I Can’t Believe You Weren’t Already Dead

 

I can’t believe you weren’t already dead,

Had anyone asked I’d have said,

‘Died years ago, never very well’,

I suppose it just shows you can’t tell.

“I can’t believe you weren’t already dead”,

I thought you’d croaked it one cold night in bed,

I’ve often thought there ought to be a sympathy card

Bearing that legend, 

But to whom would you send it, 

A common acquaintance or friend?

To decide would be really quite hard,

And anyway 

One would have to change the pronoun to they 

or he or she, and could you defend it-

The choice you made to put it in the post?

Supposing the dead man came back as a ghost,

And saw the offending item on the mantlepiece

of his brother or son, or nephew or niece,

and realised you had written him off, a decade ago,

or so.

Imagine his wounded pride,

If he knew you had thought he had died. 

Reel To Reel

Music At Night, Radio 4, May 1st 1968

(A harpsichord recital by my father, Alan Cuckston)

From a cupboard full of memories I did not share,

A store of music hidden on a reel,

Not catalogued or stored with any care,

Some minutes of your life I can reveal.

Hearing what they speak and yet conceal

The brilliance, the intellect, the flair,

Beside a tension none must sense you feel,

From a cupboard full of memories I did not share,

Some damaged now, beyond repair?

An obsolete machine now turns the wheel

And winds the tape on to its empty pair,

A store of music hidden on a reel,

Your playing now the means deep grief to heal,

Yet no intention of that kind is there,

Just pure musicianship expressed via brass and steel

Not catalogued or stored with any care,

But yet retained and so I dare

To dull my pain as by the heap I kneel

And bag up tapes to take to where

Some minutes of your life I can reveal

And sense the intellectual appeal

So lacking in this present day, so rare

When all is ‘relative’ and there’s a zeal

For dumbing down. I’ll send you out once more upon the air,

From a cupboard full of memories.

I cannot stop

 

I cannot pause to think at all

Lest I should weep and break the spell

And so I stretch to paint the wall 

And stoop to dip my brush again

And reach and daub and slap and then

Repeat the process, never stop,

Use a pole to reach the top,

Climb the ladder to the ceiling

Fill the cracks to numb the feeling,

Decorating can be healing.

The Same In The Other

 The Same In The Other

The essence of Art is ‘the same in the other,’

The essence of ‘rights’ ‘I’m the same as my brother’,

And yet as ‘the same’ is not quite ‘the same’

We must play a spot the difference game,

For ‘silence is violence’,

Except when the other

Commits some crime,

And then we must pass the time,

By making the first, original claim,

While trotting out the line

That sentences should be stiffer, 

For those who insist we differ.

And those who never fail to mention,

These differences of sameness,

By not remaining silent 

And seeking to draw to attention

To things which seem quite plain,

Are also somewhat violent, 

And my non silent brother,

Despite his sameness, is no relation of mine,

For he causes great harm and alarm,

Such that our brothers, in their difference, need protection,

Not just from those they choose to murder and maim,

But from him who confuses what is rational,

With what is ‘far right’ and national.

For we mustn’t attempt to apportion blame,

On difference, only on same. 

Dressing For The Collection Of A Teapoy

How to dress when taking collection

Of an item from an auction,

Is not a matter on which much reflection

Is usually required,

But one yearns to be admired,

When taking possession of a teapoy.

One wishes to convey the air

Of a connoisseur

Who knows that next season teapoys will be de rigueur.

So one must spend time deciding what to wear,

And yet take great care

Not to give the impression 

One has a mad obsession.

Tweed is essential as a foundation,

And various shades of green,

Should be given consideration,

For shoes, a sensible brown brogue

Think of our late queen,

Rather than something from Vogue.

For you wish to imply

The object you’ve come to collect

Will be the star of next month's magazine,

And yet,

Somewhere you know and regret,

That the publication in question

Is the Antiques Trade Gazette.