Live from Austin!

“A large Pakistani flag flaps in the wind atop a tree-covered mountain…
In the past two years the army has twice failed to defeat the Taliban of Swat.”
– BBC News, 2009-05-23.

The Taliban of Swat

(with apologies to Edward Lear)

Who, or why, or which, or what, are the Taliban of Swat?
How did they get where they are today?
Were they funded and trained by the CIA, or NOT,
     the Taliban of Swat?

Do they issue demands? Do they boast to the press?
Are their writings in Urdu, or Arabic, or POLYGLOT,
     the Taliban of Swat?

Are they slow to recruit? Are there entrance exams?
Or will they accept any brainwashed religious CRACKPOT,
     the Taliban of Swat?

Is the Pakistan weather a pleasure to them,
Or do their black turbans result in their heads getting HOT,
     the Taliban of Swat?

After the bombs that they make detonate,
Do they bury their victims, cremate them, or leave them to ROT,
     the Taliban of Swat?

Do they pay for their murderous terror campaign
By trafficking heroin, crack cocaine, or POT,
     the Taliban of Swat?

Do they hate and fear the USA?
Are they hostile to Disney? Do they long to burn down EPCOT,
     the Taliban of Swat?

Is Al Qaeda’s jihad one which they also back?
Did they aid the attack on the Islamabad MARRIOTT,
     the Taliban of Swat?

Will the picturesque northwest of Pakistan
Ever again become a vacation SPOT,
     for the Taliban of Swat?

there is too much
everything

filling our lives
like a barricade against the door

behind which stands
the simplicity we fear the most

In the Boston Public Gardens
there’s a row of metal ducks
They live off iron filings
that they peck from passing trucks.

They never need to preen themselves
as other ducklings must
but once a month
with wire wool
they polish off the rust.

They never waddle to the pond
to stop and take a drink.
It’s just as well
’cause if they did
they might fall in and sink.

[1999]

He wore an overall carelessly
She wore a hat with abandon
He accepted the money with a smile
and handed her a hot dog with relish

just to touch
to hold you close
to feel your breathing
your warmth
is all I want
or ask
for in those moments
I feel
that I am human

1996-02-??

a young man of expressive frame
within a box and dressed in black
without a chance to be the same
the wheels turn no turning back

conceding to feel warmth once more
approach reluctantly unfair
beyond the safety of the door
pretending they no longer care

in loss oblique and force dramatic
acting until pain is drowned
repeating now on automatic
silence lost nobody found

ends now looping to beginning
the blade is twisted and withdrawn
to restart with no hope of winning
chance regained despair reborn

1993-09-16

Bored with TV
My uncle bought a video
And placed it in the living room

Its flashing 12:00
12:00
12:00
Gave testimony to his inability
To get the times to move with him.

He bought a new remote control
To set the video for him
But he couldn’t work out
How to insert the batteries.

Feeling discouraged
My uncle bought a microwave
Reasoning that even if the programmes were boring
At least he’d be able to eat them afterwards.

My uncle has a special remote control
To program the microwave for him
Now all he has to do
Is push a button marked “frozen pizza”
And remember to put in a tape
To record dinner while he is out.

1992-07-21

1

It’s much less fuss to go by bus
but it’s the wait I really hate

2

In the days of bus conductors
Buses moved to scheduled pace
They were big and slow and noisy
But they had a certain grace

These days things are rather different
Bus conductors have all gone
Timetables are long forgotten
But the buses trundle on

3

isn’t that just
typical
you wait ages for a poem about buses
and then three come along

…just add water

I wandered lonely as a cloud
Through caverns measureless to man
Upon this low and earthly stage
And I was filled with such delight

My love is like a red, red rose
A flood of rapture, so divine
And faith shines equal, arming me
A mind at peace with all below

In fearless youth we tempt the heights
Exulting on triumphant wings
And thus I’ll take my pilgrimage
From house to house, from hill to hill

Come live with me and be my love
In England’s green and pleasant land
Drink to me only with thine eyes
And justify the ways of God

I leant upon a coppice gate
Some corner of a foreign field
What are those blue remembered hills
That is no country for old men

A glorious morning I have seen
The splendour falls on castle walls
And ships by thousands lay below
A structure of majestic frame

Though soon, at the appointed hour
With echoing straits between us thrown
I struck the board, and cried, “No more!”
Quite sick of pomp, and worn with cares

Stone walls do not a prison make
Of cloudless climes and starry skies
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies
The man of independent mind

Comments

I found a book in the library which claimed to contain several hundred of the greatest poems ever written, arranged by author. I started browsing, but couldn’t help noticing that all the poets featured were Dead White Males (with the occasional token Dead White Female). Long-dead too; I couldn’t find anything written this century. It annoyed me that this compendium of relics was putting itself forward as the definitive anthology of great poetry.

I decided to drag it into the 20th century. And what better way than via appropriation and détournement, the dominant modes of contemporary art?

If you’re the sort of person who likes classical poetry (which seems unlikely, given that you’re here), then feel free to tax your memory identifying the authors of each line in the verse. There are no prizes, however. And please don’t send mail asking me to check your answers—I didn’t record the names of those worthy poets, and can now only identify a few of the lines.