I, Phone,
take you, Human,
to be my loyal, wedded plaything,
to have and to hold you,
to praise and to scold you,
to own and control you,
with pop-ups and pings,
in wickedness and by stealth
to fire off darts
of endorphins and toxins
direct to your heart
from the day of unboxing
‘til death us do part.
On 7 February 2022, the PM’s new spin doctor confirmed that the PM is “not a complete clown”‘.
So what’s with the frown?
said the circus god.
You’re our first ever clown in
Downing Street.
Yet it’s going around
that you’re just half a clown.
Conduct yourself
as 100% loon,
a total buffoon.
Sit on a balloon.
Put on a red nose
and your harlequin clothes.
Go party with cake.
Or people may think
that you’re not a true clown,
that you’re only a fake.
This poem delves into the curious language spoken by only one person in the world:
The Speaker of the House of Commons.
The question is:
Do the eyes have it?
As many as are of that opinion say eye.
Eye.
Of the contrary opinion, no.
No.
Division. Addition. Subtraction. Multiplication.
The eyes have it.
So do the noes
and the ears and the mouth.
The whole face has it.
Clear the lobbies.
Bring up the bodies.
To shore up its vote in the northern “red wall” seats captured from Labour, the government this week issued its levelling up white paper.
This poem is designed to provide some helpful guidance to those tasked with levelling up.
Take a red wall
that’s rather small.
Announce it will soon
be ten foot tall.
Add some bricks.
Paint them blue.
You’ve got no cement
so stick them with goo.
Throw cheers and hugs
and the kitchen sink in.
You’ve got no money,
just turbo-charged thinking.
Make speeches. Write papers.
Try nodding and winking.
Hope nobody sees
that beneath the wall
the ground is sinking.
This poem is dedicated to anyone desperately hoping for a reprieve, including the PM Boris Johnson who, at the time of writing, is relying on an unlikely form of salvation from “partygate”.
When I’m in the dock
of the heavenly court
When the indictment’s been read
and it’s not at all short
When my praying and begging
have all come to nought
When judgment is nigh
and the demons are brought
When the final sentence
is virtually wrought
When the time has come
for the last resort
I’ll beseech the Lord
to hold the thought
and await the outcome
of Sue Gray’s report.
God creates Adam and Eve. Adam and Eve conceive Cain and Abel. Cain finds a wife. Where?
Cain’s wife featured in the Scopes creation v evolution trial in Tennessee in 1925. Darrow: “Did you ever discover where Cain got his wife?” Bryan:” No sir, I leave the agnostics to hunt for her.” Darrow: “Were there other people on earth at that time?” Bryan: “I cannot say.”
This poem imagines the moment when Cain introduces his wife to his parents.
Good evening,
said Cain’s wife.
I am Cain’s wife,
otherwise known
as the wife of Cain.
Yes, said Cain,
let me explain.
I married her.
I am her husband.
She is my wife.
She is Cain’s wife,
the wife of Cain.
Great, said Adam,
what’s your name?
I have no name.
I am Cain’s wife,
the wife of Cain
and that is all.
Yes, said Cain,
she has no name.
It is a shame.
Odd, said Eve.
Let me explain,
said the wife of Cain.
I had waited
beneath the surface,
until the rain came
in the shape of Cain.
and now we live
in the land called Nod
where Cain is busy
building a city
which we must stock.
And so I bore Enoch,
no pain, no gain,
said the wife of Cain,
looking at Eve.
And now I must leave
before it gets light.
Goodnight.
This poem, written for the BBC World Service, marked the Queen’s visit to Ireland, my country of origin, in 2011.
At that time, the Celtic Tiger was somewhat on the emaciated side.
Whereas the Queen had every reason to be cheerful as Prince William had recently married.
And the Taoiseach said – Yo Queen, it’s the Ango-Celtic dawn,
(must remember not to fawn), haven’t seen you for a while,
guess we must have lost your file, tell us ma’am how have you been?
Rather busy – said the Queen, doing cartwheels up the aisle,
one was feeling rather dizzy, now one verges on euphoric,
shall we hug and be historic?
shall we hug and be historic?
And the Taoiseach whispered – sorry that we haven’t been in touch,
we were occupied constructing Ireland version 2.0,
adding get up, adding go, how the slaves became the masters,
how the statues started moving, going faster, going faster,
and we gave the world U2, and we threw in Jedward too,
we’d a vision of the Euro, plus we’ve won the Eurovision
quite a few times more than you, and we made holy communion
with the European Union, but we took more than we gave,
but we clean forgot to save, said the Taoiseach to the Queen,
do you think we were too green?
do you think we were too green?
And the Queen said – no, that’s cool, and we quite regret the Rule
of Britannia and that stuff, all the glorious, victorious,
we played a little rough, did we seem a bit too tough?
were we biting more than barking? were we overly monarchic?
were we not at all contrite? let us now at last be mates,
said Elizabeth the Second, the Great British head of state,
let us not be un-benign, let us go and see a shrine,
we shall almost sip some Guinness, we shall nearly consummate,
does the hand of history beckon?
does the hand of history beckon?
And the Taoiseach said – your highness, may God save your gracious self,
we’ve been taken off in handcuffs by our friend the IMF,
but we can’t put back the lid, can’t undo those things we did,
for the sake of God and Ireland, for the sake of Queen and country
could you spare a couple of quid?
could you spare a couple of quid?
A poem exploring why dog eat dog.
For my father – this was his favourite poem of mine.
Analyst ask why.
Dog say hungry.
Analyst say your flesh and blood.
Dog say I know. I not proud.
Analyst ask about puppyhood.
Dog say tough. Not enough food. Dog eat dog.
Analyst say ah. That’s why dog eat dog.
Dog say thanks.
Dog pay.
Dog go home.
Dog hungry.
Dog eat dog.
This poem, broadcast on the BBC World Service in 2011, dates from a time when British tennis success seemed unthinkable – but maybe it’s now relevant in another sport of your choosing!
you assert
he dictates
you go for the kill
he assassinates
he knows he will
you think you might
you say good evening
he says goodnight
he lifts an eyebrow
you’re known to quibble
he is a canapé
you are the nibbles
you are the liver
he is the pâté
he’s an espresso
you are a latte
you are a penthouse
he is a chateau
he’s at his peak
you’re at your plateau
you’re a repeat
he’s an encore
you are his battle
he is your war
he gets the cup
you get the mug
we shake his hand
but you we hug
Some years ago, a slogan outside a two-star hotel in Bournemouth grabbed my attention: “Say Yes to the Yenton”. I popped in for a look and came away with its rhapsodic brochure (see below), which inspired the following (warning: long) poem. In fact, this was the first poem I ever read in public – in the poetry slam competition at Ledbury Poetry Festival.
So many reasons
to Say Yes to the Yenton,
the Hotel For All Seasons
where a trouser press
is available
on request.
Say Yes
to a warm greeting
from smiling staff
and award winning
central heating.
Say Yes to the Yenton,
a Piece of Country
in the Heart of Town.
Our rustic grounds
rolling down to the river
teem with wildlife.
Birds, for example
and squirrels
and insects
too numerous
to mention
here.
Say Yes
to twenty two
well groomed bedrooms
overlooking
our rustic grounds.
All equipped
with stylish
clothes hangers
of various shapes
to suit all tastes.
Say Yes to the Yenton
where well behaved dogs
are accepted
by prior arrangement
but not in public rooms
or rustic grounds.
And owners must pay
for any biting
or chewing
of soft furnishings
by dogs
or owners.
Many comment on
Restaurant La Yenton,
so romantic at night
its subtle lighting
gently falling
on Grecian figurines,
enviously eyeing
culinary delights
delicately prepared
by our chef de cuisine
who has visited France
three times.
Children may choose
half portions
or the Yenton
‘Juniors’ menu
for under eights.
Proof of age needed.
Why not say Yes
to a relaxing drink
after your meal
with friends
old and new
in Mac’s Bar.
Overlooking
our rustic grounds.
It’s spacious, elegant,
tastefully refurbished
in traditional style.
It’s an ideal spot
to contemplate
evening shadows
creeping over
our rustic grounds.
Say Yes to the Yenton.
We’ve spent an
awful lot of money
to keep it in peak condition
to your complete satisfaction
from fresh redecoration
in the low season
to minor daily repairs
as and when required.
Say Yes to the Yenton
where
according to
our visitors book
Twenty July
Nineteen Seventy Nine
Mr and Mrs
P Harris
had a really nice time.
Say Yes to the Yenton.
