Clerihew for The Left

The Left

Is intellectually bereft:

They still whine about The Tories making things less fair,

Then, with wanton disregard for irony, elect for their leader yet another 

   privileged multi-millionaire.

Eleven in the Morning

The thing I find about serenity:

It isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be.

For sometimes hush must cede to brave hurrahs,

And I must start the day with loud guitars.

Boo? Yay!

Alas the day! Alack the day!

Alas! Alack the day!

Alas the day in ev’ry way!

Alas! Alack! I say!

I boo the day! I rue the day!

I boo! I rue the day!

I boo the day so far from gay!

I boo! I rue! I pay!

Hurrah the day! Huzzah the day!

Hurrah! Huzzah the day!

Hurrah the day with “Yay!” not, “Nay!”

Hurrah! Huzzah! Olé!

Envoi-é:

Yay!

Replace him with a Lawnmower (1)

Who is this wanton dunce of Mistress Foul,

so vile of manner, face and speech? Malign

as boots with twenty holes and blood-soaked laces,

this brute with brows as lumpish as his thoughts

would fain your money steal, then place it on

a blazing fire, and laugh and dance and point

in pointless envy at the flames and smoke

and ash, proclaiming, “Now, we all are equal!

And all is fair! And none are rich! For wealth,

success and aspiration: all are killed!”

With socialism’s spade, he bids a hole

be dug by those who still would work, and when

the hollow pit is made, inters the urn

of burnt remains, and buries all our children’s futures.

Crash

I cannot find my thoughts today; they’re playing

a game of hide-and-sleep. I shut my eyes

and search, but emptiness abounds. It’s dead

in here. The pathways which my neurons travel

along have taken evasive manoeuvres.

I lose my way inside my head…

                                                        … and crash.

Awaiting Discovery

The poem hides. The shape’s already formed,

with every word in order, waiting. Waiting

to be discovered. Gradually, it’s found,

in jigsaw bits, and put in place by writing.

Subject Matters Not

The subject of a poem doesn’t matter,

As long as craft or art are on display.

From lofty heights to incidental chatter:

It’s how you say it, never what you say.

1979

November’s disinvigorating light

leaks thinly through the bloodless sky above;

it casts its feeble glow upon a grim

unwilling  young boy’s face. The battle’s nigh.

Today, a boy will be kicked in the head.

Aggression, tamed and caged through childhood’s progress,

will be released, awoken by the vile,

demented exhortations of the teachers

who coach this bloody code of violent conduct.

And soon, a boy will be kicked in the head.

Companions, friends-like-brothers, thrown together

by accident or fate, will face each other

in angry combat, fighting for the chance

to take possession of a ball, and charge.

Shortly, a boy will be kicked in the head.

A whistle blows. A ball is kicked. It starts.

Amidst the rush of nervous limbs, the ball

is fumbled by embarrassed hands and falls

upon the ground. Attack and ruck. Retrieve

the ball and form a maul and push towards

the twenty-two without success. Collapse.

And see? A boy is lying on the ground.

And now this boy will be kicked in the head,

the helpless victim of an unseen… boot.

Imagine being ten, at boarding school,

and lying helpless on the ground, surrounded

by angry boots belonging to a mob

of boys who’ve all been taught to “take his legs,”

to “bring him down,” and “get stuck in like men.”

It isn’t in the laws, this booting of

the skull, but what should we expect?

Appear

The sun will shine again, the clouds will clear,

the birds will sing, and flowers will appear.

Wordless

I try and write a poem on the subject

of father, find I have no words to speak,

so leave the thing abandoned, incomplete.

An empty space, where thoughts and memories

might be, stares back. Another unread page.

Another unread page. Unwritten. Unread.

Asleep at the Wheel

You fell asleep whilst driving. Two seats back,

I yelled at you to stop. You didn’t, though,

for you could no more stop that car than I

could stop time’s machinations. Then I woke.

And later, as I told you what had happened,

I realized you'd been sitting on the left.

The patterns shift when our subconscious minds

take charge then fall asleep at the wheel.

The Daily Moan

You’re not allowed to read The Daily Mail

or else you’ll be a Daily Mail Reader,

looked down upon by the smug, self-appointed

intelligentsia (Guardian Readers).

I wonder how these intellectuals

arrive at their conclusions, having never,

presumably, debased themselves enough

to read that wretched, tawdry little rag.

I read the Daily M to keep informed

about what all those Daily Mail Readers

think. I prefer to stick with poems, though;

they generally contain a bit more truth.

Like Åtk!tløpzèyçænmniüé

There’s nothing left

Inside my head,

Except the words

Which can’t be said.