Come, mistress, stay – no patriarch am I ! No zealous male, yet you rebuke me so – I never wish to dim your spark of eye, For not all men are as Petruchio. I plead, do not agglomerate my sex, And score the mixture only by its worst – When many brothers scant deserve this hex Of deeming women-passionate as curst. If chauvinistic authors grumble loud And laud a brute as model for our kind, Then know of we who wish you still unbowed And retch at thoughts of taming such a mind. Far better shrews, for shrewdness thence hath sprung In women sharp of wit and swift of tongue.
“No Free Will” can mean two different things – The first of these is in our brains That we’re simply biological robots, Thinking we’re free but forever in chains.
The second is that the Future exists, It already exists, so it has to arrive – And the only way from here to there Is to give up choice and to let fate drive.
According to boffins, it’s out of our hands, That we’re all algorithms just floating in space, And the only uncertainty’s not us, but quantum, And anyway time is all over the place.
Now I know pressure, and I know predictable, And I know duality – a body and a soul – But minds are physical, products of biology, Not separate from bodies, but under their control.
And yet…And yet… Honestly ? I mean, yes, I get what they’re trying hard to say, But it doesn’t sit with me. I don’t feel a slave even on the dullest day – You know, I’m feeling pretty free. And yes, we could be programed so we never notice anyway, Or maybe we’re just bluffing. I mean, we’re self-aware – does that count for nothing ?, Not that the universe would care. But when it’s down to tails or heads, To blues or reds, Or jazz or blues, That barely even matters which we choose – Well…have we still the power to refuse ?
And as for that time thing…what’s there to discuss ? How did the future even get ahead of us ? They say it isn’t set, That we still get to select, Except, of course, except, That the causes haven’t happened yet, But all of the effects are in effect.
But come on, we all know that it’s bollocks ! Of course we all get to make a choice, We’re not all living in a virtual simulation, And there is no cosmic script that we must voice, Now normally I show respect to scientists, But normally they have to prove their stuff – So I’ll rely on common sense and take responsibility, And I’ll be free, at least – or free enough.
I don’t know why I’m gifted so, To sleep as tightly as a tree – To close my eyes and just let go, And slip into eternity – Where aeroplane nor car alarm Nor deep pneumatic drill Can rouse me from my safe-from-harm Before I’ve slept my fill.
I’ve heard it said a guilty soul Will lie as skittish as a foal, And never find repose. Now I, I never was a saint, And yet I dream without constraint When sweetly comatose.
I don’t know why I’m fortunate To sleep as soundly as a stone, Until my eyelids raise the gate To marvel how the night has flown. Oblivion is long my friend Who waits in Timbuktoo. I swear, the World and all could end, And I would sleep on through.
I’ve heard it said that peaceful minds Have little need for warmth and blinds, When tiredness prevails. Now I, I am not pure and deep, And yet I still could harvest sleep Upon a bed of nails.
They started coming over here a decade back or so, A few at first, and hardly noticed, where the good winds blow. Of course, the many coats they wear have helped, despite their glitzy show.
At first, we thought how marvellous to find such guests as these – A touch of the exotic in the roses and the peas, And something to replace the sorry absence of the friendly bees.
But now we hear they’re taking jobs from seven-spotted lads, Or that they breed too many kids compared to local dads, And even claims of bullying, from roaming gangs of bolshy cads !
And sheltering through Winter in a corner, in the gloom, We find them huddled with their kind, at twenty to a room – A lack of integration with the natives, is what we assume.
They offer services for thrips, which two-spots can’t compete in – The gardeners are overjoyed, the unions are beaten. And does it really even matter, if the aphids all get eaten ?
The market does its work, with consequences untoward – They gobble up their rivals to monopolise the board – They’re less a friendly immigrant, and more a raging mongrel horde !
Yet maybe we’re reacting to a non-existent wrong – Let’s leave the species to it, and they might just get along, With more than plenty greenfly shared among this multi-cultured throng.
But let’s not read too much comparing ladybird and man, For beetles run on instinct, with no higher thought or plan. They cannot make a compromise – but we are humans, and we can.
Self Portrait by Auguste Vinchon, also showing his imaginary twin brother (the original is on the one on the left).
Coming of Age, Twice Over
When I was just your age, you twins, I dreamed of heading West, Of hitching rides between the inns That stretch from hill to crest. I planned to leave at earlybird – And yet…I never did. For on that very morn, I heard Your ma was got with kid.
When I was just your age, you twins, I almost saw the world. I almost got to grin such grins… Till word came from my girl. I longed to sail the ocean blue, To joust with sharks and squids – And oh!, I would have made it, too, But for you pesky kids !
Back up to the top, keep it going on round, Keep it going on round and never let it stop, And never let it stop, run it outwards bound, Run it outwards bound, send it back to the top.
And better move it on, don’t ever let it drop, Let’s keep it in the air and take it underground. So never break the chain, pass it on, chop-chop, And back up to the top, keep it going on round.
And in and out of knots, getting tightly wound Dodge left, weave right, all over the shop – But the race ain’t won till the victor’s crowned, Keep it going on round and never let it stop.
And gallop for the line, catch the hare on the hop, Let’s fly with the fox and chase with the hound – So dig in the spurs and whip with the crop, And never let it stop, run it outwards bound.
And never leave living while our hearts still pound, While the music’s sweet and the colours pop. Never quit the quest till the answer’s found, Run it outwards bound, send it back to the top. Keep it going on round…
But there is no loving god, my friends, There is no final judge to make amends. My friends, there is no loving god. There never is, there never will be, never was – For all there ever is, is us – But who then cares ? Well, no-one does, We are all the love that there can ever be. We are both the saviour and the deity – Formed in our own image and desire, Because, before he ever was, we are.
The Twenty-Ninth came round today It’s years since last she passed my way, But on my birthday, there she was – Alas, she couldn’t stay. But that’s because that’s what she does – She rarely comes to play.
I shrug, and try to not get sad – For oh, when she does appear, It always makes a special year, Like an Olympiad. It’s not a proper birthday, I might add, When she’s not here.
You come so soft, sweet Twenty-Ninth, The sum of quarter-days – You take unmissed those surplus whiles, And solar-annual strays – And whether you are bursting Spring Or Winter’s final greys – You come for free, or so it seems, Through mathematic ways. We owe it all to Julius, Who’s clock the Earth obeys – He holds in trust your orphan times, And four years on, repays.
Rhyming Couplets 