If we can’t judge a book by its cover, Then doesn’t that just tell us that their marketing is junk ? Amateur and changing with their ev’ry new edition – How can they hope to build a brand when faced with corp’rate bunk ? So why are all these authors acquiescing to the bland, And hiding all their bindings ?, shied away behind such flimsy card That creases up and tatters through the simple act of reading. You wouldn’t catch a band conceding for such vagaries unkind, That leave their babies ripped and scarred Cos publishers won’t go the extra yard. After all, who thinks that Sgt Pepper should be redesigned ? Or Dark Side of the Moon, perhaps, or Bad, or Nevermind ?
On the closing theme of album covers getting their image right, can I just bring up an album that I’ve always thought actually failed to do so – Wish You Were Here. Not only did their attempt at a photo of a man on fire fail because there is so little fire to see (ya should have added it in post, Storm…), but it is such a disappointment, for me at least, following the perfect cover by George Hardie that you just inadvertently destroyed to get at the goods in the first place:
I met her in the silly season: Ace reporter Lisa Leeson – Met her in the Summer, as it moved from high to late. She said she newly had the time For chilling with a gin and lime, And meeting with a stranger for a secret steamy date. Until the proper news arrived, She churned-out waffle, faffed and skived, To dodge the z-list luvvie-spotting at the village fete. And so we spent the Summertime Away from wars and wonks and crime, And nothing went on happening in law and trade and state.
Not a love-nest, romp, or threesome, Just myself and Lisa Leeson, While the ever-greedy presses must procrastinate – And so we joined our choice of queues, With not a thought to check reviews, For visits to the restaurants, the movies, and the Tate. But Summer changed to Autumn brown, And cooler breezes teased the town, And she could hear the calling of the headlines and the hate. So Lisa Leeson bid farewell, And broke our silly Summer’s spell By quitting idle drifting for a world that would not wait.
And thus the Lord saith until Satan “Testest thou my great creation, Tempt and trick and lead astray: The Righteous shall refuse to play, And know thy works and block thy game, And firm upon the path remain.”
The Devil thought and mused awhile, Then broke into demonic smile, And so with cunning, wrote a tome Forged deep within his hellish home With hints and winks and clues abound To show itself corrupt, unsound.
For here was found a petty god Who knew no mercy, spared no rod, But set such rules upon His flock Which He Himself would break and mock, And kill His own as took His fancy – Proud and jealous tyrant, He.
Alas, Old Nick does now succeed Too well, as heretics still bleed, And signs are begged from out the skies, As morals spring derived from lies – The Faithful, though, shall call absurd This book, and not believe a word.
Thrillers whisper throaty in the night, Romances gush with a weepy sigh, Memoirs giggle, wits banter bright, Horrors rapture with a choking cry, Angry young men are shouting thunder, Hard-boileds wisecrack – gabbling, hawking, Folktales regale with a lyrical wonder – Hark – for the books, the books are talking !
Richard Feynman giving a lecture on the motion of planets around the Sun
Star-Glazing
(After Walt Whitman)
When I heard the Learn’d Astronomer, When the proofs and figures were ranged In columns before me, to add and measure, When shown his charts and diagrams strange, When I, sitting, heard the Astronomer, Where he lectured with much applause, How soon, tired and sick, I stirred And wander’d off by myself outdoors. There in mystical moist night-airs, From time to time I look’d up clear In perfect silence at the stars, (And thought them small, and rather near.)
This is my take on Walt Whitman’s poem of the opening line. I’ve shuffled things around and made it rhyme, but most of it is his words except for the last line. Turns out he was just a luddite after all.
(After Molière, The Learnèd Ladies, Act 3, Scene 3)
Another world has passed us by Just as we were sleeping, And fallen through our vortex as we lie – A happenstance unseen across our sky. For all the while the linens we were keeping, A momentary spark can live and die.
So many books and films and plays, So many greats of music and art, Loved by so many, lauded with praise – So why do I still feel apart ?
Why do these classics not fill me, When millions burn with the hope that they give ? Why does their beauty just chill me, When millions grab them as reasons to live ?
No. Don’t brood. I also feel, Though diff’rently from all of this – But I am just as sharp and real, And I deserve my share of bliss.
And sometimes, yes, I find a voice To tell me I’m not quite alone. This pickiness is not my choice, It’s just the way my brain has grown.
So many books and films and plays Are doing their jobs, and doing them well. I wish them luck, on our sep’rate ways As I pray for one to cast its spell.
What a bastard, What a bastard, What a bastard: Tommy More. Saint he is, exemplar fellow, Philosophical and mellow, But no pussy lib’ral yellow – Heretics, he is the law ! Not a bit like Tommy Wolsey, Tommy More will hear each prole’s plea – Takes their lives to set their souls free – He’s the Torture Chancellor. Got a Bible ? What’s it chattin’ ? Better be in God’s-own Latin; If it’s one Bill Tyndale’s shat in, You are for the stake, for sure.
I was so shy and so urgent for love, He was so cocky and so unforeseen – Montecchi’s scion, forbidden and tough, Flaring my heart that was nearly fourteen. Ros’linda no more, now I shone so bright – Covert our courtings, the game thrilled me much. Made for a beautiful corpse, for one night, Till I awoke to my lover’s cold touch. Darkness his mistress, they lay ’neath my vault – Retching in dazement, I readied his knife. How could I live sans my Roman exault ? How could I die when I’d died and found life ? I did not follow my darling bereft – I betrayed him as he me when he left.
Don’t forget that Juliet was only thirteen, experiencing her first teenage crush.
On either side the river lie The fields that stretch into the sky – Whose lowlands raise the beans so high, And grow the barley and the rye That feeds the folk in Camelot. And all this land beneath the hoe Is owned by she who will not show Her face to those who plough and mow – The Lady of Shalott.
She lives upon the river isle Where blow the lilies, mile on mile – Although she hasn’t left awhile, Not even to ride out in style To dance with knights in Camelot. She keeps within her ivied keep, Unseen by those who sow and reap, As if a hundred years asleep – The Lady of Shalott.
So life goes on and seasons pass, As sheep are grazed upon her grass – And any surplus we amass Is carted off by weight and class To market-day in Camelot. But any profits from the trade Are not for those who turned the spade – Instead, our labours all must aid The Lady of Shalott.
I’ve heard it said by those who say, That she is cursed in some strange way To never see the livelong day, To never be allowed to stray To many-towered Camelot. All the world, they claim, must pass Reflected in her looking-glass, And what she sees, so weaves that lass – The Lady of Shalott.
But as I dig another ditch And break my back to till her pitch, I think about my Lady’s hitch – And slowly I can feel an itch That none can scratch in Camelot. If she is cursed, then who’s the hexer ? Why would they choose this to vex her ? Such a fiddly yoke bedecks her, Lady of Shalott.
And do I really set much store In curses, blights, and ancient lore ? They’ve tried to pull this stuff before To keep them rich and keep me poor, In temples all through Camelot ! My Lady, is it really charms That keeps you warm and safe from harms, While we must shiver on your farms, Oh Lady of Shalott ?
So what would happen if you leave, Or look direct at what you weave ? Just who would care and who would grieve ? You are, I fear, the most naive Of any girl in Camelot ! But take a chance, and take it swift, And you may find the world will shift – And if you die, at least you lived !, My Lady of Shalott.
So Mistress, step out, if you dare, From out your crack’d and gilded lair, And pull your weight and crop your share, And help us haul it to the fair That summons all of Camelot. Or else, when comes the Winter’s freeze, And I need fuel and have no trees – I’ll raid, and burn, your tapestries, Oh Lady of Shalott !
This of course is a take of the famous Tennyson epic.
Rhyming Couplets 