Simon Armitage has been appointed as the UK’s new Poet Laureate, replacing the former holder of that position, Carol Ann Duffy. The Daily Telegraph has an interesting article on the appointment which can be found here, https://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/2019/05/10/xxx/
There once was a writer named Moon,
(Or was that his nom de plume)?
At any rate
My friend Kate,
Has told me her nom de plume!
When I asked my good friend Miss Wood,
“Do you think you could . . .?”,
She said, with a smile,
“You have wit and style,
But I really don’t think I should . . .”.
Her, lying there,
So innocent and fair
In slumber.
Soon she will wake
And make
Her way home.
He got her number
From that place of dreams and regret
– The internet . . .
When scientists have analysed you and me,
To the nth degree,
And found that there is nothing ethereal
And we are merely
Genetic material,
What will be
Left of you and me
Save for genes
And mechanical dreams?
I take you at night
In dreams,
But it is not quite right,
And all is not as it seems
Shall I sit out this dance
As the dancers prance
Heedlessly by.
Why
On occasions Can I not join in
With my companions and grin?
The song
Of the throng
Helps me forget
And yet
I am not as other men,
For when
I smile
There is, all the while
Within
The knowledge of this temporary din.
Others see it too
But construe
Me speaking of such a thing
As bad form and bring
The conversation around
To matters less profound.
But, when they are alone
Do they not think on skin and bone?
I can reduce my companions to laughter
With my jokes, but after
Our fun
Is done
Closing time will come.
—
“Shall I Sit Out This Dance” can be found in “My Old Clock I Wind and Other Poems”, https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0735JBVBG/
An article in The Guardian’s opinion section argues that we (in the UK) are a nation of scrollers rather than readers, and that the blame for this lies at the door of the tech billionaires, (see https://www.theguardian.com/books/2019/may/08/nation-scrollers-readers-read-netflix-twitter-books-mark-zuckerberg).
Its very easy to blame others for one’s own shortcomings methinks . . .
Roses I may not pick, tempt
With their sweet
Scent.
The peach,
Out of reach
I may not eat
For mine
Wine
Has passed its best.
But, in time
All things must rest.
The hour
Of the flower
And peach, is brief,
And all must, one day cease
“Check your privilege”, can not be said
To the dead,
But if it could, Kipling would
Remain the same,
A man of his time,
Who some would like to arraign
For the heinous crime
Of writing rhyme
K Morris - Poet 