Now seems to be the perfect time
To take our Bill of Rights out for a constitutional.
Suggestions for additional rights are welcome
And here are some of mine:
There is an urgent need for the right to waste time –
When people are obliged to ascribe value and meaning to what they do
There’s a risk that they’ll become dangerous and agressive.
It’s better to accept time wasting ways
Than it is to demand that people justify themselves
Every blessed minute of the day.
When people do something without meaning or value to others
They are most likely to find meanings and values of their own
Which might end up having value and meaning for all.
Every human being on the planet should have the right
To declare themselves English;
If they want to be considered English, that’s a compliment
And if you impose conditions or tests of Englishness
You limit the nature of what being English is.
The English are a conglomerate nation
Combining the best we can take from every race and creed.
Being English is a state of mind
Witty, tolerant, gentle and kind,
It’s not an ethnic category, dubiously defined
Which, when you put it that way, seems kind of racist
As in “I’m English,” “I’m more English”,
“I’m the most English of all!”
That is not the way, friends.
England is a dear little country
Which we carry in our hearts
So wherever we are in the world
We may say, “I am English, I have the right
To expect, demand and, yes, demonstrate
The impeccable logic of what we call fair play,
To sarcastically mock and parody those with whom we disagree’
To complain about anything and everything we see,
To complain about the state and the quality of the tea,
To complain when others complain and moan
And at the end of the day, if we have one, to go home.”
[Please feel free and add your suggestions and amendments below. We’re told our government is thinking hard about this issue, so your ideas might end up being of real service to the nation!]
[Thanks to this Saturday’s Left Fest – myself and other Southampton poets have been offered “15 minutes to change the world”, or, at least, to show a bit of solidarity with and celebrate local activism. It’s an opportunity, but inspiration seems to’ve deserted me since this year’s upsetting General Election result.
Poems tend to come to me in fairly complete form but not this time. No solid idea has emerged as yet, just scraps that might coalesce into something suitable.]
They said it was a volcano
Because they didn’t know how to tell us
That the end of the world was on its way.
All planes were gounded and, apologising for disruption and delay
They said it was a volcano…
[It’s not hard to believe that our leaders think they have some secret knowledge of impending disaster, and that would make a change from the usual narrative – that prevailing econimic conditions make the bullying tactics of ‘austerity’ so necessary. However, that’s probably giving more credit than is due and will not help to overcome the despairing sense that, like the Labour Party, we must all accept the present ‘realities’.]
Nobody’s noticed anything yet,
I’m doing well!
Only the young and innocent can tell
But they’re too scared and cynical
Testing themselves by testing me
Rushing into futures to which I’m not invited
[It is a drag to see another generation suckered into performing as the foot soldiers of the box ticking, corporate culture, hoping to benefit from the next tidal wave of ‘prosperity’. However, the persona adopted here is perhaps too heavy handed and ego driven. So it’s back to the drawing board and random scribbles. Let’s hope something emerges by 3 o’clock Saturday!]
In a tree nearby two crows are making a terrible row
Screeching at each other like a squabbling couple.
Reflected in my shaving mirror
I see a large Winged insect flying past behind me
For a moment I think it’s a small bird.
Salieri’s Requiem is playing on the radio
It’s not so bad as the press he got
Not so bad.
Why I am so idle
I was very impressed by Henry Goodman’s interview on “Front Row” this week. He talks about his fond memories of the Swan Theatre in Stratford, and his preparations for his next performance there, as Johnson’s Volpone.:
Ben Johnson, a somewhat neglected (by me, at least) contmporary of Shakespeare’s, who was a little more ‘street’ and perhaps less inclined to toe the party line than the overshadowing bard, certainly deserves another look.
The production promises an interesting approach, with a setting that resonates with our times, making the pretend invalid some sort of ‘high flyer’ who delights in manipulating and traducing people. Goodman’s enthusiasm is infectious, and I would love to see him adding fresh details to his portrayal in a live performance.
I have neither time nor resources to do that, alas, and must stay home awaiting the next call from any of the various agencies that could offer me a day or more’s work at any time that suits them. Otherwise, this week has been filled with the usual variety of items that distract and absorb, intrigue, amuse or worry me profoundly!
(A comedy drama with the fine Zawe Ashton in the lead)
(Documentary set back in the days when social mobility seemed a possibility in this country, with revealing interviews with Edwina Currie, Neil Kinnock, Michael Wood and others whose lives have been affected by that ‘social experiment’, the 11 plus and the grammar school ethos. It resists the temptation to be too nostalgic for those ‘meritocratic’ days, just, but it finally becomes clear that the Comprehensive system is best, when it’s properly resourced.)
(Another complex legalistic tangle, which in this case contains an attempt to regard rioting and street fighting (by mostly white people, no less!) as a form of terrorism.)
The government’s latest budget update which, along with the predictable but no less welcome attacks on the young and vulnerable, incorporated or concealed plans to put public land on sale and unban fox hunting while directing any available benefit towards employers and landlords.
Various protests were held in response, including this one, right here in Southampton:
which I had to miss because, in microcosmic imitation of the state of the nation, I was busy losing my anal virginity, undergoing what was presented to me as a
Bowel Scope Screening – an enema (which, for understandable reasons, I declined to administer myself) followed by a probe. I saw a couple of polyps being sliced away from my lower intestine, live on camera!
Followers and readers of this blog will be glad to know that my gut seems pink and healthy, though on this occasion at least my blood pressure was ‘alarmingly low’.
And so the parade continues adding more food for thought, while one tries
to make sense of it all and get something done.
“The asteroid Vesta was once a planet — and was demoted with little fanfare. (NASA/JPL-Caltech/UCAL/MPS/DLR/IDA)”
On those increasingly rare occasions
When I feel that the person I love and want most is capable of loving me
Then I find that that hopeful thought leads me to a happy day
A day when I might meet people gladly
With a lively interest in what they may have to say
And they, sensing that love inside me, respond in a natural and comfortable way.
But if that day is not today,
If my poor little Vesta is not the planet I want her to be
Gleaming brightly with possibility,
Seems only to be another icy rock
That wants to fall away and be lost
Then my spirit is empty and my heart is locked.
I plod on along the grim and endless seeming path
That one has to follow, simply trying to survive,
Filling the void with consumer junk and light entertainments
Responding to every dubious offer or command from above
As though it were some abstract or obscurely proffered form of love,
Until I get bored and critical, waiting for my turn to disappear.
If, now that the guiding star of my universe has got herself lost,
I am to go about again with some semblance of pride
Not shrinking away from every other passer by, expecting rejection,
Or biting their heads off, so angry am I at their indifference,
Then I need to find some compromise
A change of heart and mind that I can steer by.
I shall tell myself this, though she cannot be
As close to me as I would want her to be,
We are still connected in some way;
The lines of love that we have shared
May disconnect, snap away in places, grow very thin
But they remain, bright as ever, for all to see
Reflecting a certain gleam, in her face as well as mine
And my poor lost Vesta will not be too cold, though so very far away,
This can’t be true but it might be
A woman doesn’t mind your loving her
She just doesn’t want to be bothered by it
Therefore, it’s a good thing if she ignores you
lt means you haven’t upset her poise
And her very poise is what you fell in love with, isn’t it,
Her poise and grace and loveliness in general?
Wanting to rattle that is understandable
But you can’t rattle at once and all the time
Like a baby demanding attention
Pulling on her clothes and getting on her nerves!
You’ll be rattling each other soon enough
So be a grownup, be patient, enjoy the show but remember
You may think she’s ignoring you
But she’ll be watching you like a hawk
A hawk with talons and wings
Ready to scratch your eyes out or fly away
The moment you displease her.
Still, don’t worry about that
This is supposed to be fun
So shut up thinking for a while
And enjoy her while you can.
I hate women, why are they so horrible to men?
It’s a game, that’s why, a game that a person gets in
A game which can be amusing and even beautiful
Until the spirit of competition sets in
And what was a simple love game becomes something grim
Because of a point hit home too hard
Or too bloody often for her or him.
I hate men, why are they so horrible to women?
Because excitement can be hard to handle
So we shield ourselves with a dull routine
Until we fly into some stupidly violent passion;
And passion almost always trumps compassion.
It’s a wonder any double act can stay together very long
But we like them, and should applaud them often, to keep them going strong.
Sucking my thumb was the second worst habit of my infancy,
The worst being scrupulously picking my nose but then eating the bogey
The texture of which I mulled on to the point of declaring that certain balls of snot
Tasted to me like strawberry.
I developed a strong stomach but damaged the vital filters of my nose.
Ask your doctor if you don’t know what makes a boy suck his thumb
A stubby pink cork to stopper his mouth, back and shoulders down,
Sticking that digit into his childish gob, completing an inwardly curled body shape,
His lips clinging on, his suction drawing him to the warmth of his own hand
A pathetic imitation of a comfortably unborn foetus.
I was very young, though to be truthful never really youthful,
Less than ten years old, or eleven at most
(Before more mature distractions such as Catwoman came along),
Not smiling for the school photo in case I would show buck teeth
The visible evidence of my hours on the thumb.
I knew that my bad habits could
Have a bad effect on the structure of my personal architecture
The verbal proof of my thumb sucking youth
Great difficulty pronouncing certain combinations of letters,
Important phrases such as “the form of the verb”
So smoking seemed a better comfort and a step up,
Stood up straight, elegantly posing with my phallic fag
Facing this noir world through artful clouds of smoke
Just like in the movies, a real man like Clint or Bogey
Fit to face the Dietrichs and tough guys, the late trains and missed planes
Refusing a blindfold but taking a drag on yet another ciggie
Marking the time and each missed chance butt by dirty butt
Knowing the bad effects, but seeing poisoning myself as an act of defiance.
And so I remain aware of both my silhouette and of the scraps of or from myself
That I deposit, drop, flick at the world to hide or establish a trace of my presence
Trying to create a certain effect, but all too aware of the effect I am in fact creating,
Too much time spent under low ceilings, consuming my own shoddy substance
Not enough understanding the difference that good architecture can make,
To structure the material we’ve been given,
Incorparate it into a greater design
Allow the air to move freely, create a door we can open easily.
[Written in response to this:
My idea being to show how the way one interacts with materials from one’s own body may effect its ‘architecture’.]
Comets or meteors?
Perhaps they’re like rooks and crows
“Where there’s a rook there’s a crow
“Where there’s crows there’s rooks”
To be one amongst a shower, a storm of meteors
Hurtling through the emptiness of infinity
Protected by the confidence of knowing
That we and our equally frenzied fellow travellers
However far we hurl ourselves
Flashing by through all the vastness
Looking tiny and bright like a fireside’s sparks
Consumed in a stampede, burning up and soon to be lost
Are in fact racing along a familiar orbit
That could last as long as a million years
Which all too soon will pull us back to where we’ve been
A familiar sight, overlooking what we’ve already seen
Or to be a lonely comet
Deserting the pack, distracted by some new attraction
Sampling a novel atmosphere, hardly aware
Of the flames gathering round
Till the grip that was a comfort
That was such a pleasure to be caught by
Loses its interest or changes its intent
Returning the wanderer to the emptiness
Or turning a journey of exploration
Into a pitiful conflagration
With a final pathetic fall
Messy and destructive to all
That witness the meaningless call
Of that misguided journey’s concluding bump.
Well, I don’t know if this is good science
And hope not to be subject to such violence
Shooting stars may enjoy applause from those below
But I’ll see it all from here, and adore the moon’s glow.