#28 - Song of a Baker

(Russell J Turner)

 ...inspired by the Small Faces song...

I sing like a baker

and welcome the hour

to harvest the acre

An appetite breaker

who follows the plougher

I sing like a baker

The song of a maker

that bends all their power

to harvest the acre

No lonely forsaker

but love for a dower

I sing like a baker

Then as a dream waker

at field, stream and bower

to harvest the acre

This mover and shaker

of water and flour

I sing like a baker

to harvest the acre

RJT

#27 - Impressed by George

Fay Roberts delivers (at last) a précis of Lord Byron’s maiden speech at the House of Lords in defence of the Luddites:

The fresh, young Lord pleads for silence,
claims his constituents framed
for well-intentioned violence;

scorning the wicked reliance
on machines which they’ve defamed,
the fresh, young Lord pleads for silence.

At length he lauds their defiance
with all the fervour for which he’s famed
(and well-intentioned violence).

Others might dismiss this poetic license -
the ones whose greed he’s roundly declaimed -
the fresh, young Lord pleads for silence

while bewailing the march of science,
regretting that society seems chained
to well-intentioned violence.

And yet, without a certain reliance
on presses, his words might never have been saved;
the fresh, young Lord pleads for silence
for well-intentioned violence.

Machine-breakers; image from the James Fell (he of Sweary History fame) article about Luddites

#26 - The Medium

I saw a woman talking to the dead,

performing séances in bus stop queues. 

She told me all my troubles lay ahead:

that every fund in black would soon be red,

and every win would soon become a lose. 

I saw a woman talking to the dead.

Her twisting hand alighted on my head, 

her palm pressed hard enough to leave a bruise. 

She told me all my troubles lay ahead

that every ray of hope would shift to dread,

all hospitality would be abused. 

I saw a woman talking to the dead.

I did not wish to follow where she led; 

her bleak catastrophising was a ruse. 

She told me all my troubles lay ahead. 

The tarot cards, decisive in their spread: 

she loved to be the bearer of bad news. 

I saw a woman talking to the dead; 

she told me all my troubles lay ahead. 

LM 

Listen to the poem here

Image via unsplash.com 

#25 - disturbing windows – heady brew

 

a trip for decrypting this spirit of mine

reluctant to write and retainer to rhyme

whisky is water and water is wine.

 

decanted dishevelled or done by design

in tune with the room or complicit in crime

a trip for decrypting this spirit of mine

 

a spring with a spark that can shiver your spine

embracing defacing your grunge and your grime

whisky is water and water is wine.

 

a whimsical wanderer, dense and divine

alighting on luck looking slick and sublime

a trip for decrypting this spirit of mine

 

provider of profligate pearls before swine

or mendicant supplicant dancing on dimes

whisky is water and water is wine.

 

amusing recusal entwined on the vine

a chemical chaser, chastening chime

a trip for decrypting this spirit of mine

whisky is water and water is wine.

AWB

Poetry and AI Art. Gods help us.

 

#24 - Leeds City Station

...I recently spent several happy hours on Leeds station as every train in Yorkshire was delayed or cancelled as a result of Storm Otto...

I sometimes think my train will never come ‒

a metaphor for how this life proceeds ‒

but staring at the lights is just such fun

An infinite and slow convergent sum

that telescopes a trail of hopes and needs ‒

I sometimes think my train will never come

Interminable, the hours have begun

to grind the joy that optimism breeds

but staring at the lights is just such fun

The tracks roll on, the credits run and run ‒

a hamster’s wheel of drama and misdeeds ‒

I sometimes think my train will never come

The numbers whirl into a constant hum

as once again my terminus recedes

but staring at the lights is just such fun

Departure boards that dazzle like the sun

illuminate those fading hours in Leeds ‒

I sometimes think my train will never come

but staring at the lights is just such fun

RJT

#23 - Politeness of Princes

HOW VERY DARE anyone suggest that Fay Roberts forgot that ze was supposed to be doing one of these until 1:30am the day after. Outrageous calumny!

Some might just call me cynical
to limit myself thus;
on this day I wax lyrical

I try to be empirical,
the method is a plus;
some might just call me cynical

While others are satirical,
or like to sometimes cuss
On this day I wax lyrical

It’s like a shitty miracle;
I feel like I’m concussed.
(Some might just call me cynical.)

Rhymezone suggests “spagyrical”,
while this is much less fuss;
On this day I wax lyrical,

O, poem panegyrical,
this structure looks quite sus...
Some might just call me cynical
On this day I wax lyrical

#22 - I packed my suitcase, and in it I put

a sword, a cushion, and a disco ball –

protection for a wide-eyed dancing queen. 

The confidence to get up, when I fall.

A mirror, shadowed, standing in the hall; 

my soapy coriander-tasting gene;

a sword, a cushion, and a disco ball.

The bracelet that I got when I was small;

a love for words that borders on obscene;

the confidence to get up, when I fall;

the purple dress I wore to Leavers’ Ball;

the man who touched me, when I was thirteen;

a sword, a cushion, and a disco ball.

And every morning text and late-night call;

the panic when the pills mix with caffeine; 

the confidence to get up, when I fall;

the scent of cigarettes and alcohol;

the sour sting of tears, that harsh saline; 

a sword, a cushion, and a disco ball;

the confidence to get up, when I fall.

LM 

Listen to the poem here

Image via unsplash.com

#21 YMMV

 

Yer parents, eh? They just embarrass you,

and blame you for the dumb mistakes they made:

they had some kids then din't know what to do.

 

They treat you all the time like you're still two;

they give you shit and mostly look dismayed;

Yer parents, eh? They just embarrass you.

 

But maybe give some credit where it's due –

this statement's fairly true, and well portrayed:

they had some kids then din't know what to do.

 

Except to treasure every kiss you blew,

and pray the day you leave them's long delayed.

Yer parents, eh? They might embarrass you –

 

there ain't no guidebook, manual, overview,

no permit issued when they've made the grade,

no guild that regulates the parent trade:

they had some kids then din't know what to do.

 

Except to watch and love - then, as you grew,

bid Welcome! to the Dumb Mistakes brigade.

Yer parents, eh? Yeah, they embarrass you.

Forgive them, kids – they know not what they do.

 

AWB

#20 - minimalist as fuck

...recycling some rhymes from a previous offering...

heart

my

art

part

thy

heart

smart

guy

art

tart

sly

heart

start

fly

art

chart

wry

heart

art

RJT

#19 - Offering an Alternative Model

Inspired by Copernicus, born this day 1473, Fay Roberts explores how paradigm shifts might find their beginnings, and how truth and obsession can combine quite spectacularly.

Most revolutions start because they have to;
thoughts that will not leave are quite enough.
A means to change the world will then ensue.

Begin with the foundations, and if they’re true,
sketch and scribe and call each concept’s bluff;
most revolutions start because they have to.

Plot out the courses, follow each one through;
acknowledge that the journey may be rough;
a means to change the world will then ensue.

Sometimes the errors leave you feeling blue,
but you must persevere - come on, get tough;
most revolutions start because they have to.

There’s no other way: the evidence accrues;
Kismet lifts you, squirming, by the scruff.
A means to change the system then ensues.

While loud detractors make the air ring blue,
your loving friends will vow you know your stuff.
Most revolutions start because they have to;
a means to change the world will then ensue.

FR

Image of Copernicus from National Geographic’s article about the astronomer, painted by by Jean-Léon Huens and commissioned by the National Geographic Society in the 20th Century
(image description in alt-text)

#18 - The Crooked Dentist’s Villanelle

Do not go dental into that good bite.

Molars should shine, quite free of tooth decay.

Bleach, bleach against the staining of the light!

Though wise folk know peroxide is their right,

they can’t be arsed to buy it and so they 

do not go dental into that good bite.

They sip their Pinot Noir, crying how bright

their teeth were until wine led them astray:

bleach, bleach against the staining of the light!

Wild folk whose ailing gums recede, in fright

from yellowed mouths, they won’t outlast the day. 

Do not go dental into that good bite.

A gel or strips or paste could sooth their plight;

I diagnose, I fix, and then they pay. 

Bleach, bleach against the staining of the light!

And who’s to say what’s needed and what’s right? 

When asked my skilled opinion I will say: 

“Do not go dental into that good bite

bleach, bleach against the staining of the light!”

LM

Listen to the poem here

Image via Unsplash.com 

I used to have a dentist who was forever trying to get me to bleach my teeth. Not interested. Cheers. 

#17 - poet berates hissel / for choosing villanelle

 

I typed the title into an AI

Ain't smart enough for this shit –

repeating all these lines

I shoulda stuck to sonnets;

and tho I am complicit,

I reckon my designs

ain’t smart enough for this shit.

I could be watching cricket,

instead of wrenching rhymes –

I shoulda stuck to sonnets.

 

But nah, I thought I’d risk it,

ignoring all the signs

I ain’t smart enough for this shit.

  

Well, sod this for a biscuit,

and screw these dumb confines:

I shoulda stuck to sonnets.

 

This form, I’ll only don it

a coupla few more times –

I’m smart enough for this shit,

but shoulda stuck to sonnets.

AWB

#16 - I soothe my soul and sing my secret song

...a reimagining of my own sonnet Ishiyama-dera from 2019...

As cherry blossoms bud and wagtails throng

where Ishiyama-dera holds my heart

I soothe my soul and sing my secret song

Within its walls the words of gods prolong

our wisdom to divine and shape a chart

as cherry blossoms bud and wagtails throng

Yet under skies our uncloaked minds are strong

wherever beauty flows or dreams may dart

I soothe my soul and sing my secret song

These forests, streams and mountains all belong

to industry and poetry and art

as cherry blossoms bud and wagtails throng

While men break faith and evils wreak their wrong

and daughters weep before a charnel cart

I soothe my soul and sing my secret song

The priest bows low and strikes the temple gong

but I am lost in reverie apart

as cherry blossoms bud and wagtails throng

I soothe my soul and sing my secret song

RJT

#15 - Puppies Undertake Apotheosis

Trawling ides, Fay Roberts finds inspiration in strange, old rituals and cycles of secretive, sanguine social structures.

Round and round the Palatine the bold young wolflings stride,
striking those who ask for it as in the days of old.
It’s hard not to be confident with gods ranged on your side.

They know full well – they’re often told – how they’re their mothers’ pride,
and all the gifts with which they’re blessed have caused them to be bold.
Round and round the Palatine the bold young wolflings stride.

Although it’s been vouchsafed to them the world is very wide,
they’d rather stay right here, at large, than risk the broader wold
(it’s hard not to be confident with odds ranged on your side).

Blood-bedecked, demanding laughs, they take their strips of hide,
and go in search of desperate girls who’re told their blows are gold.
Round and round the Palatine the bold young wolflings stride.

They’ve been persuaded to this place by older, bolder guides
who promise wisdom in exchange for something like a soul.
It’s hard not to be confident with gods right by your side.

They find their faith is strengthened, the more that they’re decried;
they’ll purge the world of opposition, never mind the scolds.
Round and round the Palatine the bold young wolflings stride;
it’s hard not to be confident with gods ranged on your side.

Lupercalia, by Andrea Camassei (c.1635), found via the Mental Floss article about the festival
(image description in alt-text)

#14 - Tub Thumping

You cannot keep me down, try as you might,

I will not live my life so piously.

When I’m knocked down, I rise again to fight.

And I will gladly piss away the night,

battling against sobriety.

You cannot keep me down, try as you might.

So, if you stay a moment, I’ll recite

the drinks that I have drunk defiantly.

When I’m knocked down, I rise again to fight.

The lager is rebellion and the bite

of whiskey smashes all propriety!

You cannot keep me down, try as you might.

And though the vodka makes it hard to write

a villanelle of any quality,

when I’m knocked down, I rise again to fight.

And when I’m in the pub (as is my right!)

I can’t stand up, and that’s the irony. 

You cannot keep me down, try as you might –

when I’m knocked down, I rise again to fight.

LM

Listen to the poem here

Image via Unsplash.com

#13 - a fine line (twixt vagary and genius)

 

sometimes the words, they just answer the call

sometimes you get to decide where they go

and sometimes the words just mean nothing at all

 

throw up some phrases and see where they fall

Fortune is winking, you just never know!

sometimes the words they might answer the call?

 

or maybe you’re bruising your head on a wall

your lines are lethargic with no kind of flow

cuz sometimes the words just do nothing at all

 

don’t let them harass you or make you feel small

don’t sweat it, you got this – I learned long ago

that sometimes the words they will answer the call

 

if it seems they ain’t listenin’, just grin and recall

that shitloads of dung helps the roses to grow

and sometimes the words just mean nothing at all

 

so trust in your spirit – continue to scrawl

the dice can roll different on every throw

sometimes the words they just answer the call

and here is a verse that means nothing at all

 

AWB

#12 - stretched on a hoop

...inspired by ‒ and borrowing from ‒ ‘Clam, Crab, Cockle, Cowrie’ and other tracks from ‘The Milk-Eyed Mender’  With apologies to Joanna Newsom…

there are some mornings when the sky looks like a road

there are some destinies less obvious than hell

and though the years run by yet we will not grow old

as daylight comes to dress and wash away the cold

as cigarettes and coffee illustrate the scrawl

there are some mornings when the sky looks like a road

bound up in a story a memory and code

stretched out on a hoop is another yarn to tell

and though the years run by yet we will not grow old

while bats dissolve in darkness merging into gold

dragon wings lie heavy on empty Harrenhal

there are some mornings when the sky looks like a road

where seas divide the blue and rivers shed their load

we steal a skiff to set our sight on Paravel

and though the years run by yet we will not grow old

with hopes and reveries too nebulous to hold

machineries of loving mitigate the fall

there are some mornings when the sky looks like a road

and though the years run by yet we will not grow old

RJT

#11 - 134340

Wishing for some kind, cold, trans-Neptunian darkness in zir migrained state, Fay Roberts circles in late with a tribute to a contested celestial wanderer who headed further out on this day in 1999.

This mournful song, this frozen king;
in mysteries of glowing ice
heavenly bodies cross and swing.

Join hands and chant around the ring,
and hearken how he paid a price;
this mournful song, this frozen king.

Tell him: no more curtseying,
democratise this frozen slice
where heavenly bodies cross and swing.

His numbers always dwindling,
though most refuse to sacrifice
their mournful song, their frozen king.

And chaos shuns quick measuring.
A simple tune? That’s far too nice
for heavenly bodies crossed to swing

So children, if you’re wondering…
pay homage still, that’s our advice
with mournful song, your frozen king
whose heavenly bodies cross and swing.

- FR

An artist’s impression of the surface of Pluto in response to data from the European Southern Observatory’s Very Big Telescope (seriously - that’s what it's called!); image description in alt-text.

#10 - The Straw Bear

I am midwinter, indigo and gold,

as silent as the field they found me in.

A creature, forged from straw, from tales of old.

An ergot-sickened phantom, bred from mould. 

I feel the haystack stubble scratch my skin.

I am midwinter, indigo and gold.

On darkened days, no spade can break the cold

of frozen earth, so folk find fealty in 

a creature, forged from straw, from tales of old.

If harvests fail then men must grow more bold,

set fire to stars to cleanse all of our sins.

I am midwinter, indigo and gold.

I cannot grieve my human form. I’m told 

it’s time for me to benefit my kin. 

A creature, forged from straw, from tales of old.

Am I a sacrifice, as was foretold? 

A constellation, cloaked in straw bear skin? 

I am midwinter, indigo and gold,

a creature, forged from straw, from tales of old.

LM

Listen to the poem here

Image via strawbear.org.uk

The Whittlesey Straw Bear Festival takes place every winter, and involves a straw bear dancing through the streets of the town, before being burned on a bonfire. There are those who believe this tradition is an ancient ritual to ensure a good harvest for the year ahead. 

#9 - Myself Included

Poetry and prose –

which would win a stand-up fight?

The fact is, no one knows.

One profoundly glows,

and radiates the brightest bright –

poetry or prose?

Connecting highs and lows -

the warmest dawn and sharpest night:

the point is, no one knows.

An audience in rows,

one can set the crowd alight -

poetry or prose?

Amalgamating woes

or parsing peerless new delights?

The truth is, no one knows.

The question (I propose),

is which do I prefer to write,

poetry or prose?

The answer: no one knows.   AWB

#8 - The Madcap Laughs

 ...I started off with a vague idea about relationships and ended up hitching a ride with Syd Barrett on Noah’s Ark. Nope, me neither…

Deciphering this thing called me and you

that fate has thrown together with such craft,

just add it up and multiply by two

Those motley contradictions that ensue

reorder ravelled patterns on a graph,

deciphering this thing called me and you

For everything that ran or swam or flew

is crowded onto one unlikely raft,

just add it up and multiply by two

As chaos blends a swift yet heady brew

and all the world diminishes by half,

deciphering this thing called me and you

While waters roll and winds blow through the blue

with echoes of the days the madcap laughed,

just add it up and multiply by two

Then raise an altar to a lonely crew,

compose an apt and ribald epitaph

deciphering this thing called me and you ‒

just add it up and multiply by two

RJT