tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-80103097613787716522023-11-15T09:14:14.302-08:00Think of England poetryBrithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00390560583798960760noreply@blogger.comBlogger30125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8010309761378771652.post-30549014910591819912010-07-09T09:11:00.000-07:002010-07-12T07:42:49.538-07:00Think of England poetryThis website collects some of the poems and doggerel accumulated over five years or so of blogging at <a href="http://thinkofengland.blogspot.com/">Think of England</a>.<br /><br />It supports <a href="http://www.rnli.org.uk/">the RNLI</a>, an organisation whose selfless volunteers save hundreds of lives every year, risking their own in the process.<br /><br /><br />If you have enjoyed any of these poems or the Think of England blog, you can demonstrate your appreciation and innate goodness by donating via the button on the right, but you don't have to.<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_9hlxivhcZYs/TDdQCxcGrRI/AAAAAAAAApM/jQ97aYCKNvA/s1600/rnli_logo.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 120px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5491946279162785042" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_9hlxivhcZYs/TDdQCxcGrRI/AAAAAAAAApM/jQ97aYCKNvA/s200/rnli_logo.jpg" /></a>Brithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00390560583798960760noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8010309761378771652.post-29674965866153523502010-07-09T08:20:00.000-07:002010-07-09T08:21:00.905-07:00Mr Noseybonk<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_9hlxivhcZYs/SmB7PivMqSI/AAAAAAAAAKg/TtCaMwMt6aU/s1600-h/noseybonk.bmp"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359419063523911970" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_9hlxivhcZYs/SmB7PivMqSI/AAAAAAAAAKg/TtCaMwMt6aU/s320/noseybonk.bmp" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><strong><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jigsaw_(UK_TV_series)">Mr</a> <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c_1QyOQDx6w">Noseybonk</a> <em>- a poem for children</em></strong><em><br /></em><br />Mr Noseybonk lives 'neath the stairs,<br />Mr Noseybonk never says his prayers,<br />Naughty Mr Noseybonk,<br />Noseybonk Man.<br /><br />Mr Noseybonk knows where to find you,<br />Mr Noseybonk, is he behind you?<br />Wicked Mr Noseybonk,<br />Noseybonk Man.<br /><br />Mr Noseybonk never goes to sleep,<br />Mr Noseybonk, upstairs he creeps,<br />Can he see you, Noseybonk?<br />Noseybonk can.Brithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00390560583798960760noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8010309761378771652.post-41777125550257502632010-07-09T08:08:00.001-07:002010-07-09T08:08:27.660-07:00Mr Noseybonk Returns<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_9hlxivhcZYs/Sng7H5kKiVI/AAAAAAAAAKw/-56fEjY3xSI/s1600-h/noseybonk2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366103962909575506" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 224px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_9hlxivhcZYs/Sng7H5kKiVI/AAAAAAAAAKw/-56fEjY3xSI/s320/noseybonk2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><strong><a href="http://thinkofengland.blogspot.com/2009/07/mr-noseybonk.html">Mr Noseybonk</a> Returns</strong><br />(A duet)<br /><br />Creeping under bridges, peeping through the drains,<br /><em>Noseybonk goes where no-one else can!<br /></em>So always mind the gap when you’re stepping off the train.<br /><em>Noseybonk! Noseybonk! Noseybonk Man!</em><br /><br />He can curl up very small, all twisty and bended,<br /><em>Noseybonk can squeeze into such wee spaces!<br /></em>So never leave suitcases or bags unattended.<br /><em>Noseybonk appears in the least expected places!<br /></em><br />Who is that moving in the Deep End of the pool?<br /><em>Noseybonk sees in the gloomiest dark!<br /></em>So don’t run by the side, and follow all the rules.<br /><em>Noseybonk can swim like a Great White Shark!<br /></em><br />Underneath the pavement, grabbing at your feet,<br /><em>Noseybonk! Noseybonk! No-one knows how!</em><br />So always take care when you’re crossing the street.<br /><em>Noseybonk! Noseybonk! Where is he now?<br /></em>Brithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00390560583798960760noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8010309761378771652.post-32766384984725533372010-07-09T08:06:00.000-07:002010-07-09T08:07:32.432-07:00Mr Noseybonk<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_9hlxivhcZYs/SmB7PivMqSI/AAAAAAAAAKg/TtCaMwMt6aU/s1600-h/noseybonk.bmp"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359419063523911970" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_9hlxivhcZYs/SmB7PivMqSI/AAAAAAAAAKg/TtCaMwMt6aU/s320/noseybonk.bmp" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><strong><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jigsaw_(UK_TV_series)">Mr</a> <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c_1QyOQDx6w">Noseybonk</a> <em>- a poem for children</em></strong><em><br /></em><br />Mr Noseybonk lives 'neath the stairs,<br />Mr Noseybonk never says his prayers,<br />Naughty Mr Noseybonk,<br />Noseybonk Man.<br /><br />Mr Noseybonk knows where to find you,<br />Mr Noseybonk, is he behind you?<br />Wicked Mr Noseybonk,<br />Noseybonk Man.<br /><br />Mr Noseybonk never goes to sleep,<br />Mr Noseybonk, upstairs he creeps,<br />Can he see you, Noseybonk?<br />Noseybonk can.Brithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00390560583798960760noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8010309761378771652.post-83303970039724894052010-07-09T08:03:00.000-07:002010-07-09T08:05:37.397-07:00In the jacuzzi with Sussex and England cricketer Luke WrightDiscussing matters cricket<br />(Of balls red and trousers white,<br />Or of whether the Oval wicket<br />will offer bounce and bite,<br /><br />Or if Panesar’s the ticket,<br />Once he gets his action right,<br />To induce Ponting to nick it,<br />By deceiving in the flight,<br /><br />Or if Harmison’s chin stubble<br />is a substitute for fight)<br />Can cast away all troubles,<br />and make your cares seem slight.<br /><br />And to be sure, the pleasure doubles –<br />As well you’d think it might –<br />When reclining in the bubbles<br />with the delightful<br />Mr Wright.<br /><br />A da-dee-da, thank-you-ever-so-much.<br /><br /><br /><em><a href="http://thinkofengland.blogspot.com/2009/06/in-which-i-meet-my-mr-wright.html">Explanation here.</a></em>Brithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00390560583798960760noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8010309761378771652.post-26627019605075177092010-07-09T08:00:00.001-07:002010-07-09T08:02:08.553-07:00Dr Seuss and Roald Dahl never did me any harmWell <a href="http://thinkofengland.blogspot.com/2009/10/dr-seuss-and-roald-dahl-never-did-me.html">I loved</a> both Roald Dahl and Dr Seuss, and that never did me any harm. Certainly I didn’t seem to turn into a psychotic spouter of nonsense, but grew into a perfectly rounded and responsible member of society. And if you don’t believe that’s true,<br />I’ll fill your nostrils up with glue,<br />I’ll stuff your pants with itchy ants,<br />And give you weird breast-implants.<br />I’ll run you over with a tractor,<br />Then make you sit through The X Factor<br />(Including the bits with the Irish twins),<br />And then I’ll put you in three bins.<br /><br /><em>In three bins, you say,<br />But how?<br />I do not understand you now.<br />You could put me in a box.<br />You could put me with a fox.<br />You could put me in a house.<br />You could put me with a mouse.<br />In a tree<br />Or on a flea<br />Or with a Zizzle-Zozzle-Zee.<br />But still I fear I cannot see<br />How in three bins you could put me!</em><br /><br />Before your puzzlement increases:<br />I’ll chop you into little pieces,<br />Your guts will burst like pus-filled pimples,<br />And in three bins I’ll put you.<br /><p></p><p><a href="http://thinkofengland.blogspot.com/2009/10/bloody-meerkats.html">Simples</a>!</p>Brithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00390560583798960760noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8010309761378771652.post-72886578211488890082010-07-09T07:57:00.000-07:002010-07-09T07:58:22.506-07:00Telescope poemPoint the telescope & insert coin,<br />Turn and fully return knob.<br />Observe the View and at night the Moon.<br />Don’t look at the Sun. Hold child on stand.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><em>This heartbreaker is a found poem. The explanation for it is </em><a href="http://thinkofengland.blogspot.com/2010/03/telescope-poem.html"><em>here</em></a><em>.</em>Brithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00390560583798960760noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8010309761378771652.post-67564787591109424222010-07-09T07:52:00.001-07:002010-07-13T01:30:47.219-07:00Croyde BayI carried my daughter down to the sea.<br />The sea was cold<br />and great<br />and old.Brithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00390560583798960760noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8010309761378771652.post-23439948606880343982010-07-09T07:52:00.000-07:002010-07-09T07:53:27.158-07:00Vuvuzela JohnsonA pot megaphone,<br />A line of coke on a c harp,<br />A vodka kazoo -<br />These are but a few<br />intoxicating things<br /><a href="http://thinkofengland.blogspot.com/2010/06/vuvuzela-johnson.html">to parp</a>. <p></p><br /><br /><br /><em>You can read an analysis of this poem </em><a href="http://thinkofengland.blogspot.com/2010/06/poetry-analysis-vuvuzela-johnson.html"><em>here</em></a><em>.</em>Brithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00390560583798960760noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8010309761378771652.post-21851830623838866262010-07-09T07:43:00.001-07:002010-07-09T07:50:21.360-07:00PZ Myers<strong>Right in the Pharyngoolies</strong><br />(a short poem inspired by <a href="http://thinkofengland.blogspot.com/2010/04/hitchens-versus-god.html?showComment=1271760283902#c5018467729894625163">this comment</a>)<br /><br /><br />Theology, when it<br />is Dawkins and Dennett,<br />Can drive a chap to despair.<br /><br />And one easily tires<br />of Pee Zee Myers.<br />The beard. The glasses. The hair.Brithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00390560583798960760noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8010309761378771652.post-14621323924389318452010-07-09T07:43:00.000-07:002010-07-09T07:46:22.057-07:00In Ilfracombe, hungover.<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_9hlxivhcZYs/S-GNaPLyYRI/AAAAAAAAAhE/t_Fpt6gAkqI/s1600/ilfracombe.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5467806904496578834" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 229px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_9hlxivhcZYs/S-GNaPLyYRI/AAAAAAAAAhE/t_Fpt6gAkqI/s320/ilfracombe.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />There’s a nice little new aquarium in the Devon seaside town of Ilfracombe which takes you down, tank by tank, from the source of the Taw to the sea and to Lundy. I’ve always liked aquaria, there’s a deep peace in those tanks. However, I can’t say I recommend a trip to Ilfracombe when you’re battling a hangover and a howling gale is blowing. If your head is fugged and pounding there are probably better trips. And there’s a decent possibility that a gull will steal your chips.<br /><br />In Ilfracombe the shop shelves are spattered all with tat. The drizzle-sodden westerly will whip away your hat. The sea’s a touch too churning when you’re feeling out of sorts. The bolder of the tourists sport anorak and shorts. In Ilfracombe the cliffs are grey, the sea around them slops. Damien Hirst’s café/restaurant is a slap across the chops. In Ilfracombe the cliffs are grey, not white like those of Dover. In Ilfracombe, in Ilfracombe. In Ilfracombe, hungover.Brithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00390560583798960760noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8010309761378771652.post-26699464761916703842010-07-09T07:38:00.000-07:002010-07-15T06:18:45.411-07:00The Blogger's LamentUpstairs in the unforgiving<br />World, the World must earn a living,<br />Stuggling 'gainst the time and tide,<br />'Til sun sets on that World Outside<br />And softly sweet the night is falling,<br />But the blogger’s lonely calling,<br />Keeps him to his basement tied.<br /><br />For the blogger’s work is ne’er abated,<br />The newsfeed’s greed is never sated,<br />The blogosphere keeps getting bigger,<br />And RSI it cramps his trigger-<br />happy finger, ever-clicking,<br />Ever cutting, pasting, sticking,<br />And in the end for what? Go figure!<br /><br />Is it of his own volition<br />He endures this strange war of attrition?<br />Perhaps for his own education?<br />Perhaps for folks in other nations?<br />For those whom ignorance has blinded,<br />Or for the like and unlike-minded?<br />Perhaps for future generations?<br /><br />For who can doubt it’s his vocation<br />To surf this sea of information?<br />His skill: to find the perfect snippet,<br />To metaphorically paperclip it<br />To another view or bent,<br />Find the balance of the argument,<br />Then, with his pithy comment, tip it.<br /><br />But beside his true goal this goal pales:<br />He hopes to tip the whole World’s scales!<br />For those who know the blogworld know<br />A snowball idea can grow and grow!<br />And in other basements, down below,<br />By the monitor light’s ghostly glow,<br />Other bloggers add their snow.<br />For the blogworld’s ever on the go,<br />A constant state of change and flow...<br /><br />...But from himself he’ll try and mask<br />How great his Sisyphean task.<br />For the Outside World’s so big, so slow,<br />And jealously guards the status quo.<br /><br /><br /><em>Originally published August 2006 </em><a href="http://dailyduck.blogspot.com/2006/08/roll-over-betjeman-and-tell-walt.html"><em>on The Daily Duck</em></a>.<br /><br />If you have enjoyed this poem, why not make a small donation to the RNLI, a life-saving charity,<a href="http://www.justgiving.com/thinkofengland"> here</a>?Brithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00390560583798960760noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8010309761378771652.post-2582836375035358172010-07-09T07:08:00.000-07:002010-07-09T07:30:42.307-07:00The Cobb at Lyme – Remembrance SundayA popgun<br />Halts the strollers on the Cobb,<br />Stays the fossil-hunter’s hammer mid-chop.<br />On the Prom, a mother gathers up<br />Her wriggling pack of dogs and tykes,<br />By force of will forces them<br />to measure out the distance of a minute.<br /><br />All the Ones.<br />Only the rollers and the wicked gulls –<br />specked over the impertinent ancient arm<br />that pokes into a vastly more ancient sea –<br />tear rudely at the moment. Still, who cares?<br />This is our affair, not theirs.<br /><br /><br /><em>November 07</em>Brithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00390560583798960760noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8010309761378771652.post-83908449675731570202010-07-09T07:07:00.000-07:002010-07-09T07:30:42.308-07:00Up Lansdowne LaneA shock of green. Not quite a rhapsody<br />perhaps – the pain of strolling up the lane<br />on unfamiliar muscles does for that –<br />But a pastoral nonetheless, picture perfect<br />almost to the point of parody.<br />The scene across the fields gallery-still<br />and, in close-up, swaying leaves nearly as real<br />as on a high definition screen.<br /><br />The shock is obscene. Here, just beyond<br />the reach of belief, and out of range,<br />People act out a way of life on a stage<br />of spattered soil and heather, and tilling toil,<br />and weather-forecasts that matter.Breathe it all in.<br />Your aching office chair-shaped back<br />and sandwich pack insist that weekend time<br />is time you mustn’t lose.<br />Deeper than fun, here’s the real deal:<br />cost-free, guilt-free and, most unlikely, sans booze.<br /><br />But at the top of the hill,<br />Even in the moderate modulations<br />of England’s lukewarm wilderness<br />under a rare sun, a cold can grip and protest:<br />The spineshiver of the human ant<br />all alone inside a distance; and the inescapable need<br />to run back to the nest.<br /><br /><em>August 07</em>Brithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00390560583798960760noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8010309761378771652.post-6326408320925464182010-07-09T07:05:00.000-07:002010-07-09T07:07:02.008-07:00Outside Wells CathedralIs it a coward’s comfort in the deep<br />boredom of the bells, summoning the sleep-<br />walkers of Wells to steep themselves<br />in England’s other lasting dream?<br />See them gather on the green,<br />Dressed up, oak-aged, and carefully staged<br />in what they imagine to be<br />a lost Edwardian scene.<br /><br />Or does it signal a more militant intent?<br />To toll defiance against the well-meant,<br />Hell-bent dream of science: the concrete,<br />white heat, dayglo, and a misplaced faith<br />in lesser gods to cheat the true God<br />of the debt we owe by right.<br />(No shyness of that debt in here: the stones all shout it.<br />The church is built on bones: make none about it.)<br />And yet that dream of eternal light<br />creeps even here, in slow official lines,<br />in tombs lit by No Smoking signs,<br />In TV screens, and aisles as clean<br />as those in Marks and Sparks,<br />and carpeting in beige. So they ring in rage,<br />And rage against the dying of the dark.<br /><br />The dwindling army, uniform in Sunday best,<br />Forms ranks for reveille on the day of rest –<br />One lesson the deserters took to heart<br />at least: Sunday’s a lie in (every day’s a feast).<br />The Sabbath is a fry-up hangover cure,<br />Football, shopping mall, hardware store –<br />Now in the collection box the loyal count the cost<br />of a loss of conviction, of going soft,<br />and conceding half is fiction.<br />In the numbers game, this God’s just lost.<br /><br />So Edwardian actors toll out for His wake,<br />Then man the shop and dole out tea and cake<br />and key fobs to the tourists who still keep<br />the corpus raised and the substance buried deep.<br />And the lesser gods, of lunacy and leisure,<br />Pile on clods and sods, and slag the lot<br />in a heap of dross and treasure.<br /><br /><br /><em>September 07</em>Brithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00390560583798960760noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8010309761378771652.post-43567111400265730912010-07-02T07:36:00.000-07:002010-07-09T07:30:42.308-07:00I Am Born AgainThe English are twice-born,<br />Thrice-born, timeworn.<br /><br />Rhodesia, East India, Hudson Bay,<br />All of them flushed down Victoria Falls,<br />And the japes and the scrapes<br />and the scraps with the Gauls,<br />C'est payé, balayé, oublié.<br /><br />The sun at last sets,<br />And the fingers that stretched<br />So thin across unthinkable spaces,<br />Now retract with the riches and races<br />They've fetched, and smaller but stronger<br />For the crises and twists,<br />The gold-ringed hand will bunch in a fist,<br />A punch in the face for the traitors we've kissed,<br />For the chances we took and the chances we missed,<br />And spare one for poor William Bligh,<br />Sunk in Dover Beach sand, as once more old England<br />Is born again, and so am I.<br /><br />And no, I regret nothing.<br />And yes, I regret every thing.<br /><br /><br /><br /><em>July 07</em>Brithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00390560583798960760noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8010309761378771652.post-45025282223293914632010-07-02T07:35:00.000-07:002010-07-02T07:36:03.600-07:00Ghosts of ChristmasChristmas, like revenge or copulation,<br />Is mostly fun in the anticipation.<br />It’s weeks, it’s days, and now it’s here, it’s here!<br />And now it’s gone, in a haze of port and beer,<br />And leaves you wondering where the hell it went.<br />Children learn this lesson in Advent,<br />Or should do, or else what is Advent for?<br />To prise open each tiny cardboard door<br />And find this surprise: the trick is not to cheat,<br />But to let tomorrow’s star or chocolate treat<br />Come in its time, and surely Time will claw<br />Its agonising way to Twenty Four.<br />Or Mum will say “You really are the worst,<br />You’ve only scoffed the whole lot on the First!”<br />And Dad will say “Son, to delay such feasts<br />Is what separates us humans from the beasts.”<br /><br />But come Christmas Day, Dad’s bestial enough,<br />Postprandial and, just like his turkey, stuffed.<br />Immobile as a slumbering manger ox<br />and mumbling that there’s nothing on the box,<br />(Except repeats of good old Tommy Cooper,<br />Just peeping through the brandy butter stupor,<br />And Morecambe and Wise – that one with André Previn)<br />Until half-awake at twenty-five to seven,<br />His head humming with Jingle Bells and Slade,<br />He’ll dimly total up the price he’s paid<br />In cash and flab and stress and indigestion,<br />Then dimmer still, the philosophic question:<br />How come every year it seems to me<br />That Christmas isn’t what it used to be?<br />And if it’s every year, should I infer<br />That Christmases were never what they were?<br /><br />And then he’ll root around the plastic tree,<br />Scavenging for scraps of childish glee,<br />And finding none, he’ll conjure up at last,<br />That great parade of Ghosts of Christmas Past,<br />The Great-Grandmas and Grandmas and Grandads,<br />Their grins and gins, and ‘when-I-were-a-lad’s,<br />And carol-singing schoolmates in their dozens,<br />And lonely aunts, and plain annoying cousins,<br />Who, all on separate currents, drift apart,<br />With all that love and loss, to break your heart.<br />It all came in its time, and Time claws past<br />Each long-awaited Christmas 'til your last.<br />But did those ghosts believe it, every one,<br />That this is really it now, this is fun?<br />Or were they all just waiting, and then it went.<br />We should have learnt that lesson in Advent.<br /><br />So we’ll shovel snow from the graves of our relations,<br />But there are no graves – these days it’s all cremations,<br />And there is no snow – English Christmases aren’t white.<br />So instead let’s drink, and bid a Silent Night<br />To the days when only laughs and presents mattered,<br />And to family and friends and ashes: scattered.<br /><br /><br />December 2006Brithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00390560583798960760noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8010309761378771652.post-68652906260117388952010-07-02T07:33:00.001-07:002010-07-02T07:33:49.563-07:00Song of the Hedge Fund ManagerI reject the imputation<br />That we built a babeltower of credit<br />on no foundation<br />of reality. Well, I mean,<br />How green. What is real anyway? Time isn't.<br />Nor is information, nor photographs.<br />Money never has been.<br /><br />Every clock and wristwatch hazards at<br />its own approximation of the time:<br />None are right, none can be. There's only the gaps<br />And the hedging, inbetween.<br /><br />Some disapprobation for over-selling<br />I accept. But get real:<br />This was coming since the first Lydian<br />Stamped his face on foil.<br />Even Croesus was crunched in the end. Money wasn't.<br />Those towers built of glass and steel,<br />Herons and Gherkins, those are real,<br />And will remain so, and will fill again,<br />While between them the clocktowers, obsolete in brown,<br />Dwarfish, and embarrassing as old uncles,<br />Count themselves down.<br /><br /><br /><em>November 08</em>Brithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00390560583798960760noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8010309761378771652.post-88431535155602288312010-07-02T07:30:00.000-07:002010-07-02T07:31:15.597-07:00RubberneckPeople cannot help themselves.<br />Half-awake, hurtling in convoy<br />through Exmoor’s Christmas frosted fields,<br />A tin toy snuggled against a tree ahead<br /><br />is a sports car screwed into the base of a tree<br />in frost-stiffened grass, scrunched Christmas paper,<br />three constables shuffling against the cold<br />and a helpless ambulance loading her corpse.<br /><br />It slows our convoy faster than any appeal to reason<br />or snooping eye. It cuts to the point.<br />We rubberneckers drive on just below the limit<br />and curse oncoming cars for reckless fools.<br /><br />Too late. A lifetime’s trove of small crimes,<br />Sins tossed lightly aside, creeps into the car<br />and up the spine; we are witless skeletons<br />wrapped in thin weak skin and rags, callous<br /><br />and riding an outlandish streak of luck<br />that could at any instant come to a stop.<br />The ambulance bears a precision bomb,<br />About to be dropped on one suburban home,<br /><br />Where the blast will wreck three lives, perhaps four,<br />Some more will feel the shock waves<br />with diminishing violence, then it fades<br />and is forgotten with the rest<br /><br />in fifteen minutes, back now on the M5<br />planning New Year. At the junction for Wells<br />we ease onto the accelerator to overtake.<br />People cannot help themselves.<br /><br /><br /><em>January 09</em>Brithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00390560583798960760noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8010309761378771652.post-92150011154267615282010-07-02T07:28:00.001-07:002010-07-09T07:30:42.309-07:00England Have My BonesBagpuss was buried, in a deluge, at dawn,<br />Postman Pat cried at the grave.<br />At the back, Alex deLarge just yawned,<br />Henry’s Cat tried to look brave.<br /><br />England is a tangled, mongrel ball<br />Of wool, and you choose your own strand.<br />Be Nogbad the Bad, or Flashman, the cad,<br />Or join Robyn Hode’s Merrie Band.<br /><br />We each have a line, and at the end of mine<br />Waits a crapulent Enderby,<br />With a verse-filled tub, and a half-filled cup<br />Of glue-warm stepmother tea.<br />Bagpuss was buried, in a deluge, and<br />The cemetery wept under the strain<br />Of a million Bank Holidays of rain.<br /><br /><br /><br />July 2007Brithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00390560583798960760noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8010309761378771652.post-64855614345345093162010-07-02T07:25:00.001-07:002010-07-09T07:30:42.309-07:00Pier Head, LiverpoolRun down any road –<br />run down or rising –<br />All lead to the dockside's<br />shocking wealth of beauty.<br />Citadel of a landed island,<br />Evolved in isolation,<br />The capital of herself.<br /><br />She shows her best face to the sea:<br />Defying both sides. The marine air,<br />in which her Graces sing,<br />Like all things Scouse or scouser:<br />The homesweet warmth of a shorebound sailor,<br />The cold cut of a Celtic edge.<br /><br /> November 2007Brithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00390560583798960760noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8010309761378771652.post-55439676002206337472010-07-02T07:20:00.000-07:002010-07-09T07:30:42.309-07:00The Bonfire MenIn autumn when the bonfire men<br />send their smoky whispers<br />across to Seven Sisters,<br />Highbury and Islington,<br />The old air holds a pigeon’s song,<br />A song of chestnut fires and charcoal-tired<br />eyes and the long, cold-nip night to come.<br /><br />At dusk their signal is answered by<br />brazier-gazing football men,<br />Black-hatted, donkey jacketed,<br />But by the song connected with the<br />rugby gents, the brown ale men<br />who man the pubs of Borehamwood<br />and stand their round, and understand<br />how much of life is made of moods.<br /><br /><br /> October 2007Brithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00390560583798960760noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8010309761378771652.post-86502840105889805232010-07-02T07:18:00.000-07:002010-07-15T05:59:19.894-07:00Heir Apparent<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_9hlxivhcZYs/TD8GHB1778I/AAAAAAAAAq0/JG99-csgkFk/s1600/prince-charles-at-60-1a.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5494116788238806978" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 254px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_9hlxivhcZYs/TD8GHB1778I/AAAAAAAAAq0/JG99-csgkFk/s320/prince-charles-at-60-1a.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>An old hand – the oldest – at waiting,<br />But still never learned to sit still.<br />An old master’s thwarted apprentice,<br />A grand young duke, over the hill.<br /><br />Neither up nor down, but always marching,<br />But on every newsreel falls the cursed<br />shade of the shy exhibitionist<br />blonde mistake that you fell into first.<br /><br />Now her branches beneath you are spreading,<br />Their flowers bloom bright while yours dim,<br />And it’s hard not to fall when a life is<br />spent so publicly out on a limb.<br /><br />So on with the ceaseless crusading,<br />Set forth once more unto the breach,<br />For country! For farming! But purpose<br />is forever just out of reach.<br /><br />But perhaps one day yet you’ll find meaning<br />in those rustic pub, foxhunting scenes,<br />Or maybe you’ve found it in love <a href="http://www.cnn.com/interactive/world/0504/gallery.royal.wedding/01.01.charles.camilla.ap.jpg"></a>now<br />(or in whatever ‘in love’ means).<br /><br /><br />March 07</div>Brithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00390560583798960760noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8010309761378771652.post-11808248327074717962010-07-02T07:17:00.001-07:002010-07-09T07:30:42.310-07:00Beer GardenThe Rodney’s scratchy backyard<br />(‘Beer Garden’ is a joke).<br />Thirty square foot of rubbled slabs<br />on which to stand and smoke<br />at a panoramic view of the car park,<br />And after dark, a cold string of bulbs<br />left unreplaced from some distant lark<br />on the grounds of If it ain’t broke.<br /><br />Reclining at the table, drink at hand,<br />A grizzled pink bear of a man<br />and his son, fizzy on Coke,<br />Clambering all over him,<br />As children sometimes do<br />(Girlfriends sometimes too, a test<br />of parental patience perhaps,<br />before you make your own pests).<br /><br />I knew him. At the garage once,<br />He resolved some mystery in my car.<br />Wielded a spanner with the slow care<br />that hints at the sleeping bear beneath.<br />Even his knuckles had muscles –<br />I remember thinking – his wrench-grip,<br />which now grips the leg of his wriggling sprog,<br />to lift and, in an agony of giggling, land.<br />And think what unspeakable damage<br />those knuckles could do<br />in the wrong hands.<br /><br /><br /><br />July 07Brithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00390560583798960760noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8010309761378771652.post-14433603425674760352010-07-02T07:16:00.001-07:002010-07-02T07:16:24.529-07:00Do It YourselfIs it just nesting,<br />or besting the neighbours<br />that commands these labours?<br />Lilliputian in scale,<br />In travail Herculean,<br />and lasting an eon.<br /><br />The Stygian depths we have to plumb<br />behind the sink. The hammered thumb<br />turns salmon pink, and then goes numb.<br />And I’ve given my all<br />to that damn drywall.<br />So I’m off for a drink.<br />“Well that’s what you think,”<br />replies the Trouble-<br />and-Strife, “With the dust and the rubble<br />you’ve left in the hall! And trust me, the pub’ll<br />still be right there - no please don’t swear –<br />when you’ve swept up it all.”<br /><br />So I must perform a painful manoeuvre<br />with a dampened cloth and a stain remover,<br />And have to assume that, as seems plain,<br />Mother Nature abhors a flattened plane<br />as she does a vacuum.<br />And as I hate a Hoover.<br /><br /><br />March 07 (for Robert Duquette)Brithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00390560583798960760noreply@blogger.com0