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 !
I remember we’d troop off to Grandma’s old church, (My parents not having a church of their own), And there, with my brothers and cousins, we sat Through the joyfulless carols and reverent drone That tried to cajole in us love for lord Jesus, And bribed us with candle-and-currant Christingles. We’d dutif’ly queue up, us kids, at the rail, For our symbolic fire-risks – and catch the first tingles:
The season had started ! The countdown was counting ! And even before the first door was prized open, The tension was banking, the pressure was mounting – The avarice simmering, quaintly called ‘hoping’. Our candles were dripping, the service was over, So back home to Grandma’s for crumpets and cakes, And writing our lists from the big book of Argos, And tingles that gradu’ly built into shakes.
If you don’t like this then you’re a moron, If you do like that then you’re a lout, If you’d rather t’other, then I guess you’re on your own – For even when the way is shown, You’d rather do without.
If you don’t like this then you’re a cretin, If you do like that then you’re a square – Yet now, for all my years of selfless vetting of the muse, So you masses never have to choose, It’s like you just don’t care…
How can you reject my spotless taste In favour of your own ? Or let my perfect wisdom go to waste Despite my megaphone ? For who will sing the praises of the chosen That they’ve scarcely earned, And who will prick the egos of the posers Once their backs are turned ?
So if you don’t like this then you’re a heathen, And if you do like that, you’re thick as planks – For I alone am high priest to this seething sea of stars, I’m crushing dreams, inflicting scars – Yet still I get no thanks !
Ev’ryone makes typos, Where a silly misspelled rush of prose Is hiccupped in its fluency – Careless hands work careless labours, Jumping cases, catching neighbours, Letters standing in for others, Covering their brothers’ truancy.
For as our fingers run and leap And waltz and peck, Too busy to go back and check, So in the errors creep. Too quick they ran, too soon they leapt, And where our eyes should intercept, They’re mesmerized by finger-dances, Only sparing random glances At the all-important screen. Or else they stare out straight ahead To read instead the words unseen, That float midair, as thick as flies – The copytext behind the eyes. But if we’re lucky, underlines in red Will warn us what we’ve said And give us chance to clean. But otherwise, each error cries unheard, Each mangled word and un-snipped thread Is slurred by digits over-keen.
So ev’ryone makes typos, Where our textual flows get bent and dented, Letters get disoriented, Weakening intent – They may look careless and inept, But these days we’re all quite adept At reading what was really meant.
Rhyming Couplets 
