The sun does not rotate about us, Yet it always looks that way – And even when we have the proof, Our eyes persist with their untruth. And solid rock, we learn, is suss – It’s full of holes between the play Of atoms, widely spaced – so small, It’s mostly nothing there at all.
Science, sometimes, isn’t what’s observed – Especially when it’s tiny or immense. Science shouldn’t be so damned absurd, And have such little truck with common sense. Science doesn’t think, of course, on whether it gets heard, It doesn’t even know it gives offence. But Science sometimes doesn’t act The way good Science should – Like when the certain’s inexact, And just beyond what’s understood.
But never get to thinking that we always must defy – Such easy routes to knowledge are the scamjobs of the loafer – They lazily are citing the above to justify Their finding spare dimensions down the backside of the sofa. “If my theories don’t make sense, It’s cos I’m smart and you are dense.” More like, I think, the answers lurk In flailing, stabbing theories cos your sums won’t bloody work.
We cannot use the unknown as a wand To fill the gaps that loom Between the atoms and their neighbour’s bond. These gods are just as empty as the vacuum They are trying to replace – We cannot summon laws from empty space.
But once again, we must recall, That Science doesn’t hold a view – It simply is, that’s all. And if we don’t like where it leads us to, Whose fault is that ? The Universe is flat, or else a ball ? One day we’ll know, one day we’ll see What’s there already, always there, But doesn’t even care for you and me.
So Science, gorgeous Science, thrusting Science – Never let us go ! For you shall not deter with Quantum, All your challenges, we want ’em. Long you taunt us with defiance Yet one day, we’ll know – The random chance that engineers The cam upon the cosmic gears, And how your unseen matter matters more than it appears. A universe of precious things Revolves, vibrates, adheres – And quarks may yet be full of pulsing strings On which you softly play and play the music of the spheres.
This rhyme is too faulty, it just doesn’t sit, It’s splutty and halty, it stumbles awry. This rhyme is too salty, it rattles with grit, It’s ragged and jolty, it’s sneaky and sly.
And there is your problem, your verse is a word-crime, Demurred-crime, absurd-crime, an everyone-heard-crime. So there is your problem, your verse is an eye-rhyme, A dry-rhyme, a shy-rhyme, a just-couldn’t-try-rhyme.
We’ve all of us done it, we have to admit, We kick it and stun it, and hope they won’t espy. We’ve gambled and run it, with rhymes not legit, We’ve all of us spun it, and hoped it would fly.
But you sir, yes, you sir, you jolly-well knew, sir ! Your rhyme is untrue, sir, it does not apply. For shame, sir, it’s lame, sir, you must face the blame, sir They don’t sound the same, sir, your rhyme is a lie.
The lost quotations noticeboard at the Poetry Library, London.
Lost Quotations
Is this how this verse will end, As a barely remembered line or two And all the rest a blur of forty years ? When memory is no friend, And anyway, maybe you never knew The rest of it, that never reached your ears. At least you can still pretend If you pin up a card with a precious few Of its words, to the scrutiny of wordy peers, Then one of them yet can mend The missing heart, and finally claim its due – And spare it from the fate each poet fears.
You say you believe In demons and miracles, Gaia and Eve, In songlines and spirituals, Voodoo and karma, The Secret and aliens, Danu and dharma, And Episcopalians, Dreamcatchers, leylines, The Masons and star-signs, Von Däniken, Xenu – They all mean you well. From Asgard to Jedi, From Hades to Hell, There you dwell.
And I, you think of as too scientific, Too always-specific, Too unhieroglyphic, Too closed in my mind And too open to doubt, Who therefore won’t find What it’s really about – Too weighted by knowing To get where I’m going, My aura ain’t glowing Within or without.
And I guess That you may just be right after all, I confess My cynical pride’s due a fall – That is, If we’re really not really at all But a part of some story Whose telling is tall. For mostly in stories All magic is true, With morals and mores As naïve as you.
Not like in the Real World, The boring old Real World, Where physics still rules And must do so forever – It hasn’t a twisting Beyond its existing, But punishes fools Who refuse to be clever. For the laws shall apply To each rainbow and fly – We cannot suspend them For even a second. Impartial and total, Not just anecdotal – We’d best to befriend them, For by them we’re reckoned.
So tell me, my dear, Are we really right here, right now, Just as real as we feel ? Or maybe, somehow Are we all, I don’t know… Characters perhaps In some novel or show That scripts us and traps us, Creates us and scraps us, Like gods of the gaps Where the laws come and go. So tell me the deal, Your ardent conviction – Are we really real, Or are we just fiction ?
From the First Notes of Dawn to the Last Chords of Dusk
1. Praise Apollo, Sun and Light ! Praise the hand-harp glorifier ! Plays them strings like dynamite, Plays so far he’s outasight. Bringing on the dawn with its mojo rising, Day-long solos from his nuclear fire – And as for his vocals, you should hear the guy sing ! From early-morning blues to evensong choir. He plucks and strums it, Twangs and drums it, Whistles and hums it till his rays expire.
2. But to Marsyas the shepherd, Dusk was no time to retire – So he heckled undeterred This yawning, lightweight, early-bird. “Eager rising, my premising Says is most unhealthy and absurd. Dawn despising, my advising Says is only nat’ral and preferred. For those of us by music stirred Think morning is a dirty word. And what bards view his skies of blue or clouds of white ? Or ever gets to see Apollo’s pyre ? We rise with the lunar satellite To score the shadows, sing the night, And likewise dress in black attire.”
3. “So a challenge I declare, Apollo,” said this acolyte. “Dude, I gotta tell you square I love your image, dig your hair, So please don’t think that all my criticising Is intended as a jealous slight – But you, without your even realising, Lost, I say, your promise and your bite. Let us both play, if you dare, Before the Muses, maidens fair, To blow their fuses, lay them bare. And they shall judge between us, good or dire: Who’s all that or who just cruses, Who’s got nout and who’s got flair. (And man, those spacey chicks can sure inspire.)”
4. Thus the play-off was before These groupies egging on the fight. Order settled by the straw: The kid played first. (He’d lost the draw.) This farmboy fresh from out the shire Lets his magic flute ascend and soar As swooping melodies explore And drift in phrases reaching ever higher – Never shrill, but weightless flight, Aloft, a-dream, their souls alight, He sates their ev’ry appetite. Then comes a shift, the notes downpour As raining from the sky they roar – Led on, led on: this pilot-piping flyer, Who brings them home with themes comprising Of a thousand heights or more. Surely now the gold he’s sizing – How can old Apollo match this score ?
5. Picking up his trusty lyre, Tuning up the strings a nock, Stroking soft each tension-wire, So he turned to his defier: “Son,” he said, “for all you mock, You’re not just crock, I’m no denier: Prince of Pipes – the Fluting Jock. Now, Mister, go home to your flock – For I am King, and you will call me Sire.” Suddenly by some strange sleight His strings were ringing loud and bright, The very air his amplifier. He could make that catgut weep, and tenderly suspire. Now the god was energising Thrashing up the fahrenheit Bass-enticing, tenor-prising Vaporising kryptonite. Squealing strings – discordant crier, Then teased from the aftershock A melody so pure and sprite: The long-lost chord to which we all aspire. “Son, for all your poppycock You really tried, you weren’t just schlock I’m almost sad to clean your clock – But this gig’s mine, you neophyte, For you might fly, but I can rock ! ”
6. Waiting for the girls to sum it, Who would get the nul point blight ? Not our Marsy, for he’s won it ! Blow me down, the kid has done it ! He made all the dames ignite – Faced the music, overcome it. But this god won’t take the plummet: “Just a moment, squire.” Apollo turned his harp capsizing, Upside-down he plays, reprising All he played before entire. “Can you do the same ?” came his enquire. “Course I can’t !” the boy said, wising To his sudden shaky plight. “Flutes don’t work like that, as you know quite.” “Okay, then, no need for spite,” Apollo said, “I’ll turn mine right.” And so again he played his harp – but still the artful tryer, Now his voice was synchronizing, Sweetly singing, improvising – Such a voice ! And who can not admire ? Swiftly was the kid cognising How he’s losing out his prizing, But his protests only mire – For, Apollo makes surmising: “Do you not use your breath to expedite The notes within your flute ? And might Not I use breath to best excite My strings, with my sweet harmonising ?”
7. Then came to Apollo’s aid The Muses, (each a sweet-faced liar). Soon the lad was cast in shade, As Sunshine charmed each fickle maid. They chose again their jollifier, And upon the brow divine were laurels laid. Apollo rent his godly ire: Had that shepherd bound and flayed He flogged the lad himself, to see him slayed. Strip by strip his agonising Sucked his wind and gasped his breathing tight – The breath he blew with, this chastising, Stole away forever, ev’ry smite. “All this for a flute” he whispered as he paid, “It is too much. Your lashstrap is a critic’s blade.” At this Apollo brought respite, The execution briefly stayed, To answer him on how he’d strayed: “You thought my Sun was old, must surely tire, Yet with age comes cunning and desire: When we dim, we fight on smarter, ruthless, slyer. It’s only talent makes the grade – It ain’t what notes you blow, it’s how they’re played.”
Bricks by Carl Andre. It has a longer, poncy name – but let’s face it, it’s just bricks.
The Bland & The Brutal
This macho rejection of beauty as quaint, We bask in the ugly in building and paint – Those worlds of the graceful and subtle all fade, We cannot return back, because we’re afraid.
God Save the Queen by Jamie Reid (though not the actual version used on the single cover)
Jubilee
Yours are the breaks And ev’ry advantage, The lowest of stakes For the richest rewards. Handed the world, As you took it for granted: Benighted and Earled As miladies and lords.
It’s sad but it’s true That we’ve little democracy, You’re all that we’ve got To break your own power. We’re looking to you, The old aristocracy: Excise the rot, And descend from your tower.
For better or worse, you are, Blessing and curse, you are, Dated, perverse, When ennobled and crowned. But leave it behind, will you Open your mind, will you, Maybe combined, We can reach common ground.
Surely it’s common sense ? History teaches us Not be the leeches, Or sponges or midges. Give up your influence ! Give up your privilege ! Let’s not mend fences – Instead, let’s build bridges.
Don’t be a traitor Betraying your nation, For we are your nation: Each pilot and waiter. So be a creator Who levels the score, To make Britain greater Than ever before.
For better or worse, come on, Balance your purse, come on, Then reimburse For each corgi and glove. Pay back your debt, my friends, Pay back in sweat, my friends – This is no threat, But a chance to show love.
Break with your ranks, And roll up your sleeves, Where ev’ryone cranks, And ev’ryone heaves, Where ev’ryone plays, And ev’ryone learns, As ev’ryone pays, And ev’ryone earns.
Come quarrying stones, Or burying bones, Or manning the phone-lines, Or polishing brass. Come digging the spuds, Or squeeging the suds, Regardless of bloodlines, Regardless of class.|
For better and worse, we are, Plumber and nurse, we are, Truly diverse, And yet wholly alike. Won’t you engage with us, Sharing your stage with us ? Open our cage, And then turn up the mic.
For richer or poorer, In grandeur and squalor, In blue and white collar, Let’s see the day won. Whatever the weather, In ev’ry endeavour: Let’s shoulder together To get the job done.
Rhyming Couplets 