Rivers are boring when they’re straight, We’ve got the canals for that. But rivers will race and rivers will wait, As they twist through their habitat. They’re in no hurry to terminate, They meander around, and ambulate, Through oxbows of a future-date, Until they’re old and fat. I used to marvel how they’d know Which way to go to flow through ev’ry town. But gravity cares none for to or fro, For fast or slow, As long as they flow down. Rivers are boring when they’re straight, But once they’ve earned the name of ‘great’, They carve their many strands through delta sands, While the hungry sea must wait.
The lib’ries of my childhood mind Were dark and ancient rooms, Where vaults of pages whispered In their literary tombs, And candlelights cast shadows In the labyrinth of glooms, As the monks, all dressed in brown, Chained their precious volumes down.
The lib’ries of my childhood days Were dull and grimly quaint, Where silence wasn’t reverence But boredom and restraint, With long, prosaic rows of spines With no allure or taint, As the staff, all dressed in beige, Locked away each racy page.
The lib’ries of my adulthood Are not as deeply hewn – They aren’t a gothic paradise Or brutalist cocoon, But just an easy place to spend A rainy afternoon, As the books, all dressed in white, Spread their words by stealth & sleight.
Shoegazing wallflowers, Hairy spotty kids – Mopey little herberts, Or chirpy katydids. We were far too cool to dance, And far too lefty-footed, Musoes looking for a cause With ranks in which to put it. But over time, we finally admit That half of it was crap, And pack it up in boxes in the attic, Never looking back. And maybe even grudgingly confess That pop is not that bad, And songs that make us happy Are more fun than songs that make us sad. Until…a chance half-hearing From a car or through a door, Brings us beautif’ly-scored misery In loping seven-four. Suddenly-remembered lyrics Catch a quiver in our throat – And we’re back in adolescent gloom, Re-loving ev’ry note.
Honestly, nothing about my job Is beyond the wit of a silicon chip. Just load the data, twist the knob, And level-up the workmanship. The sums will work, the grammar will sync, All-night on unpaid-overtime – While I’m making coffee to help me think, The spreadsheets alter their paradigm.
Honestly, all that keeps me employed Is the lack of investment by my firm – This safe-and-boring world I’ve enjoyed Will all be gone in the medium-term. The world goes on, but I’ll be sacked And paid to not-disrupt the flow. But I won’t stage some Luddite act – I’m gladly pack my mug and go.
The run of the mill are the ones that work, That pass the quality control. The boilerplate will keep us warm, The squares are the pegs that fit square holes. Vanilla is liked by the most of us, In the melting pot in which we merge. And the middle of the highway Is much flatter than the verge.
We can’t all be an edge case, That’s why safe and steady sells – We’re statistic’ly predictable, Our curves are always bells. We can’t all be left-handed, Double-jointed, hazeled-eyes. Our clothing fits much better When it’s cut to av’rage size.
Oh sure, we may have corners, Here and there, which stray from the norm, But the hard-to-hear truth of it Is how we’re true to form. We try to be original, As a genius or freak – But just like us, our doubles Are convinced that they’re unique.
We all so long to be special, And so we are, in a typical way – They’ll never refer to us as The Great, But maybe as the doing-okay. This world belongs to the mediums, To the masses, not the kings – For how could we ever find stuff we liked If we all like diff’rent things ?
A cup of flour ? How much is that ? An onion, small ? How small ? How closely should I trim the fat ? How round each stuffing ball ? Cooking lacks precision, And quality controls – Explaining my omission Of some toads to fill these holes.
All my honeyed words, I stole, From radio and Hollywood – They showed me how to play my role, And made me think I really could. I practised in the bathroom mirror, Studied glossy magazines – And ev’ry night was one night nearer To my moment on the screen.
All my heartfelt tears, I bought, From sellers with expressive eyes – I took on ev’rything they taught, To help me tell more honest lies. I practised in my dreams each night, In tailored suits and sexy cars – I’ve surely breached some copyright, To fall in love just like the stars.
I’m far too smart to believe in magic, But what the heck have you done to me ? I know what’s what in law and physics, But why can’t my mind just let you be ? I used to scoff at the thought of Hell, Now I’m shaking and sweating under your spell – I’m far too smart to believe in magic, But your bewitching is plain to see.
I feel your beauty cast its glamour, A wave of the hand, and you lead me on. I can’t think straight through all this clamour, I’m a helpless mark for your brazen con. But worst of all, it’s magic by stealth – I’ve set my own spell, and upon myself. I let your beauty cast its glamour And all of my common sense is gone.
The new movie didn’t move me, Latest album didn’t sing, The next novel’s full of waffle, And these jokes have lost their zing – The critics are fawning over themselves Agog at the new direction, So who cares what I like, or not ? This is art, it’s not an election !
The hottest fashion’s lacking passion, Haute cuisine is stale and rank, Their architecture’s just a lecture, And their canvases are blank. The critics are telling me I’m stupid, Blind to the flash of genius. So who cares what I get, or not ? This is art, it’s always a fuss !
And the artists – they’re still having fun, Living it up at number one – They might not last in hindsight’s eyes, But they grab the money and run and run, Quite deaf to my self-appointed cries. So did they sell out, or lose the plot ? Or take their shot to change their scene ? They’re doing what they want to do, So let’s be happy too, and spare the spleen.
They owe us goddam nothing, we the fans, They only owe themselves. And we no doubt are free to try-out Other brands from other shelves. The coming poem, that’ll show ’em ! Maybe. Taste is so bizarre. Perhaps I must bid you goodbye – But thanks for the ride so far !
Colleagues are sort of these halfway-friends – We’re thrown together, not self-selected. In theory, we’re working to similar ends, Or maybe we’re likewise disaffected, But is that enough to ensure a bond ? To safely whinge at the bosses together ? Are workmates our mates ? Or is that too fond, If all we ever discuss is the weather ?
No, some of them, surely, are more than that, Are more than just somebody else they’ve hired. The ones whose desk you find ourself at More often that is strictly required. Someone we might even meet on the outside, Away from the phones and the morning train – Until one of us moves-on or is downsized, And we know we’ll never co-author again.
Colleagues are friends who we see in passing, In the queue to pick-up a photocopy. We snatch a few words, but no time for gassing – Till next time we meet, while making coffee, Or standing around with our cigarettes, To talk about sport, and celebrities’ hair, And the news of our cars and our kids and our pets – Till one day we realise they’re no longer there.
No, some of them, surely, are more than acquaintances, More than just people we spend our days seeing. When our social circle is too large for maintenance, Are these the ties that we won’t be freeing ? So will we continue to meet them to talk with, And not let them just be a face we forget ? What happens to colleagues we no longer work with ?, Our nine-to-five friends, once the long Sun has set.
Rhyming Couplets 