Tuesday 31 January 2012

The right notes




For Jazzy John

In the shadows before caffeine and light
strange creatures assemble in black coats
on the wrong side of the city, at night.
Bending the darkness with their sweet notes
they astonish with their lines and chords.
Knowing when to blend, when to thrill
they lend us poetry without words
with each arpeggio and rapid fill.
Accurate notes, some softer, some faster
are a form of artistry best observed
in the skilful hands of a master.
In deep cellars where candles are burned
the void is filled by luminous sound.
In the dark, the brightest light is found.

Thursday 26 January 2012

A meditation upon ageing



















Found in the attic, a cracked old stein
With love to dad a present from the Rhine
It was the last trip you were allowed on
During your youthful rebellion
It is the prerogative of youth to rage
I did. I was a hippy at that age
How I laughed at my parents' tacky crap
There were musicals before there was rap
Radio 2, Semprini Serenade
David Jacobs and his ‘hit parade’
Now my stuff has the same effect on you
The Groundhogs, Focus, Led Zeppelin II

Rebellions are based on hair and beats
And trouser widths but history repeats
In Camden, thin young men in photo shoots
Are wearing skinny jeans and desert boots
From each generation comes barbarous rhyme
From skiffle to rock to hip-hop then to grime
We offend our children, they will theirs
By being boring, or nerds, or ‘squares’
We urge upon the young our own decorum
‘Do not go out like that,’ we implore them
We leave our past, but then it comes back
Nostalgia is in, grey is the new black

Perhaps fashion is merely a sense of smell
For what is lasting, what ephemeral
My old army great coat lingers in the hall
Like a relic on a market stall
Mildewed and redolent of old rope
Patchouli oil, Golden Virginia and dope
I wore it at Reading, damp and high
On something. Lasers flashed across the sky
I would not wear it now, it would look weird
Like a pony tail, or a goatee beard
Offences against taste make us sick
Knowing when to stop, that's the trick


Tuesday 24 January 2012

Vis-a-vis the rain















Vis-a-vis the rain, it is still falling
Today, relentlessly, and apropos
The wintery weather conditions
On the common are remnants of snow.
 
A crane buckets soft earth. Dots of red light
Like dragons' eyes pierce the misted window.
Seemingly, hundreds children get onto the bus 
In purple, green, orange, lime and yellow

Sit down Usher! Take your hood down.
They not concerned by this slush
or the peculiar meteorological conditions
Their voices chatter, living in now.

Wednesday 18 January 2012

Prozac Britain












The iced winter air, so invigorating
Porridge and cold meat, finely sliced
Their textures set my pulses racing
British food – so delicately spiced
We watch a flower open, a slowed-down bug
In a state of opiated innocence
Now we are safe, pleasure is our drug
And sensuous, value-free experience
The cloying touch of freezing mud
Cold slate, sharp thistles, grey cloud
We say ‘it's good; it's all good’
We own nothing; frowning is not allowed
Once stoics, we endured them, they were bad
Now they are gone, we love them and are glad


I was in Pret A Manger in Stamford Street, London SE1, close to where I work. Everyone was smiling. How are you? I'm good thanks. I'm really good. I realised, at that moment, that the British have changed. Once, we were miserable, curmudgeonly and highly critical of anything ‘foreign’. Now, we have swung to the opposite extreme. We enjoy everything; we are open-minded and positive; nothing is bad. Of course, this is a far better collective state of mind to be in than our previous one and I have always advocated putting Prozac in the water supply. My little sonnet is merely an observation of how Britain has changed in my lifetime – for geopolitical as much as for psychosocial reasons.

Wednesday 11 January 2012

Alas poor Wozzer



There has been massive trauma in my life and I was abused as a child but I can't blame my childhood for this. I hope I'm not going totally gaga in my old age. I have wondered whether it's something like that but I hope 60 is too young for something like Alzheimer's and I do feel that I have to take responsibility for this.

A cruel fate, you were abused by mummy
And turned to comfort eating, hence your tummy
Diminutive of frame and short of arse
You donned the chef’s whites for your daily brass
To spite your wealthy gran you plied the trade
Of chop and filet, sauce and marinade
And selling sickly food gave you success
A string of restaurants, a posh address

You flattered Princess Di, your royal host
A portly jester bearing Melba toast
Some chefs are known to bully or harangue
You were emollient, a sweet meringue
You won the housewife’s heart with nanny’s food
Fawned to the rich but to the poor were rude
Beneath your sugared crust, sickly as cola
A pin-striped chancer in the latest Roller

No sylph and hardly blessed with film star looks
You joined the pantheon of TV cooks
A jealous, quarrelling gaggle, how they sneered
At your “squashed Bee Gee” face, your ginger beard
Recession hit, they laughed as you went down
And traded in a poorer part of town
You made them snigger with your poison leaf
And now, collared in Tesco, you’re a thief!

Apparently for figures of your station
Nicking stuff is just an aberration
It was not me, it must have been dementia
I am only guilty in absentia
The cruel abuse I suffered renders me
Immune from law, I’m seeking therapy
All utter tosh, you stole to fill your frame
Greed is greed. Now you should take the blame



http://www.thesun.co.uk/sol/homepage/news/4046788/Chef-Antony-Worrall-Thompson-shoplifts-at-Tesco.html