The curtain’s hanging over us, This is our final scene. We hope our lines are close enough And energies still keen. We’ve just the time for one last turn Before we take our bows – For any encores that we earn, And management allows.
The future’s big in front of us, It starts tomorrow-dawn, And so, for all we grunt and cuss, Our brand-new lives are born. We’ve barely time to learn our parts Before we take our chance, And who knows where the future charts ? It’s one long song-and-dance.
Poet Laureates may think they’re minstrels as of old, And the keepers of collective kinds of culture – But the power of such poetry has long since faded cold, Like the tides of sacred dance or idol sculpture. The heart of our society has moved-on into music And to movies, and to comics, and to memes – This is our shared heritage – collectively we choose it, And subconsciously it permeates our dreams.
The arts have work to do, And when it’s done, They must give way. The world must make anew Each hero son To have his day. And poems, once so true, Are now unspun, no more to say.
So poetry is rarefied, like opera and heraldry – Irrelevant to most, and barely missed. It’s hived-off into enclaves, where its swallows public subsidy Because a few elites and pseuds persist. The people are intimidated, left to feel inadequate For not relating to this ancient form – But quickly, and quite rightly, shrug it off – so let’s not overstate Its presence in the psyche of the norm.
From Troy, to Middle Earth, to Tatooine, The stories sway – They have to prove their worth, To keep their sheen, Or slip away. And poems, long in dearth, Are barely seen or heard today.
Ring out the bells, The carousels, The minor-thirded Murder swells ! The long-sustaining, Over-reigning, Peace-destroying, Cloying bells.
Some use clappers, Some use hammers, Gentle tappers, Noisy clamours, Hear their sobbing Undertones Then feel their throbbing In our bones. From wedding airs to fun’ral songs, Let swing those gothic gongs !
Ring out the bells, The peels of spells, From churchy chimes To grimy hells. The long-decaying, Belfry-swaying, Steeple-hanging, Clanging bells.
Some say angel, Some say villain, Pure or painful, Each carillon. Hear their numbing, Hear their mourns – In want of drumming, Lacking horns. From monast’ries to citadels, Let speak the tongues of bells.
The Devil’s Parlour, an AI confection created using Leonardo
Cusp & Foil
Despite its very un-human appearance, Brutalism is not of the Devil – Hell is not open-plan nor split-level, But rather refined in its elegance.
For Satan loves him a good bit of moulding, And finds the Gothic suitably striking – It’s churchiness is much to his liking, With shadows and alcoves with secrets withholding.
He relishes how it is so un-chaste – A messy farrago, where carvings cavort, So clearly theatric, but not overwrought. He’s rather old school in his decadent taste.
He champions all human endeavour, He hungers for art, and lusts for pleasures, Encouraging people to greater measures Of genius accidentally clever.
Now God, he think, is a philistine, And Jesus just sees a building as walls, While Paul doesn’t care for the awe of St Paul’s – They can’t see the passion within the divine.
The rage of the counter-Reformation Is nothing but pigments on canvas, alas. They hear no angelics within the Mass, Nor thunder within a preacher’s oration.
But Satan knows humans are flesh and blood, Like gargoyles hanging from rafters and nooks – They may be grotesque, but we cherish their looks ! For Adam was formed from the dust and the mud.
But Heaven, he finds, is a Brutalist hell, Raw and unfinished, with Puritan spartan Enough to frown and hush and dishearten – At least the Pit has some tales to tell.
The Pearly Gates are some steel-and-glass doors In a weather-stained wall, not old, not new, With nothing to say to those who pass through To where ceilings hang low above beige-grey floors.
It makes good sense, though, that Hell with its fires Has flames in its tracery, flickers of polychrome, Bringing a warmth to Lucifer’s home – For beauty is something that even the Devil requires.
Technically, both philistine and spartan are racist terms, but since the people who identified as such are no longer around as groups distinct from their neighbours, these are victimless crimes.
Appropriately enough, this grim render was produced by AI.
Brutalism on a Cold Dark Night
Was there ever an architecture Better suited to the psychopath ? A soulless, sucking void of arrogance From a concrete aftermath. Revolted by the human touch, They strip us down to a naked shell – Forget the creepy Mansard roofs, When this is the door to Hell.
Architecture that loves to unnerve us, Streaked with grey and urban rot. It stalks us down the side streets, As its slabs are looming into shot. Ashamed of beauty un-grotesque, It’s where our inner demons dwell – Forget the spooky moonlit tombs, For this is the door to Hell.
But worse, is the way this architecture Spreads its gloom across the globe – All local style is crushed beneath the bulk Of this alpha xenophobe. Abhorring even a glimpse of nature, Condemning us all to a prison cell – Forget your wrought and iron gates, For this is the door to Hell.
Haunted Castle by nihileswari (though surely AI…?)
Haunted Houses
Whenever I watched those creepy old movies, I’d always ignore the psychos and ghouls, And focus in on the architecture – So wonderf’ly Gothic, so atmospheric ! Why were the characters in these old movies Such philistines and such fools ? Ignoring all of this architecture And long to return to safely generic ?
I never found them creepy – The shadows and arches were part of their charm – Those Second Empire carpenter’s mansards, That echo the castles of Prussia or Serbia. And always the films were so sneaky, Suggesting flamboyance is doing us harm – For florid is evil – don’t stray from the standard By daring to question the rules of suburbia.
For all that Conservatives moan about Horror, It’s always been an ally of theirs – Punishing drinking and sex in full While the Final Girl is a goody-two-virgin. And concrete has a Protestant aura, A purity in its workaday airs – Don’t be too flashy, too individual, And squash down any expression emerging.
But all that Brutalism delivered Was paranoia in ev’rything else – Satanic panics were preached from the pulpits Of low-ceiling’ed prefabs and walls of glass. The decadent styles of the past sent shivers That must be exorcised from our house – And always rebellious goths were the culprits Within the fantasies of their class.
Yet Horror wasn’t so saintly or pure – With teenager heroes against their parents, Yet parrotting cultural norms unwittingly, Not quite thinking them through – Which brings us back to the architecture Mirroring this clash in appearance – Dormers and towers are outcrops that fittingly Symbolise warts on the face of the New.
But the poor jocks and nerds were always too busy With running and screaming, to ever behold – But I did. And I wept if they set one alight, To pay the ultimate cost. Capitalism has left them so dizzy – To buy all this new stuff, and knock down the old. You think they’re haunted ? They’re haunted alright, By all of the beauty we’ve lost.
I must spotlight a recent video essay by Kendra Gaylord. I cannot concur with her admirtation of Edward Hopper, but I certainly can agree in her love for the Mansard Roof. And although the groteque capitalism of both the French Second Empire and the American Gilded Age are most-assuredly horror-worthy, I have always found the inhuman sterility of Brutalism far more suited for existential dread.
Clad in creamy marble, With a hint of steely blue, Inside, plenty of reddish ochre, And glints of gilding too. There are some cobalt tiles, But these are swamped by the full display, And the low-slung chandeliers and their wires Just get in the gen’ral way. Big and grand, and in no-way monochrome, And it’s not her fault what others call her dome.
Crowded, of course, but this is expected, Scrumming to doff our shoes – You’d think a series of ante-rooms for this Would help the queues. Within, some turquoise headscarves Give a nod to her azure fame – But in the end, she makes no bid To accept her heavenly name. It goes to show that marketing ain’t new… So all-in-all: not small, not bad, not blue.
An illustration from Gothic Architecture Improved by Batty Langley, with engravings by Thomas Langley
Basilica Cistern
The columns are far too carved To just be buried neck-deep in water – They have to have been acquired from older stock, Reused to order. What once held temple pediments, Perched on Corinthian tops, Are now a vaulted forest Lurking underneath the shops. There swim some carps between the bases Of this Roman reef, That graze the algae off the wishful coins That glint beneath, While downside-up Medusas watch The tourist lines go by – They’ll still be here a thousand years from now, Through wet and dry.
Yet another piece of art That leaves me cold, alas. Just another and a yet-another ‘no’. The wrong approach, the wrong result, Too simpering, too crass, And my mood is never right to watch the show.
It makes me feel so guilty, So unworthy, so frustrated, To be whingeing when around me all are joys – I wish I could’ve relished All the culture that I’ve hated, But I can’t control what moves and what annoys.
Now, it’s fine to be quite vocal In a place where that’s expected, But let’s not dwell on the downers for too long – Just say our minds, then keep our peace, Don’t be so disaffected That we’re ever harping-on the same old song.
The world is full of other people’s taste Of ev’ry measure – All because the world contains both them, and I. Suppose I should be glad That it is bringing so much pleasure – And I don’t pretend it’s easy, but I try…
But the one thing I have well-learned (Though I don’t always obey it) Is to hush my humphing lips before they run – Don’t be a carping-critic Who will always loudly say it, To prevent my fellow viewers having fun.
Yet another movie, Or a song, or work of art – But hey, there’s so much more I’ve yet to see – Statistic’ly, there must be stuff out there That pumps my heart, Just hiding in the piles of not-for-me.
Self-Portrait as the Allegory of Painting by Artemisia Gentileschi – the poem isn’t about her, I just like her painting
Journeyman Artist
I’ve had to cut my prices, As my canvases decrease – No more ultramarine for Mary, No more golden fleece. My landscapes are a full foot shorter, My Christ Childs have eight toes, And the sitters for my portraits Must do so in simpler clothes. Another painter has come to town, And she’s splashing her vibrant hues around – A lady artist ? Such novelty ! She’s practic’ly selling the things for free !
The trouble is, she’s also good – But who could have trained her so ? I’ve spent the last ten years with a master, Just to learn what I know. How is her flesh so creamy pink, And how are her eyes so white ? How does her satin fold in waves, And her corsets clasp so tight ? Another painter has set up shop, And patronised by the very top. Such soft, quick hands – so how will I cope ?, As she grinds her pigments and crushes my hope.
What must I do to watch her work ?, As she blushes her client’s cheek ? And how can I stay professional, As her brush-strokes leave me weak ? But I must – she’s an artist like I’m an artist, We’re brothers of the palette, are we… But alas, she paints her angels and muses Just as pretty as she ! Another painter is plying her trade, And I know I should cheer the progress she’s made, So I daren’t compliment the curves of her dress, Or the delicate breasts of her shepherdess.
Rhyming Couplets 