Medea was born in privilege Who was then done bad by men. And boy, does it drive her over the edge As she whinges agen and agen. She expects the world by dictum, Who has worked not a day in her life. She lectures how she’s a victim, As she murders her ex’s wife. She is offered escape to a five-star joint To be bitter in peace, as it were. Yet she butchers her kids just to hammer a point, And to make it all about her. The most tedious kind of psychopath Who’s two-hour rant must run. With the audience chastened for wanting a laugh, And daring to hope for some fun.
from the cover of the 1964 Collins edition with illustrations by Lawrence Beall-Smith
Tom, Dick, & Hooray !
Why are we still telling tales of Tom Jones ? A Georgian lad with a leg to get over – So honest and randy and easily led Beneath ev’ry petticoat, straight into bed. Wide-eyed and panting, they call him in moans, As he’s shagging through shires like a journeyman rover – But deep down he’s pining for saintly Sophia, And wouldn’t you know it, he’s really a squire !
Why are we still making love to Tom Jones ? A privileged lad who will caution for nothing. Where women are scheming, with wanton presumption, Except for his virgin, who’s lacking in gumption. But is he a victim to his very bones, Whom the wealthy corrupt when in need of a stuffing ? Yet he’s too busy romping to care for abuse, As the good-for-the gander has plucked him a goose.
I should point out that I always understood that in the 1700s (or indeed the 11700s), ‘Sophia’ did indeed rhyme with ‘squire’ (as long as your accent wasn’t rhotic, which was lucky, as the better sort were shunning such yokel diction, and thought all such Somersetters were talking arse, so to speak).
As for the novel, it is a fascinating record of the times – the tale of a boy from nowhere who is exiled from the green green grass of home, only to fall prey to many a delilah and sex bomb. Of course, as such tales go, it’s not unusual, and certainly not what’s new, pussycat.
(In reply to Moss Hart’s & George Kaufman’s You Can’t Take It With You)
A libertarian fantasy, Giving up the nine-to-five, To live for art, untaxed and free, In a sprawling, zany hive. These rocketeering gals and gents Devote themselves to fun By living off of unearned rents, And dating the boss’s son. Watch out ! Here comes the Government !, To pry through this and that, The chocolate boxes spread dissent – But they won’t get-back their hat. Sucking-up to the duchess, To the beat of the xylophone – A community of the self-obsessed, All far too rich to moan. A black maid serves up ev’ry perk, And cornflakes for their tea – But what if she chose to give-up work ? Why, then where would they be ? A fairytale of carpe diem, Laissez-faire unbound – They may not take it with them, But they won’t spread it around.
In a strange way, the play (from 1936) shows a future world of Universal Basic Income, only it’s set in a world of depression-era unemployment and poverty which it floats above, all while ignoring the very real suffering happening down the street. The extended Sycamore family are extremely privileged, and though they claim to be apolitical, they definitely want the Government to leave them alone with its tax and fireworks regulations and preventing the spread of violent revolt – all the while sneering at the working drones who hate their jobs while having absolutely no concept on how those people have to work to afford basic food and shelter (maybe even in one of Grandpa’s houses, breaking their backs to afford to pay him their rent so he can swan-around snake-hunting in Westchester).
From Juliet to Cio-Cio-San, By way of Emma Bovary – They each were halted by a man Who plots and spins their tragedy, By ending them with his fatal pen – All killed by their creator yet agen.
For Emmalene, no silver screen. For Hannah Baker, life is shorter. Ophelia is free to dream With Bess, the landlord’s black-eyed daughter. Giving up all they had to give, Thus they must die so that a man may live.
Come Brünnhilde of the Norse, Jocasta of the Greeks, come too, And Thelma and Louise, of course – Cecilia Lisbon’s joining you. So young and clichéd, full of romance – Farewell. Alas, you never had a chance.
For Anna Karenina and Hedda Gabler, It will never be a wonderful life – Each felt a fatalism grab her, With a well-placed gun or foreshadowed knife. Like all of the tragic women above In their man-made sacrifices all for love.
(in reply to Agatha Christie’s Murder on the Nile)
Agatha Christie cherished the Tories, Kept the masses out of her stories – Servants were faceless, background filler – Never the victim, never the killer. Whodunnits by nature are class-based, though, With chaos disrupting the status quo, That must be traced and rooted out Before it spreads its dangerous doubt. Now true, she distrusted businessmen, And makes them villains agen and agen, Not like a blue-blooded, honourable gent – But was this an anti-Semitic bent ? Of course, she hated the socialist – But wait, with her there’s always a twist ! Just witness her Nile when splashed on the stage, With Poirot banished back to the page – Instead, a Canon is quizzing them, While building his new Jerusalem – One wonders what he might behold ? A commune or sorts ? We’re not quite told. And then, at last, there’s Mr Smith – The snidy lefty they’re travelling with. Part hypocrite, but only a part, When a short-hand typist catches his heart. He makes some good points along the way, That it’s hard to imagine our Agatha say – Perhaps once the cuts had been applied, It left no room for a seedier side. All-in-all, a little less sour, Just as Attlee was coming to power. For this one trip, it must be said, It wasn’t only her herrings were red.
So you’re the new lad come to join me Digging graves for young and old ? I’ve started one if you’d like to see, Though a hole is not much to behold. But still, you’ve joined an honest trade – Now don’t stand gawping, grab a spade !
Yes, yes, I’ve heard the rumours too – When nobles die, the mill grinds fast. Poor lass, but that’s so often true – We only meet then at the last. They’ll bring her soon from out the kirk To rest within our handiwork.
At least her grave’s beneath a willow – Hope her shade enjoys the shade. She has a headstone for a pillow – Let her sleep, no more afraid. I’ve heard it said, since days of yore, All willows weep in Elsinore.
But as for those she leaves behind, I sense a civil war is brewing. Keep your head down, deaf and blind, Don’t worry what those lords are doing. The kings may change, but we’re still here, Digging trenches year on year.
We chafe our hands and break our backs Because a serf is born to toil. So when a king demands his tax, We dig his nation’s precious soil. And if another claims his throne, He gets to lie in here, alone.
Well, I’d say that we’re nearly done. So climb on out and take a breath. Then time to dig another one – There’s never any break from death. And if we’re heading for a war, Then we’ll be needing plenty more…
Of course, weeping willows were only introduced from China in the 1700s, And their early name of Babylonian Willow came from a mix-up by Carl Linneus who thought they were the trees referred to in Psalm 137 (“By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat down, yea, we wept, when we remembered Zion. We hanged our harps upon the willows in the midst thereof.”) Alas, the trees in the ancient Euphrates valley were not willows at all, but their cousins the poplars.
Maybe there really was a guy who said, “Why can’t we get along ?” Maybe the poor sap went and wound-up dead, From when it all went wrong. And maybe his still-believing converts claimed He rose up from the grave, Like dozens of disciples of previous prophets Framed their loss to keep them brave.
Hardly a two-pipe problem, this. Not much call for the little grey cells. But round-up the witnesses if you wish, And compare the parallels. Now, how many women approached the site ? Three ? Or two ? Or one alone ? How many young men dressed in white ? Was there a guard ? Or tampered-with stone ?
We’ve so few clues for the how, why, or when, But remember the first rule of proof – Eliminate the impossible, Then what remains is likely the truth. Maybe there really was a guy who said “Let’s love our neighbours, hey ?” And maybe, alas, he really wound-up dead. And that’s all there is to say…
My shelves are full of books for lending, Books I love, and need to share – Their spines are useless when not bending, Spreading words to ev’rywhere. I long to be what lib’ries were for me, A haven and a runway – Take these beauties down and set them free, And bring them back, well, some day. Pay them forward, share the thrill, And validate my soul, my love… And yet…I know you never will – You need to want, I can’t just shove. Ah well, there’s no sense my pretending – Who am I to hook and sway ? My shelves are full of books for lending – There they sit, and there they’ll stay.
I borrowed the book from the library, years ago, From a casual glance. I fell in love with her title, I had to know What on Earth she meant. She promised me adventure, she promised me grit, And an epic romance. And over a sleepless week I devoured her wit Till my lust was spent.
I stroked her crackled spine and embossing, And tried to read her all again, But couldn’t concentrate my brain – Until my mum returned her, unawares. In later months, whenever I was browsing, I hoped to chance upon her between the heavyweights, And see how many readers had stamped her with their dates, But someone had purloined her, made her theirs.
I sought a copy later, long out of print, For a foolhardy sum – She sits on my bookcase still, and perfectly mint, If gone a little brown. But it’s good to know that she’s always there, close by, For a time yet to come. Though to tell the truth, I’m terrified to try – For what if she lets me down ?
Is she quite as good as I remember ? I just recall her basic plot, And ev’ry year there’s more forgot – But that, I always say, just makes her better… Can she be as thrilling and as tender ? Can all of her details make a striking whole ? For that’s where the Devil lurks, and so does her soul. I think I’d rather lose her all than regret her…
Rhyming Couplets 