The closing gates muffle the sounds
No cries can be heard
I enter the halls
Where slippered guards pace
Led to my solitary cell,
I'm invited to reflect and repent.
Friday, March 18, 2005
Peace or war
Please tell me, for I am not sure,
As propaganda fills the screen:
Do these things happen in peace or war?
Does hatred of other countries' poor
Become part of the social scene?
Please tell me, for I am not sure
When half are against, half are for
And nobody can fall between-
Do these things happen in peace or war?
Would the leaders by whom we set most store
Mislead the media machine?
Please tell me, for I am not sure
The death-count's like a cricket score
And the images become obscene-
Do these things happen in peace or war?
As propaganda fills the screen
I understand what it must mean;
I thought so once, but now I'm sure:
These things happen in peace or war
As propaganda fills the screen:
Do these things happen in peace or war?
Does hatred of other countries' poor
Become part of the social scene?
Please tell me, for I am not sure
When half are against, half are for
And nobody can fall between-
Do these things happen in peace or war?
Would the leaders by whom we set most store
Mislead the media machine?
Please tell me, for I am not sure
The death-count's like a cricket score
And the images become obscene-
Do these things happen in peace or war?
As propaganda fills the screen
I understand what it must mean;
I thought so once, but now I'm sure:
These things happen in peace or war
Welsh industry
Once the ports kept freighters full
Of iron and coal, slate and wool
Marinas occupy the docks
With bistros and apartment blocks
Where a factory used to stamp and rage
Now there's an annual car-rally stage
Railway tracks grow dull with rust
The rotting trucks are filled with dust
Hands fall idle for want of tasks
"What of Welsh industry?" someone asks
The answer is becoming clear:
It would be a good idea
Of iron and coal, slate and wool
Marinas occupy the docks
With bistros and apartment blocks
Where a factory used to stamp and rage
Now there's an annual car-rally stage
Railway tracks grow dull with rust
The rotting trucks are filled with dust
Hands fall idle for want of tasks
"What of Welsh industry?" someone asks
The answer is becoming clear:
It would be a good idea
Two classical poems
I
Aeneid
Aeneas turned to face the shore
Strode to the waiting ship
His love for Dido forgotten:
Her second album really wasn't very good
II
A pomegranate seed
Persephone
going underground
crossed the chill fields
crusted with snow
to be swallowed
by the
cave
Aeneid
Aeneas turned to face the shore
Strode to the waiting ship
His love for Dido forgotten:
Her second album really wasn't very good
II
A pomegranate seed
Persephone
going underground
crossed the chill fields
crusted with snow
to be swallowed
by the
cave
Two limericks
I
A Methodist preacher called Glyn
Thought it time for a sermon on sin
"When so many stray
There's plenty to say:
The problem is where to begin"
II
An old financier of Nanking
Wearied of a life's banking
This made him decide
To commit spermicide
Aka death by wanking
A Methodist preacher called Glyn
Thought it time for a sermon on sin
"When so many stray
There's plenty to say:
The problem is where to begin"
II
An old financier of Nanking
Wearied of a life's banking
This made him decide
To commit spermicide
Aka death by wanking
Mr Eliot's Saturday afternoon service
"Judy Egerton had bought the toffee at a bazaar opened by T S Eliot."
Anthony Thwaite, Selected Letters of Philip Larkin
I have seen them coming in
Their hats and coats like dromedary's hair
As they brave the streets of Pimlico
Alas
I have seen the stalls weighed down
With so much useless clutter
Left over from a life apart
Alas
And now the church hall clock is telling us it's time
It's time for us to reach across
To try to spend and buy and sell
As if we were not coral reefs
Immersed inviolate alone
Outside I hear the tramcar sound its mournful bell
As night enwraps the street and tucks it in
At half past four the dark descends
Alas
Aegeus lived to see the black-sailed ship's return
There is no cure to salve the Gorgon's breath
The fete is open, worse than death.
Anthony Thwaite, Selected Letters of Philip Larkin
I have seen them coming in
Their hats and coats like dromedary's hair
As they brave the streets of Pimlico
Alas
I have seen the stalls weighed down
With so much useless clutter
Left over from a life apart
Alas
And now the church hall clock is telling us it's time
It's time for us to reach across
To try to spend and buy and sell
As if we were not coral reefs
Immersed inviolate alone
Outside I hear the tramcar sound its mournful bell
As night enwraps the street and tucks it in
At half past four the dark descends
Alas
Aegeus lived to see the black-sailed ship's return
There is no cure to salve the Gorgon's breath
The fete is open, worse than death.
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