Bloody poets
(after Wendy Cope, at some distance)
Bloody poets are like bloody tractors.
You open the gate for them and they
come in and plough up your mind
leaving long straight furrows you follow
to their end, only to find a turn and
another set of lines to be honoured
until you return to familiar surroundings,
leaving clods that fall from your shoes
onto once-clean carpets. The Dyson
will remove most of it but your visitor
silently remarks on the residue
and, as you cannot blame the poets,
you blame the kids. They do like
their football, don't they? you lie.
The Empson factor
with a nod to Dylan
Whatever else, I must make one thing clear
Because you may detect the signs as well.
I do not know why Empson must appear
Like some poetic ghost, raised by the mere
Suggestion of this verse—like Pavlov's bell.
Whatever else, I must make one thing clear:
It happens every time I get my brain in gear
And set my mind to write a villanelle.
I do not know why Empson must appear
As if his waste remained, instilling fear.
His Missing Dates, of course, had cast its spell
Whatever else. But let's get one thing clear:
He doesn't chide or question me or sneer,
Just lurks—a challenge to create as well.
I do not know why Empson must appear
To have control in my poetic sphere.
The trouble is, I don't want to rebel.
Whatever else, I must make one thing clear:
I'm glad that Empson does not disappear.
Envoi
OK, it's not just Empson prods my plight.
That bloody Welshman makes his presence felt.
He rages on about the failing of the light—
Verbose and orotund, that drunken Celt.
They're changing guard at the Polignac's palace;
Gertrude Stein went down with Alice.
They saw William James in a sentry box,
A pigeon strolled by—'but that's orthodox,'
Says Alice.
They're in the yard at the Polignac's palace;
Gertrude Stein went down with Alice.
The guards polish their buttons until they all shine,
'But buttons are tender if you're Gertrude Stein,'
Says Alice.
They're talking hard at the Polignac's palace;
Gertrude Stein went down with Alice.
'I have an idea but it may sound lame:
Write an autobiography using my name,'
Says Alice.
They're avant garde at the Polignac's palace;
Gertrude Stein stayed away with Alice.
Alice is trying so hard to compose;
'A rose is a rose is a rose is a rose,'
Says Gertrude.
Was Kirkegaard at the Polignac's palace?
Gertrude Stein went down with Alice.
They looked for Picasso but he never came.
'Well, Goya take care of him all the same,'
Says Alice.
I have seen the best generations of my mind,
incisive fragments of a greater whole,
left incomplete for want of effort
to maintain creative impetus.
The works of such surpassing genius
suspended in mid
No, Dorothy, No
A rebuttal of Dorothy Parker
Men dream of sex
With girls who wear specs.
[They seek their ambitions
Outside the opticians.]
But if a girl is short-sighted
And leaves off her glasses,
Her life may be blighted
When men do make passes.
I was taught by a man called Shaw
but his first names weren't George Bernard.
I was taught by a man called Hughes
but his first name wasn't Ted.
I was taught by a man called Harrison
but his first name wasn't Tony.
I was taught by a man called Mitchell
but his first name wasn't Adrian.
I was taught by a man called Stevens
but his first name wasn't Wallace.
I was taught by a man called Kirk
but his first name wasn't James T.
Now wouldn't they all like to know
which ones I actually learned from?
Do trains draw up at Adlestrop
in June, where Gloucester's fields
abut the line and haycocks dry?
If trains do stop at Adelstrop
no passenger would know, no name
proclaims the place, no platform,
milk churns, station cat or waiting room.
For drivers on still quiet A436
from Stow to Chipping Norton,
a sign to Adelstrop and Evenlode
will have to do for pilgrims now.
The station's fame came by pure chance
Express trains did not stop then
at Adelstrop, no more than now.
I ate the plums
you had left in the fridge.
They were well past
their 'best before' date
and you were probably
keeping them
to rot nobly
but they were still OK.
On first looking into Chapman's Homer
In memory of John Keats
In the back room of the bookshop
I picked up a copy of Chapman's Homer.
I had never seen a copy before.
I looked into it.
Eight hundred and sixty-four pages
of small print?
You must be joking.
'Alf a brick, 'alf a brick,
'Alf a brick, heave it,
Smash in the windows of shops
Along the town's high street.
We are the hoody boys
Out for a good night's fun
Smashing the windows of shops
Along the town's high street.
Come on the hoody boys,
Let's fill the streets with noise:
Set off some car alarms
Tyres should burn a treat.
Poke that kid in the eyes,
Stamp on his bag of fries.
Our job's to terrorise,
Staying ahead of the cops
Along the town's high street.
Here's where we like to cruise.
We've nothing left to lose
When we're tanked up with booze
We'll throw up in the road.
Chavs like to run amuck.
Chavs should have all the luck.
Chavs just don't give a damn.
Let's all get ASBOed.
Rozzers to right of us,
Rozzers to left of us,
Rozzers in front of us
Want to haul us away.
Come on now, shout it loud:
Everyone form a crowd.
Our strength can make us proud.
We'll have our say.
Give us priority.
We're the majority.
We have authority.
We are the chavs brigade.
Ancestors daubed in woad
through hostile woods they strode.
We'll do it in the road.
We'll make the grade.
At the tomb of the unknown poet
we stand in silent remembrance,
offering two minutes' silent reading
of verses we know but not by whom.
At the tomb of the unknown poet
we lay a wreath, a ring of rhyme,
a message in metres, a tribute
of sorrow in unknowingness.
At the tomb of the unknown poet
we respond to an echo that resounds
in no cathedral corner but chains us
all in a collective memory.
'You don't seem to have a poetry section,'
I told the enquiries man in Borders.
'Yes, there is,' he said.
'But it's tucked away.
The demand for poetry is small
and shrinking.
Look under the sign for Psychology.'
I could write poems like Wendy Cope
But in print they wouldn't have a hope
If they turned out the same as
Making Cocoa for Kingsley Amis.
Maybe I'll aim my custard and jelly at
Writing a trifle like T S Eliot.
In the grass
beside the church
on the island
in the lake
lies a tablet
with the words
that mark the grave
of the poet
not quite forgotten
and yet surrounded
by the breathless hush
of a summer evening.
The grave of the poet Sir Henry Newbolt CH (1862-1938) is at Orchardleigh, near Frome in Somerset
© David Fisher 1962-2019