Seven Ages of Andy (full crown)

 

William Mulready. image credit: V&A Museum London

1.       Infancy

 

expectant, trepidatious, on we go:

a blooded, squalling babe, a bag of needs.

a home, a crib, a blanket, frequent feeds;

a family to shield us as we grow –

to clean our shit and teach us all they know;

applauding each new victory, and deeds

of escalating wonder; joy that breeds

a freedom bearing out Jean-Jacques Rousseau.

 

this isn’t my own recollection here –

but parenthood has given me mementoes,

and watching my own infants grow is fuel

to re-evaluate my early years:

a curious, stumbling journey which crescendoes

with smiles and hopeful airs, first day of school.

 

2.       Schoolboy

 

With smiles and hopeful airs, first day of school:

crisp uniform and unfamiliar tie;

new disciplines, a timetable, and rules

of social commerce; cliques to codify.

Will tests in Maths and Science be your fuel?

Athletics, French, or Music get you by?

Perhaps – like me – you’ll reach the peak of ‘cool’?

(and – decades later – know that that’s a lie.)

This skinny, gobby tryhard spent his terms

deflecting – with his gags – the fists of churls;

and, quoting Shakespeare, and the Diet of Worms,

theatrically failed to dazzle girls.

Pubescent verse, hubristic faith alone:

a portrait of a man not fully grown.

 

3.       Lover

 

A portrait of a man not fully grown –

discovered in a loft and brought to light:

a leather jacket, Yankee hat, and bright

eyes, nonchalant to facing the unknown.

He wants to love, yet still needs to be shown

that common solipsistic oversight –

the plague of every amorous neophyte –

to have a care for hearts that aren’t his own.

 

At that age, breaking hearts was just a game

more fun than football (I played better, too).

The fug of booze and time obscures the names,

remorseful verse rewrites the billets-doux;

Quiescent will exists to make amends,

the hope on which society depends.

 

4.       Soldier

 

The hope on which society depends:

that still the arc of History will tend

towards a cultured, genteel evolution.

“Too slow!” cry new recruits with resolution –

some take up arms to hasten their solution,

and some write poems that call for revolution.

(And to this day, both cohorts still contend

at which approach will pay more dividends.)

 

So yeah, I wrote some angry stuff back then:

like “Burn the System! Capital Aflame!”

 “Drown All the Priests in Slurry Made From Tories!”

But Westminster still stood, despite my pen!

And I discovered – focusing my aim –

my muse, my comrade, wreathed in loving glory.

 

5.       Judge

 

My Muse! My Comrade! Wreathed in loving glory,

words fail to scale the height of my esteem!

A bildungsroman now is this, my story:

from callow youth to half a winning team.

 

It’s thanks to you – in every case before me –

my judgement’s more considered, less extreme;

romantic poets might murmur “I adore thee!” –

but sometimes rhymes run deeper than they seem.

 

This ain’t no corny Keatsian teenage yearning,

to seem profound (and get you into bed) –

more recognition that this guy’s still learning

to be the man he promised when we wed:

 

a partner for your honour, sure together;

a ward ‘gainst civil strife and chilly weather.

 

 

6.       Old Age

 

A ward ‘gainst civil strife and chilly weather –

lock all your doors, and wear a fluffy snood;

mistrust the ‘foreigners’ (but eat their food),

bemoan the lack of feeling in your nethers.

Recite the Telegraph and think you’re clever:

“Minorities lack moral rectitude!”

Divide, deprive, harass, oppress, exclude –

defend the white man’s privilege forever.

 

I hope to god I don’t become my Dad.

I have no taste for droning, whining, cold –

inert as my compassion ossifies.

I’ll try to stay this shop-soiled Galahad:

still seeking truth and beauty when I’m old –

and knowing I know nothing, therefore wise.

 

 

7.       Second Childhood

 

I know that I know nothing – therefore wise

it is that I should hold my foolish tongue?

Well, bugger that: embarrassing the young

shall be this poet’s joy before he dies.

With knackered knees and cataracted eyes,

besotted liver, reefer-blackened lung,

I plan to leave no single song unsung –

no random thought that I won’t verbalise.

So as I bimble through my final years,

I guess I’ll try to savour every breath:

intending laughter, steering clear of tears;

and as to the unmapped that’s after death –

it’s surely half the fun that we don’t know:

expectant, trepidatious, on we go…

 

AWB

 

 

#25 - Seven Ages: Second Childhood

Philosopher Laughing at Magick (detail)
David Teniers, c1775

 

I know that I know nothing – therefore wise

it is that I should hold my foolish tongue?

Well, bugger that: embarrassing the young

shall be this poet’s joy before he dies.

With knackered knees and cataracted eyes,

besotted liver, reefer-blackened lung,

I plan to leave no single song unsung –

no random thought that I won’t verbalise.

So, as I bimble through my final years,

I guess I’ll try to savour every breath:

intending laughter, steering clear of tears;

and as to the Unmapped that’s after death –

it’s surely half the fun that we don’t know:

expectant, trepidatious, on we go…

 

AWB

#21 - Seven Ages: Old Age

John Bull taking a luncheon, James Gillray 1798

 

A ward ‘gainst civil strife and chilly weather –

lock all your doors, and wear a fluffy snood;

mistrust the ‘foreigners’ (but eat their food),

bemoan the lack of feeling in your nethers.

Recite the Telegraph and think you’re clever:

“Minorities lack moral rectitude!”

Divide, deprive, harass, oppress, exclude –

defend the white man’s privilege forever.

 

I hope to god I don’t become my Dad.

I have no taste for droning, whining, cold –

inert as my compassion ossifies.

I’ll try to stay this shop-soiled Galahad:

still seeking truth and beauty when I’m old –

and knowing I know nothing, therefore wise.

 

AWB

#17 - Seven Ages: Judge

 

Presumably not distracted by kids singing Let It Go

My Muse! My Comrade! Wreathed in loving glory,

words fail to scale the height of my esteem!

A bildungsroman now is this, my story:

from callow youth to half a winning team.

 

It’s thanks to you – in every case before me –

my judgement’s more considered, less extreme;

romantic poets might murmur “I adore thee!” –

but sometimes rhymes run deeper than they seem.

 

This ain’t no corny Keatsian teenage yearning,

to seem profound (and get you into bed) –

more recognition that this guy’s still learning

to be the man he promised when we wed:

 

a partner for your honour, sure together;

a ward ‘gainst civil strife and chilly weather..

AWB

#13 - Seven Ages: Soldier

Hunt at Peterloo 1819. Never forget.

 

The hope on which society depends:

that still the arc of History will tend

towards a cultured, genteel evolution.

“Too slow!” cry new recruits with resolution –

some take up arms to hasten their solution,

and some write poems that call for revolution.

(And to this day, both cohorts still contend

at which approach will pay more dividends.)

 

So yeah, I wrote some angry stuff back then:

like “Burn the System! Capital Aflame!”

 “Drown All the Priests in Slurry Made From Tories!”

But Westminster still stood, despite my pen!

And I discovered – focusing my aim –

my muse, a comrade, wreathed in loving glory.

AWB

#9 - Seven Ages: Lover

 

h/t to Caroline Pollard for the photo

A portrait of a man not fully grown –

discovered in a loft and brought to light:

a leather jacket, Yankee hat, and bright

eyes, nonchalant to facing the unknown.

He wants to love, yet still needs to be shown

that common solipsistic oversight –

the plague of every amorous neophyte –

to have a care for hearts that aren’t his own.

 

At that age, breaking hearts was just a game

more fun than football (I played better, too).

The fug of booze and time obscures the names,

remorseful verse rewrites the billets-doux.

Quiescent will exists to make amends,

the hope on which society depends.

 

AWB

#5 - Seven Ages: Schoolboy

 

With smiles and hopeful airs, first day of school:

crisp uniform and unfamiliar tie;

new disciplines, a timetable, and rules

of social commerce; cliques to codify.

Will tests in Maths and Science be your fuel?

Athletics, French, or Music get you by?

Perhaps – like me – you’ll reach the peak of ‘cool’?

(and – decades later – know that that’s a lie.)

This skinny, gobby tryhard spent his terms

deflecting – with his gags – the fists of churls;

and, quoting Shakespeare, and the Diet of Worms,

theatrically failed to dazzle girls.

Pubescent verse, hubristic faith alone:

a portrait of a man not fully grown.

 

AWB

#1 - Seven Ages: Infant

 This year I shall be taking as my inspiration the 'Seven Ages of Man' speech from Shakespeare's As You Like It. You can find that here.

 

expectant, trepidatious, on we go:

a blooded, squalling babe, a bag of needs.

a home, a crib, a blanket, frequent feeds;

a family to shield us as we grow –

to clean our shit and teach us all they know;

applauding each new victory, and deeds

of escalating wonder; joy that breeds

a freedom bearing out Jean-Jacques Rousseau.

 

this isn’t my own recollection here –

but parenthood has given me mementoes,

and watching my own infants grow is fuel

to re-evaluate my early years:

a curious, stumbling journey which crescendoes –

with smiles and hopeful airs – first day of school.

 

AWB

Seven Fukujin (complete crown)

1 - Ebisu

You’re hungry? I got what you really need.

Just stick with me, my son – I’ll see you right.

Why, you look undernourished, poor wee mite!

Ebisu’s got you covered – guaranteed!

I’ll sort you out a mammoth, cracking feed:

we’ll feast and fart into the blessed night!

And when this jolly blowout’s at its height,

you’ll say a prayer, and give me thanks, agreed?

And fish! Oh boy! just think about the fish!

The carp, the codfish, shark (tho just the fin –

I’ll fix a soup if that’s the way you roll).

I’m here to grant your every hungered wish,

and then I’ll leave you, with contented grin,

a bursting belly, and one sated soul.

2 - Daikokuten

A bursting belly and one sated soul

is well and good – but why not five? or twenty?

He brings a feast to fill your empty bowl,

but one good harvest gluts your life with plenty.

 

Me? I think longer term, devise and plan –

this planet offers bounty to the willing.

Renounce the stopgap slop of Fishy Man:

a prayer to me is future-proof fulfilling.

 

You teach a man to fish – y’know the rest,

this hackneyed saw is centred on “himself”.

My field is wider – there’s no use pretending:

 

You teach a man to grow, he builds a nest,

with future dinners lining every shelf –

a home, a hearth, and something worth defending.

 

 

3 - Hotei

A home, a hearth, and something worth defending?

Is someone getting broody over there?

Does instinct urge you to provide an heir?

Secure genetic legacy unending?

Or else, it’s more for family  – you’re intending

to lead a joyous band of offspring fair,

who’ll often make you laugh (and sometimes swear);

a life of love (and frequent moneylending)?

 

A small remembrance will secure my blessings,

since – though your love’s a fortress, all-embracing –

you can’t protect them each and every minute.

I’ll keep an eye, and see how they’re progressing

along life’s shining walkway, always facing

the dangers of this world and what is in it.

 

4 - Bishamonten

The dangers of this world and what is in it?

Precisely why you need a god like me!

This life’s a battle – I can help you win it,

(but bear in mind: I rarely work for free).

Now, many call for skulls, or thrones of gore –

some sacrifice before they offer favour:

your firstborn plus two hundred fattened boar,

(your daughters to be auctioned off to slavers).

 

Not me. I simply state: laws should be obeyed –

those formal codes of manners and convention.

If you behave, then count upon my blade,

to execute that lifelong intervention:

defending you in war and hostile strife;

assuring you a long and healthy life.

 

 

5 - Jurōjin

Assuring you a long and healthy life?

I rather think that’s my domain, old bean!

One constant thought to pierce you like a knife:

your years are finite; death comes unforeseen.

 

But I’ll be here, exchanging blows with brevity –

a duellist fencing fickle Father Time.

A prayer to me will guarantee longevity,

and Socrates’ old wisdom is no crime.

 

Sit back, relax, and have yourself a peach –

Enjoy the peaceful garden, filled with light.

A mortal’s grasp should e’er exceed his reach,

and reaching, grasp exceptionally tight.

 

And when the time-bell calls – your days are done –

just close your eyes and face towards the sun.

 

6 - Fukurokuju

Just close your eyes. And face towards the sun –

appreciate the blessing on your skin.

A lucky life’s the right of everyone:

the blithesome boon of seven fukujin.

 

We’ll grant you lengthy days, and feasts to fill them; 

a castle to protect your laughing children;

a love to make the Earth beneath you shift:

all human bounties lie within our gift.

 

the chief of these is luck – or kismet, karma –

the serendipity of cosmic dances;

the happy fluke of how the dice may fall.

 

So here’s the deal: you cultivate your dharma,

and us, we’ll strive to consecrate your chances –

We’re seven Gods of Fortune after all.

 

 

7 -Benzaiten

We’re seven Gods of Fortune. After all

the boys can offer you, I’ll take my turn.

The arts that fill your day are my concern:

the frosty morning Turner on your wall;

the noonday warmth in every verse you learn;

the evening wreathed in Chopin’s last nocturne.

my works contain the talent to enthral.

 

For what are lengthy days if they lie fallow?

A life bereft of art is hardly living –

refreshment meagre, meditations shallow.

I offer beauty – paramount, life-giving.

Art begets art. Compassion breeds.

You’re hungry. I got what you really need.

 

FEAST – HARVEST – FAMILY – BATTLE – LONGEVITY – FORTUNE – BEAUTY

AWB

#25 - Seven Fukujin: Benzaiten

 

We’re seven Gods of Fortune. After all

the boys can offer you, I’ll take my turn.

The arts that fill your day are my concern:

the frosty morning Turner on your wall;

the noonday warmth in every verse you learn;

the evening wreathed in Chopin’s last nocturne;

my works contain the talent to enthral.

 

For what are lengthy days if they lie fallow?

A life bereft of art is hardly living –

refreshment meagre, meditations shallow.

I offer beauty – paramount, life-giving.

Art begets art. Compassion breeds.

You’re hungry. I got what you really need.

 

AWB

(image credit: Celeste,
Random Colours)

#5 - Seven Fukujin: Daikokuten

 

A bursting belly and one sated soul

is well and good – but why not five? or twenty?

He brings a feast to fill your empty bowl,

but one good harvest gluts your life with plenty.

 

Me? I think longer term, devise and plan –

this planet offers bounty to the willing.

Renounce the stopgap slop of Fishy Man:

a prayer to me is future-proof fulfilling.

 

You teach a man to fish – y’know the rest –

this hackneyed saw is centred on “himself”.

My field is wider – there’s no use pretending:

 

You teach a man to grow, he builds a nest,

with future dinners lining every shelf –

a home, a hearth, and something worth defending.

 

AWB

#1 - Seven Fukujin: Ebisu

 

    You’re hungry? I got what you really need.

Just stick with me, my son – I’ll see you right.

Why, you look undernourished, poor wee mite!

Ebisu’s got you covered – guaranteed!

I’ll sort you out a mammoth, cracking feed:

we’ll feast and fart into the blessed night!

And when this jolly blowout’s at its height,

you’ll say a prayer, and give me thanks – agreed?

    And fish! Oh boy! just think about the fish!

The carp, the codfish, shark (tho just the fin –

I’ll fix a soup if that’s the way you roll).

I’m here to grant your every hungered wish,

and then I’ll leave you, with contented grin,

a bursting belly, and one sated soul.

AWB

#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.

 

#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

#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

#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

#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

#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