The Marvellous Alphabet

A cautionary tale on censorship - I'm not sure where this one came from, but I could hazard a guess. We had a creative writing exercise to write a lipogram - where we had to write some narrative excluding the letter E, so maybe that's the inspiration. The modified Wordsworth quotation came first, so it's likely, I suppose.

The Marvellous Alphabet

All praise to the marvellous alphabet!
It’s wonderful what it can do:
Arranging those symbols in different ways,
Depicting the sounds that we glue
Together to construct a series of words,
Representing our thoughts and our deeds;
To express our meanings to one and to all,
To pass on our concepts and creeds.

But what if some letters should become taboo?
We’re always told what we should think.
What if each day we are told we can’t use
One letter to save us some ink?
We wouldn’t discriminate – t’wouldn’t be fair.
We’d take it in turns to ignore
Particular letters each day, one by one.
But limiting though, to be sure.

Yes. You could quote Wordsworth, ignoring a U:
“I wandered lonely as a clod”
But, fun as that is, beware: don’t be swayed
As placed on your back, it’s a rod.
By using austerity as a big stick
It’s freedom they’re taking away.
It’s censorship hidden in monet’ry terms;
It’s limiting what you can say.

So embrace your marvellous alphabet
Ignoring the government howls.
Value each letter, each consonant group,
Each diphthong from pairing your vowels.
Develop your words and write what you will,
Communicate thoughts and ideas
And enrich the language, make sure you maintain
The freedom we’ve held all these years.

Building Bridges

The following poem relates to the glorious summer of 1976 when my parents would take me to Walmsley Bridge, together with my two pals. Each time we went we'd spend the entire day building a makeshift bridge, never actually getting around to playing on it.  

Building Bridges
(Walmsley Bridge, 1976)

Remember days of warmth and light
When cares ran free and hid away?
The times when we would reunite,
That everlasting holiday?

The shallow stream in which we stood
The water playing round our limbs;
To wiggle toes and feel the mud
Adapting to our slightest whims;
To feel the pebbles ‘neath our feet
And watch the ripples grow and hide
As slowly we would walk, replete
With satisfaction, side by side.

Each time there we would mastermind
A plan, convinced it was unique,
To build a bridge from what we’d find:
From fallen branches, cross the creek.

The larger stones that we could shift,
(Strategic placement in the stream) 
Some heavier than we could lift,
We’d roll them, working as a team.
A branch we’d place across each pair,
Or more than one if they were thin;
With smaller rocks that we’d find there
We’d take great pains to wedge them in.

I’d hear the water change its route
To rush at speed between the stones
And then I’d watch it distribute
The floating twigs to calmer zones.

For hours on end we’d work like ants:
The watching sun would change its view
Of three young lads with dampened pants:
A holiday construction crew.
But then we’d hear my parents shout,
“Hey! Come ashore and dry your feet,”
We’d had no chance to test it out:
At least the building was complete.

Betjeman

The Poetry Show on Fylde Coast Community Radio is having Sir John Betjeman as its featured poet this weekend. Hence the inspiration for my poem, below.

A point of interest: the show is starting to be uploaded to Soundcloud, which is a benefit for those unable to catch the live broadcast.

Betjeman

I’m thinking of having some landscaping done
As damage from ice and the frost has begun
To lift up the gravel – I have to assess:
Is Betjeman really the way to progress?

I’m thinking of watching the Cheltenham Cup;
To risk a few quid as the horses line up.
I have my suspicions – the final furlong:
I Betjeman oats – they won’t last very long.

I’m thinking of breeding my pedigree dog.
I’m checking the listings, the Kennel Club log,
But it’s not too easy – I have not yet found
The Betjeman tending to choose for my hound.

This thinking of driveways and wagers and hounds:
Unusual. Possibly this gives me grounds
To think it’s subliminal; books I have read:
It’s Betjeman’s name that I have in my head.

What Really Gets My Goat

It's time to have a good old rant. With that in mind, I must have a listen to Ian Hunter's "Rant" album. But I digress. Here's my latest poem.[26 Feb 2014]

What Really Gets My Goat

Politics eroding rights,
TV trying to be “real”,
Cyclists cycling through red lights,
Telesales that spoil your meal,

Smoke alarms that peep at night
To let you know their batts are dead,
Headlights that are far too bright
Just like a drill inside your head,

Morons who don’t seem to care
And drop their litter without thought,
Pavement parkers ev’rywhere,
TV schedules changed by sport,

Engines running in parked cars
That make your windows resonate,
Unknowns claiming to be stars
So conceited, think they’re great,

Inkjet cartridges whose cost
Exceeds the printer’s retail price,
All the music to be lost
As gramophones we sacrifice,

Parents who ignore their sprogs
No matter what they perpetrate,
People who allow their dogs
To drop their goods outside your gate,

Using “culture” as a means
To try and circumvent the law,
“Celeb” mags brainwashing teens –
It’s not cool to be mature,

Lots of things I’ve listed here,
But what really gets my goat:
A government at its nadir –
Why did so many waste their vote?

Questions

In response to the latest Lancashire Dead Good Poets' theme, I came up with the following.

Questions

Questions are what makes us “us”;
A search for things to know,
Embodying our train of thought,
Somewhere for us to go.
Just think where we would be today
Had scientists not cared
To question this and question that;
How would we all have fared?

So many questions helped them solve
With Kepler, how the planets move,
With Darwin, theories would evolve,
With Euclid, so much maths to prove;
With Pasteur’s questions about germs,
With Robert Hooke and stretching springs,
With Mendel and inheritance,
With other folk and other things.

Could Newton formulate his laws?
And what of Stephen Hawking?
And Einstein and his theories,
Of them we won’t be talking.
We wouldn’t know Schrodinger’s cat
The telescope of Hubble;
It wouldn’t enter Sigmund’s mind,
All queries – too much trouble.

There was a guy, discovered Pi
(And not the ones Greggs bake),
Invented a hydraulic screw,
And so much more he’d make.
But if he had not thought to ask,
This Archimedes, ancient Greek, a-
-bout the water in his bath,
Then who would yell “Eureka”?

If Galileo had not asked
How pendulums swing constantly,
How could Freddie match the names
Bohemian and Rhapsody.

Without the questions from these chaps
(To them we must provide our thanks),
Though Heisenberg may not be sure,
We’d still be thick as two short Plancks.

The House of Purple Pro's

The theme for the poetry show to be broadcast on 15 February was "Purple Prose". 

Rather than reflect on flowery language I thought I'd approach it from a different angle. 

Enough said. 






The House of Purple Pro’s

  Violet was an innocent:
She didn’t know what people meant
When they discussed aspects of lust;
Misunderstood the cut and thrust.
  Amusing when she’d misconstrued
The items some consider rude – 
Thought Essen M, a German spy,
And Sixty-Nine a year gone by
  When Armstrong walked upon the moon –
So people thought her so jejune.
Then, wonderment hit these same folk
When she moved to the big bad Smoke.

  But that was then and this is now.
Soon she learned the “what” and “how”;
Became an expert when she chose
To join the House of Purple Pro’s.


  A hidden gem within the town
Set up by one Magenta Brown,
It caters for the upper set
Like high-ups in the London Met,
  Like barristers and some QCs
Bewigged and with a wish to please.
Executives from banks invest
And boxers are there with the rest.
  And politicians, left and right
Have sessions lasting through the night.
It doesn’t matter, big or small:
A civil service for them all.

  Before they leave they will have kissed
Pansy, Violet or Amethyst.
You’d be surprised to see who goes
Inside the House of Purple Pro’s.

Connections

This week's Dead Good Poets theme is connections. I briefly considered something in relation to the excellent "Only Connect" TV programme, but the following seemed more natural, considering the way my mind works.

(Not a self portrait!)

Connections

I’m up. I’m down. I’m sad. I’m blue.
I’m cold. I’m hot. I am wet through.
I’m soaked. I’m drunk. I’m smashed. I’m broke.
In pieces. Pisces. Haddock. Smoke.
I puff. I wheeze. I flush the loo.
A chain reaction. Follow through.
See to the end. The credits roll.
The cast. The line I throw. I bowl.
The bat. The racquet. Noise I heard.
I saw. I cut. I slice the bird.
The Christmas turkey. Greece. The Greeks.
Olympus. Nevis. Mountain peaks.
The summit – hey, I’m up again!
That’s where I started, way back then,
Before my mind began to leap.
Connecting, as I drift to sleep.