Crap Thinking

Crap thinking, always prevalent,
immune to reasoned argument,
the power of human vanity
so strong that our capacity
to question, be intelligent,
seek only real enlightenment,
is put aside, development
stopped. Familiarity -
crap thinking-
reciting taking precedence
we are our own establishment
and thus, preferring certainty,
we're reduced by this inanity,
this cult of what is relevant:
crap thinking.

Donald Macleod and Donald Maclean.

(Donald Maclean was played by Rupert Penry Jones, above, in the television drama about tge Cambridge Spies) 

This afternoon I said Donald Macleod,
when I really meant Donald Maclean
and thereafter couldn't refrain
from sighing aloud
at the thought of the beautiful face,
fair hair,
blue eyes, high cheek
bones,
of Rupert Penry Jones,
as I imagined him,
presenting 'Composer of the Week',
stuffed full of musical knowledge
and wishing to impart it to me
in person, without the restrictions
of time and place.
Ah! To dream of a beautiful geek
and to dare
to imagine how I would show my disdain
when he spoke of Philip Glass,
and alas,
how I would have to keep him at arms length,
which would require all the strength
of my musical convictions.

BBC Radio 3 - Composer of the week

Fifty Shades of Grey

Fifty shades of grey in winter weather,
not all eliciting resistless sorrow,
most beautiful of all the pigeon feather,
it's iridescence giving hope - tomorrow
will be bright, cheerful in greater measure
than this day's dreary hue;  look slant, see heather
violet, peacock blue; no pigment, it must borrow
fifty shades of grey in winter weather,
and make them modulate in incidental light, in turn together
amplify, attenuate and thus produce a rainbow.
Fifty shades, within a single treasure,
not all eliciting resistless sorrow,
and yet, having to find hope within the shadow
feeling one must search to find one's pleasure,
the colour in the endless chiaroscuro,
most beautiful of all the pigeon feather,
feels sometimes like a chore, and altogether
one wishes that the palette were less narrow
and one wonders at such beauty, whether,
it's iridescence giving hope - tomorrow
will be brighter, is false; might it wither?
Is this optimism,like the feather's shaft, quite hollow,
as there's beauty of a sort when storm clouds gather,
and who knows what's to follow -
Fifty shades of grey?

“Being More Dog”

Being 'more dog', when I am alone,
Because I am normally cat,
Is a skill that I thought that I'd never hone,
But each morning I put on my 'more dog' hat,
And when I see others I wait and chat,
And then walk for miles and don't stop to moan,
At the rain and the frost and things like that.
Being 'more dog', when I am alone,
Means I try to treat friends like things that I own,
And enthuse and encourage and knock them down flat,
With my joy at their very existence.  It's unknown,
Because I am normally cat,
For me to give praise and be glad, but at
The height of my 'more dog' mood, I disown
My English reticence.  Being kind with eclat
Is a skill that I thought that I'd never hone,
But to compensate now I just bark at the phone,
And this is a valid response; dogs also like combat.
At my 'dog' bonhomie I guess friends sometimes groan,
But each morning I put on my 'more dog' hat
And continue to think about fun, but I own
That it gets rather tiring and sometimes the cat
Claws come out, else the dog is a bitch, has a bone,
And needs must bare its teeth, is that
Being 'more dog'?

The Morning Whistles

A Shostakovitch  passacaglia starts it,

Emitted from my lips, chapped and dry,

With too little breath to really complete it,

And switched off quickly from passers-by.

Then the high distress of an oyster catcher,

As it circles the mud banks now exposed,

And the sudden clap of a flock of pigeons,

Ignored by the cormorants in rows,

Hanging their ragged black washing to dry,

On what’s left of a tree stump nearby.

But taken up by hysterical widgeon,

While the terrified egret, frogspawn snatcher,

Amphibian and reptile dispatcher,

Rises up slowly and flaps away,

When the dog, still youthful and uncouth,

Startles his equal in vulgarity,

A mallard duck like a dinner lady,

Cursing loudly and lacking in charity,

Repeating the same words each working day,

Whose mate acknowledging she speaks the truth,

Albeit with indifference, rude and grudging,

Adds to the chorus a half-arsed croak,

Before continuing diving and dredging,

Before declaring that he‘s feeling needy,

And sweeping fat Doris duck under his cloak,

Down at the old pond’s edge, where it’s reedy,

Bobbing up further off bright and beady.

And the loutish dog ventures in for a soak,

While in the wheat field behind the floodwall,

The crazy radio interference

Of a skylark, making its first appearance,

Adds to the morning a new dimension,

And momentarily diverts my attention,

As I try to discover the birds loud and small,

Whose inhaling/exhaling whistling,

Sounds rather rude to anyone listening,

Like ancient bed springs pumping and creaking,

In short bursts, as if things are flagging.

And I feel voyeuristic, almost sneaking,

And the dog turns round to see why I’m lagging,

When suddenly all the mornings squeaking,

Is drowned out by a noise more urgent and loud,

As a wayward rabbit apart from the crowd,

Seized by the throat by a weasel or stoat,

Trumps the morning whistles with squealing.

September Afternoon Jaunt

Whizzing along in the Jag,

Windows open wide,

Swooshing down hill,

Like the last of the swallows,

Smelling the heat outside,

Over the Wolds we go,

And there, spread out below,

Almost too beautiful sight,

Limestone and pantile delight,

Hovingham basking in afternoon light.

Scented and shimmering haze,

Hay bales and cattle which gaze,

At visitors watching them graze.

Then up to Helmsley we fly,

Indigo car under cobalt blue sky,

To this pretty and trippery place,

To find a parking place,

Then hike past the castle and over to Riveaulx,

Steep stony steps, forcing a go slow,

Romantic ruin reflecting the last glow,

Of this glorious high summer day,

Up on the Wolds way.

This Bed

Smooth mahogany, slightly scratched,
Constructed in 1922,
By grumpy Grandad Broadbent,
A man by nature deeply attached
To neatness. And I think it's true
To say, a man who wouldn't relent
From striving to achieve it, so that
If he were to come back from the dead
And see it now: a little dusty,
Clothes disheveled, and the cat
Curled up asleep beside my head,
And the dog, smelling rather musty,
At my feet,
And a very crumpled bottom sheet,
And the remains of things to eat,
The table beside sporting cold cups of tea,
And my clothes cast off upon the floor,
And some Biro marks by children drawn,
He might feel cross. But we
Can't arrange our lives anymore
To suit the dead than we can scorn
Entirely their influence.

So when my back clicks back to place,
I'll tidy up and tuck it in
And live where the confluence
Of his ideas and mine meet in a thin
Stream until, within a short space
Of time, I'll revert to type again.