Slough -- John Betjeman

Continuing the theme...

(Poem #1522) Slough Come, friendly bombs, and fall on Slough It isn't fit for humans now, There isn't grass to graze a cow Swarm over, Death! Come, bombs, and blow to smithereens Those air-conditioned, bright canteens, Tinned fruit, tinned meat, tinned milk, tinned beans Tinned minds, tinned breath. Mess up the mess they call a town -- A house for ninety-seven down And once a week for half-a-crown For twenty years, And get that man with double chin Who'll always cheat and always win, Who washes his repulsive skin In women's tears, And smash his desk of polished oak And smash his hands so used to stroke And stop his boring dirty joke And make him yell. But spare the bald young clerks who add The profits of the stinking cad; It's not their fault that they are mad, They've tasted Hell. It's not their fault they do not know The birdsong from the radio, It's not their fault they often go To Maidenhead And talk of sports and makes of cars In various bogus Tudor bars And daren't look up and see the stars But belch instead. In labour-saving homes, with care Their wives frizz out peroxide hair And dry it in synthetic air And paint their nails. Come, friendly bombs, and fall on Slough To get it ready for the plough. The cabbages are coming now; The earth exhales. -- John Betjeman

My thanks to Frank O'Shea (the instigator of our current theme -- "The Poet
Cranky") for re-introducing this poem to me. (I'd read it in the past, but
for some reason it failed to stick in my mind).

Betjeman has been described as the poet of nostalgia, but what I like about
today's poem is not so much the fond remembrance of things past which runs
like an undercurrent through almost all his work, as it is the unabashed
loathing with which the poet describes the industrial wasteland that Slough
has become. I do enjoy an old-fashioned, no-holds-barred rant...

thomas.

[Links]

Here's some more about Slough:
  [broken link] http://www.fact-index.com/s/sl/slough.html

Here's a biography of John Betjeman:
  http://www.ourcivilisation.com/smartboard/shop/brookej/btjmn/index.htm

The Bloody Orkneys -- Hamish Blair

Another poem in our series on 'The Poet Cranky', submitted by Frank O'Shea:

Since I suggested this topic, here is another one to keep things going.

(Poem #1521) The Bloody Orkneys This bloody town's a bloody cuss No bloody trains, no bloody bus, And no one cares for bloody us In bloody Orkney. The bloody roads are bloody bad, The bloody folks are bloody mad, They'd make the brightest bloody sad, In bloody Orkney. All bloody clouds, and bloody rains, No bloody kerbs, no bloody drains, The Council's got no bloody brains, In bloody Orkney. Everything's so bloody dear, A bloody bob, for bloody beer, And is it good? - no bloody fear, In bloody Orkney. The bloody 'flicks' are bloody old, The bloody seats are bloody cold, You can't get in for bloody gold In bloody Orkney. The bloody dances make you smile, The bloody band is bloody vile, It only cramps your bloody style, In bloody Orkney. No bloody sport, no bloody games, No bloody fun, the bloody dames Won't even give their bloody names In bloody Orkney. Best bloody place is bloody bed, With bloody ice on bloody head, You might as well be bloody dead, In bloody Orkney -- Hamish Blair

I have no idea who the author is, but would love to learn.

Anyone who goes to the Orkneys or to any other Scottish islands and
complains about the beer deserves everything they get. People who visit
Scottish islands should stick to single malt and if they complain about
that, they are about ready to be put down. Before I die, I would love to
spend a week in Islay - you don't allow advertisements, I suppose, so I had
better not say any more.

Frank.

On Those that Hated the 'Playboy of the Western World', 1907 -- William Butler Yeats

A nice follow-up to yesterday's piece:

(Poem #1520) On Those that Hated the 'Playboy of the Western World', 1907 Once, when midnight smote the air, Eunuchs ran through Hell and met From thoroughfare to thoroughfare, While that great Juan galloped by; And like these to rail and sweat Staring upon his sinewy thigh. -- William Butler Yeats

Yeats was never overly fond of critics, and it shows in quite a few of his
poems. (See, for instance, "The Scholars", Minstrels Poem #1482). And when
some misbegotten reviewers had the temerity to criticise his friend J. M.
Synge, this was Yeats' marvellous (and vicious) rejoinder -- a fitting
addition to our "The Poet Cranky" theme.

thomas.

The Curse -- J M Synge

Guest poem submitted by Frank O'Shea , who suggests
running a a series under the heading 'The Poet Cranky':

(Poem #1519) The Curse Lord, confound that surly sister, Blight her brow with blotch and blister, Cramp her gullet, lungs and liver In her guts a galling give her. Let her live to earn her dinners In Mountjoy with seedy sinners. Lord, this judgement quickly bring And I'm your servant, J. M. Synge. -- J M Synge

 Note: Mountjoy is a Dublin prison.

The poem was in answer to one of the critics of his Playboy of the Western
World. In reply, Synge attacked the critic's sister! It is likely that the
poem was never intended for publication, but Yeats got his hands on it and
sent it to Lady Gregory and she never lost anything. So it was kept for
posterity as a beautiful piece of invective, only partly tongue-in-cheek.

Isn't it a pity that we seem to have lost the art of good invective? Now,
all people do is use the well-abused F and C words from the Anglo-Saxon or
wherever.

You already have one of the very best of the cranky poet genre in James
Stephens' "translation" of Daithi O'Bruadair's poem "The Glass of Beer"
(#185). I put the inverted commas because it is a translation in the sense
that Fitzgerald's is a translation of the Rubaiyat, owing more to Stephens
than to the originator.

Frank.

The World Is A Box -- Sophie Hannah

Guest poem submitted by Zenobia Driver:

(Poem #1518) The World Is A Box My heart is a box of affection. My head is a box of ideas. My room is a box of protection. My past is a box full of years. The future's a box full of after. An egg is a box full of yolk. My life is a box full of laughter And the world is a box full of folk. -- Sophie Hannah

There's this amazing collection of poems edited by Carol Ann Duffy called
'Overheard on a Salmarsh' (which also is the title of a poem by Harold
Monro) [Minstrels Poem #594 - ed.] in which poets choose their favourite
poem from among their own writings and then choose a favourite children's
poem which could have been written by anyone. Sophie Hannah chose "The World
Is A Box" as her favourite poem from among her own writings.

I liked all the 'box' analogies, but I really loved 'my life is a box full
of laughter' -- I think that's the sign of a good, well-enjoyed life. I
would love to lie back in a rocking chair at the age of 80, with a cup of
steaming hot chai in my hand, and reflect on my life and feel that it's a
box full of laughter. What more could one ask for ? (apart from a hot samosa
to go with the chai).

Zenobia.