Lording it up like Jerry and Margo two days of the week

It's my usual line: I don't normally do poetry . . . unless it's got a tune behind it but Tracey K. Smith's The Good Life poem caught my eye last night when I was trying to avoid eye contact on the F Train. (If you knew the F Train, you'd understand that statement.)

Click to enlarge.

It's part of the Poetry in Motion series undertaken by the MTA to bring a bit of culture to those of us on the subway who've forgotten their book or their mp3 listening device or their knitted balaclava and who need somewhere to stare whilst their five year old proclaims in a loud voice: 'That seat's not orange, it's yellow. I want the orange seat'. (I'm paraphrasing but you get the gist.)

Gig: The Life and Times of a Rock-star Fantasist by Simon Armitage (Viking 2008)

On The Road 9

A reading in a cinema complex in Sheffield for the Off the Shelf Festival, followed by a Q & A session on contemporary poetics and related literary topics:

Me: OK, one last question.

Man: In a fist fight between you and Jarvis Cocker, who'd win?

Me: Er . . . I've never met him, but from the pictures I've seen I'd have to fancy my chances.

Man: He's outside.

DH Lawrence does Anti-Flag

Alan's has been rifling through his socialist literature, and reproduced a series of fascinating DH Lawrence poems on his blog. As he mentions in his post, these poems were originally published in 1929 in a volume entitled Pansies, and Alan and myself both spotted them in an old issue of 'World Socialist', which was a theoretical magazine produced by the WSM for a few years in the mid-eighties.
I especially liked the poem reproduced below, though the eyesight is going a bit. At first glance, I thought it was called 'Oi - Start a Revolution', and I suddenly had Lawrence pegged as a proto-Attila the Stockbroker type.
However, if I was psycho-politicising him - don't know what that means, but for the purposes of this post, it'll do - the opening line in the poem would mark him down as a disillusioned Council Communist in my book. The desperate cry of 'Somebody' at the end of the line with the exclamation mark for added emphasis puts him in the spontaneist camp, but with other poems in Alan's post carrying such titles as 'Kill Money'; 'How Beastly The Bourgeois Is'; & 'Money Madness', it means he could also be an Anti-Flag type. Just a shame that with his beard, he looks more like someone who would be playing second guitar in Grandaddy.

O! Start A Revolution

O! start a revolution , somebody!
not to get the money
but to lose it forever.

O! start a revolution , somebody!
not to install the working classes
but to abolish the working classes forever
and have a world of men.

Otherwise Detained

Been a bit busy lately - procrastination can take it out of you - which means that I've been a bit backward in coming forward in updating the blog. I may or may not get back to regular blogging in the next few days. I'm not sure if I want to continue with this blogging business. The original *cough* mission statement, in setting up the blog, was to try and get into the habit of regular writing. The truth is I can't really be arsed - I will always be more Oblomov than Goncharev when it comes to such dedicated and disciplined matters.

If I do get to pull my finger out with regards to the blog, then I really will have to change the template - it has been bugging me for ages now (and has probably contributed to me not updating the blog as often as I should). Nothing fancy - just another shameless steal from Bloggers offer of free templates. I would also have to update the sidebar. I really need to update my links - reciprocating to those who have linked to my blog, etc. Apologies to those of you out there for my slackness - it is just part of a general pattern.

Rather than just leave this message and blog hanging in such a 'face like a slapped arse' miserablist fashion, I thought I would take the opportunity to take a leaf out of the SIAW triumverate's book (otherwise known as shamelessly ripping them off) by reproducing below a favourite poem of mine. They have for the last few days taken it upon themselves to updating their blog with a selection of their favourite poetry. As they apparently got the inspiration for the idea from this guy , I don't feel half as guilty about also partially lifting the title of their thread, 'Otherwise Engaged', and calling this post Otherwise Detained.

I can't pretend to be the greatest afficiando of poetry - this blogger here knows his onions when it comes to poetry - but I read the following piece in a collection of thrities poetry recently and it caught my eye for its humour. The collected lyrics of Paul Weller may be cut and pasted at a later date.

Bagpipe Music 

 It's no go the merrygoround, it's no go the rickshaw,

All we want is a limousine and a ticket for the peepshow.

Their knickers are made of crepe-de-chine, their shoes are made of python,

Their halls are lined with tiger rugs and their walls with head of bison.

John MacDonald found a corpse, put it under the sofa,

Waited till it came to life and hit it with a poker,

Sold its eyes for souvenirs, sold its blood for whiskey,

Kept its bones for dumbbells to use when he was fifty.

It's no go the Yogi-man, it's no go Blavatsky,

All we want is a bank balance and a bit of skirt in a taxi.

Annie MacDougall went to milk, caught her foot in the heather,

Woke to hear a dance record playing of Old Vienna.

It's no go your maidenheads, it's no go your culture,

All we want is a Dunlop tire and the devil mend the puncture.

The Laird o' Phelps spent Hogmanay declaring he was sober,

Counted his feet to prove the fact and found he had one foot over.

Mrs. Carmichael had her fifth, looked at the job with repulsion,

Said to the midwife "Take it away; I'm through with overproduction."

It's no go the gossip column, it's no go the Ceilidh,

All we want is a mother's help and a sugar-stick for the baby.

Willie Murray cut his thumb, couldn't count the damage,

Took the hide of an Ayrshire cow and used it for a bandage.

His brother caught three hundred cran when the seas were lavish,

Threw the bleeders back in the sea and went upon the parish.

It's no go the Herring Board, it's no go the Bible,

All we want is a packet of fags when our hands are idle.

It's no go the picture palace, it's no go the stadium,

It's no go the country cot with a pot of pink geraniums,

It's no go the Government grants, it's no go the elections,

Sit on your arse for fifty years and hang your hat on a pension.

It's no go my honey love, it's no go my poppet;

Work your hands from day to day, the winds will blow the profit.

The glass is falling hour by hour, the glass will fall forever,

But if you break the bloody glass you won't hold up the weather.

Louis Macneice