OK, poetry needs to deal with the serious business of being alive in a crazy world. The atrocities that pollute human existence week in, week out, should remind us of our responsibilities. Ukraine, Israel, Palestine, Yemen, Haiti, Uganda, Mali… these are just the flashpoints of tragedy caused by violence that came to my head as I wrote this. We know there will be many more that draw less or no attention.
I feel a responsibility to respond seriously, often emotionally and occasionally angrily, to what’s happening around the world. There are plenty of examples on this site. Having said that, human life is a variety of things and, living as I do, in physical isolation from the rage that afflicts so many, other images, other sensitivities, form part of my days. I enjoy our smallholding and our woodland, I love time with my pigs, I see laughter and absurdity everywhere from the youngest to the oldest among us, and I see it in myself. All of this also demands a response if my writing is to be honest.
Humour seems to me to be a useful and sometimes subtle tool to get over a message about the general state of the society that I find myself, however reluctantly, a part of. There are plenty of poems here that poke affectionate fun at people and their habits, at myself for the absurd elements of my own life – and often, because I read a lot of poetry and far too often poets want to be taken so very seriously, at poets. Sometimes something deeper and more serious lurks beneath the surface, but sometimes it’s justifiable as fun for fun’s sake.
Maybe the point in jabbering on about this is a reaction to a whole string of poems I’ve read recently, and comments in discussions, where the writers seem to inhabit a closed, incredibly self-indulgent, self-absorbed world, as if they are unaware of what’s happening outside.
This week’s prime example, was a bizarre and to my mind scarcely believable debate, carried out with a considerable amount of fury, as to what is, and what is not, a haiku. I found it both bizarre and ridiculous that people were getting so worked up about it that they were resorting to insults.
The world is burning and people are being slaughtered, folks, and you’re worrying about this?!
Maybe the point here is a message – please let’s take ourselves a little less seriously and remind ourselves that we’re here to untangle the madness that comes with the responsibility of being human in whatever way seems appropriate at the time – and not to preoccupy ourselves with pedantry, particularly when it involves such a flimsy thing as a perceived poetic form.
Here endeth, etc.
And just for the sake of it, revisiting the point about the relevance, sometimes, of fun for fun’s sake, here’s an old poem about going to the pub and not quite making it to a poetry reading… and then another one about going to the bookies. Thank you and good night.
WE DIDN’T CROSS THE ROAD TO SEE DANNIE ABSE
John and I were going to hear Dannie Abse read his poetry
but got there early
and popped in for a swift one
at The Prince of Wales across the road
The Prince of Wales where you can find Fred
who’s just done a good deal on a hundred quid Volvo
who’s growing his own water cress now the wild stuff’s gone
The Prince of Wales where Bill
lowering his voice
will tell you
Henry Weston Black Top’s not a drink
but an anaesthetic
The Prince of Wales where nobody can quite remember
the name of the first man around here
to get done for drink-driving
but everybody agrees he lived up in the forest
and drove a Robin Reliant
The Prince of Wales where Wilf with half his teeth left
and a hat he got from a Bavarian tourist
says he’s got to go but he’ll just
have one for the ditch
The Prince of Wales where Cedric
is proud of his new purple shirt
and of his wife
who is a barrister a teacher
an income tax collector
and related to Dylan Thomas
and who, when he rings up to ask, does
actually tell him the Hobo Poet
was W H Davies
And talking of poets John’s just remembering
it was Adrian Mitchell
who first said
Philip Larkin was really Eric Morecambe
and
given this
we estimate that
if Dannie Abse is really Ernie Wise
by now
he must be about halfway through
Bring Me Sunshine
KIPPER
Kipper’s 50p’s on trap six in the 11.07 at Catford
and that six-dog hits the first bend clear
and there’s trouble behind –
the one slides and takes out two
which clips the heels of four,
three’s no good and five’s got a belly full of oats
and Kipper’s six bounds in by eight lengths.
By which time Kipper is singing
the theme from The Dambusters
his old arms out like wings
tilting in honour of fallen comrades
from the Black Dog and the Greyhound Inn
and the Red Lion and the Two Feathers
and the Prince of Wales
and the Legion where
the beer’s cheaper than anywhere
if you can stand the soapy tang
from the pipes improperly cleaned
by the lazy steward called Reg.
Kipper’s won
and winning is beating them
and his mad beam is for all of us to share
in the fight against disillusion and defeat
and we’re with him all the way
to the 11.16 at Romford
Bob Mee poetry and more 