Bill Greenwell Lately, it has been forced to fit in. It hides in plain view,
shameless, bright on the outside. After a meal, it eats itself
in spasms, helped by its congregants, who drum silver tattoos
on dirtied porcelain, filling its maw. When no one is looking,
it passes coded messages over the airwaves to the dog, who sniffs
at its pretension, wrestling it down. Sometimes it hoards junk:
it takes in what no one has franked, and keeps it, unopened,
before its dark and sleazy uterus is skinned and evicted.
W.J. Webster They are ubiquitous, concealed In every home and office block; An object, when one stands revealed, Whose substance is like polished rock. A snail’s shell is its shape, turned up, Much magnified in bulk and size; And in its sloping, hollowed cup A level pool of water lies. This font, it seems, they venerate, And worship often in its shrine, Alone and in a secret state Within the small and locked confine. Their offerings they make unseen, The water moved with drops or drill; Then use a purgative machine To leave the water clear and still.
Jerome Betts They stand alone, dressed all in red, With markings on their front and head. Each mouth perpetually gapes For brown and white nutritious shapes. Their owners feed them every day, But, when they finish, walk away. Sometimes their chests are opened wide By surgeons, who then grope inside. This helps these static pets excrete The residues of what they eat.
Frank McDonald I see a smoothly fashioned void, a frustum of paraboloid, that in its simple geometry displays a perfect symmetry but for a small protuberance not fabricated to enhance, accommodating human grips, enabling passage to the lips. The void is filled with elements whose flavoured texture and whose scents when tipped into the human jaws inspire pleasure and applause. This solid with its hollow core, a thing of clay, and nothing more, gives humankind its will to be. For them it is their cup of tea.
Katie Mallett An oblong with a polished face It’s carried round from place to place In a pocket, bag, or hand, And sometimes humans simply stand And gaze at it, as if to see Their future in its mystery. Sometimes they poke its face as if To wake it up, but hard and stiff It lies inanimate till stirred When it will chirrup like a bird Or sing a song and to its cry Its human owner then will fly To shut it up, or full of fear Clasp it tightly to an ear And talk out loud. But it must be fed By plug or mat, or it will be dead.
John Whitworth The people walk about and talk to God With boxes to their ears. It’s very odd. They tell him what they will and what they won’t You think he’d know but obviously he don’t.
They sit and put the boxes on their laps And gaze and gaze. What do they see? Perhaps It is their souls they contemplate. And what They see is something they had rather not.
The God who lives within the box is small And sad, no majesty and power at all. But withered, suited to their misery. He is not anything a God should be.
Good God, is that time? Must fly, they say, And shut him up to squirrel him away. But still he chirrups every now and then, Hoping that they will pick him up again.
Auden wrote a poem about the mail train to Scotland, so let’s have one about HS2. Please email entries of up to 16 lines to lucy@spectator.co.uk by midday on 25 November.
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