Category: Politics

Constructivism

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The Pont Neuf, Paris by Baptiste Androuet du Cerceau & Guillaume Marchand, with a proposed parasite on top by Stephane Malka.

Constructivism

When I talk with my lefty friends
On art and architecture,
They all are oh-so-modern in their taste.
And so I have to talk to them
On anything but architecture,
All to keep things sweet, if rather chaste.

So what’s this style that they’ve embraced ?
A smashing of the ruling class ?
A break with endless cut-and-paste, debased
In choc’late-boxy quaintness ?
So is a love for steel and glass
A love for unconstraint-ness ?

But when I talk with the lovers of
The column and the arch,
We have to keep the topic to the stones,
For stray to social policy,
And progress on the march,
And I quickly learn they’re Tories to their bones.

So what’s this style they’ve seen replaced ?
A harking back to Empire ?
Of seeing Albion defaced, disgraced,
Encased in brutalism ?
So is a love for dome and spire
A love for old-time feudalism ?

On one side are better lives in ugly buildings –
On the other – palaces, but for the rich.
And yet the latter need what brother-artisans are skilled in –
Frescos, gargoyles, heraldry – the very things we’re told are kitsch.
But have we really got no use for them ?
Can we not have our peace and rights and social care,
And still have ornament to spare
To build our new Jerusalem ?

Unvictus

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The Laughing Cavalier by Frans Hals

Unvictus

Blockbusting, balls-walling, entrepreneur,
Overman-achieving and Sorbonne-viveur,
Moving-and-shaking and never-make mistaking –
God, I could never be so bold !

I’m the one who failed to get to know you,
I’m the one it’s easy to say no to,
Nobody’s enemy, nobody’s go-to,
And always the last one to be told.

I know that you work hard, but always with results,
You go the extra yard, but you don’t do nuts-and-bolts
It’s down to me to tidy up and lock the doors at night,
While you’re off making masterplans to set the town alight.

I’m not like you, off to change the world again,
The hero of the story, the driver of the train,
The leader and infallible, the oysters and champagne,
The charismatic marvel to behold !

We cannot all be actors, we cannot all be confident,
We cannot all ignore the inner voice that never gives consent.
I guess I don’t blame you, when your talents are so rife –
And when even I would toss aside the novel of my life.

You’re the exception, but you think that you’re the mean,
It’s only for your eyes that the world is bright and keen,
While I’m drowning in the wake of wherever you have been –
But hey, that’s just the way the dice were rolled.

What Have We Learned ?

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Hope by George Watts

What Have We Learned ?

I know it doesn’t feel like it,
Especially on the news,
But the world is getting safer all the same.
Wars are killing fewer,
Though it’s hard to spot the clues
In the endless rounds of jingo, spin, and blame.
But there, buried in statistics,
Proof is waiting to be found
That murder, rape, and vi’lence are all down.
We’ve never had a world so good
As this world here, right now –
Better than our hope could dare allow.

It never was forgone,
It’s taken so much hard work to achieve –
Work we never knew that we could do,
Was going on.
So ev’ry time we heave,
It seems we get a little calmer,
And we get a little kinder,
Though we need the odd reminder to believe.

And yet,
We know it doesn’t feel like it,
Especially on the news –
For all this peace, there’s not that much about.
We’re killing people daily,
And ev’ry time we do, we lose –
So war is down, but war is far from out.
Our angels may be better,
But our angels still fall short of best –
The world is getting good, but not yet blessed.
Our progress may be progress,
But it’s coming far too slow –
We cannot wait for fairer winds to blow.

It never is forgone,
And all this work could quickly fall apart –
The darkest days of our old ways
Could yet be set upon.
Let’s hope that we are smart –
We haven’t time for shock and awe,
We haven’t time to settle scores –
We need to stop the wars before they start.

Flying the Flag

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Photo by Somchai Kongkamsri on Pexels.com

Flying the Flag

Come and join the army,
Risk your life each day,
Occupying deserts
For below the av’rage pay.
Politicians praise us,
They’ve always got our backs,
But then they go and sub us all
A pittance, less the tax.

Come and join the army,
Buzz off all your locks,
See the world, then shoot it,
And spread about the pox.
Tabloids love us, lefties hate us,
Locals try to make us bleed –
So hire us cut-price killers
For the cost of chicken-feed.

Red Like the Poppies

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poppies
poppy wallpaper by Maurice Verneuil

Red Like the Poppies

In 1911, in Britain, the dockers walked out –
And sailors and railwaymen too, across the nation.
Union membership soared, and so did the shout
For something more than this endless pent-up frustration.
A growing awareness had bloomed in the men –
They were no pack-mules who just bleat and cower.
These literate workers had realised then
That labouring hands now held all the power.
The following year, the miners struck –
A million men refused to duck
When facing-down bosses for pride in the pocket –
They wanted a minimum wage – and they got it !
What did they care of the Kaiser ?  Why did they go ?
Ev’ry November, I wonder.  I think I might know –

In 1914, in Britain, the soldiers marched out.
Many were raw volunteers – no draft had been called.
Some were patriotic’ly spurred, I’ve no doubt,
But shoring the empire must have left others appalled.
Yet the labourer’s life, while improving, was hard –
The same old drudging as yesterday.
Who wouldn’t swap for some public regard
In a smart uniform, with travel and regular pay ?
They trusted their orders and killed as commanded,
So can I be angry, if I must be candid ?
I don’t know.  It was lots of things bound-up together –
So either I wear the poppy, or the white feather,
And honour those scabs who refused to be naive or quailed.
Perhaps.  But why hadn’t they joined-up, those Glorious Jailed ?

Succession

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Succession

The President is dead.
Who gets the nuclear code ?

“I” said the Vice,
“I am the next in line,
For the order is precise
And this is my time to shine
A cool head and a steady load.”

But now the Vice is dead.
Who gets the nuclear code ?

“I” said the Speaker,
“I am the next in line.
All other claims are weaker
And are junior to mine.
I get to tread the royal road.”

But now the Speaker’s dead.
Who gets the nuclear code ?

“I” said the head of the Senate,
“I am the next in line.
For that’s how the framers pen it –
And their penmanship is fine.
Let it be said, I am bestowed.”

So now the matter’s put to bed,
He gets the nuclear code.

“Wait !” said the new head of state
“Who now is next in line ?
I must appoint a running mate,
A brand new Vice to guard the shrine,
To rule instead if I explode.”

“But hang on, boss” the new Vice said,
“Hand over the nuclear code.

For you are still a Senator,
And only acting next-in-line.
I’m number two, you’re number four –
I clear outrank you, so resign !,
Before the Feds reach panic mode.”

So, now all logic’s fled,
Best hide the nuclear code…

America, We Need to Talk

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It’s Time to Build a Stronger America by James Flagg

America, We Need to Talk

Look, we get it, you’re still young and brash
With passion and guile of a sort we remember
From out of our youth, from cutting a dash,
When the world was in Spring and our credit in cash,
And watching you now, we still feel an ember
From deep in our hearts that we thought were but ash.

For we are the empires who strutted before you,
Who drank the same honeydew now on your lips –
With vassals and tributes to praise and adore you,
And patience and prudence to hassle and bore you,
So manifest destiny festers and grips –
And no wonder it finds you when none can ignore you.

We’ve all been there – we British and Roman,
We Persian and Aztec, we Mongol and French –
We each were as mighty, who answered to no man,
From horseback and gunboat, with longsword and bowman,
And bloodlust and mistrust we never could quench,
And the cripple’ing burden of being the showman.

It never quite goes away, of course,
As our never-set suns stop their beaming –
The memories built up in temples and wars
Which we cherish in secret, still keeping the scores.
The dreams we’re still dreaming at twilight’s last gleaming,
So some day shall all this be yours.

Breaking the News

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Newsboy by John Brown

Breaking the News

Roll up !  Roll up !  Come hear the news
From your soaraway BBC !
You can’t resist, you can’t refuse,
Your eyes belong to me !
We’ve plenty from America
You didn’t need to know –
For there, they make the news a star,
And telling-it a show.
Their politicians sure ain’t grey
When spouting crazy claims –
You cannot vote for them, but hey,
At least you know their names.
We’ll dish the goss on slebs for you,
We’ll squeeze on ev’ry wart
Until the news is turned into
A grand spectator sport.

Ecce Humanitas

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it's in rome, but it's not in the vatican

Ecce Humanitas

I would build a monument within Saint Peter’s, Rome –
A monument to martyrs who preached heresy.
Who stood by their convictions when tortured and alone
On principals of science and philosophy.
I would build a monument to passions unafraid
When Quisitors would dowse the light they shined.
Their sacrifice was equal to that which Jesus made –
They gave their lives to save all humankind.

Bringing Juvelilia Week Part 2 to a close (there will be no Part 3, thankfully) is a poem inspired by Giordano Bruno, a fore-runner to Galileo and proponent of Copernican theory – who was tried, tortured and burned by the Flat-Earthers in the Catholic Church.

Apologists claim that his crime was heresy, not sol-centrism, and as late as 2000 (According to Wikipedia) Cardinal Angelo Sodano said of his inquisitors that they “had the desire to serve freedom and promote the common good and did everything possible to save his life” – well, everything short of not actually burning him at the stake, anyway.  And Pope John-Paul the Second lamented “the use of violence that some have committed in the service of truth”, so that’s all right then, no harm no foul.

Incidentally, the statue above (on the very spot of his pyre) by Ettore Ferrari is from 1889 and paid for by the local Freemasons as a deliberate middle finger to the then-Pope, who I won’t bother to name. (Wow, who’d’a’thunk I’d ever have anything positive to say about Freemasons ?)  Its plaque contains the words Il Secolo Da Lui Divinato (From The Age That He Predicted), which is a line that any poet would be proud of, though I don’t know why it also labels our Giordano as ‘A Bruno’ – surely he was The Bruno…

The Rigours of Indolence

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there's a storm brewing
The Ball on Shipboard by James Tissot

The Rigours of Indolence

Ah, those aristos, who never worked a day,
Just sit back and wait for Papa to pass away.
While armies of servants and hard-working-clarsses
Would feed their fat faces and wipe their fat arses,
And loans would be brokered to fund wars of nations,
While riches would pour in from ex-slave plantations.

Ah, those aristos, who feasted on our sweat,
Those patrons of the arts, that lavish social set –
With artists and craftsmen and tailors and tours,
And houses and horses and operas and balls.
They almost were worth it, their style could defend it –
They didn’t deserve it, but knew how to spend it.

Usually I resist any attempt to rhyme ‘class’ with ‘arse’, but this poem was written in with a definite accent in ear.  ‘Papa’ of course should be pronounced with its stress on the second syllable.  This is an early poem, but I’ve started to preach a little less and let a little satire slip in.  The title incidentally comes from a line in Alan Bennett’s The Madness of George the Third.