I asked her what was the tartan she wore, She smiled and told me Smith. I’d never considered that Clan before, But fair enough – the Smiths of yore, The Sassenachs of Aviemore, The flints in the monolith – The common Clan for the ev’ryman, The hammers and tongs of myth.
She asked the tartan in which I deck, Buchanan, perhaps, or Brodie, or Beck ? I smiled, and told her Burberry Check.
It seems that the Gaelic word for smith is the origin of the Clan McGowan, but that even before surnames arose in the Highlands, some Scots had Anglisised their profession to ‘smith’.
We know who is the hero of the story By their name, Who overcomes the Pharaoh And is master of the game. They may be short and strong, like John, Or florid, like Lysander. But nobody can take the conn When called by something blander.
Our names say who’s the hero, Who’s the villain, who’s the fodder – The latter, if they’re named at all, Are given names which keep them small. Who’s an agent of the Bureau ?, Who’s a desk-bound plodder ? Why do you even have to ask ?, Their nametags clearly show their task.
We know who is the hero, And the hero ain’t called Nigel But when your name is Nero, Then you’re Emperor of Rigel ! Kevins never save the day, And clearly Richards have to lose, The Mauds won’t steal our hearts away. And Tracys never make the news.
Our names say who are heroes, Standing-out from us bystanders. The latter, if they get a shot, Are only there to serve the plot. There’s millions – so many zeroes – Never Homer, always Flanders. Yet still the parents set the stage And give their children names of beige.
It’s never been as easy as now To apply for a brand new job – A couple of clicks on the morning train And your old boss’s loss is your new boss’s gain. Except…you’re one of the millions now, A lone CV in the mob – And all those skills it took years to master, The algorithm can reject ever faster.
We’re all sending pleas into the void, Just begging for a happier lot We’re bored and stressed in our current roles, Our daily slog has poisoned our souls. We grumble away with our hope destroyed, As the years see our futures rot. We know precisely what we want to do, But the gods say ‘not for the likes of you’.
Do Androiods Dream of Electric Sheep by Cooper Hill
Online Ovines
When I first heard of what made androids dream, I wanted to know much more – Like where are the hordes of electric sheep All under the crook of a cyber-Beau Peep ? Yet ev’ry pasture dotted with white may teem With robotic ewes by the score, And so well made are these flocks of steel, They bleat and follow just like real… Do their eyeballs glow with a laser beam That the ravens quake before ? Are their horns antennas, warning of fox ? Does their wool discharge with electric shocks ? I swear these sheep aren’t all they seem, It’s folly to just ignore… For the folds are filling with a new kind of lamb, A bellwether seeking to upgrade their ram.
Reflections on the Imperial War Museum’s Great War Gallery
Is the purpose of a museum To tell a story or show-off its wares ? Poking around the bowels of Bedlam, I started to question theirs. Crammed-in from a lack of space, (A bit like the trenches, but only a bit), I started to notice the absences, The parts they couldn’t manage to fit – The lack of horses, for instance, Or the lack of Colonial troops in the ranks, Or the life in the Jerry’s trenches, Or even that much about the Yanks. It was, in the end, not a history, But a series of stories of artefacts – More could be added, but as modern props, With the sense-of-fakeness this attracts. The trouble, perhaps, was with the curators One hundred-plus years ago, Collecting what was seen as significant So soon after the show. We might now wish they’d chosen diff’rent, And the future might want diff’renter yet – But if they ain’t got it, they cannot display it, So this is the War that we get.
We, the onlookers, dressed for Summer, Less of a troop and more of a pack. Shins and forearms and heads uncovered – Only the jackdaws are dressed in black. Partly honouring, partly gawking, English voices amiably talking, Not many present are younger than fifty – One or two pause to read the plaque.
Officials in blazers, though we’re well-behaved. Squaddies’ fatigues, their shoulders say Dutch, Though I swear their “left-right-left” is in English – The crowd wear no medals – would that be too much ? The towers of names are columns of debt, Bearing down, by rank before alphabet, In a random sample, I look for my own In the Surreys and sappers and serjeants and such.
Suddenly, a hush, an announcement by speaker, Telling we must not talk or applaud. A trio of buglers – was that the Last Post ? Then a soldier steps up, a little over-awed. “They shall grow not old” he reads, His accent heavy, and yet succeeds To draw from us a shared Amen: “We shall remember them”, these Brits abroad.
The bugles again, and wreaths are laid, The squad march off in the evening sun, And suddenly ev’rything melts into chatter – We mill for a while, but the service is done. The road reopens, the traffic drives through, We pose for a final selfie or two, But we’ve far too many atrocities to remember, To focus on only one.
Nicknames are exonyms, Imposed against our will. Based on biases and whims They think that we fulfil. They’re oh so unoriginal, Yet cannot be withstood – And once we’re dubbed-additional, We’re stuck with them for good !
Nicknames are exonyms, We cannot choose our own. They may be simple Bobs and Jims That set our names in stone, Or adjectives that prove too strong To yield to any protest. I guess we’ll have to play along – At least they mean we’re noticed.
I saw the plant through the window of the meeting room A bedraggled thing – Clearly wilted, but not yet quite in the waterless tomb – Determined to cling. But every time I passed, the space was fulfilling its mission, Hosting a crowd – I hadn’t a hope of providing the patient a little nutrition, Or sparing the shroud. Not unless I fancied news of paradigm shifts And stakeholder rights, Or talking shop on printer jams and faulty lifts Through doughnut bites. Until, at last, while walking by on my way to the train, And a forlorn glance – The lights were out, but the hallway fluorescents leaked through the pane… I took my chance. I had just a drop in my water bottle, to break the drought With barely a stream – But I saw some dregs in the coffee cups that were strewn about And a pot of cream. And a leak in the corner of the room had collected on the window sill – And that was its lot. Then I never found that room so empty again, till a fire drill Gave me a shot. The rest of the time, I’d pass the window and flick my eyes, To check its state, But through endless workshops preaching the need to synergise, It didn’t look great. Yet when I finally proffered my notice, on my very last day, I was glad to see, That that poor and bedraggled little bit of green in amongst the grey Was outlasting me.
Rhyming Couplets 