In Spring, I can sniff-out the sap as it rises, And comes overshooting the branches and twigs Of the cherries and lindens and suburban figs – A street full of pollen – my nose recognises That Spring has returned to the gardens again, In the asphalted forests of wychelm and plane. My hay-fevered neighbours are rather less happy, But I scent the chestnuts, the sweet and the horse, And the avenues of the acacias, of course ! Municipal headiness leaves me quite sappy – The syrups of sycamores, weepings of willows, That’s wafted by birdsong in sugary billows.
We both deserve better, But we’re never gonna find it – I know that we’ve settled, But I kinda just don’t mind it. I know we’re on the slide, But we’re sliding not so fast – It’s been a longish ride, Neither bumpy nor a blast. So how it is that we just seem to last ?
I know I oughta leave you, I feel like I deceive you, I feel you feel it too. Yet once we’re at the top, it’s such a view !
I’m terrified to go, But I’m terrified to stay – Things are, I don’t know, kinda sorta okay. I’m never gonna gush, And I’m never gonna swoon – So really, what’s the rush ? I know that I will still be here in June.
Less roller, more coaster, Less helter, more skelter, Both tunnel and love, Both fallout and shelter.
We both deserve better, But we just don’t hate the norm. Why be a go-getter When the water is still warm ? I feel we oughta shake up, Into separated lives, We’re waiting for the break-up That never quite arrives. And round and round, our roundabout survives.
You know you oughta leave me, You think that you aggrieve me, I think I disagree – I’d rather stick it out than be set free.
I’m unconcerned to stay, But I’m nonchalant to go – Let’s wait another day, then, before the big heave-ho. And most times aren’t so rough, And you’re far the best I’ve known – I don’t love you enough, But I love you more than living life alone.
Everytime I use my keyboard, No matter what for, I’m part of a galaxy – I’m one of a secretarial horde Who quietly roar For pleasure and salary, All in a perfect unity.
Ev’ry keystroke, ev’ry trackpad – Somewhere, Thousands of others are typing – Ev’ry clack and double-tap, And somewhere, Someone else is piping – Thousands of others mirroring me.
So ev’ry shift and space and save and swipe We think we improvise, Are really all an orchestrated hyper-text We synchronise. And ev’ry mouse we click is ripe When copied on the world’s machines, As ev’ry typo is a thousand typos On a thousand screens – All turning our percussions into harmony.
Sitting at desks or staring at phones, Together, The dance of fingertips – We’re unintended qwerty clones Forever, Until the Apocalypse. When the power-outage finally sets us free.
The Victorians built with columns and arches and pride – Constructed with confidence, gilded and polychrome, Moulded with ornament makes for a jolly home, Tailored by craftsmen on every side. From terrace to semi, from basement to sky, With hands on lapels and their chins held high.
The Post-War built with concrete and brutal and slab – Constructed in anguish, subconsciously thinking It’s all we deserve – the piss-stained and stinking, In a hellscape of Marxists, the grim and the drab. From Park Hill to Gorbals, from Mersey to Tyne, The more the cement, so the more the decline.
Not only can I not find out who drew this caricature, but I’m not even sure that it is of Ogden.
Nashtiche
Ogden Nash, a curious beast, A sentiment-famine and sarcasm-feast, A mem’rable name from another age, A cynical-eyed bespectacled sage. A clutter of couplets, a strenuous rhyme, A rapid-fire rhythm in Brooklyn time. And puns by the plenty, both groaners and snorters – Which when we try quoting, we fumble three-quarters.
Photo by Miguel u00c1. Padriu00f1u00e1n on Pexels.com
You Know What I Mean ?
The trouble with pop songs is how they say so little, Popping with so few words – They open a question they barely can answer, With most of their meaning inferred.
And choruses, of course, Just underscore – They only reinforce What’s gone before.
It’s not like they’re frightened to tackle the big themes, They’re sometimes incredibly plucky. It’s not that they’re vapid, it’s just that they’re brief – With two verses, three if we’re lucky.
And choruses repeat, That’s what they do – The feelings are complete, And they are few.
So much time is wasted, wasted, Misplaced in repeat repeatings – Saying all the same things That you said it all already. So much wasted time repeatings, Same things all the saying wasted – All already is misplaced In that repeat you said it.
Now hip-hop has plenty to say for itself, But pop is a hit-and-run lover. A beautiful thought or a rallying cry, And time’s up !, it plays us another.
And choruses declare The point is made. They’ve nothing more to share – Repeat to fade.
What’s that ? This is a sonnet, you say ? Are you sure ? It seems all at sevens-and-nines… A sonnet, I thought, is an interplay, And not just four quatrains missing two lines ? And honestly, this is a mess, all the way, With less imag’ry and more warning signs – It just about holds to its rhythm okay, Though that cannot be said of its half-arsed rhymes. Regarding its volta…I guess that it has one, Though hardly a good one, it’s barely defined – And when it resolves, well, at least there’s no pun ! So, C+ for effort…and that’s being kind…! If this is a sonnet, there’s loads for the taking… Then…oh no !…is that all the point that it’s making…?
Through the village of Longbourn, the undead shuffle, The unemployed and the destitutes. The Luddites who moan in a rustic muffle, Back from Napoleon without any boots. Mr Bennett says he can’t even hear them, So alien is his world to theirs, But they’re getting restless, threatening mayhem – What if it spreads to the staff downstairs ? Don’t worry, Lizzie, here’s bold Mr Darcy With wealth that’s been stripped from the backs of the poor, He knows how to whip should the rabble gets arsey, And put them back down when they dare ask for more. Crush all their groups, and deport the whole crew, This seething horde of the unwashed masses. Best wipe them all out like befell Peterloo – Or the balls overrun with these jumped-up lasses.
When not ignoring the cruelty of the upper classes, Jane Austen liked to describe them at leisure over here.
We’ll do it without you, And do it despite you, But change will hurt less If we don’t have to fight you.
Stop us today And we’ll come back tomorrow – So join us in peace, Or you’ll join us in sorrow.
Don’t stand in the way of momentum – We just have to let its steam run-out its course. For there cannot be both an unmovable object And irresistible force.
We’ll bring it with vigour, And bring it with pride, But we’d far rather bring it With you by our side.
It cannot be stopped, But it still can be steered – So jump on and help us, Or get what you feared.
Don’t stand in the way of progression, The start of an age is the end of an era. The past is another day older each day, And the future another day nearer.
A new world potential Is straining its fetter – Don’t let it be wasted, Let’s mould it for better.
The outlook is scary, And noisy, and strange – Best hang-on together And brace for the change.
Don’t stand in the way of transmission, The shockwaves and echoes will rebound for years. The levees are burst and the dykes overtopped, And the flood will not notice our tears.
Hold this poem at arm’s length, And peer right through its O’s. Even the ones in lower case Contain an awful lot of space – But just how large is small, do you suppose ? Good try, but a little under-strength – Your guess is a tenth of a tenth of a tenth.
Within that ringlet, give or take, Between the billion nitrogens, Are photons – streaming on a breeze From fifty thousand galaxies, Upon a thoughtful mind or friendly lens – As through the page, within its wake, The universe is on the make.
Rhyming Couplets 