Larkin said we think
On death when drink
And friends are not around,
As there is nothing To distract
Us from the profound
Truth that you and I
Will die.
As I sit in this pub, alone
Drinking coffee
I reach for my phone
But Larkin stops me
Dead, and, with a clear head
I see
The truth the poet did see.
Last night, I had a dream in which I had agreed to work in my local pub. Being blind, this would, no doubt have been a very interesting experience for me and the customers of that esteemed establishment.
My peculiar dream led to the composition of the below rhyme.
—
When a blind man whose name is Grub
Got a job in his local pub,
Those wanting brandy
Got lemonade shandy,
But the grub, it was really quite good!
In a dream I saw
Plastic high-heels on the floor
Of a room who’s door
Stood half-open.
Something must have been spoken
For I was invited, and recall
The monotonous rise and fall,
Going nowhere
With her,
And those cheap
Plastic shoes, which keep
Me from sleep.
A girl in a dress
Of red
I dreamed in bed.
And I confess
That she
Has stayed with me.
Red may scream
Danger ahead,
But ’twas merely
A dream,
Though she
Has stayed with me.
The hands trace
The clock’s face
Then
, Go round again.
Progress. Yes?
Or no?
The hands go
round, and round
Nymphs on pedestals
Are worshipped by fools
Who place
A pretty face
On high,
Then cry
When they
See that she
Is as he,
Merely, imperfect, clay
If a man where to say
That in some way
A former colony was better off under British rule,
Many would call him a blithering fool,
An imperialist, or worse.
I will only say
In this ineffective verse
That its all going wrong
For Hong Kong.
An interesting article in “The American Spectator” entitled “Poets and Capitalism”. The piece contains a fascinating discussion regarding why so many poets have been (and continue to be) opposed to Capitalism, and makes the point that poets have often suffered under Communist regimes and, in the end its Capitalism which enables poets to freely pursue their craft.
I agree with the thrust of the article, which is, I believe worth a read, https://spectator.org/poets-and-capitalism/
A young woman of 20
Sells water from her bath
For £24, and there are plenty
Who buy.
I laugh
And wonder why I
Spend my
Valuable time
In rhyme . . .!
(Yesterday I read this article http://mylifestylemax.com/lifestyle/influencer-charges-fans-24-to-buy-bathwater-shes-played-in-and-it-sells-out/ about an”influencer” on Instagram who sells her bath water to any of her followers who are happy to pay £24 for the privelege of possessing a bottle of, err bath water. This caused me to ponder on how people value things, whether that be the water in which a young woman has soaked, or the rhymes poets such as I pen).
Poet Kevin Morris reading the following poems on Soundcloud:
