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Longer poems and sagas can be both light hearted and serious; they don't have to be laborious to read. An extended poem can examine place, culture, an issue (or several), problems and solutions and journeys. As well as the following, have a look at The Yew Tree of Ilkeston (for Ilkeston Festival) and The Shadows of the Beetroot Tree.
Longer poems and sagas can be both light hearted and serious; they don't have to be laborious to read. An extended poem can examine place, culture, an issue (or several), problems and solutions and journeys. As well as the following, have a look at The Yew Tree of Ilkeston (for Ilkeston Festival) and The Shadows of the Beetroot Tree.
Created for Get Up, Stand Up, The Artists' Voice at Fabrika, Leicester.
the devil’s elbow
(a forward and back poo poo to dave and nick’s world)
goodbye the arts – the paint has gone to seed
what governs us has nicked and daved us deep
what’s left within the pot makes our hearts bleed
and gives us nightmares while we try to sleep
what governs us has nicked and daved us deep
the poets and magicians slowly fade
what’s grown up through the years now’s been reaped
i clutch and drop the straws that past has made
what’s left within the pot makes our hearts bleed
the volunteers will do the jobs we do
what’s big in the society – dries the seeds
of imagination - when it’s caught for cash – it’s glued
and gives us nightmares while we try to sleep
we’re in the brown – like bananas in the bag
going squishy – and don’t it make you weep?
and is anybody laughing at my gags?
what governs us has nicked and daved us deep
my surviving through adversity slaps down
and bangs its head – i fall into a heap
(though allotment’s great when my head is spinning round)
the poets and magicians slowly fade
the forms are rich with questions more and more
tax credits are my saviour – and i’m paid
on monthly terms – to save me getting poor
what’s grown up through the year’s now been reaped
we collect and look at stuff and plan ahead
but when government make promises – we peep
above the parapet – and scratch our heads
i clutch and drop the straws that past has made
the mouth organ i blow is nice and loud
i have a groan tube too – and here – it’s played
my thing is thinking deep into the clouds
what’s left within the pot makes our hearts bleed
it’s not always the cash – it’s just the thought
when artists get some notice for their deeds
is when the sun turns green and the devil’s elbow’s caught
the volunteers will do the jobs we do
art will be safe – and represent the staid
and making money’s better for the truth
but real truth stays hidden in the clay
what’s big in the society – dries the seeds
what springs from out the seeds will die of thirst
when topping up – who’ll supply the leads
to spark awake – and avoid the bloody hearse
of imagination? - when it’s caught for cash – it’s glued
and the ordinary like us will suffer most
and will wake to find the future’s future stewed
surviving is like waiting for burnt toast
and gives us nightmares while we try to sleep
the crawling monsters underneath the bed
a world without the arts will bring the griefs
the blues and yellows shouting at the reds
we’re in the brown – like bananas in the bag
we’re going round the bend (we always do)
alternatives are plaited into rags
the politicians turn another screw
going squishy – and don’t it make you weep?
you must feel the same - sometimes you will
protect your precious nanas underneath
don’t pile on worries – don’t put them through the mill
and is anybody laughing at my gags?
no bugger – no – it’s probably my own fault
that i’m in this situation – hitting snags
i blame myself for being such a dolt
what governs us has nicked and daved us deep
and gives us nightmares while we try to sleep
and gives us nightmares while we try to sleep
what governs us has nicked and daved us deep
and is anybody laughing at my gags?
no bugger – no – it’s probably my own fault
that i’m in this situation – hitting snags
i blame myself for being such a dolt
going squishy – and don’t it make you weep?
you must feel the same - sometimes you will
protect your precious nanas underneath
don’t pile on worries – don’t put them through the mill
we’re in the brown – like bananas in the bag
we’re going round the bend (we always do)
alternatives are plaited into rags
the politicians turn another screw
and gives us nightmares while we try to sleep
the crawling monsters underneath the bed
a world without the arts will bring the griefs
the blues and yellows shouting at the reds
of imagination? - when it’s caught for cash – it’s glued
and the ordinary like us will suffer most
and will wake to find the future’s future stewed
surviving is like waiting for burnt toast
what’s big in the society – dries the seeds
what springs from out the seeds will die of thirst
when topping up – who’ll supply the leads
to spark awake – and avoid the bloody hearse
the volunteers will do the jobs we do
art will be safe – and represent the staid
and making money’s better for the truth
but real truth stays hidden in the clay
what’s left within the pot makes our hearts bleed
it’s not always the cash – it’s just the thought
when artists get some notice for their deeds
is when the sun turns green and the devil’s elbow’s caught
i clutch and drop the straws that past has made
the mouth organ i blow is nice and loud
i have a groan tube too – and here – it’s played
my thing is thinking deep into the clouds
what’s grown up through the year’s now been reaped
we collect and look at stuff and plan ahead
but when government make promises – we peep
above the parapet – and scratch our heads
the poets and magicians slowly fade
the forms are rich with questions more and more
tax credits are my saviour – and i’m paid
on monthly terms – to save me getting poor
what governs us has nicked and daved us deep
my surviving through adversity slaps down
and bangs its head – i fall into a heap
(though allotment’s great when my head is spinning round)
and gives us nightmares while we try to sleep
we’re in the brown – like bananas in the bag
going squishy – and don’t it make you weep?
and is anybody laughing at my gags?
what’s left within the pot makes our hearts bleed
the volunteers will do the jobs we do
what’s big in the society – dries the seeds
of imagination - when it’s caught for cash – it’s glued
what governs us has nicked and daved us deep
the poets and magicians slowly fade
what’s grown up through the years now’s been reaped
i clutch and drop the straws that past has made
goodbye the arts – the paint has gone to seed
what governs us has nicked and daved us deep
what’s left within the pot makes our hearts bleed
and gives us nightmares while we try to sleep
Created at New Ollerton for the St George's Day Celebrations 2009 on behalf of the Sherwood Forest Trust. The poem came out of a consultation with the public as to what St George/England meant to them. The poem was performed at the end of the festivities.
george and the carnivore that roared
o george – he’s a symbol of all
that we like about england we call
chamelia in gardens
and giving out pardons
and nicely and trimly clipped lawns
he’s a friend of 700 years
and can be heard singing (after a few beers)
but the opposite of george is the thing that will gorge - the dragon – that brings nightmares and tears now – when did the dragon appear?
spreading its fire and its fears
1300 or so
who honestly knows?
did george slay it– while wearing a beard?
the dragon’s a symbol of what?
wrong doings and evil-ish plots?
so did it exist
for george to resist?
the story’s all tied up in knots
so – imagine the dragon walks in
the pub’s full – the music’s a din
out comes a roar
that clears the whole floor
and there’s our old saint with grin
i’m the dragon of peace – honest gov
you lizard? – a symbol of love?
i don’t trust you an inch
and i think (at a pinch)
that you’re lying
and up to no good
george drew out his double edged sword
and parried the dragon’s long claws
you’re just a mean lizard
i’ll chop out your gizzard
take that! for england has laws
the dragon keeled over – quite dead
its eyes popping out of its head
its flames al gone out
like a toaster burnt out
its tongue lolling out – deepest red
george – wherever he’s from
russian? catalan? – somewhere in the sun
gave his rewards to the poor
gold by the score
just gifts from the battle he’d won
some time later – he was caught in a trap
by who knows ?– but it was a rap
possible pagan
that took him - he’s taken
then boiled him – til out dripped his sap
then torture you wouldn’t believe
and other quite mischievous deeds
but sometimes he’s here
still sharing a beer
and still holding on to his shield
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