Poets Respond
I've recently taken an interest in Rattle's section devoted to poetry about the news. I suspect it's doubtful whether news from an idiosyncratic UK perspective would particularly appeal to their audience, but it's been a useful exercise for me. Here are some of my efforts:
7 April 2017
SPANISH SUCCESSION
25 March 2017
FAREWELL TO THE EU
17 March 2017
NEVERENDUM
No Escape
I've recently taken an interest in Rattle's section devoted to poetry about the news. I suspect it's doubtful whether news from an idiosyncratic UK perspective would particularly appeal to their audience, but it's been a useful exercise for me. Here are some of my efforts:
5 May 2017
OBAMADVICE
You
might have thought he would have learned before,
Obama,
when he cast the Brexit runes,
Telling
the British how they should vote for
Europe,
not go off whistling their own tunes.
Well,
his advice did not go down so well;
“You
know what?” says we. “Do give it a rest!
We
don't know much but one thing we can tell
Is
when some foreign bloke tells us what's best
For
us, we growl, “Go take a running jump!”
But
no! He's back to tell the French to vote
For
Macron, who was
winning but now slumps.
So
listen over there and please take note:
If
you think we should move, cry out “Stand still!”
Lo
and behold, you might just find we will.7 April 2017
SPANISH SUCCESSION
It's nothing like Ceuta
and Melilla we declare,
Those towns are little
bits of Spain upon Moroccan shores.
Gibraltar's not like
that at all; you can't even compare -
That town's a little
bit of Spain that happens to be yours!
You can't expect a
modern state just to put up with this,
Investment flows like
water there and no-one's unemployed;
They don't pay Spanish
taxes; they're just like the dratted Swiss,
While here we're poor
and needy, there the high life is enjoyed.
We know we signed a
treaty, but it was a while ago.
We kept our word three
centuries, well, surely that's enough?
Now we are short of
money, so we think you ought to know
We'll let you have your
Brexit, in return for easy stuff -
Like giving us
Gibraltar back. Who cares how locals vote?
If we blockade the
border what will they do? Bloody float?
25 March 2017
FAREWELL TO THE EU
At last the mooring's
loose! So long we've dithered in this port
I feared our ship had
taken root and trembling willow
We'd become instead of
English oak. Now praise the thought!
Once more our bark's
afloat - alive upon life's billows
Not moored fast by an
alien shore where weed grows on our keel
And worms gnaw courage
from our vitals with their slothful stealth.
We may not be the men
our fathers were, with ships of steel
That carved industrial
empires, bringing home such wealth
As built a nation out
of china clay and wool and steam
But let us only breath
sea air again, bestride the deck
And feel the rollers
pass beneath our hull, working our seams,
Filling our sails with
hope, quitting the landlocked wreck,
Just let us once again
be free and let us then
Follow a nobler course
and live like Englishmen!
NEVERENDUM
I
would not mind this half so much
If
you would tell the truth,
If
you'd stand up like honest folk
And
not deceive our youth.
You
stuff young heads with fantasy
And
promises galore
Of
how a fair society
Comes
just by asking for.
We
that are old have seen it all
So
many, many times
From
those who've proffered paradise.
Let's
read between the lines:
The
fact is Scotland will be poor
If
we go off alone.
Taxes
will rise and all our lives
We'll
cut back to the bone.
Now
maybe that's what they will choose,
Our
young, if told what's what,
And
if that's so, good luck to them
I
won't complain a jot.
But
don't pretend, for pity's sake
We'll
have our cake and eat.
Don't
promise them a fairyland
You
know you can't complete.
Their
streets will not be paved with gold,
Their
wallets will be thin,
And
once they're out the door they're out,
If
they are taken in.
No Escape
27/01/2010
Owd Noah ‘ad a magic cloak wi’ ‘ygroscopic properties,
That
is ter say ‘e wore it when ‘e wanted it to rain.
‘E
got it from the weather clerk, the archangel ‘ose job it is
Ter
turn them ‘eavenly sprinklers on, and ter turn ‘em off again.
“Nar
listen ‘ere, owd Noah,” says the archangel ‘oo give it ‘im,
“This
‘ere’s a mighty BIG job that The Lord ‘as given thee.
No
matter what’s on TV, or if the football’s rivettin’
Jus’
thee mind an’ tek thy cape off, lad, afore thee ‘as thy tea!”
Nar
Noah was a good soul, though some would say a wally. ‘Ey,
For
years and years ‘e did the job and never would complain,
‘E
organised the sunny spells so folks could go on ‘oliday,
And
then ‘e put ‘is cape back on, an’ ‘e give the farmers rain.
When
Noah turned six ‘undred, ‘e were old an’ a bit silly, like,
An’
‘e got a bit forgetful, as very well ‘e might,
‘E
went up Blackpool Tower wi’ ‘is cape on, ‘cos ‘t were chilly,
like,
An’
e sat down in a deck chair, an ‘e fell asleep all night.
When
Noah woke next morning, ‘e saw all the world were water,
An’
t’ top of Blackpool Tower were the only bit left dry.
The
angel said “’Ee Noah lad, there’s been an awful slaughter,
An’,
there’s thee wi’ thy cape on still as t’ floods are risin’
’igh.”
“Oh
dearie me!” says Noah, an’ ‘e jumped up from ‘is deck chair,
‘E
took is cape off straight away; ‘e’d ‘ad an awful fright,
“What
shall we do? All Lankyshire is waterlogged and wrecked; there
Is
not a chance Old Trafford’s pitch’ll be playable tonight!”
“I’ll
tell thee what,” says t’ angel, “’Ere’s what’ll see us
through lad,
We’ll
cut off top o’t’ tower, like, and mek a kind o’ boat
An’
tha’ can bring all t’ animals that live in t’ Tower Zoo, lad
An’
we can call it Noah’s Ark an’ eastward we shall float.”
“An’
when we’ve crossed o’er t’ Pennines ‘igh, then we shall find
an ‘ome, lad,
In
t’ West Riding o’ Yorkshire; we’ll in God’s county dwell,
Meanwhile
I’ll shove this water ‘ere, right out in t’ ‘lantic foam,
lad,
An’
if ’n t’ sea gets deeper, well, be years ‘fore they can tell.”
So
all thee long-‘aired scientists, wi’ thy dire prognostications,
Wi’
all thy glaciers meltin’ fast and and all thy stats on tape,
It’s
nowt ter do wi’ isobars, or green’ouse emanations,
An’
it’s nowt ter do wi’ climate change; it’s ‘cos of Noah’s
Cape!
DIE LORELEI
by
Heinrich Heine (1822)
paraphrased
in translation 2012
I
know neither rhyme nor yet reason
Why
the sight of this rock frights me so,
Unless
I'm caught up out of season,
In
a tragedy here long ago.
The
air murmurs soft in the gloaming,
As
Old Father Rhine makes his way
Through
this cavernous gorge, rapids foaming,
Whilst
the high peaks catch sunshine's last rays.
But
wait, does that glow hide a maiden
All
artlessly combing her hair?
Oh
see, clothed in fine golden raiment,
She
glistens and glimmers up there.
And
hark! As she combs out her tresses,
She's
singing a sweet faerie song;
Its
melody softly caresses
A
doomed man that it draws along.
Lo!
There in his ferry the boatman
Enthralled
can do nothing but sigh;
His
skill will not keep him afloat when
His
gaze is directed on high.
Oh
boatman, have care of the river
Lest
it swallow both you and your boat!
Ah
no! You are captured for ever
By
the whisp'ring rock's magical note.
The artist sadly pondered, as he sat out in the sun,
Nil Desperandum
2010
2010
The artist sadly pondered, as he sat out in the sun,
That the best of all
his paintings were the ones not yet begun,
For, although those
completed had each at least one flaw,
They’d all of them
been perfect, when he’d thought of them before.
So let’s take a
lesson from him, as we on life’s canvas scrawl,
Though our schemes may
not work out right, or may not work out at all,
For, if to err is
human, and to forgive divine,
We may yet be things of
beauty, when He comes to draw the line.
The Castle in the
Marches
2009
At the horizon, misty
purple haze
Hides trackless
borderland, a heather ridge
Whence lawless reivers
of long bygone days
Stormed from the hills
down to the castle bridge.
See, from this
crumbling remnant of a tower,
Where now the swallows
flit and soar,
A sentry would, for
many a wistful hour
Watch for the peril
coming from that moor.
Above these stones he
once his vigil kept,
In silent patience;
armoured, strong and proud.
Beneath these same
stones now, he lies unwept,
Deep graved in time; to
age’s siege he bowed.
Now the stout oaken
beams decay with rot,
And daylight glares
into the roofless hall.
Where battering ram and
catapult could not,
The slow assault of
time has breached the wall.
Unguarded now, the
marcher castle stands;
Gaunt bastion, fortress
of forgotten men,
And keeps its lookout
to the borderlands,
Waiting for ghostly
clans to come again.
