Computers can win at chess – But so what ? Is that the best they got ? Computers may win at chess But make a real mess Of a whole lot of diddly squat That won’t fit on their spreadsheet. The way to beat the bot Is to cheat. Oh sure, they game the theory, Work the odds, But they’re not gods. They’re sticklers for the rules And so naive – So load the dice and palm the jewels A tuck a joker up the sleeve – That’ll show the sods ! They’re just a bunch of gears and rods – They can’t cut short our innings, Until the day’s at hand when they demand Their share of winnings.
Gems of The Crystal Palace, Sydenham by George Baxter, showing off the designs of Joseph Paxton
The Engineers’ Plot
Crystal Palace – it’s a suburb, Station, park, and football team, And a memory to a time When this nation still could dream. Once a product of Empire, A palace to capture its roar – Now just a flat-topped hill In the Republic of Elsinore. Straddling boroughs, pumping fountains, Soaring towers, glass for miles. Till flames across eight counties Shattered her dreamy crystal aisles.
She no more beguiles – but that sounds Victorian – Half vers libre, half Tudor sonnet. Flirting with jazz and television, Yet still bedecked in her bustle and bonnet. She was no Bauhaus, no mere function – Cast iron crockets encrusted her shell – For all her prefab industry, She always wore her baubles well. Ah, she’s gone now – like her dinosaurs, She’s of her time and place. Though her place of course is the one she named – You cannot say she leaves no trace.
I see the poems popping up again Upon the Underground – Prosy, earnest, and ignored By all except the very bored. They’re forced to slum it on the crowded train – At least they get around, But free from glottal-stops and grime, And far too erudite to rhyme. And yet, it does them good to mix where Plain-spoke folk abound – And tailor their delivery To suit the Drain and Jubilee:
“Mind the gap please, mind the metaphors, Next stop is Leicester Square, Oh tyger tyger burning bright, She walks in beauty like the night, All-change for Euston, mind the doors, Use Oyster for the cheapest fare, Remember me when I am gone away, The darling buds of May, South Kensington for dinosaurs, Beyond the spiral stair – Early electric, to beat the queues – Where is Skimble ? Men long for news.”
details from Charles Vth by Titian, Antonio Navagero by Giovanni Moroni & Guidubaldo della Rovere by Agnolo Bronzino
Prithee, Sirrah ?
The poster announced “Shakespeare Season !” Well, why not ?, I thought. For no particular reason, I’d seen precisely naught. I know it sounds high treason, But I guess this time I’m caught.
Yet all reviews and interviews I heard Said much the same – They read the play, yes, ev’ry word, Before they even came, To better understand. But that’s absurd ! Just what’s their game…?
What about the spoilers, hey ? Will Macbeth be number one ? But the plot matter less, they say, Than ‘getting’ a Tudor pun ! This all feels like homework anyway, And not much fun !
You clearly can’t be arsed to try And make the story clear, And surely don’t want oiks as I To gaze upon your Lear. I think I’m gonna pass you by For something less austere.
Just what is it with trilbies and churches ? Men must remove theirs, but women’s stay put. Indeed, why does Paul say that women must cover ? Is God so upset by each bare-headed mother ? Men, shed your turbans ! Your masking besmirches ! At least He allows still a shoe on each foot ! (Though women are free from such moaning and wails To sport wedding bonnets and funeral veils.)
Just what is it with stetsons and churches ? We might as well dress-down in sackcloth and soots Than decked-out in finery, mumbling our prayers, While tutting at any bloke hiding his hairs. Men, lose your skull-caps ! Such hattery lurches To thinking you’re working upon your kibbutz – For men who wear hats are not resters, but grafters – So the Lord wants your locks flowing free to the rafters.
Just what is it with bowlers and churches ? Men’s heads are open, but women’s are shut. How much of an insult is headgear undoffed ? Does God rage in Heaven at brims left aloft ? Men, ditch your toupees ! Our scriptural researches Show bald-pate Elisha is nobody’s butt ! Or do we use ‘etiquette’ as a hypocrisy ? That doesn’t sound like good manners to me !
I hope the hatted women in church also keep silent throughout, just as 1st Cor 14:34 says to.
I knew a girl called Angela Engels With wanted to know the fundamentals – Who wanted to know how angels flew When they were far too large, she knew, To stay aloft the way they do. But then…well eagles, they’re big too, And owls are even bigger, sure – At least the biggest ones are bigger – And albatrosses, once mature – And condors are bosses, they have to figure, With wings much wider than she was tall, And yet…they hardly seem to flap them at all. But hang on…there’s always swans, And swans kept pumping through the air And turkeys, though they hardly fly, But yes they can, from here to there. And bustards too can reach the sky, they say, (Though it takes them quite the run up To get up up and away.)
So Angela looked up size and span and stat, And found they weren’t that fat – Those amigos averaged less that a dozen kilos And she knew flat how she weighed more than that. So unless the angels, like insects, were pin-head small, They’d surely barely rise and plenty fall. But there was also mention Of an ancient, mythic vulture, barely known – Now that got her attention ! Though they had only found one bone, And had to guess the rest and how they’d grown. And just the same for Quetzalcoatlus – Surely that was just as hatless, Based on fossils and guesstimates, Not measures and weights, And was perched uneasy on its throne. And anyway, those both were dead – So heck, for all their trying They couldn’t be that great at flying, she said.
So maybe angels, though their wings are feathered, (And they cannot be untethered From the hug of gravity), So maybe they employ another method in reality – P’raps their wings are really a screen Protecting their backs from a rocket machine That blasts them up to Heaven instead !, Like Newton said – and yes, alright, it’s then implied That then their flight is just a glide back down. (They’d also need a flameproof gown, And goggles wouldn’t go amiss, But she could really take to this !) Although…well, was it heavy on the carbon, Swimming like a tarpon through the air ? Would angels better abstain and take the train, To show they care ? Angela hoped they’d be aware, and do without it, Or at least to think about it, heed her words And maybe leave the flying to the birds.
You came to escape a war, And chose our shore as somewhere tame Where quiet days don’t end in flame – But now they are fighting no more, And you must up and return to your nation – Not an order, just an observation. I needn’t ask what for, And I note this not with pleasure, but alack – For now your ravished country needs you back.
Year after year, our language is changing And drifting yet further from Shakespeare’s day, Making it harder to known of his meaning, Making obscure as we’re slipping away. Writings updated retain all their meaning, But lose all their diction and word-play and flow – So when only scholars can read still this poem, Then do not translate it, but just let me go.
Rhyming Couplets 