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VI to a restaurant VII to a nurse IX to another nurse X on Shaw and Shakespeare XI a postscript to Sonnet X XII on love and friendship XIII a postcard to MiniLu XIV to Laura, in a pizzeria XVI untitled XVIII la bête inhumaine XIX It Never Rains XX Consolations of Solitude from a satisfied customer Joe and Vicky Zaranoff's Restaurant, Warwick 27th April 1985 Did ever we go home so satisfied? (I never knew these trousers were so tight) Say what you will, it cannot be denied, This restaurant has floored my appetite. Eggs mayonnaise and pate of wild boar, Two pigeons, simmeréd in rich red wine: Stomachs o’errule the taste-buds’ cries of “More!” But, then again, the puds look so divine. O wondrous menu; such exquisite food, To please the most discerning gastronome. As long as Zaranoff’s remains this good, I know I’ll find, wherever I may roam, Agreement from each one I meet who knows Just what it means to say, “I eat at JOE’S!” *[Joe, a Latvian heavyweight wrestler from the 60’s and his petite, posh but domineering wife Vicky, ran a very idiosyncratic eatery in the Square in Warwick until the early 90’s when they both became terminally ill. They encouraged punters to write things on scraps of paper to stick on the walls. Thus, this. It did occur to me to write “wrestlerant” instead of restaurant but taste prevailed.] another sonnet to another Julia to Julia Stone, on her 20th Birthday 9th September 1985 How could a man stay ill, if nursed by you? Yet, nursed by you, what man would wish to mend? If sickness bring me your attentions, do Let sickness come and ever be my friend. I came to London with a broken heart, For one I loved most dear had proved untrue. I met you at the Proms and, from the start, Your physic worked to make my heart anew. That radiant smile; that back; that beauteous face; Those breasts, so perfect (how can they be real?), And, most of all, the warmth of your embrace, Bring new affliction, even as they heal — If I come on too strong, forgive me, please: Your absence now is my poor heart’s dis-ease *[Julia was a nurse at St Thomas’s Hospital and modelled for me once or twice. Though I was very fond of her, the poem does rather exaggerate my affection in the name of poetic license. The earlier Julia was a flirtation at university and inspired Sonnett III — if you call that inspiration!] to a second Lucy and a second nurse to Lucy Perry in the Royal Albert Hall 11th August 1986 It happens to me everywhere I go — I think I must be suff’ring from a curse — ‘Cause nearly every girl I get to know And fall in love with, seems to be a nurse. Okay, I know you ain’t a nurse no more — But nurse, ex-nurse, what difference does it make? Another one I can’t but help adore — Another chance to make the Big Mistake. It isn’t fair of you to be so nice: That smile of yours should be against the law. Life’s just a game, but some cunt fixed the dice I guess I’m gonna lose my heart once more. Just when I think it can’t get any worse I meet with one more bloody lovely nurse! *[Written during Brahms’ 2nd Piano Concerto. Revised during Schubert’s Symphony No 9. Lucy was doing secretarial training having given up nursing. We moved in together in September ’86 and she left me in December ‘99, by which time she was doing a PhD and teaching medieval English in Lausanne. Big Mistake indeed! The first Lucy was Lucy Hutton, to whom I dedicated Sonnet VIII, which was crap] on a Love that Grew in spite of Education entry for a Folio Society competition 1990? SHAW said he didn’t want his work to be An instrument of torture for the young And that’s how SHAKESPEARE often seemed to me; His verses like a trip-wire to my tongue. We had to learn What Ev’ry Schoolboy Knows; Dissect each play by character and plot: We analysed the blank verse and the prose And left the corpse, dismember’d thus, to rot. Oh that some teacher then possess’d the skills To make our half-formed minds appreciate The language, insights, humour — even thrills That some find not at all and I found late. Then only one thing could have pleas’d me more — To disinter and throw some stones at SHAW. *[Winning a complete works in the folio edition. Second prize in the quiz but judged the best Sonnet among the tie-breakers] post scriptum to Sonnet X appended to the entry 1990? You won’t believe the places that I’ve been To find the answers for your ruddy quiz: Asked ev’ryone — I nearly phoned the QUEEN — And looked in ev’ry SHAKESPEARE book there is. Each introduction, study note and guide, Biography, concordance, each play’s text; There can’t be many more I haven’t tried Yet still one sodding question has me vexed. No doubt I’ll kick myself when I learn who Was scared of what in that proverbial house I’m sure it’s not Twelfth Night or Much Ado; Nor GRANVILLE BARKER, LAMB or A L ROWSE. Now, though all seems in vain, I’ll have to try And hope the rest are just as stuck as I. *[I think the question referred to Dr Johnson saying he would rather spend the night in a haunted house than endure the closing scenes of Lear again. In fact I also mis-identified the glover whom WS had eulogised in early life as his Dad, rather than A Ainley.] On Love and Friendship December 1997 I lie beside her, trying not to Fart; My dear Friend, small and soft in my embrace. I share with her the secrets of my heart; She reads my very Soul writ in my Face. But with my Partner, though the Wind goes free, My feelings must be kept on tighter rein; She lies and reads a book, her back to me I try to show my Love, yet try in vain. Let not the freshness of a new amour Deceive me into finding old love stale. All odorous comparisons abhor And my belief in Love will still prevail Then I can lie with each – or both – at will With sweeter air their lives – and beds – to fill. [Based on an intense friendship that both saved and harmed my main relationship at the time. In the interests of the poem, much artistic licence is applied so I feel I should say, for the sake of others involved, that the "new amour" was not a sexual relationship and the lying together was for conversation on a rainy day in a chairless room. But it does play with the idea, as expressed by Quentin Crisp, that the person closest to us is the one with whom we are least likely to observe elementary manners, while adding the fact that there are all too often periods when we can only express to friends what we most need to say to our lovers. Unfortunately it gives no idea how to solve this problem, proving Wilde's dictum that all art is completely useless! More importantly this is probably the nearest I ever got to making a sonnet work properly in the classical sense: the argument and counter-idea in the first and second quatrains followed by the (attempted) reconciliation and conclusion] Little Lucy, Her Sonnet for Lucy Monaghan 20th November 1999 Shall I compare thee to a Shakespeare play? It might be quite a laugh were I to try it. You do not have so many things to say But, truth be told, I've never known you quiet. Though shorter, you make just as many scenes You're often just as hard to comprehend You tell us naught of princes, kings or queens But play the merry fool for hours on end. For you, it's true that all the world's a stage And all the rest of us, your audience But you can't be contained upon a page; No verse can hope to pen your immanence. Yet here's a sonnet of my own confection Writ on a card, to add to your collection. *[Barbican Centre London, on a postcard of W Shakespeare. This Lucy, or MiniLu, is niece to the Lucy of sonnets IX, XII, XV and others too personal to include She was 12 and into collecting postcards at the time.] to Laura in Chez Mario, Lausanne 7th May 1999 Sweet LAURA, like a slice of Garlic Bread Brings happiness to everyone who meets her And while I know I'll never share her bed I CAN come here with her and eat a Pizza I may be Crusty, with a Heavy Base While she is Light and Crisp and no mistake But, while I eat, I gaze upon her face Imagining the kind of meal SHE'd make. Spread with Tomato Sauce, then Melted Cheese - Pour Chilli Oil on that delightful Topping: Fine Wine from hidden Valley Slopes — Oh, PLEASE!! I think perhaps it's time that I was stopping. And, while this heavy meal of mine digests, I'll dream of licking chocolate off her breasts. *[Petrarch meets Shakespeare at Dai's place? Laura was one of Lucy's students] 19th June 2003 ‘Tis now so far from Heaven to my Heart That no one makes the journey any more; Though some, from Hope or Happiness, depart They all give way to Heaviness before They crest the Hill when it would first appear. Then, should some Hardier souls attain that Height, The view that greets them gives their souls no cheer: They gaze from brightest day on darkest night. And yet, within that murky Hole there are Some spots where Hospitality burns bright: A song, a dance, carousing in a bar, Though all is lit by artificial light. So if the trip seems daunting, just as well: Better to love in Heav’n than rage in Hell. *[Do not call the Samaritans. Rather like number XII, this is a poem and utilises much artistic licence. In this case, I wrote it because I had the idea not because it reflected any self-pity. Many people seem to assume poems always reflect true incidents or feelings, so I thought I'd better clarify However I'm not very pleased with it, even though it plays with the classic sonata form, as the rhyme scheme has too many "ights" and the last line tries too hard to sound a bit like Milton. Oh well.] la bête inhumaine (to Zoe, in hope) 1st May 2008 She keeps a creature locked up in a room: A monstrous hound, perhaps, with blood-drenched jowls. At night her sleep is shattered by its howls. She knows to let it loose would seal her doom. To anxious friends she'll say she doesn't care ~ Explain it all as wind or creaking floor Or hang a painted curtain on the door And try to tell herself there's nothing there. But if, with trembling hand, she'd turn that key And step into the darkness all alone It's almost certain she would merely see A tiny puppy ~ with a megaphone. Thus do we all exaggerate the bark Of lesser demons shut up in the dark. Maybe this is inspired by musings on one sad case but doesn't it apply to many of us in one way or another? Heavy, man! It Never Rains 7th November 2008 It never rains nor comes as single spies Fate's hammer never deals a single blow As one new hope is born another dies While woes accumulate like rolling snow. How often for ourselves these pits we dig ~ Anxiety the light of reason bends How plain it is our foes are not so big When viewed without that blue-distorting lens. You do the maths: let dry statistics prove How evenly these things are distribute. Perception's stains are bloody hard to move Which reason should so easily refute. These are but gristle in the karmic broth Not punishments ~ nor even grapes of wrath Consolations of Solitude 19th November 2008 My solitude is really not so bad Why would I want for other company When company can only make me sad While yours is not available to me? Think of my tears as but a waterfall Behind whose glistening, salty curtain lies The cosy cavern of my care-worn soul: Home to a precious flame which never dies. Though from without it may seem dank and cold, The walls within dance with effulgent light, Lit by that priceless jewel that shines like gold Whose vibrant rays can pierce the darkest night. So fret not at my sorry-seeming form ~ 'Cause I've still got my love to keep me warm. |