Hotspots & Coldsores

Hotspots & Coldsores

“It isn’t the resident tenants that make a city ugly, but rather the absentee planners.”

The Blueprint Bugle

Vienna is bursting with tourists,
While Croydon is thoroughly dead –
We all know why the one has the more is,
And one is a ghetto instead.
One has buildings of beauty
That people will pay to admire –
The other is screaming out “Nuke me !,
And raze all my ugly in fire.”

Oh sure, that intangible culture takes many a-century
To embed and to reign –
But if your town looks more like a penitentiary,
Then you’re waiting in vain.

Venice is sinking in people,
While Stevenage wallows in grime –
We all know why the latter is feeble,
And looks like the scene of a crime.
One has buildings of grandeur,
That travellers travel to see,
The other is yelling-out slander
With a nihilistic glee.

And it doesn’t take castles and squares and cathedrals
To still have plenty of charms –
But it does take some sense, and lack of upheavals
From brutalists swinging their arms.

Paris is famous for beauty,
And Slough is famous for bombs –
We all know why the one is a cutie,
And one won’t get asked to the prom.
One has buildings for humans,
That are sculpted, and tiled, and embossed.
The other is built for consumers
With the ornaments cut-out for cost.

We know it deep down in our footings, this concrete-clad craze
Is simply so unrefined.
If it ain’t Manhattan, then high-rise ain’t for the holidays,
But for the daily grind.

Please note that for the rhythm to work in the second verse, ‘century’ needs to be given it’s full there syllables, and ‘penitentiary’ it’s full six.

Blue Plaque Blues

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Blue Plaque Blues

A writer’s house is such an odd museum –
With all their private, not-for-public touch.
Does it forever colour how we see them,
Or just amount to telling little much ?
Must we rifle through their dirty laundry,
And publish all their letters, kiss-and-tell ?
And then complain they put us in a quand’ry
Of seeing flaws when knowing them too-well.
So why does hero-worship seek these holy relics, anyway ?
And basing truth on only what they claim the gossip-mongers say ?
Although I guess some writers would adore the fame they have today,
And sure, let all the crowds come snooping round their hallowed ground…
But as for me, if my words work there due,
Don’t let the creeps come crawling through my caches –
But burn my house, and all its contents too –
And leave the pervy fanboys only ashes.

Willow Pattern

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Willow Pattern

Two dancing birds,
Beaks apart, as if in song –
As they circle through the cloudy, milky sky.
One windsocked weeping willow,
Slanted, yet still strong,
And three folks on a hump-backed bridge nearby.
Could it be they’re fishing ?
Or waiting for the boat ?
Though it hasn’t got a sail – perhaps a punt ?
Upon the other bank
Is a house that looks afloat,
Sporting plenty of round shrubbery infront.
And over here, behind a zig-zag fence,
A squat pagoda,
That’s sheltered by a spreading ping-pong tree.
And round the edge are squares and scales,
And flowers for a coda,
A busyness of cobalt for our tea.
I stared and stared at China
On those Sunday afternoons,
When round at Gran’s, for tea and crumpets from the grate.
The disappearing cake
Revealed the timeless blue lagoons –
So very Eastern, yet so English, on a plate.

It is uncertain when the first examples of Willow Pattern appeared, although Wikipedia suggests they could have been produced by Spode in 1790.  They are, of course, a classic example of cultural appropriation – and thank goodness they were !  Genuine Chinese porcelain at this time was very expensive, and modern pecksniffs would have seen to it that it remianed so, and that the hard-working families of Britain should be denied the beauty and broadened horizons that came with their roast beef and Yorkshires.

The A300 Relief Road

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The A300 Relief Road

London Bridge has fallen down
As planners suffocate the town –
They cannot fathom what appeals
In Nonesuch House and waterwheels
They claim it’s not a chance to dream,
For reasons that evade me.
It’s just a means to cross a stream,
My fair forgotten lady.

The bridge that used to grace these banks
They gladly sold-off cheap to Yanks.
They have no care for what is lost,
Just that it’s done for cheapest cost.
And now the name evokes the tides
Of business bland and shady –
Just traffic jams and suicides,
My fair forgotten lady.

Auto-Iconography

Triple Self-Portrait by Norman Rockwell

Auto-Iconography

Why so many self-portraits ?
Vanity, or an honest appraisal ?
Why the endless tortured brow,
And wistful gaze of hazel ?
Are they lonely ?  Or distorted ?
Simply practice, or masterclass ?
Or is the cheapest model that funds allow
A looking-glass ?

Movies for Rods

Movies for Rods

I’ve never been a fan of black-and-white
In films of the modern day.
It feels all rather hairshirt-pretentious,
To choose to wallow in grey.
I’ve always thought that Raging Bull and Schindler’s List,
Are a wash of look-at-me grim,
And not brought-on by a limited budget –
But don’t you dare give their hues a trim.

For even more, I hate the arrogant yobs
Who can’t leave well-alone
Who colourise and bastardise,
And completely wreck the tone.
We won’t want some future-tech to force 3D
Onto all the films we’ve made  –
So leave the classics just as their artists’ wished,
As they shine in light and shade.

But maybe you like them better when brighter.
Maybe there’s room for us both.
Maybe I need to take a few breaths
And not try to stymie growth.
There’s a rainbow of points of view out there,
And the world is never quite as before –
It’s not such a matter of life and death,
And I guess we’re not in Kansas anymore.

The Seeing in Seahaven

A still from The Truman Show, lensed by Peter Biziou

The Seeing at Seahaven

On day ten-nine-oh-nine,
As Truman walks out to his car –
He’s nearly brained by a falling star.

Oh, don’t sweat, he’s fine.
Though isn’t it mysterious
That the star is named as Sirius ?

In his bubble life,
With its flat Earth and crystal dome,
The sky is shining just like home.

His perfect town and perfect wife
Has skies like ours outside the show,
That’s just as true – not that he’d know.

So what constellations, then ?
They could be any patterns really,
He’ll accept them all sincerely.

But then they’d have to pen a brand new textbook,
For the sake of one –
Why fight what’s there, when said and done ?

They still don’t need to wheel –
Just string them to the roof with ropes.
And best to not stock telescopes.

The fake can still be real.
I just hope that he likes to gaze,
Or else they shine in vain these days.

Truman’s catchphraase has always bugged me. He says “Incase I don’t see you, good afternoon, good evening, and good night.”  But far more powerful, I think, if he said “Incase you don’t see me, good afternoon, good evening and good night.””  Or even “…good afternoon, good evening, and goodbye.”

Closing Number

Closing Number

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.

The Last of the Bards

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     The Last of the Bards

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.

Octatonic

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Octatonic

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.