WB Yeats

“A ghost of a mist…”

 There are many Christmas songs, some cheesy and forgettable, some worth a listen.  But so few Easter songs.  In fact the only one I can think of is this one from 1990 by the perenially unfashionable, yet remarkably resilient prog rock survivors Marillion

OK, the lyrics – alluding to the then fashionable subject of the Northern Irish conflict – are a little tacky in places (there are even subtle literary nods to WB Yeats and Sean O’Casey in there), but the photography (filmed at the Giants Causeway) is noteworthy. 

And it’s a decent song, one of the band’s rare forays into the folkie stuff.  And appropriate to the time of year.  Very fittingly it comes from an album entitled Seasons End (deliberate non-use of apostrophe).  Marillion’s season may have ended a long time ago, but fair play to them (and their legions of anoraky fans – present author included) for refusing to go away! 

What you might call a guilty pleasure.

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Some crap poems

Here’s some poetry I wrote during a moment of boredom.  I don’t think Seamus Heaney’s Nobel prize-winning reputation will be too badly affected, nor I supect will WB Yeats be turning in his much-visited Sligo grave in the shadow of Benbulben, but here goes.  I might give Radovan Karadzic a run for his money though.  Alternative medicine proably pays more than poetry anyway.  Just think of all those prison guards and judges in the Hague taking oil of echinaea for their bad backs or going through acupuncture and aromatherapy to cure that sprained ankle.  Many will no doubt think it serbs him right.

Cue eerie, deathly silence punctuated by the swoosh of tumble weeds in the whistling wind and the distant clanging of a funeral bell…I’ll get my coat.

Rhyme without Reason

Marcel Marceau liked to mime

I write poems that don’t rhyme

But this one does

Some of the time

But not many words rhyme with rhyme

And…in fact I can’t think of any at the moment

Some words are common, some sublime

If you can’t get the dollar

Go for the dime

Why have lemon

When you can have lime

Parsley, sage, rosemary or thyme

 If you can’t serve time

Don’t do the crime

The mountain’s there

For people to…

ascend

This poem’s unclean

It’s all dirt and…

grit

This poem is so…

Nearly over

It is now.

(Thank fuck)

 

The Crap Poem

This poem is crap, it has no rhythm

The poet’s here but you’re not with him

It has no reason to even exist

When I wrote it I was a bit…

Inebriated.