Lines From An Art Gallery In October Half Term

So I thought it was about time I tried a Sestina. This was supposed to be about lazy parents, but such is Formal Poetry...

The children never seem to see the Art.

Instead, they gravitate towards the screens

Like bees to flowers; pausing briefly by

The nudes, they giggle at each naked breast,

Then back to telly, that familiar friend,

Companion through their daily, waking life.

Presumably, not told there’s more to life –

That music, sculpture, poetry, and art,

Enrich existence like the warmth of friends,

Much more than cold and sterile TV screens,

That leave a chill inside each budding breast,

That kill young curiosity just by

Their very presence. Words and worlds slip by

Unnoticed: Advertising screaming “Life

Is Short! You must go buy yourself new breasts!

No time to stand admiring wanky art!

Instead, see our new range of plasma screens –

They’ll make you happier than all your friends!

“In fact, you’ll never need another friend –

Just go and get this DVD that’s by

That lovely Jordan, star of stage and screen,

A wonderful example for your life:

She “Dint no nuffin’ ‘bout no fackin’ art!”

And, on that subject: trust us on the breasts.

“And gentlemen, since we are talking breasts,

Look! Here’s a busty woman – tell your friends!

This isn’t using sex to sell, it’s art!

You, too, can have this woman, simply by

Just purchasing this car! So get a life!

(And please remember: always watch the screen).”

Because they’re everywhere now, aren’t they, screens?

Just making sure you’re always kept abreast

Of all the latest offers – as if life

Were better knowing that some actor “friend”

Says anything – if there is cash put by,

And, in the process, turns his back on Art.

If you live life beset by blaring screens,

If Art and Commerce battle in your breast,

A friendly tip: just switch off, don’t stand by.

Things To Do When You Arrive In Town

My friend and poetry hero Ross Sutherland, many moons ago, wrote a poem called Things To Do Before You Leave Town. This is the other side of the story.

Attempt to unpack everything

You've never used

And never will,

But you'll keep in a box anyway.

Spend four hours on hold

To Virgin Media, wishing you knew

Which bag your hands-free kit was in.

Check the toilet seat.

Read the mail of people

You will only ever know

By their first initial.

Divide local newsagents

Into those you will shop in,

And those you will use for porn.

Find something creepy

Behind the radiator:

A bloodstain, a map of Ancient Persia.

Stare out the window.

Give names to the cats on your avenue.

Walk the streets,

Taking special notice

Of the cracked paving stones,

For late-night celestial navigation.

Note the bookies, the offies,

The places that sell pizza,

The chippies that are open on Mondays.

As dusk falls, look nonchalantly

Into the living-rooms of neighbours.

Do not attempt to ring your mother.

Do not attempt to ring your ex.

Do not attempt to find a prostitute -

You cannot afford one.

You can still prop up a bar

Where somebody's playing guitar,

Get drunk for two hours

In the barman's flat,

On stolen brandy,

Before realising he's a little bit weird.

Come sunrise,

Go, and smoke a joint

At a point

                      That makes no sense at all.

The Masque Of Apathy

For Matt Panesh, with apologies to Percy.

As I splumped upon my couch,

Scrabbling through tobacco pouch,

There came a voice upon the air

That told a vision of “Out There”.

I saw Greed upon the run,

He had a mask like Cameron.

Very smooth he looked, yet spastic -

With his forehead made of plastic.

From his smile, so fixed and fickle,

There escaped an oily trickle

As with his fist, so fast and hard,

He crammed his pudgy cheeks with lard.

Next came Falsehood, and his eyes

Were yellow, like Vince Cable's ties.

In his arms, a white lamb trembled -

He wrung its neck as he dissembled.

Thronged with lackeys and fat cats

Wearing Artful Dodger hats,

With Osborne's gleam upon his eye,

Cronyism next rode by.

And many more Infractions played

This pleonectic masquerade-

Dressed in suits like brazen gangsters;

Or Lawyers, Priests, and Merchant Bankers.

Last, Apathy, with empty sockets,

iPod on, and hands in pockets,

Slouching like some languid goth,

Arrived upon a Three-Toed Sloth,

And scrawled upon his sullen head,

A faded tattoo could be read:

In childish handwriting, it said

“I'D RATHER BE AT HOME IN BED”.

A crowd arrived in Sta-Prest trousers,

Nike shoes and Primark blouses,

Gathered there, all al fresco,

Laden down with bags from Tesco.

With cringing cheers and servile scrapes -

Like backward kids, or maybe apes -

They hailed their monarch, Apathy,

With sycophantic flattery:

“Mighty Lord, the day is Thine!

To you we give our Life and Time!

Since we don't want to use our brains,

We paved the way for you to reign!

“Tell us of the latest fashions!

Give us Wants instead of Passions!

Turn us into passive clones,

With credit cards and payday loans,

PS3s and mobile phones!

“We, the people, now rejoice!

Exulting you with single voice:

Apathy, to Thee we bow!

Can we go watch Big Brother now?”

Then Apathy, like one who's drugged,

Could barely move, so simply shrugged -

And with a flick of weary digit,

Dismissed the crowd, the pageant with it.

Those foul personifications went

To London, to the Parliament,

Where with careless, strident whistles

They swapped the schools for Trident missiles.

They flogged the forests, bought the press,

Raised a tax to line their nests,

And then one final sickly jest:

Dismantled all the NHS.

The crowd cared not when they were told

The hospitals had all been sold:

“It seems like effort, starting fights -

Midsomer Murder's on tonight!

“Oh, let it lie. Yes, leave it be,

Too complex for the likes of me!

I'm sure those politicians know

What they're doing. Or I hope so.

“I voted for that nice man, Clegg:

He'd never let me starve or beg!

He swore to fight for liberty!

Now let's just have a cup of tea,

“Forget the politics and worry -

I'll microwave us all a curry!”

With processed food inside their bellies,

(Such paltry fare, like on their tellies,)

They chained themselves to hollow screens,

Were hypnotised by hollow dreams.

Sedated on that couch from Sweden,

They sat and snoozed away their freedoms

And while they died in living rooms,

Two remained out in the gloom.

One was Hope – she looked forlorn,

As if somehow her heart were torn,

The other, Wisdom, shook his head,

And in a weary voice, he said:

“I really don't know what to do-

They are many, we are few.

“At times like this, one might get jaded,”

And with that, 
                                 the vision faded...

Nosce Te Ipsum, Dickhead

Based on a true story.

I was talking to some guys at a poetry show

And one of them sighed “It's not what you know

It's who you know, and that's the way the world goes,

And so, even though I can make the rhymes flow,

My career goes nowhere, it's not fair!

I despair of ever getting anywhere,

Cuz I'm just not in a clique with those poets over there!

Look at Tim Clare, and that other fucking pair,

Taking fanfares from a public unaware,

I declare, that there's other poets out there!”

And then he went on stage, reading poems off a page,

In a rage, for an age, and though it's hard to gauge

The Birdcage crowd, they didn't clap loud

As he shuffled offstage, still under a cloud.

Cuz it's hard to engage, it's hard to understand,

When you see a pissy poet with some paper in his hand.

It's hard to understand, it's hard to relate,

To someone who just hates, blaming others for their fate,

Like a fifth-rate firebrand, stuck behind a mic stand,

Demonstrating nothing but command of longhand.

Just standing up doesn't make you a standup,

And no-one wants to see a poet stand with his hand up,

Reading his rhymes

Cuz he won't learn the lines,

Vocalising verse

Cuz he just won't rehearse,

And then have the temerity

To claim that his austerity

Is part of some conspiracy

Of the ruling coterie

That somehow governs poetry!

Look in the mirror if you wanna see the culprit!

Think about your crowd when you're screaming from your pulpit!

Go get a dictionary,

Look up “performance” -

Between you and that,

The gulf is enormous.

One thing I've learnt in my time as a poet:

It's not what you know, or who you know,

It's what you do with what you know

And how you show it.