Category: Contemporary

Epitaph

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selective focus photography of tombstone
Photo by Brett Sayles on Pexels.com

Epitaph

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.

Harvest Traffic

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Harvest Traffic

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.

Carcassonnet

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pink castle
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.

The High Cost of Living

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why isn't it on the bumper

The High Cost of Living

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.

Big Charters

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plaque

Big Charters

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.

Poster Apocalypse

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old torn poster placed on shabby wall
Photo by ready made on Pexels.com

Poster Apocalypse

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.

Lockdown Locks

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in need of a trim
The Bridesmaid by John Millais

Lockdown Locks

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.

Sudden Death

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no gate

Sudden Death

The game goes on, despite the news,
Despite the empty stands –
No pre-match build up now, of course,
No captains shaking hands.
With silence as the coin is tossed,
But not born of suspense –
Then the ref’s whistle deafens
But you couldn’t call it tense.
The sound of boot-on-ball
And teammate calls are very clear
Even from the back row,
Has the action felt so near ?
Except, from our separate sofas
On this long, long afternoon,
They might as well be playing
On the far side of the Moon.
The empty seating does not care
What happens down the wing
And though the cameras catch it all,
Their ops don’t want to sing.
Like a stand-up cracking belters in rehearsal
To an empty hall,
The elephant in the stadium’s
Not trumpeting at all.
A goal is barely celebrated,
No-one’s bellicose –
Their tackles are half-hearted,
They’re unsure of getting close.
A pigeon pecks the touchline
And the players work their shift –
As if the world has changed the channel,
Cutting them adrift.
It all feels rather academic,
Pondering the score –
For does a lonely goal still count
If no-one’s there to roar ?

Heavy Canvas

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cracking a smile
detail from The Veth Sisters by Jan Veth, remastered with FaceApp

Heavy Canvas

The modern portrait comes in many gazes –
Some are staring at us,
While others ponder into space –
And profiles never even know we’re there.
But the thing that most amazes
Is the thing we barely suss,
Until the aggregate of faces
Steals upon us what it is they share:

It is their air of serious concern –
The weight upon their brows,
Their watchful eyes,
Their level lips.
These sitters sit unblinking, deep and stern,
In ranks of frowns and scowls,
And endless masks of empty guise
Through which their boredom slips.

They’re pictured well, each grave expression,
Well enough to find them in a crowd –
And yes, they entertain us for a time,
For all their dour style.
So portraiture’s a serious profession,
Justly resolute and proud –
And yet…can it be such a crime
To sometimes paint one with a smile ?