POETRY

OF VANITY

‘…a very stable genius…’

DONALD J. TRUMP, Tweet 6.1.18.

 

One of the prints hanging in my grandmother’s

bedroom was Waterhouse’s ‘Echo

and Narcissus’. In a bosky, rather

English landscape, Narcissus and Echo –

before he became a flower and she a sound –

lie and sit respectively: she entranced with him,

and he with himself in the slow brook.

 

As a boy I thought it a picture

of a good looking chap and a pretty girl

with water and lilies, that might have featured

in one of Busby Berkeley’s productions,

which flickered across our nine inch telly.

 

Though most of the people I have met since then

have been angels in waiting it would have been

helpful, I know now, for some exegesis

of the painting, to see beneath the masks

of the few egomaniacs I have known,

uncover immediately their seeming charms,

their rhetoric of self-righteous blame,

their instant shifts into public self-pity

and paranoia, their betrayal of friends,

their creation of their very own doomsdays.

 

                                    ***

 

The narcissist’s narcissist, Adolf Hitler,

echoing Horace to an extent

consciously or not, opined the year

Rommel was defeated and Stalingrad

relieved, “Wars are all very well. Art lasts.”

 

By the time he was Chancellor there were

so many ‘Village with Mountain View’, ‘Lake

with Mountain View’ and ‘Village and Lake

with Mountain View’ signed Adolf Hitler

and on sale as the genuine article,

that the artist decided it was time

for a definitive catalogue. Agents

were dispatched across Deutschland and Österreich

to purchase all paintings attributed

to him. Sadly, for posterity,

the artist was not able to determine

fake genius from true.

 

 

 

ORGANISED CRIMES

I watched the TV parade of affluent

(and mostly public school) chancers, liars,

fantasists, hypocrites, law-breakers

vie to top each other’s warmed-up clichés

and self-serving platitudes. The social

and economic future dystopia most

seemed to desire would, they assured us,

bring out the British best in all of us,

just like the Blitz. I thought of bomb-razed

building lots in major cities still empty –

and a tale a cabby told me years ago,

taxiing me from the railway station.

 

As he dropped me off he looked at the house.

He asked if it had a cellar, with a door

opening onto the back garden. I nodded.

He and his mum, he said, had joined a silent

and lengthy queue to buy black market sugar.

‘A doctor lived here then, ran a racket

with the lad that worked at the grocer’s.

The lad did time. The medic got off scot-free.’

 

I did some research, worked out the dates.

Here, in this place of light we have made our home,

all those ordinary folk committed crimes

like common recidivists – while London

was bombed, and Coventry, and Liverpool,

and the BBC broadcast Churchill’s speeches

of carefully crafted rhetoric.

 

 

 

POPPIES

Though we are not quite half way through November

four poppies are blooming in the front garden.

Papaver orientale: voluptuous,

shell-pink; stamens a dark heliotrope;

a cultivar by Cedric Morris, artist

and plantsman, who searched Suffolk’s hedgerows and fields

for common poppies with softer colours –

that simple weed the usual scoundrels

have made a shibboleth of belonging.

 

A night of wind and rain has downed all but one

in the narrow border, where sedum,

rhodendron, berberis, fresia

are properly autumnal. Between the earth

and the house is a row of paving stones laid

to keep intact Victorian foundations.

Rats are tunnelling beneath the slabs.

 

 

 

OMENS

This October’s high water has almost reached

the top of the sea wall, its lapping

silenced by two oafish nabobs on jet skis –

iconoclasts shattering the seascape

of the Straits. Rain clouds along the mainland

are lifting, greyness lightening, slowly

becoming white – revealing early Autumn’s

gradual alchemy. Two porpoises

surface briefly out in the deepest channel,

swimming, in the remnants of the Gulf Stream,

from Cardigan Bay to Liverpool Bay.

 

As the tide drains northwards over Lavan Sands

from the unexpected south a cold breeze blows.

A great crested grebe – a freshwater bird

only on sea coasts in winter – is fishing

among the moored cruisers, their pennants

tremulous in the wind.

 

 

 

OCTOBER 4TH

My first, and, so far, only – and that minor –

cardiac infarction fell on the date

of the sixty fourth anniversary

of The Battle of Cable Street, when the Jews

and the Irish stuffed Mosley and his Blackshirts,

the Old Wykehamist and his numbskulls,

the Daily Mail’s darling, a Great White Hope.

 

***

 

The consultant – of the old, aloof school,

and treated with awe by theatre staff –

liked Benny Goodman for accompaniment.

On a vast black and white monitor I watched

as, through my groin, the catheter sidled

the arterial highways to my heart.

How essentially anonymous we are!

They could have been anybody’s body parts!

I turned away, listened to the King of Swing’s

version of Bessie Smith’s ‘After You’ve Gone’ –

‘some day when you grow lonely your heart will break…’

 

***

 

Today is the eighty fourth and the nineteenth

respectively. There is no need, perhaps,

for barricades, and I have almost learned

the lessons of my heart.

 

 

 

Note: the poem was first published on 4.10.19 on Facebook .

FROM THE PERCH ROCK CAUSEWAY, NEW BRIGHTON

A small boy is digging in the Autumn sand.

Ships pass in the deep channel. Someone

has made a stand of driftwood twigs topped

with modest baubles. Directly below us

on the sandstone rocks is a dead buzzard

spread eagled – yes, almost literally

the right word – its head gone or hidden,

its exposed viscera gnawed, its talons

limp. We are humans therefore forensic

so discuss the causes of the bird’s demise

and mutilation: low flying aircraft, rats?

Some spring tide will lift whatever remains

of the magnificent black tipped wingspan

out into the oceans.