Recreations of Hadrian’s Wall and The Great Wall, by artists alas unknown.
Brick for Brick
I grew up with castles and churches and manors, Their architecture feels like home – While Indian temples and Chinese pagodas Were glorious aliens in stone. It all made sense that Kublai Khan Had not one dome in his Pleasure Dome
But when I saw the Great Ming Wall, It all felt too familiar – It looked like something the Romans might have built, Had they reached this far Rounded arches, crenellations, arrow loops – All quite bizarre.
The only telltale signs were in the watchtowers, And their roofs – Simple saddelbacks, slightly concave, They were hard-hill-hatted booths. Not like the four-square hips of the Romans – Projections providing proofs.
Except…on many of the towers we see, These structures are robbed away. And we’re left with familiarity That’s out-of-place, astray. Was it built-up piecemeal, really ? At this point, who can say ?
From what I can see in images, the watchtowers had roofs that were a mix of hard-hill and hanging-hill, the difference being that the latter had slightly overhanging eaves as in the image below.
I live in the suburbs In a box made of ticky-tacky – It’s small and it’s samey, And won no award. It’s not to conform, And it’s not to be strange or wacky, I live here because here Is all I can afford.
I grew up around here, Then I went to the university And I came out with a large debt And I found my first job. And it paid not a lot, Except for in uncertainty, So I tried for a mortgage For a key on a fob.
There’s a Barratt, there’s a Redrow There’s a Wimpey, there’s a Jubilee. Where’s the woodland, where’s the meadow ? Oh, please don’t ask me.
Alas, all they sold me Was a box made of ticky-tacky, But it’s dry and it’s plumbed-in, If no pleasure-dome. I raised up my children And worked as a gopher-lacky, Trying to get by And make it a home.
So spare me your distaste How I went to the university – And spare me your prejudice Of me and my peers. I don’t have your millions Or a co-operative nursery, Yet I struggled and I made it Despite all your sneers.
Blame the council, blame the builder, Blame the bubble, blame the rising-sea. If it all seems out of kilter, Then please don’t blame me.
Ooh, they’re singing a song… And I think we know this one ? Aren’t we clever ? I say, why not clap along, To show we know this one ? Now altogether ! Ignore the grumps among us Who just think it rather rude – Come on, let’s shout ! I bet the cast will thank us For our effort to intrude And drown them out !
I learned so much of what I know of poetry From the joys of pop – I soaked it up, subconscious, in no hurry, Drop by golden drop. The verse, the chorus, the linking-bit between, And the bridge that would soar – The words were the fuel in the polished machine, In structures as old as lore.
I never knew how I knew it at all, But I knew it all, When I heard the chorus call –
And the songs remained the same, That’s how they came, How any old hit was made – A-B-A-B, occasional C, It’s all a game, Repeat to fade.
I learned so much, I even learned surprise When the form was messed about – I loved it when they threw me, played me wise, Odd takes that caught me out. From starting with the chorus before the verse, Or adding a verse when it ought to end – It felt illicit, and I longed to immerse In my iconoclastic, offbeat friend.
I never knew how I knew it was wrong, But I knew so strong When I heard that rebel song –
Cos the songs can’t stay the same – The past’s to blame – We need to sing new tricks A-B-A-B, you’re boring me – Let’s change the game, Let’s re- the mix !
Come on, pop, I’m looking to you For something new, To change your key. So come on, pop, don’t let it be, Let’s tear on through This boogaloo ! I need you, pop, to shake the tree, Rejecting their authority, A-one, a-two, A-set-me-free, That’s what you do – So do it for me !
Are you ready, Ready to leap right off this ridge ? Into the space beyond the dials ? Into our hungry ears ? To see what’s at the other end of this bridge, In the unfamiliar miles Of the rainbow pregnant years ? Just because we’ve played three minutes, Who says that it’s time to stop ? To push things past the social limits, Isn’t that the point of pop ?
If the songs still play the same – That’s such a shame – We’ve heard them all before. But why not sneak in extra lines To shake things out of old confines ? And rouse a bold refrain That doesn’t quite rhyme, That they can’t ignore ? A-B-A-B, then jamboree, Until the game Comes home once more.
Examples of unusual song structures that struck me over the years:
OMD often used an instrumental hook as a chorus, as does Seven Nation Army, Bad Guy, and Golden Brown, or a ‘la-la-la’ chorus like in Can’t Get You Out Of My Head. Del Shannon’s Runaway used an instrumental in place of the second verse. The Byrds’ version of Mr Tambourine Man has a chorus, a verse, a chorus…and that’s it ! Does that make the verse more of a bridge…? Except it feels it lasts too long for that… This feels like a cut-down version of AABA (like many ‘Great American Songbook’ tunes, such as Somewhere Over the Rainbow), where the verses are doing all the heavy lifting with just a single bridge coming in the latter half.
Speaking of verses, repeating the opening stanza at the end of the song is quite common (Nights In White Satin, Annie’s Song), but Paper Planes by MIA repeats all of its four verses as soon as it sings them, so we hear the first verse twice before moving onto the second, which then repeats before the third etc. Killing In The Name uses the same verse (and of course the same chorus) before it’s extended bridge section that you’ll never hear on the radio, and Mr Brightside effectively repeats the entire song in the second half. Not to mention I’m Henery the Eighth I Am…
Sometimes an instrumental would come early, after the first chorus instead of the second (Pipes of Peace, The Importance of Being Idle), followed by a repeat of the chorus which we perceive as the climax, but then proceed with the second unexpected verse while not actually being any longer. Occasionally, a song such as Queen’s Mother Love will place its bridge after the first chorus, in a way that feels too early. What can it then do after the second chous ? Why, play the guitar solo, of course !
Some songs reduce the chorus to a single line, like The Sound of Silence, or two, like Blowing in the Wind. Perhaps this is less ‘chorus’ and more ‘refrain’. And songs like The House Of The Rising Sun and Blue Monday don’t even have that ! Conversely, songs that could be thought of as all chorus include Love Me Do, There She Goes, and Relax, though each of them does have a bridge section at the half-way point. Other songs, like many by Def Leppard, deny us the chorus the first time through, moving from pre-chorus straight into the second verse. And of course, there are plenty of songs which open with their chorus, from Shout to Le Freak via I Shot The Sheriff and Song 2.
But speaking of choruses, it is very rare that they change their lyrics from one repeat to the next (except perhaps for the odd word for emphasis). A couple that do are The Winner takes It All and Bob Dylan’s Hurricane, and one that frustratingly doesn’t is Paul Simon’s Fifty Ways to Leave Your Lover. In the latter example, the chorus lists five ways, one tenth of that promised by the title, and then repeats it three further times with the same five examples!
Metal has often seen songs as more of a symphony, and not just in terms of guitar solos – they often have more lyrics and parts than three-minute pop – for instance, Metallica’s One develops midway into almost a completely different song, and doesn’t even circle back to its origins. Even more medley-esque is Happiness is a Warm Gun, where the parts only feel loosely related. Another song which wanders yet finds its way back home is Bohemian Rhapsody, keeping us on our toes through the journey (or at least it did when first we heard it, way back when).
Some songs seem to introduce the bridge for the first time, but then forget to repeat the chorus, so we have an outro instead, like Immigrant Song, Flash, or Don’t Stop Believing. Meanwhile, Franz Ferdinand described their approach to Take Me Out as singing only the verses in the first half, and then singing only the choruses in the second. And speaking of outros, there are plenty of eight-minute stadium-fillers with an extended instrumental after all the singing is done (Sultans of Swing, Comfortably Numb, Hotel California), but it’s rare on short-attention-span pop. But one song that shuts-up before the one-minute-thirty mark and then noodles away for over two minutes more is Gary Numan’s Cars, while Shuggie Otis’s Strawberry Letter 23 is not far behind.
But best of all are the songs which refuse to keep under five minutes, and not just by repeating the chorus too many times (looking at you, Hey Jude, because you always feel to me like a three-minuter with far too much bloat). Some, like Suede’s The Asphalt World make us think they’re winding down, but the coda turns into an intermission as they kick themselves up once more and regain their momentum. I get this sense from I Feel Love as well. Whole Lotta Love touches on this, though its extended breakdown never quite feels like its coming to a stop.
Of course, not every song can have a bizarre structure, nor should it – but neither should we feel compelled to follow the formula when the song wants to go somewhere different. If only, following AAB, the Rainbow had led us to a C instead…?
There’s a poem that I meant to write, Back when I wrote them ev’ry day, Back when I still had things to say – I should have said it then. And now, I don’t remember quite, Except it would have been a hit – Before it faded, bit by bit, And stayed within my pen.
But humour me and let me quote to you Some lines I almost wrote – Some lines I never got to know, Yet knew were quite the best I’d ever show. Ah well, no point lamenting, Or resenting one that floated off instead – Although, I sometimes wonder At the hundred things that moment might have said.
There’s a poem that I meant to write, Back when the poems wrote themselves, As passionate as magic spells – I should have cast it then. And now, the page is far too white, And now my metre’s far too slow. I had my chance, and let it go – It won’t come round agen.
But sit with me and let me read A few more lines I never freed, Some lines I never knew I knew – Adieu – into the ether with god-speed. Ah well, no point regretting, Or forgetting all the other ones that stay – I wrote too many verses To waste curses on the one that got away.
Street trees, lining suburban streets From Wandsworth to Walthamstow. Planes, of course, and sycamores, Wherever the middle-class grow. Full of rustles, full of tweets, From Hackney to Acton Town, To shade the cars and the corner stores Till the council trim them down.
Street trees, lining suburban streets From Kidbrooke to Cricklewood With tear-off strips and missing cats In a vertical neighbourhood. Full of squirrels and parakeets From Hampton to Harringay Then shed their leaves on the garden flats Till the council sweep them away.
Strange to think The Satanic Verses Was ever even published at all. And following from the string of hearses, Who would dare now have the gall ? I don’t like it myself, it’s not for me, But that’s hardly the point – It’s even more vital we keep speech free When it puts us out-of-joint. But the zealots have won, we all self-censor, And now the Left have caught the bug – Trading-in Marx for Marks & Spencer And sweeping their principals under the rug. The truth is, they admire the power To shut down speech and cancel voices – They’ve fatwa-envy, to make us all cower For daring to stray from their authorised choices. Well, I’m just gonna come right out and say it – Islam and Woke are a toxic trigger. Not all their adherents, let’s not overplay it, But enough, who pursue the commandments with vigour. So we really need to come down hard on apologists, Stop their political victim-blaming, As they unironic’ly draw-up blacklists, Shutting-down speech while fanning the flaming. But now we’re shocked, that someone attacked The one we attacked with ferocity, Named and paraded and finally sacked For the sin of secular blasphemy. So we clutch our pearls and wring our hands, At what could drive this murderous spate. Then we push to get a comedian banned For saying the Koran is full of hate.
To be clear, the Bible is equally hate-filled – but most Christians have the decency to be embarrassed by theirs. Sometimes this shame is subconscious, but even the most fundamental literalists will inwardly wince if you bring up –
Job 1 (God giving his approval for Satan to kill Job’s ten children for the sake of a bet), or Numbers 25:6-8 (Phinehas murders an inter-racial couple and God is appeased and stops his plague), or Psalms 137:9 (happiness comes from dashing the babies of your enemies against the rocks), and let’s not forget Deuteronomy 20:10-14 (when beseiging a city, offer peace – if they surrender, enslave them, if they resist, slaughter every male (even the male babies), and “take the women and girls for yourselves” – I think we know what that means…)
They may mutter something about context, and ‘appropriate for their own time’, and change the subject to the New Testament – while ignoring Colossians 3:22-24 (slaves, obey your masters !).
Another atrocity, another round of blame, With the righties claiming they’re all the same, And the lefties burying their heads in their guilt, And our knee-jerk laws that are jerry-built. Another outrage, another assault, And we all us know who’s really at fault, But none of us will say – Mohammad. And Jesus. And Shiva. And Yahweh. And the dozens of others, monsters all – Let’s stop the worship, let them fall. Just why are we honouring the afterglow From the morals of how many centuries ago ? But no, don’t ban them, not a single sect – Just stop any pretence of honour or respect. Laugh at their gods, like we did before, To Zeus and Baal and Ra and Thor.
The tallest, broadest sycamore in Dorset Is a stately tree – Beloved by Lords and Parliament, A pillar of society – He’s tended by The National Trust, As English as can be, In a village with a funny name, And a bloody history.
Yet sycamores are not a native, Bringing European fruits To challenge all the local trees With non-conforming shoots. These upstarts will not know their place, Their seeds are new recruits, And down into the bedrock They have planted creeping roots.
Yet, for all their canopy may shield, And union hold fast, They do not live so long, these trees, Their shelter cannot last. And though the status quo may praise, When safely in the past, They’ll gladly chop his children down And root him out at last.
‘Sycamore‘ is a restless word. It appears to have started life in Hebrew, before the Greeks noticed how much it coincidentally sounded like their words for fig-mulberry. From there it made its way via Latin and French to English, where it was applied to a newly-introduced species of European maple tree. Confusingly, the contemporaneous authors of the King James Bible used it several times to refer to the original fig tree.
And then the Americans took the word and slapped it on a type of plane tree quite unrelated to either (although in their partial defence, the leaves of the plane do look very maple-like, as even Carl Linneus noted in his name Acer pseudoplatanus – ie Maple fakeplane). The one thing the three trees seem to have in common is their shade-giving spread.
Meanwhile, it is also a surname – apparently deriving from the village of Siglemere near Bramford in Suffolk, from *sīcel ‘small stream’ + mere ‘pool’. So in seems that my eight-year old self was quite wrong to insist that they were called sycamores because their seed-cases were shaped like sickles…
Things keep turning into worms, it would seem, And not just invertebrates Exhibiting a certain trait For straightness in the beam And legless in the gait.
Things keep sausage-ing to worms, we observe – The eel and caecilian Are bound by their criterion To maximise the curve, Like the tongue of the chameleon.
Things keep slithering to worms, to and fro – As through the soil they swim, The burrowers who drop a limb. The slowworm may be slow, But he’s wonderfully slim.
Things keep developing newer way to squirm – From the lowly and unsung To the feared and cursed who creep among – For snakes are just a worm With a backbone and a tongue.
Rhyming Couplets 