Inno Alla Bellezza

Se l’italiano è la lingua della poesia,
Patria di Petrarca nella sua corona a tre punte,
E il francese la lingua degli innamorati,
Patria di Hugo, Baudelaire e Francois Villon,
E il russo la lingua di neve e foreste
Dove è cresciuto l’abete rosso di Checkov, Pushkin e Lermontov,
Il cinese è la lingua dei fiumi che scorrono,
Dare alla luce Cao Xueqin e i tre grandi salici,
Dove emergono le parole della bellezza non posso andare.

Perdonami per le lingue nobili che non ho ancora incontrato,
Lingue spagnole, portoghesi e settentrionali,
Perdonami se le mie parole suonano
Come una corteccia stanca, sradicata e vuota,
Ho perso il conto dei dolori della mia patria,
Perché l’inglese si perde come il sangue
In una prosa sanguisuga.


I’m learning a new language,
Only for my better self.

I may be unable
To navigate grey
Plastic-muzzling protocols
Of post-pandemic terminals,

Yet this time’s expended well.
Delightful rolls and

Lilts, the muscle like
Gondoliers gliding through
Venetian tongues of water,
Expressive swells, expansive

Canals of digraphs, sibilants
Lapping the foundations of

Verbs and nouns. My favourite
Habit is to hold the hips
Of conjugating mnemonic tips,
The linguist-loving lips.

No more the mundane forms,
The brutal tubers of unusual

Metonyms removed from mouths
Of Romans millennia ago,
Bemoaning the rain and food,
On frontiers far from home.


And then we loved, and words poured
Away from us, a waterfall in spate
Filled with verbs and nouns, letters
Lost in torrents below, as certainly
Tossed for oblivion’s guts like
Old English Thorn and Wynn, missing
Companions we touched in the mist
By our fingertips before they slipped
And disappeared from names, epithets
And tongues. Witnessing their fall,
I felt for a moment absurd and a fraud
In this wordless world, grammarless,
No Greek or Latin constructs, none,
Definitive gerundives undone
(Which filled the mind with just enough
Distraction to thwart the edge of skies);
No descriptors, no positives for assaying
A modicum of metallurgic lore,
Nor negatives, for they undermine more times
Than not; you reassured me from above with
Lips as soft as horsehair brush for bows
Of musical instruments – there are words
In concertos only your soul can decipher;
And I ceased talking for a moment,
And I was quiet in the light of your smile;
For a moment is eternal, when we measure
Not with syllables, but instead with love.

Memory Cupboards

I have become immune to fears,
Self-isolated well for sixteen years,
They parade unpaved disparities;
Penthouse peer, wealthy elite,
At different ends of a London street
As those avoided by Charities.

Having heard men demoted
And with vanity bloated
Rose pomades for their ego-whores;
The trumpet and flag as bad as the gun,
Why does it surprise most everyone,
When they evince long since I closed my doors.

They stole the ways which I adored,
Replaced with substance I abhorred,
And shaped a brand new Anschluss.
Trace it back to where it began,
Roman praetors had a plan
Overthrowing Tarquinius Superbus;

We are living still within their laws
From Linnaeus through to Aristotlean cause,
From scientists rife to churchgoers;
So I bought anteaters for my thinking-lawn
Long before ideas were born
Of secateurs and mowers;

Painted a cross on my front and back doors,
Filled memory-cupboards, finished my chores,
Pulled down the eyelids of my sea-shutter.
Divulged to my love a secret knock,
Watered the plants and changed the lock,
Set sail on a harbour-dream cutter.



Wood For The Trees

With balloons of lead, freely I floated,
Never too soon for my ending;
A bird in the hand with olives I coated;
The more that’s said, soon mending.

On laurels I slept with Time outrun
And resurfaced for the good battle;
When the last cow dies there will be no Sun,
No stones in the sky for the cattle.

Using wire, masts and copper
We called a vet to inspect a sick Friesian;
He spigotted heaven with spotted grasshopper
And found the heifer-lesion.

They showed me the bark with vascular wilt,
Teachings kept me on my knees;
Circumferenced trunks with a black quilt,
They could not see the wood for the trees.

I’m writing now, undisconcerted,
Until I’ve burst through the surface of adage,
Their pith the stuff and substance subverted,
The vet took his tools in his baggage.


I’ll know a feeling fairly blessed
When Titmus Tom is in the nest,
The shelter’s straw and mossy floor
Hanging from the potting shed.
Blue heads make for Blue Tits, see,
If black and white the Great Tits be,
That is the way and this is the key.
Coal Tits rest in conifers,
Crested Tits you’ll self-refer,
I did not meet with Jennifer.
Willow Tits are on the turn,
Their black bibs from the ings
Which burnt, back when vassals suffered.
Marsh Tits make for memories good
When baked within the season’s pud.
Their genera are the following three:
Parus from Latin for titular breeds,
For birds in blue say Cyanistes,
Poecile stems from Ancient Greek;
Within a willow I found four, then three.
Vibrant migrants flown for now,
A pigeon with an ankle sprained
Is all the lonely lawn contains,
And on the floor, a dressing gown.


This short lifelong, stayed terrified,
I skimmed my teeth and lost my mind;
The terror created by those outside,
But now I know there’s peace to find.

Leaders atop should pour kind profit,
And better times for people,
Yet my dictators dressed as prophets
And had the strong made feeble.

Those demons dressed as every-day folk,
Surveyed from a yellow soffit;
It’s the innocent who suffer most
On the road from Vectis to Moffat.

Through cataracts of oil they broke,
Dissolving bells in the spire;
Meadows choked, a flame awoke,
And set the forests on fire.

I looked at women in cages kept
By men who beat them for wages;
My eloquence lost to the internet,
Overdosed, I slept through the ages.

Protestors drove to the city,
Berating grey expansions,
When its placards versus tyranny
Suppressors sing in their mansions.

Next they stole my language,
Words once sweet as clover;
My father murdered at Sandwich,
Through Hastings dragged, and Dover.

My kidnapped son, he’d be handsome,
But I’ve not seen him for years;
Monthy I still pay the ransom,
And forget the feeling of tears.

The demons would turn those souls with tongs
Into rolls of garlicked black-pudding,
But should still a seed dispenser bring bird-songs,
I will burst out from my hooding.




Me Too

Why a world and his wife,
Why from a man’s rib made,
You call me trouble and strife,
So why by the male-god be saved.

Why have the woman-word devolved,
It only meant a man’s wife;
And bridegroom’s meaning men evolved
To nurture your longer life.

A prince lives in a photograph,
A film-maker eats jack-mack for tea,
Forensic professionals are understaffed,
I do not want these saints preserving me.

For parity, there are now no actresses,
Perpetuate the man-made myth;
The billionaire’s now using laxatives,
It’s the actors who should have been done away with.

A crowd could be a world and her husband,
Watch as we burn the words at the stake,
Written by femicidists who bludgeoned
From Santiago, to Sheffield, and Salt Lake.