Cathars being Expelled from Carcassonne in 1209 by the Workshop of the Boucicaut Master
Carcassonnet
“Kill them all – the Lord will know his own.” Now there’s an brutal, pithy epitaph That any poet would be proud to hone To horribly describes the aftermath Of the one and loving Church when rampant, Laying siege to the souls of heretics – This is the cost of faith triumphant, Policy and zeal allowed to mix. We like to tell ourselves those days have gone, But only thanks to disbelief and village schools – The moral, true from Mecca, Rome and Carcasonne Is to never trust a priest to write the rules. For the fatal fallibility of pope and prayer Will delegate to God the need to even care.
I saw a bird in town today, Pecking round the outdoor cafe tables – Plucking up the crumbs astray, Then flitting off to perch atop the gables. I only saw a smidgeon, Of a flash of green upon the fowl – So not the usual pigeon, Nor a bully blackbird on the prowl. I thought I saw some speckles, But it surely couldn’t be a thrush ? I’d wager seven shekels That they’d never brave this market crush.
So, it’s not a mavis, then – Too small and bright for crow or rook, I’d say, Too big for sparrow or a wren, And far too dark for chaffinch or a jay. A parakeet ? Baloney ! And even I know magpies from a robin ! That leaves the starling only – But then, just where were all the others mobbing ? I sacrificed a sandwich prawn To tempt it down, my enigmatic bird – And yes, it took my proffered pawn And yes !, a starling straggled from the herd.
Don’t you have meadows to pirouette over ? Don’t you have siblings all missing their rover ? Are you an orphan, or outcast, or rebel They taught to caw bass, but who wants to sing treble ? Or are you a mute who can not hold a ditty, Now seeking your fortune within the big city ? I’m much the same, really, I came for the glory – So here, have a peanut, and tell me your story.
A-Side Why do I hate Phil Collins ? Well, I try not to hate anymore But why do I so dislike Phil Collins ? Do I ? I’m not so sure. I still think Air Tonight is a classic, At least, till the kit kicks in – The rest, I mostly could leave ’em, But if you dig ’em, I guess you win.
No, the reason I hate…no, never hate, But maybe biting my thumbs, Is all because he single-handed killed the 80s With his drums – His thudding, crushing, reverb-hushing, Stop-and-starty gated drums ! His all-commanding, corp’rate-branding, Undecaying zombie drums !
It’s not all of Phil Collins’s fault, of course, He only rubbed the lamp, And soon the genius was loose To spread itself through desk and amp – Producers loved its soulless beats That never swing or soothe, And ev’ry engineer beheld The emperor’s new groove.
It took us all the decade to wake up, Ten years too late, To suss the subtleties we’d lost When drumskins don’t vibrate. How many tunes that now sound dated, Could instead have sounded great ? So this is why I curse Phil Collins – Cos he opened up the gate !
B-Side But what do I know, and what does he care ? He’s loved by thousands ev’ry day – So he’s the famous millionaire, And I’m just the whinging, self-smug square Who cannot even play. So I don’t like his drums ? So what ? Is that the best I’ve got To think that I can moan away ?
You know what I hate about Phil Collins ? I hate how he makes me hate. How all of my petty ugliness Is rising to the bait. He lets me let myself off the hook And lets my mouth run free – As if my taste is the only taste, And I dare you to disagree.
So sing it, Phil ! Sing it inspite of me, Sing it to frighten me Out of my combative them-and-us cry. Ignore my stridency, Forgive my overkill, Try to enlighten me – Live and let live till we die.
I guess this is where the toms come in, The final chorus beckons, I see. Could we just let them ring out for once, do you reckon, Just for me ? Ungate my heart, take me out of the 80s, And into a decade of long decay – Or else let’s part, and never be haters. Bang the drum – not fade away.
These forests grow like chequer-boards, Their heads are said to lowly growl – The sea will lash their thousand bolts, As slowly twists each triple-swords To whisk the wind and steal its howl For grinding watts and milling volts.
It could be as simple and routine, As lining-up the keyboard, square, The practised switch to light the screen, The pulling-up of a chair, Or nudging the mouse, that nudges the brain – With a ‘ho-hum, there’s that feeling again’. It’s not even deja vu, just a mild surprise It’s just a slow ‘oh yeah’ as we realise That we did this very action in just this way Just yesterday, And we say ‘but that was only an hour ago, Or maybe two, but not any more…’ But no – we know, we always know, We’ve had all twenty-four since we did it last, Our days tick by so slow and skip so fast.
Flatland always had all three, All three dimensions on it – Anyone with sense can see The Flatoids are upon it ! It’s true, they barely used the zed, But still the zed was there – But as for other strings that thread, These cannot cube the square.
Upon my death, should my beliefs attest To be so wrong, And should my doubting self yet house a soul – Which lurks obscure until eternal rest Proves not so long, Then rises up when summoned to extol, And give account of faith, and weigh agenst A common mark – Then let it hold no shame and hold no fear. And should my final form be then dispensed Unto the dark, Still my whole life was loving and sincere.
That first date, you never told me How afraid you are of moths, Nor ever interrupted me To lean across the tablecloth And gently touch my knuckles like you do (But didn’t do that night) To carefully explain how you Must always sleep upon the right.
You never said how many times You have to check you have your keys – Between the starter and the main You somehow managed not to sneeze, And while you kept me giggling with your jokes, You wholly overlooked To mention just how zealously You like your pasta undercooked.
You didn’t squeak a pip about Your overfondness over wine, That keeps you too afraid to drink. You didn’t think to spin a line Of how you’d always rather lie Than have an argument. Or how you never understand Just how your paperbacks get bent.
I guess I’m glad you never told me What was lying there in wait – For had I known, I doubt if I’d have Ever risked a second date. But when I think of who was sat across the table, On display – If that were all you were, I think we wouldn’t still be here today.
Barbara Blacksheep bears a name Belonging to a shepherdess, A damsel in a dirndl dress. But Barbara won’t play this game – Whyever did her parents think Her life should be a nod and wink ?
Barbara Blacksheep, twelve years old, Is fighting hard against the path Her name intends to telegraph. Defiance, though, makes Barbara bold – She won’t be traipsing downs and dales From soggy Kent to chilly Wales !
For she’s a city girl at heart – The only sheep she ever saw Was supermarket mutton, raw. She’d struggle how to play the part – She couldn’t be a wannabo-Peep For anyone, not even sheep.
She doubts all that nostalgia, though – They weren’t romantic spirits, free, But serfs a meal from poverty. Yet things have changed since long ago – The modern herders of the moors Use phones and drones and four-by-fours.
But then she sees a painting in a book – A shepherdess amongst the gorse Just leaning on her crook – Rather chocolate box, of course, With unshod feet and peasant’s dress But in her eyes a knowing look That said here was a shepherdess That knew her pasture’s ev’ry nook And knew her ev’ry sheep by sight And knew she’d get them home all right.
She was maybe fifteen, sixteen, Not much older than Barbara now – The latter who would struggle between Telling a sheep from a cow Yet somehow, if she’d only end her war Upon her name, Then give her three years, give her four, To give herself an aim – And could she be that confident of gaze To watch them graze ?
And so she got to thinking deep About her future, taking stock – And made a choice to guard the flock. So Barbara Blacksheep will never lack sleep Counting ev’ry one of her charges As each bleats and bustles and barges.
She made herself a solemn vow To shield her yearlings from disasters As playing fields become her pastures – For she’s a playground monitor now – Her lambs aren’t sheep and kids aren’t goats, But tykes in woollen hats and coats.
Rhyming Couplets 