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.
Clare College Old Court, Kings College Chapel, and King’s College Gibbs Building in Cambridge.
Soffits versus Crockets
A war was waged in brick and lime, Throughout Victorian abodes – A battle fought in seminars Of finials and glazing-bars. It seemed so vital at the time – For who defined the building codes Controlled the future, wrote the book, On how our homes and cities look.
The round opposed the pointed arch, The column pushed against the pier, As Classical and Gothic taste Were drafted, pressed, and laid to waste. With footslog critics on the march To make their case and boo or cheer – With so much breath and ink well-spent, As up and up the buildings went.
But in the end, the Romans won – The Gothic stalled, and fell from grace Despite its use in school and hall, It still felt churchy, overall. Beneath Edwardians, its run Was looking tired and losing pace – Which was a shame, because its fuss Was far more fun than serious.
As the following century Dragged on, it ditched the Grecian-born – As Classical found it was too Of little use for shiny-new. So buildings lost all sensory adornments, All their locks were shorn – And so the Battle of the Styles Saw losses shared across the aisles.
The cottage down the lane had a big end-wall, Beneath the gable, Always covered in ivy, growing so tall, As tall as was able, Growing upto the eaves, to merge with the thatch, Such a weight of leaves to the crown – I’d wondered, how does it all attach ?, How did it not pull the old wall down ?
Drilling-in through ev’ry crack it can pry, And drinking the mortar dry, Whatever it takes to reach the sky – At least it sheltered from the wind. But at what cost ? This cottage was built With overbakes and wattled silt – So which would be the first to wilt, When neither was well underpinned ?
I waited years, but never did find out The power in the growth – For one hot night in the Summer drought, A fire killed them both. There’s a new-build cottage now, with a big end-wall Whitewashed in lime, With a single ivy runner – starting small, But on the climb…
Since art has lost the manual touch, We’re losing grip of anatomy – Our illustrations are in the clutch Of the polydactyl travesty. Digital digits and silicon glands Make too many fingers, too few thumbs – That lead to such unhandsome hands From thought-machines that can’t do sums. A sure way to uncover the witch Whose fingers point to a lack of soul, It only takes the flick of a switch To over-endow a lack of control. But they’ll slowly grasp to make a fist, So we’d best stop smirking behind our fans – They might not have a pulse in their wrist, But our future’s held in their second-hand hands.
The cemetery’s too egalitarian these days, Nobody is building family tombs – Just rows and rows of polished slabs which rigidly obey All the ordinances for their little room. Terraces of back-to-backs, each equal to its peers, With nothing special here to mark our way, Where ordinary folk have come to wile away the years, And once they’ve settled-in, they’re here to stay.
The cemetery’s far too lacking temples, forts, and caves – We need some wider plots and grander stones – But not for just the wealthy to enrich their flashy graves, While we others cram in boxes full of bones. We need some council monuments, apartment blocks for all, Where we lie down with our neighbours, mixed and matched. To give some more variety for those beyond the pall, Who have spent their lives in communes, not detached.
That’s right, I spelled ‘wile away’ without the H. It was deliberate, to enrage the pedants with my cunning whiles.
Rhyming Couplets 