First I took the high road, then I took the low road, (But I found the middle of the road is barely worth a mention.) I hit and hogged and kicked-the-can upon the long and winding road That’s sometimes paved with yellow bricks, and sometimes good-intentions.
Yet how many must a man walk down before they make him ? This hard road to Damascus is a lonely trial of tears. Please don’t lead to Rome again, but to the road not taken, For the golden road to Samarkand begins at Wigan Pier.
Ah idioms, where would language be without jargon ? This poem is so early, I was still allowing myself to slip in post-rhyme esses (tearS and pier), which I’m much stricter about these days, although they do still crop-up where to avoid them would make the syntax tortured (though usually in the also-rhyme position [lines 1 and 3], with a cleaner pairing on the prime-rhymes).
To take the example of gotten, Grammaticists so much malign This useful past participle Whose use was once most rife and fine. Crossing oceans, forth it went, Yet back at home its usage fell A shorter version came in vogue That was but little used till now. And yet these language experts Who tell us how to speak forthhence Forget this evolution, Forget that English is not French. They try to stop the creeping changes, Battle hard against the rot. “If we don’t keep our English pure, Well, what then have we got ?”
Language has long fascinated me, and here’s an early attempt of spinning some obscure lingual trivia into half a page, a useful fallback still when Mr Block comes to call. The bit about English not being French is a reference to l’Académie Française, (that’s right, Immortals, I capitalised the adjective – deal with it !) I heartily hope that the average Francophone ignores them with rigour. I’m sure an English equivalent would simply hate ‘forthhence’, though maybe with good reason on this occasion.
Oh London, my London ! Forever so fond, Yet I heard of the rumours of places beyond – For further than ring roads and suburban stations Apparently lies there a wealth of far nations. How greatly I dreamed of the boat and the train And the tropical sun, now washed out by your rain. For my riches are poorly, my cupboards are bare, My travelling stalled upon your thoroughfare.
Oh London, my London ! You felt my distress. And pitied my yearnings to quit your address. For penned by your broadways, I longed to escape – So you widened my cage from the Steppes to the Cape, From Hong Kong to Lisbon, from Cairo to Cork, From L.A. to Delhi, from Auckland to York. With bright lights and glamours, and chiming Bow Bell, You brought me the world, and their families as well !
Growing up in the boring countryside, I’ve always liked the idea of immigration – not for myself, far too lazy, but for the rest of the world to do the hard work of coming to me. Though I guess I am a kind-of immigrant into London, and this was written soon after my arrival as I was still marvelling. Looking back, it’s a bit dum-de-dum, but that pretty much summed-up my provincial output at the time. What my poems needed was a splash of colour, and London was just the place for that.
Oh People of Coventry, turn not away ! For not only Thomas should view this display.
Oh People of Coventry, look not in shame, She canters so proudly, erect in her frame.
Oh People of Coventry, unshield your eyes ! She wants us to watch her, to join her, to rise.
Oh People of Coventry, protest exudes, So cast off your shackles, your breeches, your prudes.
The story is based on a real woman – Godgifu, Countess of Mercia, who survived her husband Leofric and died soon before the Domesday survey of 1086 (which lists her former lands). The bareback ride doesn’t appear until the Flores Historiarum collected and retold by Roger of Wendover in the early HE 11200s (early 1200s AD), and Peeping Tom didn’t get a look-in until 11600-700s.
As for the poem, I wrote this so long ago that it feels almost as old as the legend. Strange I was trying to channel socialist values through a protest over lower taxes !
I sent in some poems, a varied selection, And each was admitted with not one rejection, Included within this exclusive collection, And mine for just twenty-nine pounds ninety-nine.
I thought of the public enjoying my writing, In thousands of copies, on my words alighting – Yet only those featured received the inviting To purchase this volume, exclusive and fine.
It came and I read my first masterworks printed, And turned not to one of the other fresh-minted New authors, who each in their turn would have squinted, At only their own words, and never at mine.
Amongst my first forays into promoting my poetry was poetry.com (since sold – so party on, current owners). They invited submissions for competitions that I now suspect were never actually won by anyone – instead, I received congratulations and offers to be included in an anthology, which as a participant could be mine for a reduced price, how many copies did I wish to order ? I allowed my work to be entered, but never bought the volumes. After two or three times, I stopped even allowing the use of, and cursed myself for once again wasting my stamps.
Another vanity outfit with which I had a dalliance were the Forward Press of Peterborough (who I later discovered were definitely not connected to the Forward Poetry Prize). Again, I avoided sending them any actual money, though I did allow them to use a couple of my poems in their magazine. I even won a £10 cheque for the best poem, which caused me to order the issue in question. Alas, they went bust before it arrived, but I did get to download the electronic version (though that has been lost on an abandoned hard-drive long ago). I distinctly remember which poem won, because it was the weakest of the ones I sent them, which in itself inspired another poem along with this one.
It’s time I understood My verses that I thought were good May just be that, and nothing more shall ever be. It’s time I realise That they shall never change the lives Of anyone who reads them, even me.
It’s time that I admit That I shall never be the poet That I used to think that I was meant to be. It’s time that I accept That they shall ever be my secret, That they too shall die along with me.
Ah, but isn’t that the way for most of us, Doing what we’re doing cos it’s better than not-doing it ? Getting on with getting on without a fuss, Rooting out a suitable pursuit and then pursuing it. But still, it would be nice to make it, Still it would be nice to change the world. Wake it up and shake it up, And find the perfect rhyme for ‘world’.
It’s time that I admit That they will never turn a profit, But at least I wrote them, however unread they may be. It’s time I understood My verses that I thought were good, They are damn good – at least they are to me.
The first half is a poem from my early days of writing, and really mopey. I think I wrote it after getting rejected from numerous magazines, and looking back now I’m not surprised they did. The second half is newly written to snap myself out of it.
Recently, I’ve been digging through some of my earliest poems from twenty years ago (I’ve written for longer, but it’s only since then that I decided they were worth keeping). I have ignored them upto now because they are rather, well, rubbish…and yet, I was proud of them at the time, and were an important step onto better work. Were they not salvageable, with some judicious edits and rewrites ? Honestly…sort of. They’re still not great, but just about make it over the threshold of what I’ll accept to be published, as long as they get a fair wind and sympathetic readership.
So, for this week, I shall be presenting some of my not-best works, as an encouragement to my twenty-year younger self. Enjoy. Or, at least, don’t wince too harshly, the wind might change and you’ll be stuck that way.
Poor little student, moping for a girl, He yearns to have a crimson rose to give her – “Shucks !” thinks a nightingale, heart in a whirl, “I’ll plead with the rose-bush to deliver ! But woe, all its blossoms are white as a pearl… …Unless I thorn my breast and sing a-quiver.”
Thus the little nightingale gives her life for beauty, As nothing but a lacky to a human. Raising future nightingales – that should be her duty ! At this rate, extinction’s surely looming ! The rose, though, is delighted with this unexpected booty – With birdie’s rotting body, times are blooming !
Lonely in her dying breath, as atoms fall apart, She thinks this makes a handy metaphor – The poor romantic soul who bares her tender little heart For the callous world to savagely ignore. (Like artists ev’rywhere, she demands we love her art, And buy into her struggles and her lore.)
As for the student, he plucks the crimson rose (Denying for this bud to spread its seed), And seeks out his classmate with the very pretty nose – But she looks less than happy with his weed. “But don’t you see ?” he says, “This bloom’s a mutant ! I propose To splice its genes and follow where they lead.”
“Pah!” says his paramour, crushing all his dreams, “I’m bored with ev’ry rose and phlox and crocus ! For I’m in love with rubies, sparkling in the sun-beams – I want to find a way to make them focus…” The student is crushed – as is the crimson rose, it seems – He’s had enough of love and hocus-pocus !
Strange to think, how satellites would watch us from above, Back when they flew – Sometimes sinister, I guess, but mostly were benign enough – And what a view ! They photographed our towns, and all the towns across the Earth We’d never see – They let us zoom in anywhere, from Minsk to Bogota to Perth And all for free ! They beamed our television down, they watched the clouds and rain, They showed us Mars – They navigated us around, then brought us safely home again, And shone like stars – Before their orbitals were filled with shrapnel, deadly fast, That took them out – The age of satellites became the age when flying junk amassed – It’s all about ! So now, of course, we’re trapped upon the Earth, trapped in the past Without those eyes, For years – until the tug of friction rains them down at last, And clears the skies.
