It isn’t easy being a new-build Here in Dorchester town, With such a shining example besides them, Flaunting its global renown. An over-achieving older-sibling, Rich in charm and style – Well, no wonder the new kids look so miffed, With not a facade with a smile. I guess their neighbour’s one-in-a-million, Bricks of a vanished strain – And that’ll explain why we’re so unable To build so well again… So the latest estates must make-do with bland, With a shrug from the half-arsed and bored, While the decadent suburb that lies to the West Is so desperately ignored.
Once, when the Winter was colder, And the Bridge more wall than hole, So the River would stall and dawdle Till the ice had won control. And a brand new street through the heart of the city was born, And paved in white, Where the tents and the stalls and the elephant put their faith In the Winter’s blight. For days and days, as the ferries sat idle, The waters were newly owned – Though the surface was a rocky road of blocks That creaked and groaned. For the tide was never still, Beneath this temporary town – Till the breakup happened suddenly, And dragged the slow ones down. Yet for a week, the world was changed For folks of ev’ry class, As even in the bitter cold, They’d promenade on mass. But in the end, the thaw must come, To even ice that’s strong – And Midwinter festivities Should not extend too long.
I asked AI for impressionistic carollers, but they just look blotchy…
The Lantern Carol
There may have been snow, There were surely scarves, As they stood on the corner Beneath the stars. They may have had sheets, But they knew the words – And the harmonies That they sang in thirds. And we hurried on by, But we heard their songs – The old familiar Sing-it-alongs. In a pool of light, They played their role – Under the lantern Hung on a pole.
And their breath was hung With the notes they sung, As a frosty white, By the lantern’s swaying light.
There may have been snow, There were surely mitts, As they stood on the corner Singing the Ritz. They may have had sheets, But they knew the text, And no hesitation On which comes next. And we hurried on by, But we heard their cheer – The old familiar End-of-the-year. In a pool of light, Their heart and soul – Under the lantern Hung on a pole.
And their breath was warm With the notes they form, In the inky night By the lantern’s only light.
The trouble with a labyrinth, Is that it feels so foreign – Is that it has no logic To its endless winding paths. No hierarchy separating Avenues from warrens, As we trudge the many mazes On our lost and aching calves.
Our only means of finding out The route into the centre Is by choosing random tracks And by try-and-try-again – With a dozen unsigned junctions And a dozen doors to enter, To a dozen cul-de-sacs, And a single golden lane.
It makes sense in a dungeon, With its safety-at-all-cost, Or even on a garden, Where the mapless lovers sally – But why are city planners Quite so keen to get us lost ? Or to meet a Minotaur Down a twisty, unlit alley…?
The walls of Pompeii are all full of graffitos, Where Romans left scratches of slanderous hissings, And chalked-out each grievance like buzzing mosquitoes – But mostly left scribbles like dogs leave their pissings – Thousands of scribbles from two thousand years ago, Scrawling on walls just to scream “Look at me !” The historians love them, for what they can show About what life was like in the First Century.
And it wasn’t only the cells and latrines – For nowhere was safe – not shops nor graves – It’s been the obsession of soldiers and teens, Since the ochre hands-prints were left in the caves. Even cathedrals had pilgrims who jeer, And localised rumour-reportages – So once a time, old Kilroy was here, While Chad kept a record of shortages.
So who are these Romani Ite Domums, With their slogans and sweary scrawls ? And why must they commandeer the commons, By spraying on public walls ? Yet those who condemn the tags the hardest – And the St George flags – then represent The likes of Banksy as a cutting-edge artist, (On a stolen canvas, and paying no rent).
But I must be honest with the street art fans – However old, scrub them out, unread. Don’t justify the hooligans And the anti-social stink they spread. Be honest, should the youths of today Have loose on your house, your car, your soul ? Or would you deny to the future the say Of the historic daubings of every troll ?
‘Reportages’ in the second verse is not French, so should be pronounced as ‘report + ages’ – four syllables, with stress on the ‘port’.
London Bridge has fallen down As planners suffocate the town – They cannot fathom what appeals In Nonesuch House and waterwheels They claim it’s not a chance to dream, For reasons that evade me. It’s just a means to cross a stream, My fair forgotten lady.
The bridge that used to grace these banks They gladly sold-off cheap to Yanks. They have no care for what is lost, Just that it’s done for cheapest cost. And now the name evokes the tides Of business bland and shady – Just traffic jams and suicides, My fair forgotten lady.
I’m not a fan of the big road pushing through the valley floor – It should have been a high-speed rail line. But just what have you got against a chip-set factory ? And the jobs that get to work while you just whine. I guess the loss of green and habitat’s a shame, for sure, But your farm was pretty monocultured too – The world needs fewer humans, as I hope you would agree, And a lot less of consumption, making-do. We haven’t all got daddies leaving farms to us, and more, No, we many have us very little leeway. So take your million-dollars and your nimby don’t-tax-me – Cos this ain’t your farm no more – now it’s our freeway.
Magpie-mimics, pseudo-shrikes, In apron-fronts and axeman-hoods – They hang their excess kills on spikes Around their Aussie urban woods. Lizzies, hoppers, chicks and mice, On thorns and barbs and obscure ledges – Bringing their suburban vice To tuckeroos and privet hedges. Where creeps the white trifolium, So fly these cheerful songsters – Where lays the fresh linoleum, So roost these hipster monsters. But most of all at nesting time, When elder siblings lend a wing – They form a gang, a clan of crime, Whose name they proudly sing.
Rhyming Couplets 