All entries for Sunday 04 March 2007
March 04, 2007
after Mr. Eliot
the saprotroph is at the gates;
word-play reforms the acumen
where vim and visa now conflate.
Where vim and visa now conflate
with calls for foreign bursaries,
importuning the Nanny State
to privatise the nursery,
the family at breakfast sit
and over cornflakes, all agree
that every prisoner is fit
for one vocational degree.
The primus inter pares Dad
expostulates hate’s paradigm,
his face obscured in broadsheet text
and news of the insurgent times.
This week, we read, a major brawl
on where to put the fire escape
in Christ’s Sepulchre. The sun, hung low
tests ecumenical restraint.
Nonplussed, his girl updates her blog
with recipes for rum “cocktails”.
The discreet clinic will re-stock
its termination chemicals.
Filial loathing, son to son,
descends, while Mrs Hamilcar
pours tea – her friends look kindly on
her faux-imported samovar.
The bigot marks obitured Lords,
condemns the pun in “new arms race”,
passes the toast with condign words
and shuns the consequent embrace.
I ought to be writing an essay on the Wreck of the Deutschland. Instead I'm making wrecks of my own.
Writing a good poem is not easy. So how about re-writing one that already exists? It turns outs out this isn't easy either. Alright then, how about purposefully trying to wreck it?
For my wreck I took T.S. Eliot's Mr Eliot's Sunday Morning Service (http://www.bartleby.com/199/23.html). This came after reading an article about the tensions between the six different denominations that share the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem, and my own sense as a member of Britain's fearful, confused and frequently hypocritical middle class (oh no, I've gone all political). I've tried to retain a sense of the allusion-packed wordiness of the original, but in the context of today's secular media.