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.
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 ?
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 ?
Burdock is a spit for rhubarb, Giant leaf and fleshy stalk, As if a kitchen garden has been on a woodland walk. It’s not a sorrel, (nor a laurel), ’Spite of what it’s name may say – Its lineage ain’t sitting with the dock nor with the bay. It’s true it grows from burrs, But its barbs all grow up rhubarb-y, All decked-out in another’s species’ garb, apparently. At least until it bolts, When its thistleheads are in the hedge – Unlike the cauliflowers of its doppleganger veg. And then there’s the invader – The mutant, spiky, giant kind – Whose leaves atop are rhubarb, but beneath are sharply-spined. They aren’t at all related, When these three have never shared a bed, It’s just the way plants get when they get big and broad and red.
I see them on the seats – all waiting, waiting patiently – The loved-up couples holding hands and smiles, Others with a carry-cot – happy too, but somewhat tired, And those who simply sit and stare for miles. They all have to come here, face-to-face, and talk to us – Fiancés booking churches or our hall, The parents who haven’t quite decided on a name, The loved ones left behind – we see them all. The not-yet newlyweds, or the newborns needing paperwork – A second birth, officially existing, A passport to a passport, to a doctor and a school, With their whole life held within this single listing. And then, amongst this joy, there are the ones to register a death – It’s often by the next of kin, as if a final test. Sometimes slipping peacefully, sometimes out of nowhere, Sometimes only following an inquest. We try to keep the office looking neutral and, well, yes, bland – It does not, cannot, suit for either side. A vase of flowers helps – though more white than colourful – Compassion for the griever, confetti for the bride. All must be recorded in our special everlasting ink, The wedded and the born and the deceased. It may be bureaucratic but the future’s sure to thank us, And our touch is always personal, at least.
Why are butterflies butterflies ? And have been since Old English ? And no, the Saxons didn’t call them ‘flutter-bys’, Despite our wish. Some are yellow, sure, but only some, And gardens host more than a dairy – Perhaps it’s simply fanciful and rum, Like ladybirds are named for Mary. P’raps the word trangresses, Metamorphed from ones for ‘beat’ or ‘bug’ ? But these are only ever guesses Answered only with a shrug. Other just-so tales are told, Like witches flying in disguise – But nobody, however bold, Can pin down butterflies. Yet why should language be so artful ? Let it keep its logic pure, Or else, like poets by the cartful, All we get is endless metaphor.
But other lands are just as likely To endow them with a role – The Greeks would call them psyche, Which they also called the soul, And Romans said papilio, The Portuguese say borboleta – What they mean, though, we don’t know, And your guess is no worse or better. Spanish use of mariposa Means ‘Maria, up and fly’ ! Italian farfalla shows a Meaning shared with a bow-tie. The Germans call one Schmetterling For ‘cream-lette’, and the Russian word Is babochka, for ‘grandma-on-the-wing’ – Now this has got absurd ! Yet why should language be so frugal ? Let it flash its colours high – Or else, like Danish sommerfugl All we get’s a literal ‘summer-fly’.
Need a good conspiracy Of shadowy cabals replete with omnipresent spies ? There’s always the Illuminati, With their fingers on the pulse and firmly in the pies.
Link them into Davos, sure, And Hollywood and NASA, and the Barons of the News, And throw in Templar Knights of yore, And shake them up with Satan, and then blame it on the Jews.
But why would any self-respecting paranoid Of all these “scum” Insist they’re really lizards from across the void ? Now that’s just dumb !
Of all the tax I’ve had to pay For all my working life, I’ve only seen a fraction of its worth – I’ve never used a bridleway, Or been a battered wife, Or dug up ancient hills, or given birth.
I’ve got no kids in need of school, I need no legal aid, And need no shipping forecast out to sea – Not done the Tate in Liverpool, Nor called the fire brigade, Nor wandered through a managed forestry.
I guess I’ve got it breezy, Where the gremlins never struck – But still I always shrug and pay the price. It’s like a tax on easy – But if that’s the price of luck, Then ante-up – I’ll gladly pay her twice…
For teacher, binman, judge and ev’ry nurse, I stump-up for them all from out my purse, And whether Fate shall reimburse, It’s just the cost of our society – So take your bobbies and your squaddies, They’re not mine, they’re ev’rybodies ! Help yourselves, my friends, they’re all on me !
Rhyming Couplets 