Coming soon to a screen near you – A story of creeping dread, As the trailers tick the minutes down And the tension comes to a head… Is this the film I meant to see ? Is this the screen where it’s shown ? Should I have chanced my luck in the foyer For the cinematic unknown ? Is the perfect flick on the screen next door ? Has my pleasure been usurped ? The corn is popped more slowly into my mouth, The Coke unslurped. Until the censor’s certificate Declares this film is safe. At last, I sigh in calm relief As the psycho butchers the waif.
Up flame, dance impatient, Crackling to your own beat, Curling round the branches, And licking round my feet. Here I am the scarecrow That you ritually kill – The Lord of the Pyre And the King of the Hill. I am the sacrificial Guy Whose kindling-fate you lit, I am the coal-black scapegoat To be roasted on the spit. See my hellfire cloak me As your breezes stoke them on, The terrorist within you Who is never truly gone. This martyrdom you’re making Will just fan the flames, no doubt. Purge me all you might, But you will never smoke me out.
Up flame, and choke your carbon, Set your atoms free – Scatter your particulates, Increase your entropy ! Call my name with rockets As they whizz throughout the lands, Write my name with sparklers Till they burn your little hands. Light the sky with blood-red gold So high above the rafter – You hear that crack that echoes back ? It’s really just my laughter. I am the roaring limelight As it bathes me head to toe – I am the phoenix rising, And the ever-afterglow. I am the Guy eternal You’ll forever set alight – Remember, each November – You’ll remember me alright !
We cheered them off, that September, So sure in their duty, As we were in ours, you see. We loved them enough, I remember, To want them to keep-in alright With the powers-that-be. We held the fort, as contenders, But only until they returned, As surely they would, we trust. Be a good sport, I remember, Assisting to sister the brotherhood, Because we could, and must.
They’re most of them gone these days, ho-hum, Except the old and lame and mad – Though not their fault who goes and stays, All families are missing a brother or dad. It’s lonely for the strays that we’ve become – And guilty to be so secretly glad. Gas fitters, brick layers, Tram drivers, football players – Our handiwork is at the root Of ev’ry batch of shells the soldiers shoot.
We filled the schools, as pretenders, And the factories too, And the pubs and the shops, we hear. We held their tools, I remember, And lived their jobs, and drove their trams, And tended their crops, all year. We proved our worth, our gender, As we waited for news That the end was upon us, at last. To give back each berth, I remember – Was joy for their coming, And dread that our honours had passed.
But what if so few of them come back to check-in ? What will we do then, without their call ? We’ll manage, of course, we’ll soon get the knack, We’ll, some of us, have an absolute ball – But what if they never retrack, d’you reckon ? What if this freedom’s our absolute all ? Slowly thriving with aplomb, While gaining votes and singledom – We’ve come at last to claim our due Now that there’s far far more of us than you.
They used his full name, in the notice – And then carved it on his stone – I guess that he was born with this, So that indeed made it his own. But I never once have heard it uttered, Not be anyone who cared – Too many letters, far too cluttered, When he wore it unimpaired – With a friendliness in its brevity And no pretentiousness or strife – A name with great longevity, A name that lasted all his life. For some people, a single syllable Is all we need to say – And those others from their name in full Just get forgotten, tucked away. But now, formality’s a blessing – We understand, accept the change – And we know who we’re addressing, Though he sounds a little strange. But the man himself, of course, is the same, With this not-quite-pseudonym. Though odd, to see his Christian name As only ever God would call him.
The ancient Egyptians filled their tombs with stuff, As a trust-fund for the afterlife – Finest robes, spices and jewellery, Not to mention a mummified wife ! But it wasn’t just the practice of royalty, The need, it seems, is in the bone – Even the oldest and simplest folks Rarely buried their friends alone.
I rather think you would smile at the thought, How you’re combed and dressed in your finest suit – As if you would need to impress St Peter Or grease some angelic palms with your loot. But then, it’s only symbolic stuff we’ve included, Stuff you would never be without – Family photos to show to Jesus, While you take a drag on your favourite snout.
Even the pins in your hip, I guess, And the handles of your coffin, and the nails. And the memories, of course, that are left within your mind, For beguiling the cherubs with your tales. Not that you believed in that, of course, Nor we who lower you into the ground, But it just feels right, that you have them with you – The same urge those archaeologists found.
Surgeons, pilots, firefighters, Barristers, and presidents – These pseudo-psychopaths, From the boardrooms to the regiments, Who find calmness in the chaos And detachment in the fear, Who are able to exert control And keep their focus clear. They switch off their empathy When steady at the lever, To stop them dithering with love, Or panicking with fever. We need them in the frontlines, With their special kind of brain – But most of all, we need to help them Switch back on again.
I always find psychopaths in movies incredibly boring, but this poem was greatly inspired by the fascinating Vsauce2 video on the subject.
I’ve always hated that verse – To take a disobedient, wayward son, A glutton and drunkard, and maybe something worse – And to drag him to the elders, and call on ev’ryone To muster at the gate of the town To take up stones, and put him down.
But I recently heard a theory That asks what parents would willing follow ? After all, it costs them so dearly, And any sense of piety must leave them hollow. How extreme must their son appal For such a code to be needed at all ?
Surely this was only spoken To deal with the psychopaths among them ?, The ones who threatened until they were broken, The monsters and parasites dressed as young men. How else could they protect their town When a rabid dog was skulking around ?
But even setting the problem of evil aside, Is this the best defence ? Why must the Lord make the parents decide When enough is enough ? It beggars all sense – It’s just too cruel for anyone To have to denounce their troubled son.
But honestly, I have my doubts, That this is what is meant by it at all – And if it is, it needs to spell it out, Just why they’re thrust against the wall, To stop the zealots stoning ev’ry child By judging surliness as ‘running wild’.
Thank goodness we ignore such spite, And wonder why we keep such books around. For there’s a psychopath, alright, But he’s not the frightened kid upon the ground – Rather, he’s the one with crazy eyes Who gladly casts the first stone from the skies.
People are funny with mirrors, We see in them things that were never reflected. We peer into glasses in gloomy old houses, And swear that the ghosts of the vain are detected – Sort of like negative-vampires, Who can only be seen in their opposite form, As a shadow that moves on the edge of our sight When the candlelight blinks in the empty old dorm. We whisper into the speculum, And fancy we glimpse at the face of another From out of the silvery clouds in the tarnish – A movement, a flicker, our killer, our lover. We treat them as if they were watching, To open a portal to trap the unwary. But deep down we know that they only reflect us – Perhaps that’s precisely what makes them so scary…
I grew up on farms, I knew my barns, And knew the owls inside. As paragons of myths and yarns, They sure did love to hide. But even with their silent wings, I’d sight Their calling card, And know they still clocked-in each night From pellets round the yard.
The barn owls are the perfect owls, In look and lore and size. With heart-shaped masks and earless cowls, And wisdom in their eyes. Until, that is, they won’t stay mute, But let loose with their speech – And utter not a single hoot, But a disappointing screech.
I heard the twits and twooing too, From tawnies in the trees, But only from a distance, flute and mew, In two-part harmonies. Yet round the barns, I only hear the shriek, Not the trill of charm – The wrong voice for the owl I seek, Of the poet of the farm.
Owls, of course, have their own concern, And do not care for me. And I should take their lead to learn To let their natures be. So when the golden hour is full of cries I now can grin As the night-shift owls in the barn arise And start reporting-in.
Rhyming Couplets 