Still Life

Over thirty years in the making,

Though not really painstaking,

Just shopping,

And in the end a moment’s chopping.

Light falls through the window, left,

A Scotch egg, cleft,

No stalled ox here, served with hate,

Just salad on a celadon plate,

Magenta onion beside,

A Vestment cupboard, black and wide,

An Aumbry 17th century, oak,

Another ecclesiastical find,

A Bible box, is this a joke?

I did not realise I’d made it,

Just bought it,loved it and displayed it,

And even the refectory table,

Brings monks to mind

And God born in a stable,

Who’d feed five thousand in one sitting.

Church furniture is rather fitting,

This fact I feel must be admitted, 

In a kitchen quite unfitted,

But are free standing things heretical?

Or is all that too theoretical?

A rustic linen cloth is spread,

But sadly no fresh, blest white bread,

Instead a few Ryvitas do,

A slice of meat and Shropshire blue.

The candle sticks are not in shot,

But bring more God to this strange spot,

A Tazza, one form, turned parts, three,

It’s timber, Christ the apple tree,

And huge wood bowl with apples in,

To tempt this Eve to eat and sin,

And offer Adam take a bite,

And taste the sweet and sour delight,

Forgetting implants and veneers,

White, bright, civilisation thin,

In this old setting like Vermeer’s

A mule chest, against the wall,

A donkey watching from a stall?

It’s 18th century arches pointed,

The gothic ears of asses

With drips of cooking oil anointed,

Above, a cupboard full of glasses,

Tumblers mostly, some for wine,

Sufficient for the way we dine,

On cold collations puritanical

Or catholic and ecumenical?

For grub is grub, the whole world o’er,

And Jesus proved that less is more.

I’d better buy a tabernacle,

In which to store some modern tackle.

A Specially Trained Officer

I am the very model of a special, well trained Whatsitsname,

I'm here to give ‘support’ and play a rather controversial game,

My boss, the Crown in England, in light of fights historical,

Says families must call for calm when folk become hysterical. 

I'm very well acquainted, too, with arguments political,

And those upon the right are simple, never philosophical,

Regarding all the theories as to who killed who, now in the news,

My role is to shut those up expressing their uncensored views.

I'm on the side of those who do not wish to integrate and calculate

The State must clamp down hard and legislate,

In short, in matters which provoke and light a nasty far right flame

I am the very model of a special, well trained Whatsitsname. 

I know our mythic history, King Arthur's and the ancient blacks,

I always march with Pride and strive to keep my morals really lax,

I quote in sorrow all the crimes of Britain’s awful Empire,

In comic mood I take the floor to scoff at those who still admire

The works of Shakespeare, Donne or Milton, 

Or modern works which seem to be on giants’ shoulders built on.

I never hum a fugue, it’s simple music I prefer,

Aught reminiscent of the past is that which good men must deter,

Who cares what’s written down on clay in Babylonic cuneiform?

Not me, a special bloke, without a uniform:

In short, in matters ethnic, tense and highly criminal,

I am the very model of a special, mindless animal.

(After every murder in Britain where white British people are the victims of immigrants from Africa or Asia or Albania or the descendants of such immigrants, the police warn us not to speculate about the killer and tell us the victims’ families have requested this. Whereas in fact families in these circumstances are visited by ‘specially trained officers’ whose role is to shut them up and to write political statements in praise of immigrants generally on their behalf to try and keep a lid on civil unrest while the establishment goes on importing hundreds of thousands more unvetted immigrants.  This process is called ‘supporting the victim’s family’.)

God Does Not Exist At Speed

 

In Bach, at least, and probably elsewhere,

God does not exist at speed,

You stumble across Him, 

Slowly, as you sight read.

Which is a good excuse, never to practise to sight read fast, 

As you can’t catch God,

When he’s whizzing past. 

  

The Messiah Has Moobs (Daily Mail headline re. Andy Burnham)

Mr Burnham is human, it seems, after all

His gynaecomastia proves he’s sincere

In his good bloke intentions, so try not to sneer,

An Englishman’s breasts be they ever so small,

Develop from drinking fine Englishman’s beer,

Though sometimes I hear,

That others say,

Men only grow moobs if they drink I.P.A.

Lulled Into A False Sense of Insecurity

(The State Proposes A Solution For Members of the Public Who are Found to be Worried About the Frequent Rapes, Stabbings and Murders Which They Read About Online) 

It is my belief

You have been lulled

Into a false sense of insecurity

And as you never seek relief,

For this malign condition, 

But go scrolling on,

Reading Twitter,

Seeking further feelings of grief,

Not just feeling angry and bitter

But feeling those feelings are justified,

Then the only cure,

Is to lock you up

Making sure 

You are really secure.

Cynosure

The cynosure,

The guiding light,

Provides a sign ashore

Within our sight,

To reassure,

A star by which to navigate,

Appearing when the day is late,

To guide us home

To keep us straight,

To help us steer towards what’s right.

We seldom need to innovate,

The cynosure

Just shines ashore

It is a beam

Catching the eye,

Beheld, despite some speck or mote,

Radiant on the darkest night,

Glowing through the darkest sky,

Providing hope to keep afloat.

Reality is Right Wing (Rondeau redouble)

Reality is hard, right wing,

Nature is red in tooth and claw,

Truth is the most realistic thing,

It happens again as it happened before,

Don’t be ideological anymore,

Your theory is balls, let it go, do not cling,

Believe the little girl next door,

Reality is hard, right wing.

It is bullshit you’re determined to sling,

If it’s complex, long winded and frankly a bore,

Reality has a simple ring,

Nature is red in tooth and claw.

A thorn, a barb, a stick in the craw,

And the clarity of the note truth will sing

Will not beat as the blood soaks into the floor,

Truth is the most realistic thing.

What is it in you that wishes to fling

False accusations derived from a flaw?

Reality’s predictable as spring,

It happens again as it happened before,

There’s rarely any surprise in store,

Seldom a novel ‘take’ to wring,

Barely use for a metaphor,

Theories gilt paint on soft metal bling,

Reality is hard. 

Kitchen Lament

The dog sleeps on

Beside the stove,

The wind roars wildly down the flue,

As I pick up my violin

And try to keep the tuning true

Of notes I learned so long ago.

A strange lament for all sad times,

Which seems to have a Hebrew hue,

I can’t help overdoing it,

Sliding notes to make them blue

And adding hopelessness to show

I know the sad thoughts all men know.

But saddest thoughts are soon dispelled,

The welling tears are quickly quelled,

As I survey the kitchen sink

And all the housework left undone

And drift into a haze of guilt

As phrases slide past one by one,

Conveyed by absent mind to arm,

No longer stirring sorrow deep,

But urging me to let things be,

To go to bed and try and sleep,

And leave the boring chores alone. 

The hairy floor can always wait,

The scattered crumbs can’t come to harm,

There’s nothing that I can’t postpone,

The day’s been long, the hour’s late,

I don’t need music’s help to moan.