You came to escape a war, And chose our shore as somewhere tame Where quiet days don’t end in flame – But now they are fighting no more, And you must up and return to your nation – Not an order, just an observation. I needn’t ask what for, And I note this not with pleasure, but alack – For now your ravished country needs you back.
It’s time I understood My verses that I thought were good May just be that, and nothing more shall ever be. It’s time I realise That they shall never change the lives Of anyone who reads them, even me.
It’s time that I admit That I shall never be the poet That I used to think that I was meant to be. It’s time that I accept That they shall ever be my secret, That they too shall die along with me.
Ah, but isn’t that the way for most of us, Doing what we’re doing cos it’s better than not-doing it ? Getting on with getting on without a fuss, Rooting out a suitable pursuit and then pursuing it. But still, it would be nice to make it, Still it would be nice to change the world. Wake it up and shake it up, And find the perfect rhyme for ‘world’.
It’s time that I admit That they will never turn a profit, But at least I wrote them, however unread they may be. It’s time I understood My verses that I thought were good, They are damn good – at least they are to me.
The first half is a poem from my early days of writing, and really mopey. I think I wrote it after getting rejected from numerous magazines, and looking back now I’m not surprised they did. The second half is newly written to snap myself out of it.
Country roads in Summertime, Tractors bar the way – Trailers towering with loads Astride the hedged-in roads, all long-the-day.
Gathering the harvest in, Kicking up the dust, Making ev’rybody late – Because the corn won’t wait, and so we must.
Scattering a constant shower, Unintended sacrifice – Stripped from golden fields, Their yields are fattening the harvest mice.
And we shall gobble up the rest, The bread and beer and morning flakes – So patience, as we fume to pass, And thank them by the glass and loaf and cake.
For that’s the price of country living, Farmers have to move their grains – They fuel, with slow agronomy, The whole rural economy down twisty country lanes.
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.
Diesel-hungry four-by-fours, Draft-dodgers dodging wars, Betting on the football scores – Well, that’s the price of freedom.
Christmas Cards on sale in June, TV news all afternoon, And folks who claim we faked the Moon – Cos that’s the price of freedom.
Despots have it easy, They can do away with clutter – But me, I’ll take the messiness Of ev’ry geek and nutter. So tune them in or tune them out, But never for a second doubt That we can ever do without.
Sticky kids on talent shows, Tattooed arm and studded nose, Neighbours’ hedges come to blows, And that’s the price of freedom.
Metric units here and there, And lots of artificial hair – It isn’t always right and fair, But that’s the price of freedom.
Dreamers have it easy, They can make the world anew – But me, I’ll take the old one Cos it’s here and now and true. So make it sweat or make it blink, But never for a second think That freedom is just pen and ink.
Thirteen copies were written, at least, And probably many more – All passed from bishop to sheriff to lord, And pinned-up, read, and, finally, stored, Then rotted or burned or thoroughly creased, Until we were left with four.
But then, for many centuries, Their words were out-of-date – Their scutages and fishing-weirs Belonged to long-forgotten years, And busy parli’mentaries Have moved on the debate.
Their Latin text is cramped and clipped, With not an inch to spare. And just like half the baron knights, We cannot even read the rights We’re gifted by this foreign script – We have to trust they’re there.
But so what if the parchments fade ? They’re passing, mortal things – It ain’t the laws that they imparted, But the movement that they started – In their image we are made, Who bow to laws, not kings.
The urban billboards haven’t been updated now for weeks, Still enticing us to salons, bars, and holidays in Rome, Or advertising musicals that never got to open Or for services from businesses where nobody is home.
I always used to hate these hoardings, snapping at my eyeballs – But now they seem so innocent, with cheery friendliness. Their absence feels more communist, without their bourgeois mindwash, Replaced by public notices to queues and cleanliness.
Shaggier and shaggier we grow – Our roots are getting longer, Like our fringes, like our beards – Our thighs are getting hairier, And nostrels too, and ears. But does it really show On low-res video ? Just let it do its thing – Bed-head, birds-nest, afro-bloom, The natural look is in. Nail scissors, Philishaves, And goodbye highlights, goodbye waves. I never thought I’d miss the comb and clip And the stripy pole, Until the scales fell in my eyes And my tresses tangled with my soul. Barber, barber, never go, We never knew we need you so – As shaggier, and shaggier, we grow.
Rhyming Couplets 