The bathtub killer – time for a pardon ? Ah, now there’s a thorny one… She’s a murderess, and a proud one, And a test for the historian: We may hate the very notion Of the capital penalty – But when a despot’s above the law, Then is there another remedy ? We’d much prefer to see him tried For all the bloodshed he’d provoked – And yet, she also was a part of that mob That he had stoked. Though actually, her action Didn’t stop the Terror in its tracks, And made a martyr from a monster, As they ramped-up their attacks. The fact that the ancient regime Was such a horror is no excuse, Nor that the new lot were the same – It’s all a cycle of abuse. Of course, we were not there, in the thick, So would we be so wise ? But today, at least, we can stand by the law, and by life – And not eyes-for-eyes.
This anonymous drawing may be showing (though it’s not definite) the postumous hanging of the psychpoth Cromwell in 1660. Personally, I wish he had been banged up for life in the same cell as the psychopath Stewart.
Wassail to the Puritan
Merry Christmas, Olly Cromwell, Of the English Taliban – You humourless and hypocritic man. A busybody straight from Hell, A spiter of all jollity – A hero, then a hater of equality. Here’s a Christmas toast To the man who gave us back our kings – You failed, you worthless sod – I hope that stings. What England needed most right then Was tolerance and peace And years of sharing many Christmas geese.
Après avoir brisé toutes les devantures des magasins by Eugène Damblans
The Jists & The Jets
We celebrate the Suffragettes – Those terrorists made good, Forgetting all the Suffragists As a passive sisterhood. Yet the former wanted only wealthy women To get the vote, While the latter wanted not just Chelsea women To make the quote. We also forget the unsung million Of women manning the factories, Who did far more to shift opinion That a violent few reaction’ries. Yet Emmaline the Tory succeeded Over Millicent’s thwarted pen – It seems what women most needed Was to vote for the same old men.
Haunted Castle by nihileswari (though surely AI…?)
Haunted Houses
Whenever I watched those creepy old movies, I’d always ignore the psychos and ghouls, And focus in on the architecture – So wonderf’ly Gothic, so atmospheric ! Why were the characters in these old movies Such philistines and such fools ? Ignoring all of this architecture And long to return to safely generic ?
I never found them creepy – The shadows and arches were part of their charm – Those Second Empire carpenter’s mansards, That echo the castles of Prussia or Serbia. And always the films were so sneaky, Suggesting flamboyance is doing us harm – For florid is evil – don’t stray from the standard By daring to question the rules of suburbia.
For all that Conservatives moan about Horror, It’s always been an ally of theirs – Punishing drinking and sex in full While the Final Girl is a goody-two-virgin. And concrete has a Protestant aura, A purity in its workaday airs – Don’t be too flashy, too individual, And squash down any expression emerging.
But all that Brutalism delivered Was paranoia in ev’rything else – Satanic panics were preached from the pulpits Of low-ceiling’ed prefabs and walls of glass. The decadent styles of the past sent shivers That must be exorcised from our house – And always rebellious goths were the culprits Within the fantasies of their class.
Yet Horror wasn’t so saintly or pure – With teenager heroes against their parents, Yet parrotting cultural norms unwittingly, Not quite thinking them through – Which brings us back to the architecture Mirroring this clash in appearance – Dormers and towers are outcrops that fittingly Symbolise warts on the face of the New.
But the poor jocks and nerds were always too busy With running and screaming, to ever behold – But I did. And I wept if they set one alight, To pay the ultimate cost. Capitalism has left them so dizzy – To buy all this new stuff, and knock down the old. You think they’re haunted ? They’re haunted alright, By all of the beauty we’ve lost.
I must spotlight a recent video essay by Kendra Gaylord. I cannot concur with her admirtation of Edward Hopper, but I certainly can agree in her love for the Mansard Roof. And although the groteque capitalism of both the French Second Empire and the American Gilded Age are most-assuredly horror-worthy, I have always found the inhuman sterility of Brutalism far more suited for existential dread.
Self-Portrait as the Allegory of Painting by Artemisia Gentileschi – the poem isn’t about her, I just like her painting
Journeyman Artist
I’ve had to cut my prices, As my canvases decrease – No more ultramarine for Mary, No more golden fleece. My landscapes are a full foot shorter, My Christ Childs have eight toes, And the sitters for my portraits Must do so in simpler clothes.
Another painter has come to town, And she’s splashing her vibrant hues around – A lady artist ? Such novelty ! She’s practic’ly selling the things for free !
The trouble is, she’s also good – But who could have trained her so ? I’ve spent the last ten years with a master, Just to learn what I know. How is her flesh so creamy pink, And how are her eyes so white ? How does her satin fold in waves, And her corsets clasp so tight ?
Another painter has set up shop, And patronised by the very top. Such soft, quick hands – so how will I cope ?, As she grinds her pigments and crushes my hope.
What must I do to watch her work ?, As she blushes her client’s cheek ? And how can I stay professional, As her brush-strokes leave me weak ? But I must – she’s an artist like I’m an artist, We’re brothers of the palette, are we… But alas, she paints her angels and muses Just as pretty as she !
Another painter is plying her trade, And I know I should cheer the progress she’s made, So I daren’t compliment the curves of her dress, Or the delicate breasts of her shepherdess.
Clare College Old Court, Kings College Chapel, and King’s College Gibbs Building in Cambridge.
Soffits versus Crockets
A war was waged in brick and lime, Throughout Victorian abodes – A battle fought in seminars Of finials and glazing-bars. It seemed so vital at the time – For who defined the building codes Controlled the future, wrote the book, On how our homes and cities look.
The round opposed the pointed arch, The column pushed against the pier, As Classical and Gothic taste Were drafted, pressed, and laid to waste. With footslog critics on the march To make their case and boo or cheer – With so much breath and ink well-spent, As up and up the buildings went.
But in the end, the Romans won – The Gothic stalled, and fell from grace Despite its use in school and hall, It still felt churchy, overall. Beneath Edwardians, its run Was looking tired and losing pace – Which was a shame, because its fuss Was far more fun than serious.
As the following century Dragged on, it ditched the Grecian-born – As Classical found it was too Of little use for shiny-new. So buildings lost all sensory adornments, All their locks were shorn – And so the Battle of the Styles Saw losses shared across the aisles.
Geological Time Spiral by Joseph Graham, William Newman, & John Stacy
Counting Forwards
Imagine, if we like, To the Earth when it was younger – Let’s go back in our minds As Rodinia accretes and binds. Imagine all the life, With its breeding and its hunger – And contained within the ocean wide, While all the land is dead and dried. Go on back a billion years To when the Tonian began, And the first alga brave appears In the inter-tidal span. And let’s call this Year Thousand in our plan.
Now imagine, if you like, A thousand million later – To Britain, as it will become, Through evolution’s endless sum. Let’s use the past to take a hike, To be our ad-hoc dater – With ev’ry year that we explore That’s adding-on a million more. Ready ? Well then, come with me ! To Year One Thousand, long before, When Vinland Vikings rule the sea And early green specs dot the shore – And let’s see history expand once more.
1000-1280 The Tonian is a long old stretch, From Ethelred to Longshanks. We’re not sure when things happened quite, So none of these are strong ranks, But sponges would appear to appear Around the Fourth Crusade, Just as we leave the Dark Age, As the Boring Billion fade.
1280-1365 The Cryogenian grows cold, As the mediaeval warmth recedes – The plague upsets the status quo, As animals succeed. The monks and fossils leave their records, (Fewer than we’d wish), As peasants rise-up, and the jellies – Both the combs and fish.
1365-1460 The Ediacaran, through the Hundred Years War, Is a pregnant time. The Agincourt slaughter sees new forms of life Are on the climb. We’ve so little idea what, Though likely all the phyla we know Are going their separate ways back then, As the trade and prosperity grow.
1460-1515 Bang ! The War of the Cambrian Roses And Henry Tudor the Trilobite. Bosworth Field is awash with early fish, As eyes first see the light. Predators prey, so the shell evolves, And the codpiece proves the way to dress – And we know so much of those olden times Because of the Burgess printing press.
1515-1555 The Ordovician sweeps the monks away And ends in the great divorce – The Little Ice Age causes mass extinction, Though with a patchy force. Most of the phyla shrug it off, As do the merchants of the day, While plants colonise a whole new world of land, Down Mexico way.
1555-1580 The Elizabethan Silurian Sees vascular plants grow bodice and ruff, While armoured fish develop jaws As Catholics have it tough. The millipedes creep onto shore While Mary Queen of Scots must flee, And Francis Drake sails round the world, While scorpions swarm the sea.
1580-1640 Awaiting the tetrapod armada in Plymouth, Comes the Devonian span – Sharks and ammonites emerge In the Tempest of Caliban. King James writes his Bible On the wood of the early trees, Till the Civil War extinction Brings the shallows to their knees.
1640-1700 With the Carboniferous Restoration, Amphibeans arrive. There’s giant dragonflies in the endless forests, Where spiders thrive. They lay-down future coal, of course, As London is aflame – Till the Glorious Revolution, When the reptiles change the game.
1700-1750 The Permian now joins Pangaea With the Hannoverian line – Dimetrodon and future-mammals Have their chance to shine. But from the North, a Great Dying Sweeps them from their heights – The lava traps of Siberia, And the pikes of the Jacobites.
1750-1800 The Triassic sees a trident of firsts – Pterasaurs, crocomorphs, dinosaurs. The sea’s full of plessies and ichthies and turtles, An empire stretching to distant shores. But American lizards break away From rule they call draconian, And a great extinction’s coming-in That’s all thanks to Napoleon.
1800-1855 The Regency brings us the Jurassic, Victoria sees placentas get birthed, While the Chartists challenge the old big beasts, As the sauropods shake the earth. The allosaurs fight stegosaurs, While archaeopteryx soar above Of the Valley of Death as India splits, On their way to becoming a dove.
1855-1935 The Cretaceous next, but where to start ? Pangea well-and-truly splits, While flowers bloom for Victoria’s weeds, And spinosaurs are Edwardian hits. Veloceraptors perish in the Depression, But T-Rex jazzes the town With Triceratops to the very end, When the asteroid comes crashing down.
1935-2000+ Into the Cenozoic we go, As the atom bomb sees things get hot. Mammals and birds diversify, As hippy grasses grab their shot. Hominids climb down from the trees As Tony Blair brings-down the freeze – Then Christmas Day in ’99 Sees farmers plant communities.
Imagine, if we like, Where our journey goes from here – What might the next long thousand bring To life that’s ever-quickening ? And when extinctions strike, Then new forms suddenly appear. History shows progress all the while, Though fashions change the style. But here, for now, our trek is done, We’ve counted up the years we hold, From an Anglo-Saxon simple son To multi-cultured forms so bold. They tell the greatest story ever told.
Happy birthday ! Yes, it’s true, Rhyming Couplets is turning six, so here’s a special treat for anyone who’s still out there.
Similar to my championing of the Holocene Calendar, I hate counting backwards, and can’t wrap my head around the numbers. Therefore I propose the Paleontology Calendar, which can either begin at 0 (equal to 2,000 MYA) when the Great Oxydation Event was coming to an end, or at 1,000 MYA when the first algae was colonising the land. The latter is more useful, as it results in three-digit numbers rather than four, as we don’t have much evidence for what happened prior to the Ediacaran fauna emerging (they’re not called the Boring Billion for nothing…) However, I’ve adopted the former here so that the dates can line up with European history to make conceptualiseing the events easier, at least for me. By happy coincidence, 1000 MYA is also when Bicellum first appears, which might just be the earliest evidence we have of animals evolving away from algae…
Note that all dates prior to the Cambrian are tentative and likely to change in the future. Just when the animal phylums diverged is unclear as there are very few fossils, and rely on DNA analysis and molecular clocks. Furthermore, the current estimated dates may be a few years different from their historical counterparts for the sake of convenience (for example, some think that algae first poked its head out of the water as early as 1200 MYA). Come on, this is a poem, not a textbook !
Strange, the oldest folk tunes have no authors known, They’ve just been sung like that forever. I wonder if a single soul created them, Or many voices altogether. Maybe over centuries, they’ve slowly grown, Adding new words to old songs, From bawdy balladry, through cherished hymn, To terrace singalongs.
From London Bridge to Scarborough Fair, Ride a cock horse to the old grey mare, Lady Greensleeves, mistress mine, And over the hills for auld lang syne. We’ll never know, we’re never told – They are too old and we’re too young – Yet still their songs are sung.
Strange, the newest pop tunes come with artist names – We know just who created each. Yet maybe in a thousand years, a few persist Whose origins are out of reach. Carols may be sung to them, or children’s’ games, Or earworms and lullabyes – With half the words forgotten, and their meaning missed, But hanging on in diff’rent guise.
From Ground Control to Billie Jean, Go Johnny, go, come on Eileen. All the lonely yesterday – Sing for tomorrow, we fade to grey. They’ll never know, the trail is cold – We are too old and still of tongue – Yet still our songs are sung.
Hoards of coins in shallow graves, Unlawful death of wealth – An inquest must be called To let the gold announce itself. The coroner shall ascertain The trove’s identity, And whether misadventure Caused its current liberty. Was it witness to a conflict ? Was it lost or laid to rest ? Do we need an autopsy To open up its chest ? It seems at odds with all their other tasks, It must be said – But it surely makes a pleasant change From dealing in the dead.
I wonder if Carl Linnaeus smiled As he coined a name for a water-snail As if a windmill in a gale. Perhaps the twist of its shell beguiled, But given its lack of energy, He must have seen the irony ?
Forever dubbed forever more By a name befitting of cavaliers To a bug with neither joints nor gears – In the age of steam, as the turbines roar, What did they think of their silent whirlwind, Forever failing to twirl and spin ?
But maybe our Carl was being sublime ? As cyclones on their well-greased heels, Like plugholes, perhaps, or waterwheels, But they did so in their own sweet time – Forever in motion, the will that drives, Revolving their shells throughout their lives.
Perhaps Carl was thinking of the popular hobby of snail racing ?
