Cowes, atop the Isle of Wight – East and West, though much the same – Victorian and seaside-y, With boats and seagulls running free. And not a single cow in sight – No running of the bulls – for shame ! No fording droves between the piers, No cowboys showing off their steers. And don’t come here in Cowes Week, right ! It doesn’t live up to its fame ! It’s not the time when bullocks battle, Not a trace of rutting cattle. Why then whet our appetite, To wastes its strange and lively name ? There are no bovine sacrifices, Just cream teas at tourist prices.
I know, I know, despite a spine of rolling chalk downs through the Island, Cowes itself sits atop clay…
Jenny von Westphalen & Jenny Lind (both born Johanna). Presumably their J’s were soft.
Next-Jen
Women have answered to ‘Jenny’ far longer than ‘Jennifer’, Whether they’re maidens or maids – A pet form of Janet, Joanna, or even of wrens, She’s really a jack-of-all-trades. Old English had a few Jinifers, sure, But those weren’t Guiniveres, those were Junipers – Then, from nowhere, Jennifer came – From Cornwall, and from a parallel universe.
As the Twentieth Century progressed, The Jennies were pressed into service And switched their allegiance to Jennifer only, And rode her success to over-abundance – Then into the downward curve of redundancy, No longer heroines, neighbours, or queens – But surely we’ll always remember the Jennies, As donkeys, or greenteeth, or spinning machines.
I’ve discussed the unexpected rise of Jennifer over here.
The English tongue is a toolkit To unlock those very English sounds In a well-oiled perfect fit. The Scots and Welsh have tongues that sit At a slightly diff’rent angle each So’s not to mangle all those subtle bits of brogue That abound within their speech. Americans are yet more rogue, Dismissing our metric metre For their own iambic feet and inches – They prefer their rhotic burr to ring, With a tongue that sounds the sweeter And a throat that swells and pinches Fine enough to let it sing. But none of we Anglophones are great At sounding French, or Japanese – We haven’t the tools we need for these. And that’s okay – we still can try, And even if we’re second-rate, There’s no need to be shy. The thing is, no two individual tongues Are contoured quite the same They vary how they’re ribbed and strung, And where they set their aim. So if we were to slur your foreign name next time we call, It’s just because our tongues are curled the other way, that’s all.
The Impressionists, they started it – The deliberate eschewing of the details of the waterlilies, Slapping on the sunflowers, slacking and half-arsing it, The barmaid blurred by beer-goggles, shorn of intimates and frillies. The Modernists just loved the concept, Loved the new permissiveness to never bother with the hard parts, Far too busy writing manifestos, or just overslept, To ever stoop to spend the years to learn the graft behind the arts. Ah, I guess they have their fans, these Abstract-ists of vapour – And not just money-launderers or the Commie-fighting CIA – Some might look alright in advertising, or as wallpaper, When tossed-off in an afternoon of dribbles, nudes, and squelching clay. But then, the public never get to choose who shall be fruitful, Because we must take whichever trends the critics shall annoint. It’s just…I want my art as something rare and something beautiful, And not a random find, or shocking ugly, just to make a point.
Photo by Miguel u00c1. Padriu00f1u00e1n on Pexels.com
Quad Squad
The square, so rigidly unnatural, Yet so simple and un-tangled, So well-disciplined and fractal, So right-thinking, so right-angled. Mondrian painted ’em, Architects plotted ’em, Tiled mosiacs are full of the things ! And once you get square eyes, You’ll never stop spotting ’em – Vinyl in albums and boxing in rings. Hexagons are limestone pavements, Benzene rings and honeycombs – But perfect squares are wholly vacant In our planet’s chromosomes. Salt crystals, maybe – But they’re cubic, see, They’re not 2-D. The cool kids may call us old-fashioned, un-hip, Compared to their curvier looseness-of-grip, But it never bothered me. Sure, I’ll be a square, I’ll tessellate, I’m not afraid – I’ll keep my borders parallel and straight, And human-made.
Too far North, and barely notice, North, yet swimming in the seas – Where beaches should be icy-cold, There’s ice creams, tans, and mushy peas. There’s little snowfall on the coast As far as even Sixty-North, And days of t-shirt weather stretch For far beyond the Firth of Forth
It’s crazy how the ocean brings The Caribbean to the Clyde, While closer to the Pole than even Fuego is on the other side, And Trondheim firmly basks within Antarctic latitudes, Yet broadleafs line the verdant fjords To show their gratitude.
And not just warmth arrives all year, but rain – And rain it is, not snow – So Western Europe only works because Its crops and people grow. Too far North, and that’s the beauty, Norther than we’ve any right, When Winter Moons are long above And Summer Suns last half the night.
I’ve commented before on how much further North Europe is than North America, at least in terms of their respective population centres. For instance, the Southern point of Hudson Bay lies at the same latitude as London – but whereas the former has polar bears, the latter doesn’t even have them in London Zoo.
Pop – music for optimistics, Music for singing at two ayem. Vinyl that wears its gist on its sleeve, And makes us believe in them each times we play them. Sure, we may attempt to rebel, Claiming to be serious nerds, But when we hear its tempo swell, We find we still know all the words. Cos pop music is just so poppy, Music for yelling “There’s no-one can stop me !” It’s music for happiness, Music for crying to, Brings out our best when it’s not even trying to.
Pop – music for earworm farmers, Music for dancing the daily commute. It pierces our armour, it captures our cortex, Deep down in the vortex and never be mute. Our parents, they just don’t get it, Just as their folks just didn’t get them in their turn, And we likewise just can credit What turns-on our kids – but no cause for concern. So keep the upbeat up, we’ve learned, For ballads and minor keys have to be earned. Some say it’s artifice, Some say it’s cash – A flash in the pan, they insist – but oh, what a flash !
Late-on in the Spring, We’ll see the house-martins come again – In stylish black-and-white, And darting back-and-forth about the lane. They’re patching up their daub-and-wattle nests, The ones they left behind – The Winter muck is jettisoned, The inside cleaned and freshly lined. Are these the very birds we saw last year, The self-same mums and dads ? Or are these now the chicks they hatched at home, Inheriting their pads ? Though ev’ry year, I swear, They build another house beneath the eaves, And often touching in a terrace, Neighbours watching out for thieves – And those would be the sparrows, Feckless squatters in these high-rise flats – A better prospect than the hedges, Safe from cuckoos, frost, and cats. Hoping to be laid-and-fledged By hanging-out in hanging-domes, Before the grockles fly in for the season To their second homes.
Who is the Martin whose house these swallowets build ? The OED postulates that it is a contraction of Martinet, but that that in turn is a diminutive of Martin. Or it may be from a Latin term for a kingfisher. Or a bit of both – never underestimate the power of conflation.
Well, here we are, my friend, and welcome to Volume Two. Not the book I promised, alas, but this will have to do. I hope the climb was not too taxing, hope it’s clement weather – It’s best of all at suns-set, when all four go down together. If you’ll excuse an in-joke, then this very situation Is a little like that final message God left his creation.
I’m afraid I’ve got some very bad news, But maybe you’ve guessed – seen through my ruse: We’re dying, you and I. Maybe you guessed. Here ends our bloody pointless noble quest. Those knobbly leaves that saved us – well, they saved us for a while – It seems they hold a toxin that has gathered in our bile. Look, I know, I could have told you once I knew,
Could have written on the first page “Just give up, this isn’t true, Just don’t go on, it’s all con.” But then, what would you do ? So I’ve lied to you instead. A sin of omission, I guess, but you still end dead. But if I had, you’d have starved all the quicker – This way, I gave you a hope, a flicker, One which I shared at the time. Now I know better, and fully accept my crime To not let on that we are cursed – Of all the choices, this one seems least worst.
Either way, we’re never going home. But hey, how many can get to roam Across this glorious galaxy, Across such worlds and moons as we ? And so much life ! Such gorgeous beings – It has been fun, all our sight-seeings. For us, the galaxy displays her best – And if we’re cursed, then surely too we’re blessed !
So, the journal once more takes its place To aid the next poor refugee in space, So terrified and all alone, A long long way from home. And they shall read this letter, too – So after all my words, please add a few words of your own. Perhaps there are some here already, under mine, From voyagers before your time, who spared a thought to share a line In many voices: calm, betrayed, or manic. To all of you now facing death, I urge you with my final breath:
Are you still with me, friend ? Are you still on the course of my footprints ? Following my lead and signs and hints, And wond’ring where will all this end ?
Well, as I’m sure you’re well aware, We’ve reached the last page of the book. I’m quite surprised how long it took, But here we are, if you still care.
I really thought we’d be home by now, But hey, it’s a long long way, our road, And I guess our weary feet have slowed, But the views were pretty anyhow.
Time for a breather, I think – I found a bar not far from here, To rest our boots and stow our gear And maybe try the local drink.
I wish we could leave it there – A slow fade as we mop our brows, And close the book to lightly drowse In the heart of who-knows-where…
But when you wake, you’ll lack this tome – Alien hands are paid to impound it, To send it back to where you found it – It’s time for you both to go back home.
And as for me, I’m not yet done – I’ve still got trekking left in me, If I’m to make it back for tea – So come along and share the fun.
Let’s take a stroll, a mile or so, On up the valley, round the bend – It’s time. And after all, my friend, Just where else have we got to go…?
Rhyming Couplets 