Fish are r-selectors, They spew their eggs upon the deep. On the current, on the hope That a few of them will seep their way to adulthood, Playing the odds and making good.
A few, though, are protectors – Mouth-brooders, seahorses, Their eggs in an extra envelope. But once they’re born, of course, they’re on their own – Even in a shoal, they swim alone.
But sharks are k-selectors, Giving birth to one or two – Yet then they leave their pups to cope. So fish are absent parents, true, but don’t condemn – I guess the numbers show it works for them.
Gert yer lovely tumuluses, Wattled daubs and timber trusses – These will last for ages, stone or bronze. Gert yer long-house, gert yer round, An’ gert yer sacrificial mound, An’ mint concentric rings without the cons. I’ve swanky sarsens, blingin’ blues, I’ve sterlin’ job-lot Sutton Hoos, I’ve hoards of axe-heads – copper, flint or chert. I’m good for grave-goods, beads and torcs – So find me where the old roads forks Fer tons of rolling earthworks, cheap as dirt.
Last year I bought a flaming Katy To mark a change from mistletoe – As red as holly, green as ivy, As pretty as any on show. With buds like baubles till they burst, For long after the thirty-first.
This year I still have that Katy – Bulletproof, she just goes on, Though all the year her stem has bolted, And her blooms are long long gone, She’s clearly no perpetual rose, But then, that’s just the way she grows.
She was so pretty once, my Katy, As a hothouse cultivar – But she escaped to be a tree Who’s reaching for the Christmas star She’s tall and ragged, but it’s daft – I feel I can’t deny such graft.
Last year I bought a flaming Katy Who I water faithfully, Yet she and I, we both us know She’ll never bloom again for me. Some plants we keep not just for show, I guess that’s just the way we grow.
Alas, I am an absent host, But help yourselves to meat and wine From out my cellar, share a toast – I won’t be home, but it’s all fine. My albums should be worth a look, So find yourself a hidden gem. Provide a home for all my books – I have no further use for them. Please stop the milk and feed the cat And water Harriet the fern, And split my cash and sell my flat – I’m done with them, they’ve served their turn. I’ve had to leave, I can’t say where – I don’t know where. I won’t be back. This is the one thing I can’t share – No tears, just time to sling my pack.
Statues – guardians of civic pride and retail, And dressed in the city’s stones to match – Though bronze is rather dark for showing detail – A bright day is essential, and a good eye to catch. Otherwise, they’re lumps of grey we walk by ev’ry day, Dispatches from the past that we’ve forgotten – Best they stay anonymous, it’s far more fun that way, Than a boring Lord of Borough-on-the-Rotten. Never read the base in any case, that’s all the past, Let’s privately recast them as we like – Look into each graven face and let our fancies race, With this one Lady Shazza, and that one Pikey Mike. And as for any new ones – make them allegorical, As abstracts taking on the human form. They can’t cancel concepts when cast in metaphortical – Why must this hero-worship be the norm ?
I’ve never been one for remembering the worthies in lumps of dark, dull bronze whose features are more often lost in the overcast light. The ancient world painted their statues, and indeed painted their churches, but we’re far too puritan for that these days. But if we are to have them, let’s make them allegorical (and not necessarily female)…
Although having said that, I’ve also said the exact opposite over here. Also, there are two adjacent works at Hyde Park Corner which undermine my argument – one being Francis Wood’s Machine Gun Corps depiction of the Biblical David (despite the wielders of machine guns in the trenches being the very epitome of Goliath), appearing irrelevant and cliched when overshadowed by Charles Jagger & Lionel Pearson’s very literal Royal Artillery Monument (although in my defence, all of the supporting figures are suitably anonymous, including my favourite the Angel of Death).
We knew how it would end-up from the very first – Someone blabbing to a tabloid hack. Those who spaff the spoilers are the very worst !
Some can’t keep a secret and will always burst Spilling the surprises shows hold back – We knew how it would end-up from the very first.
Some folks love to chatter till they’re well-rehearsed, And can’t resist the calling of the craic – Those who spaff the spoilers are the very worst !
Ignorance is fragile, anticipation cursed, Our ears must hear the constant yack-a-yack – We knew how it would end-up from the very first.
Impatience is a burden with a raging thirst, And throws all expectation out of whack. Those who spaff the spoilers are the very worst !
Once the gaffe is blown, it can never be reversed, The clever twist can never land its smack. We knew how it would end-up from the very first… Unless…it’s just a ruse to throw us off the track…?
The Pont Neuf, Paris by Baptiste Androuet du Cerceau & Guillaume Marchand, with a proposed parasite on top by Stephane Malka.
Constructivism
When I talk with my lefty friends On art and architecture, They all are oh-so-modern in their taste. And so I have to talk to them On anything but architecture, All to keep things sweet, if rather chaste.
So what’s this style that they’ve embraced ? A smashing of the ruling class ? A break with endless cut-and-paste, debased In choc’late-boxy quaintness ? So is a love for steel and glass A love for unconstraint-ness ?
But when I talk with the lovers of The column and the arch, We have to keep the topic to the stones, For stray to social policy, And progress on the march, And I quickly learn they’re Tories to their bones.
So what’s this style they’ve seen replaced ? A harking back to Empire ? Of seeing Albion defaced, disgraced, Encased in brutalism ? So is a love for dome and spire A love for old-time feudalism ?
On one side are better lives in ugly buildings – On the other – palaces, but for the rich. And yet the latter need what brother-artisans are skilled in – Frescos, gargoyles, heraldry – the very things we’re told are kitsch. But have we really got no use for them ? Can we not have our peace and rights and social care, And still have ornament to spare To build our new Jerusalem ?
A Schoolmaster Punishing One of his Pupils by Jan Steen
Whenceforth
Whence ‘from whence’ ? It makes no sense, It just means ‘from from where’. But then again, It sounds so vain And old-world debonair. It looks contrived That we’ve revived Such quaint and frilly bull. We just don’t need The added speed To drop a syllable – So don’t correct Our speech unchecked, Don’t leap to its defence – It’s overstayed, So let it fade, And cease all use, from hence.
All through November, We dash into Winter – Not me. November’s November, And I’m not a sprinter When leaves are still falling And afternoons glinter, You see. All through November, I’ll take my Autumnal sweet time. I’ve no wish to onrush The noise and the crush of the big pantomime.
But finally, here comes December – From season of mist to the season of mistletoe, Nip becomes frost becomes why-won’t-it-snow-? Finally, finally, on comes December – And finally, even I unleash the cheer… So haul up the streamers and load up the larder, For now is the season of twinkles and ardour – Throughout a whole twelfth, and for only a twelfth, of the year.
Three women from Winterthur by David Sulzer – nothing to do with the poem, but I like the fact that they look like triplets
RAS Syndrome
So what if it’s redundant To repeat the words we say In a PDF format Or an LCD display ? That’s just what you get When you over-shorten-down So your acronym comprises of Both adjective and noun.
So what if they’re redundant In their final acronemes ? We’ll always have PIN numbers For our ATM machines. Cos that’s just human nature, So triumphant to a T – But if you wish to argue it, Then please RSVP.
RAS Syndrome stands for ‘Redundant Acroneme Syndrome Syndrome’. An acroneme is a single letter within an acronym. I just made the latter up, and I’m really pleased with it. According to Wiktionary it also means “the slender section of a flagellum”, but it doesn’t give any citation, so I win – QED demonstated !
Rhyming Couplets 
