a friend who speaks”.


At last a man who thought as I do,

Ah, these genius ancient Greeks,

Though I know much less than he knew

Have never set myself to muse

(And if I did would find it stale)

Upon the squared hypotenuse,

Nor have I found the perfect scale,

And yet it seems I am as wise

As he, for I have also learned

That the language of the eyes

Is best, cannot be twisted, turned.

One cannot trust one’s human friends,

They tend to conversation,

Friendship peters out and ends

And leaves behind frustration.


But alas! I had not seen the end of the quotation,

“Never trust a friend who speaks... 

Badly of a comrade”.  Oh how dull, my admiration

For those genius ancient Greeks

Sank back, their friends were not as mine,

Loyal, four legged, canine.








Friday, 21 January 2022

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.





Thursday, 20 January 2022

I went To A Marvellous Work Do

I went to a marvellous works do

With Boris and Carrie as well 

It was in the fresh air 

And we went as we were 

But we were n’t really there, 

I’ve heard tell


People’s behaviour

Away from Belgravia 

Is nothing like as blasé

As that in SW1A

It would make you aghast,

So much variety

Watching society

Scampering past

If you have any mind at all

Gibbon's divine Decline and Fall

Seems pretty flimsy

No more than a whimsy

By way of contrast

On Saturday last

I went to a marvellous works do

I must say the fun was intense

We did what we knew

Unashamed, in full view

Such things as people like us always do,

Will be doing a hundred years hence.


I went to a marvellous work do,

It might have been a ball,

And somebody swung from the chandelier

Though who it was

I have no idea,

Though I’m sure their apology’s most sincere

And nothing will change at all. 





 

Wednesday, 19 January 2022

On Bullshit

 On Bullsh*t


Someone wrote the essay,

So I shall write the verse,

Lying's really awful,

But bullshit's so much worse,

To lie one must at first concede

That truth must fit its place.

To lie is always to mislead,

To hide the truth so no faint trace

In evidence is left behind

To aid the honest, open mind,

Which questions falsehoods when they jar,

Against the facts as known so far.

Yet 'tangled webs' that liars 'weave'

'When first they practise to decieve'

Are evidence that their intent

Is some small part acknowledgement

That truth somewhere exists.

Bullshit brazenly persists,

No sense of how it might compare

To truth, its smirking face is bare,

It neither hides, nor turns, nor twists

Just flings itself upon the air

Audaciously and doesn't care,

And yet is proud and self aware.


Blue Flowers

 The flowers of my dreams are blue

And seem to be the ones that grew

In childhood’s garden, long ago,

Which when abandoned, left to grow,

Produced an even deeper hue

And stained with sadness all I knew

And changed the light that filtered through,

So strange notes are the ones I know,

The flowers of my dreams.

And harmony is odd, though true,

Contrived, made up in lieu

Of what is lost, yet still must show

That beauty’s blooms are tinged with woe,

Such linseed acres, not a few,

The flowers of my dreams.