#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.

 

#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

#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

#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

#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.

#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

#7 – Hearts of Oak

Fay Roberts outlines a story that had its movie premiere on this day 83 years ago...

Geppetto, mourning, wishes on a star,
and someone heeds, and brings his wish to life.
In love and hard work – that’s where families are.

Affection’s duty holds him tight as tar.
but soft-eyed kid is drawn by showbiz fife.
Geppetto, mourning, wishes on a star.

Pinocchio’s ambition has no par.
His conscience tries to prick him like a knife:
In love and hard work – that’s where families are!

His boy is gone – he doesn’t know how far.
Swallowed up in grief, he mimics life...
Geppetto, mourning, wishes on a star.

Transformed, the lad returns, his heart ajar.
A warning gift spells out his father’s strife.
(In love and hard work – that’s where families are.)

He knows his only worth is as a spar,
surrenders breath to give his maker life.
Geppetto, mourning, wishes on a star;
In love and hard work – that’s where families are.

A still from the 2019 Italian movie of Pinocchio, by Matteo Garrone (not very like the Disney version)
Image description in alt-text

#6 - Waggle Dance

And, when I click my fingers and transform,

I turn into a humble bumble bee. 

My hive of stripey sisters keep me warm. 

It is a pleasure to be aliform 

with pockets for my nectar on my knees.

And, when I click my fingers and transform

we are a colony, a tender swarm,

a buzzing, but benign community.

My hive of stripey sisters keep me warm.

I have no need to please or to perform,

with this, my ready-made society. 

And, when I click my fingers and transform

my bumble jumble helps me dodge the storms. 

A palace in the hollow of a tree;

my hive of stripey sisters keep me warm.

and so, I’ll proudly wear our uniform –

all apidae in solidarity.

And, when I click my fingers and transform,

my hive of stripey sisters keep me warm.

LM

Listen to the poem here

Image via Unsplash.com

#5 - Monstrous

 

Surround yourself with hearts of love and glee,

don't squander precious time on those that frown,

or those that make a crappy cup of tea.

That's pretty simple, right? A basic plea.

I feel I shouldn't have to write this down:

“Surround yourself with hearts of love and glee”

should be a thing you learnt on mother's knee

before you reach the lessons more profound;

and “Don't accept a crappy cup of tea”?

that should be simpler still, it seems to me –

as English as a quiet market town

where English folk (devoid of love and glee)

read Rupert Brooke and sunbathe by the sea,

and fly their flags at every passing crown,

fill empty souls with endless cups of tea.

Oh gods – now I’m conflicted. Could I be

condemned to live among these clowns,

forever seeking hearts of love and glee,

surrounded by their crappy cups of tea? AWB

#3 - Winter Dance Party

Fay Roberts explores the events and emotions surrounding a famous plane crash.

Oh, what a way for rock ’n’ roll to die;
determined to take destiny in hand,
they flew up, shrouded by an angry sky.

Their parting words seem more than somewhat wry;
old instruments have failed to save three bands.
Oh, what a way for rock ’n’ roll to die

Now mothers faint while others scream and sigh.
That way of breaking news is firmly banned.
They flew up, shrouded by an angry sky

While those whose guilt should prick are somewhat shy,
a ringing silence floods across the land.
Oh, what a way for rock ’n’ roll to die.

The pilgrims flock to see with brimming eyes;
memorials are raised by fervent hands.
They flew up, shrouded by an angry sky

Those loved ones left behind still asking why
as new songs break and foam across the strand.
Oh, what a way for rock ’n’ roll to die;
they flew up, shrouded by an angry sky.

-FR

A poster of the gig, from the Wikipedia article. Image description in alt-text.

#2 - i only want what’s bad for me

i wish i was sagacious, but i’m more like this: 

the field mouse, enraptured by the raptor’s claws;

the trembling deer, bewitched, before the bumper’s kiss;

the foolish tourist, lured into the swirling mist;

the dinghy, seeking treasure, sunk on jagged shores.

i wish i was sagacious, but i’m more like this:

the bruise that blossoms, brutal, from a gentle fist.

i am the one who feasts on insincere applause;

the trembling deer, bewitched, before the bumper’s kiss.

If life is hit-and-miss, it seems i’ve hit and missed,

seduced by canting allies who exposed my flaws.

i wish i was sagacious, but i’m more like this:

the one who treads the grass despite the cobra’s hiss.

i am compelled to seek the void that most ignore – 

the trembling deer, bewitched, before the bumper’s kiss.

And, when the chaos ceases, I will reminisce

that every near-disaster was a thrill because

i wish i was sagacious, but i’m more like this: 

the trembling deer, bewitched, before the bumper’s kiss.

LM

Listen to the poem here. 

Image via unsplash.com

#1 - Feeling Down

You're feeling down and you may need a spell

to get you through this February day,

so why not try a cheeky villanelle?

You know that winter feeling all too well:

the sky, your thoughts, your outlook – all are grey.

You're feeling down and you may need a spell:

some magic chant to lyrically dispel

those mental barricades that bar your way,

so why not write a cheeky villanelle?

A poet in his lonely citadel

rejecting every line as tired cliché

I’m feeling down and I may need a spell,

just hanging with inspiring personnel

(in my case that's Leanne and Russ and Fay).

Perhaps I’ll write a cheeky villanelle?

I guess I can't rely on zinfandel

to get me through this February day.

I’m feeling down, but I don’t need a spell,

cuz I just wrote a cheeky villanelle.

AWB