A voice cried for pity
the tearful bird,
entombed in stone,
weeping ever in endless sorrow
always and always
new shapes of woe,
like a savage creature
much wronged. . . .
[A poem I wrote way back in 2010, now republished to mark Ratzinger’s death]
A lovely day, Holiness, don’t you think?
Here’s a nice cool cocktail for you to drink.
Have a chocolate tart, or a juicy pear.
Shall I fluff your cushion, adjust your chair?
I’ve got this soothing oil here; let me anoint –
Stop crawling, boy. Get to the fucking point.
Holiness, Signor Berlusconi sends greeting.
Ach! I hope he doesn’t want a meeting.
I cannot stand that tanned and toupee’d twat.
Remind me to arrange a concordat
With Iran; a fatwa should do the trick –
Get some wild-eyed nutjob to waste the prick.
His continued life, I cannot endure.
Such thoughts, your Holiness, are most impure.
You expect my mind to be without taint?
I’m the goddamn Pope, dumbass, not a saint!
Well, what does little Silvio want now?
I doubt it’s something the Church should allow.
A petition, your Grace, to effect a change –
Some doctrinal details to rearrange.
The Prime Minister admits to his vice,
But carnal misdeeds are so very nice.
He’s not an easy man to satiate;
His horde of harlots numbers eighty-eight,
Yet even these can’t satisfy his lusts
Or meet his burning appetite for busts.
But, reflecting on his mortality,
He’s been stirred by a strange morality.
Terror of hell now makes him palpitate;
He’s anxious to avoid a dismal fate.
For his ease of conscience to be ensured,
His adulterous past must be abjured.
Signor wishes to lead a blameless life,
Yet cannot rest content with just one wife.
Might he be permitted a couple more?
Monogamy, he claims, is such a bore.
Polygamy’s the answer, so he says,
But receives at present papal dispraise;
To amend this dogma is his request,
So that his many amours might be blessed.
Declare each Catholic female his spouse,
And all his conquests will be kept in-house.
Does he take me for a total duffer?
Of all the bullshit I’ve had to suffer,
This is the biggest pile of stinking crap
That’s been excreted on my ageing lap.
Why should I make this outrageous decree?
Signor offers a most substantial fee.
That puts the matter in a different light.
I’m not convinced it’s altogether right,
But sometimes intransigence must give way
When affluent fools are prepared to pay.
Your Grace is quite astonishingly wise.
But you’re looking tired; I’ll massage your thighs.
1.
the waiting bones
old and white and twisty
rattling noisily
all night
the rusty little skull
out of breath
its dark songs
extinguished
2.
one single wisp of smoke
rising
spiralling upward to fling out
pale grey leaves
turning in circles far above
the light
floating away
A dream arrived dire and fearful
that from the poet forced his tears,
shattered his hand-strength at the hilt,
and cracked his sword Saturday night.
The sword was buried in the dust,
a leader fair and scholar wise.
A brutal blow did God’s fist strike
by smashing Edeirnion’s own fist;
as he struck to earth Brân and Llŷr,
he struck to earth the eagle’s chick,
and struck to earth the people’s shield,
and struck to earth the learned priest.
In Gwynedd, the lament is great
because Sir Benet’s in his grave,
and for their kinsman, great the grief
in Tegeingl, such dreadful news.
Yesterday, an invitation;
today, where is the inviter?
Set for today, the joyful feast:
the feast that’s now a funeral.
Faces washed by waves of water,
The fallen churchman’s bleak blue sea.
An eagle of the faithful, strong
and exalted bird of Llwch Gwin;
stalwart leader of St. Sulien’s,
built like a Roland, grey giant.
The claws of death, ever mighty,
will strike down all our human deeds.
Not in the whole breadth of England
has such a man as he been felled.
St. David, alas, is not here
to raise him to the realms of life,
nor St. Beuno, who recovered
seven from death’s unloved domain.
To see Sir Benet full of health
would make my heart replete with bliss.
If Corwen’s curate has left us,
fine man, woe to those remaining!
Since his going, men are worse off
and good priests thinner on the ground.
That man never failed in kindness,
but now gifts are seldom received.
No poet passed with empty purse;
now only air stuffs his leather.
Why don’t you endow another,
God, with patronage to bless us?
When Ifor Hael died in summer,
Rhys Leiaf took on his mantle.
Ifor met his death in Corwen,
devastating that scholar’s court.
Sweet Mary, who merits the chair?
Whose virtues will deserve the place?
Who will give at a splendid fair
the second gift on Sulien’s feast?
Sir Benet, while there, gave freely,
sharing his wealth without stinting.
If an Englishman gets the job,
by God, let him have open hands.
But it’s not likely that we’ll have
a parson to compare in fame.
Studious trout, master of tongues!
Water enfolds your radiance.
Fervent, bent on tumult,
Reared by Tegid, which fattens fish.
Endowed with speed no distance strains,
Gilled scion of Conwy.
I’ve no messenger to send greeting
To my lover
Through Tâf’s shining course
But you, brave patriarch of rivers.
Steel won’t slay you,
Nor water drown you.
Dauntless between banks,
Unheard and unseen in the black depths,
You’ve no cause, by God,
To fear the fisher’s rod.
Môn’s fine founder,
Poet’s trust and talisman,
Swift through three-hundred streams
Of pure liquid freedom.
From nurturing pools to far seething floods,
Blithe prince in faith’s fresh waters,
Nets yearn for your capture,
Yet you’ll turn and slip them all,
My stout strong creature.
May the Lord God lay you no ambush!
For my sake, bear this token:
A love-pledge untainted by slander.
Swim towards my beloved’s court,
Finned vigour, and no further.
Swim handless to heaven,
Then footless come home.
Hurry, don’t tarry by fords.
Bring back your splendid tales!
swarming slate dust sky
gauzy mountains grey and gold
all summer this haze
I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox
and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast
I have also eaten
the cheese potato salad
yogurt tiramisu
cucumber grapes
and most of the olives
I have left you some
olives
Forgive me
valued lecturer
for I am the vice-chancellor
working to keep
our sector competitive
George Bernard Shaw
Thought dawdling a bore.
‘There’s nothing quite sadder;
Now fetch me my ladder.’
Eugene O’Neill
Made love to a seal
On the deck of a schooner.
The result was Oona.
José Saramago
Was placed under embargo
When he said a joined-up Iberia
Would make people cheerier.
Günter Grass
Had a musical arse,
Which, prompted by pain,
Would fart ‘Lili Marleen’.
Doris Lessing
Bathed in French dressing.
Fingers were crossed
When her salad was tossed.
just watch those lobsters jive
cavorting up on deck
bopping a danse macabre
in their potted discotheque
as we caper in our kitchens
they’ll go waltzing while we whisk
our friends the kind crustaceans
will salute us as we frisk
we’ll clap their claws
in loud applause
as they boogie twist and tango
but the greatest thrill
is the lobster quadrille
finished
with a slice of mango
dancing on the boiling sand
dining deep beneath the sea
with claw in claw and hand in
hand with some for you and
more for me
take your places
form a line
the music’s about to
start throw your partners
into the brine
and tear their limbs apart
up the cry goes
change lobsters
and run
for nobody knows
when the dancing is done
and nobody knows
if it’s even begun
so pass the spoon me
hearties pass the spoon
to me
it’s far too late for supper
but it’s not quite
time for tea
the table’s set most
prettily with
trumpets toads and
pedants
while fainting waiters
discourse wittily of
deaf and dainty pheasants
be sure to take a
turn or two
with each bumbler at the ball
and just before those sleepy curtains
fall SCREAM lobsters
my lobsters
I love you one
and all
I kiss your frilly tails
now rolled up in your
mouths I
marinate your hearts
with a splash of
dry vermouth
avec sauce asks
the gryphon
a tad
disconsolate
just a little
the mock-turtle says
and weeps
into his plate
for Jonathan Jones
whose side are you on
that question again
wont leave me alone
even in the national gallery
seriously
anything but labour
me
alone
im looking at tit
ian a socialist in the museum
look
presumably retiring
totally fruitless
stoppages all out
immediately break
jeremy corbyn
all my adult life in the past
a cynical muscle
accuses
the case has been made
desire closing
worse disruption to come
nonsense art people
kids in the summer holidays
visitors who come all over
a lot of ordinary people
great art
the management
savage neoliberal ideologues
i love its hard
grind
down the workers
possibly retiring
writes speaks
face soft old
oil strike many
a long tradition
inclined unthinkingly
rooms and rooms
great
might
harder
the most extreme provocation
public service i cant help
much easier
government
i dont think
i think
throw its weight about
i didnt think
seriously put out
much of my lifetime
whose side am i on
a tory i am
crying
hard
turn
me
one
mimic hootings 