Go and play in the middle -- John Hegley

Guest poem sent in by Steve Axbey

(Poem #1583) Go and play in the middle my Mum used to watch out of the window these boys who played football on the green in front of the bungalow she used to stand well back so she couldn't be seen and when the ball hit the wall of our garden she said to my Dad it's hit our wall again Bob go out and tell them and my Dad would go out and tell them maybe eight or nine times in a day to go and play in the middle and immediately he had told them my Mum would be on the watch for the next time he would need sending out and sometimes it was only a few moments after he had come back in -- John Hegley

In the bright and innocent days of 'alternative comedy' John Hegley was
known as an 'alternative poet' and for a while he was on TV quite regularly
here in the UK.  Rarely seen on the box now, he still tours the country
performing in his one-man shows and is a regular at the Edinburgh festival -
catch him if you can.

This poem is a very early one of his - not sure why I chose this particular
one amongst many others, for some reason it just made me laugh the most when
I was re-reading the book this evening.  But I don't think it's a bad choice
- it's pretty representative: his Dad, his Bungalow and his childhood in
Luton feature regularly in his poems - he's not just kept in touch with his
roots, he's positively milked them :-)

And I know he wouldn't mind me saying that - typical of Hegley, he's even
written an poem poking fun at the way he writes poems poking fun at his
roots. Here it is [assuming that Martin and Abraham don't notice me
smuggling, deftly, a second poem into my submission] [we've done it
ourselves! - martin]

LUTON
(a poem about the town of my upbringing and the conflict between my working
class origins and the middle class status conferred upon me by a university
education)

    I remember Luton
    as I'm swallowing my crout'n

[two poems eh? how on earth is Sitaram going to fit that into his index?]
[the index is large, it contains multitudes - martin]

To really appreciate his poems you have to hear John read them himself -
there's a brief sound bite on his website [broken link] http://www.johnhegley.co.uk ,
where there's a also a biog, merchandise etc. If you'd like to hear him he's
actually on tour in the UK at the moment (winter 2004), details on the site.

Enjoy
Stephen Axbey

[Links]

Reiterating the link to Hegley's site: [broken link] http://www.johnhegley.co.uk

And go reread Poem #1407 while you're at it :)

Ae Fond Kiss -- Robert Burns

Guest poem submitted by Steve Axbey:

(Poem #1474) Ae Fond Kiss Ae fond kiss, and then we sever; Ae fareweel, alas, for ever! Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. Who shall say that Fortune grieves him, While the star of hope she leaves him? Me, nae cheerful twinkle lights me; Dark despair around benights me. I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy, Naething could resist my Nancy: But to see her was to love her; Love but her, and love for ever. Had we never lov'd sae kindly, Had we never lov'd sae blindly, Never met -- or never parted, We had ne'er been broken-hearted. Fare-thee-weel, thou first and fairest! Fare-thee-weel, thou best and dearest! Thine be ilka joy and treasure, Peace, Enjoyment, Love and Pleasure! Ae fond kiss, and then we sever! Ae fareweel, alas, for ever! Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. -- Robert Burns

This is quite a well known poem, so I imagine many Minstrels subscribers
will be familiar with it, but I think it's worth featuring -- it's one
of my favourites, sentimental as it is.

Nancy was a real person: Agnes McLehose, with whom Burns established a
long running platonic relationship, and with whom he continued a long
correspondence, in which they addressed each other as 'Clarinda' and
'Sylvander'. "Ae Fond Kiss" is contained in Burns' final letter to
Nancy, written in Dec 1791, and is generally considered to be much the
best of the nine poems or songs he sent her (this one is sometimes
classified as a song).

Nancy lived a long life - she was 83 when she died in 1841, by which
time she was something of a celebrity: well known as "the woman who
broke Rabbie Burns' heart". You can read more about her here:
http://www.robertburns.org/encyclopedia/MLehoseAgnesCraigClarinda1759-18
41.555.html

It's a great poem full of heartfelt passion. Like all the folk poetry,
and folk music, it tells a story and, like all the *best* folk/country
poetry the story is a sad one. (Q: What do you get if you play country
music backwards? A: You get your wife back, your home back, your kids
back, you car back...).

If I had a criticism: it's the timing. Surely the best lines -- and
indeed the whole point of the poem -- are these:
        Had we never lov'd sae blindly
        Never met -- or never parted
        We had ne'er been broken-hearted"
So shouldn't those lines  come at the end?

I first came across the poem as a song by Fairground Attraction, a 1980s
Scottish band fronted by Eddi Reader. Their debut (and as it turned out
final) album was called "First of a Million Kisses".  Then, after they
broke up and an album of off-cuts was released, it was symmetrically
called "Ay Fond Kiss", with a version of this as the title track.  And a
very beautiful version it is: released nearly 20 years ago, it's still
got a high billing on my iPod :-)

Although Fairground Attraction broke up, Eddi Reader is still going
strong and indeed she released an album of Robbie Burns' songs in 2003.
That album includes a new version of Ae Fond Kiss, and with lyrics more
faithful to the original, and I can recommend it whole-heartedly.

You can find more details of Eddi at her official site
www.eddireader.com

For more on Robbie Burns try
        http://www.robertburns.org/
or      http://www.rabbie-burns.com/index.cfm
for starters... but a quick Google will turn up many, many more
references.

Steve.

Causa Belli -- Andrew Motion

Guest poem sent in by Steve Axbey , who writes:

A bit late for your series on war poems, but topical nonetheless is the
latest poem by Andrew Motion the Poet Laureate.  (The United Kingdom's
poet laureate I should say).

(Poem #1143) Causa Belli They read good books, and quote, but never learn a language other than the scream of rocket-burn Our straighter talk is drowned but ironclad; elections, money, empire, oil and Dad. -- Andrew Motion

Here's some references, with some commentary
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/entertainment/2641477.stm#quote
[broken link] http://www.guardian.co.uk/Iraq/Story/0,2763,871251,00.html

The role of Poet Laureate is an odd one, and I have been unable to
Google out an official definition.  However here's an interview with
Andrew Motion who talks a bit about what he thinks the role is
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/uk/840752.stm

The poem itself I find disappointing - I've thought about it a bit now,
but I'm not at sure I know what he's really trying to say...or is that
just me?

But it must be anti-war, anyway - it says so in all the newspapers :-)

Cheers
Steve Axbey

[Martin adds]

Apparently Steve wasn't the only one disappointed - take a look at
[broken link] http://groups.google.com/groups?threadm=3E20FAB8.C94A1B82%40arvig.net&rnum=1

My favourite quote: "Call me old-fashioned but I don't think you can
extensively parody a poem without a guest turn from at least one dear
gazelle."

Amen, say I :)

Couplets -- Thomas Lynch

Guest poem submitted by Steve Axbey:

The last poem I submitted (1) was an old favourite of mine, this one I read only
this morning but was very taken with...

(Poem #461) Couplets Two girls found dead. My sons go to the morgue. Two cots, thick rubber gloves, two body bags. Too long stuffed in a culvert, raped and stabbed, too decomposed to recognise. Too sad. Two local ne'er-do-wells no doubt abused too much as children themselves, stand mute. Two caskets in a room, two families undone. Two ministers. Two homilies. My sons too busy with flowers and townspeople to contemplate the problem of evil, to shake their fists at God, regard instead two funerals - the living and the dead to be transported in their separate griefs - two hearses to be washed, two limousines. Today the wakes and paperwork details. Tomorrow a burning and a burial. Two girls found dead of known brutalities together forever, precious memories too sweet, too savage, too beautiful and bad to keep at bay by ritual or words. Two boys about their father's business learn to number, comfort, witness and keep track. -- Thomas Lynch

 From 'Still Life in Milford' (Cape Poetry, £8).

Why do I like this poem?

I found it very moving, and I found it very shocking - even though we are all
used to reading about crimes such as these, this is different - why? Because
there are two of them, of course. Which is (one of) the point(s) of the poem.

It's also a clever poem (I like clever poems).  The line-beginnings are great, I
think.

The last couplet really makes the poem memorable: Lynch is an undertaker, of
course, and the resonant phrase (about their father's business) is very
powerful, but it's also very abrupt, a new piece of information that brings the
earlier couplets into context.

The poem was in The Times which quoted it beside a review of Lynch's latest
book:

An important undertaking
BODIES IN MOTION AND AT REST
By Thomas Lynch
Jonathan Cape, £10
ISBN 0 224 06606 4

Here's a link to the review:
[broken link] http://www.the-times.co.uk/news/pages/tim/2000/05/11/timbooboo02015.html
but I have to say it's terribly badly written - almost incomprehensible I
thought
[ the review, I mean, I haven't read the book :-) ]

Steve Axbey.

[1] poem #360

I Wish You Were a Wave of the Sea -- John Whitworth

Guest poem submitted by Steve Axbey :

I've been meaning to send this in for ages (and now it'll be lost
amongst a big pile of responses to your request: curses!):

(Poem #360) I Wish You Were a Wave of the Sea Fretting my heart as you pedal your bicycle, Perdita, once I called, Perdita, twice I called. Pretty as paint and as cool as a icicle, Perdita Simmons! Shall I tell how we met under fortunate auspices? Presuming a bottle of Spanish Don Horsepiss is Fortunate... This is not one of my coarse pieces, Perdita Simmons. Syllables shimmy as sonnets assemble Themselves in a shadowless summer a-tremble - A ten-guinea ticket for Merton Commem Ball With Perdita Simmons Daddy's a saurian Cambridge historian. Mummy's more chummy. She's tweedy and Tory and Hunts and what-have-you. So very Victorian Is Perdita Simmons. Thus Mainwaring, tall dark and rich, with a glance as much As to say, My dear boy, I don't fancy your chances much I know Perdie of old, and she doesn't like dances much, Doesn't Perdita Simmons. Perdita's hair ruffles fairer and tanglier, Perdita's grin makes my ganglia janglia, Perdita's uncle owns half of East Anglia, All for Perdita Simmons. Mainwaring's plan is for getting a leg over; Wait till she's plastered (the bastard!), then beg of her. No go. (Ho-ho!) Now his face has got egg over. From Perdita Simmons. Oh, how spiffing! (She talks like a school-story serial, While my lexical style is down-market and beery.) All Love is insane and remote and ethereal And Perdita Simmons. As we're pounding the ground in a last hokey-cokey, dawn Fingers two constables, hauling off chokey-borne Mainwaring, pissed as a rat on the croquet lawn. Sweet Perdita Simmons. Half-asleep, climbing from Headington Hill, at the crest of it Sickle moon, scatter of stars and the rest of it, In my hand one small hand (and this is the best of it) Of Perdita Simmons. Perdita murmurs, You'll do for a poet. And kisses me carefully twice, just to show it. Nobody knows what love is. But I know it. It's Perdita Simmons. -- John Whitworth

I am surpised to realise that this is one of my favourite poems (I
immediately knew that it would be this poem that I would one day send in
to the Wondering Minstrels).

I love it for the rythyms, the clever rhymes, the abrupt changes of pace
(but still managing to flow) and the ending. But most of all because
it's so much fun.  (It also helps, perhaps, that I first heard it read
live by the author while I myself was a student at university).

John Whitworth was born in 1945 (the book jacket says) and his first
collection was called Unhistorical Fragments. This poem is taken from
Poor Butterflies (1982) published by  Secker and Warburg.  I couldn't
find any biography on the net and as far as I know he isn't at all
famous - but I would be pleased to be corrected!

Re-reading the poem again it suddenly strikes me how British it is so,
for the benefit of the non-Brits, here's a glossary:

Merton Commem Ball - Merton is a college at Oxford University. Their
annual Commemoration Ball is a lavish, sparkling affair.
Tory - Conservative
Mainwaring - is pronounced "Mannering" (so the poem does scan!)
plastered - drunk
chokey - prison
pissed - drunk (in the UK "pissed off" means annoyed, but "pissed" means
drunk, causing endless Anglo-American fun).

Steve.

[thomas adds]

Ever since Steve sent this poem in, I've been going around singing
'Perdita's grin makes my ganglia janglia' at random intervals...