I really don’t. I wrote a load of Haiku a few years ago, but I don’t really view that as poetry. That may sound a bit bizarre, but what I mean is that Haiku, to me, is more a concise snapshot of thought/perception than what you would think of as verse. In any case, I haven’t written a poem since I was about eighteen. I don’t have anything against poetry, it’s just not my thing.
Except that this week, for some completely unknown reason, I wrote one. I’m not sure what I think about it; I doubt I’ll be making a habit of it. But here it is. I was going to call it Happy Diwali Daily Mail, but as it is I’ve called it Rhapsody on a Theme by Sylvia Plath. How’s that for pretention?
The devil makes work for idle hands
and he made no exception for you.
The curtains are drawn,
the blinds are down;
the only light is the aqua-marine
and the twinkling cities
of the world you caught in your miserly net;
the one you shrunk like the head of a pigmy
and set in orbit round the chair you never leave.
Look at them move and scurry about:
the little people,
beyond your contempt.
Omnificent you, an opinion on everything;
a Titan, a God, with an IQ of eighty.
You’re bored? Then a plague,
your wrath made pestilent,
will remind us how useless we are.
An earthquake in Bradford,
AIDS for the scroungers,
a tsunami that will wash only queers away.
The firstborn of immigrants,
and most violent of all:
a famine for the fallen like me –
the cloven-hoofed liberals who don’t really care,
who live and let live, psychotically.
Empathise, and go to hell,
six billion and more in a handcart.
It’s the war of your world, the unholy crusade,
with the losers cast out east of Croydon.
There’s a burning bush for Piers Morgan though:
get rich, stay white, be obnoxious as fuck;
for the rest it’s Gomorrah – we deserve it.
The devil makes work for idle hands,
and it’s me, I am legion, and alive
you old bastard.