As is my wont I am again, in lieu of actual content, presenting someone else’s poetry.
Today it is John Betjeman’s ode to Slough, home and workplace of David Brent.

The full, subtle reading is, as always, on Youtube[1].

Come friendly bombs and fall on Slough!
It isn't fit for humans now,
There isn't grass to graze a cow.
Swarm over, Death!

Come, bombs and blow to smithereens
Those air -conditioned, bright canteens,
Tinned fruit, tinned meat, tinned milk, tinned beans,
Tinned minds, tinned breath.

Mess up the mess they call a town-
A house for ninety-seven down
And once a week a half a crown
For twenty years.

And get that man with double chin
Who'll always cheat and always win,
Who washes his repulsive skin
In women's tears:

And smash his desk of polished oak
And smash his hands so used to stroke
And stop his boring dirty joke
And make him yell.

But spare the bald young clerks who add
The profits of the stinking cad;
It's not their fault that they are mad,
They've tasted Hell.

It's not their fault they do not know
The birdsong from the radio,
It's not their fault they often go
To Maidenhead

And talk of sport and makes of cars
In various bogus-Tudor bars
And daren't look up and see the stars
But belch instead.

In labour-saving homes, with care
Their wives frizz out peroxide hair
And dry it in synthetic air
And paint their nails.

Come, friendly bombs and fall on Slough
To get it ready for the plough.
The cabbages are coming now;
The earth exhales.

I’m back from Austin and am fighting off a jet lag-induced cold. I’ve been meaning to finish several posts that I have in the works but haven’t been able to get together the motivation to lift myself off of the couch towards a cold, dead notebook. It is definitely still summer in South Africa but the transatlantic flip from summer to winter and back has left my immune system dented. So in lieu of actual content I’ll hand over to Frank O’Hara[1]

July is over and there’s very little trace
of it, though the Bastille fell on its face–

and August’s gotten orange, it will drop on
the edge of the world like a worm-eaten sun.

The trees are taking off their leaves. So
the purity of the streets is coming, low

in white waves. In summer I got good and sunburnt,
winter, so I wouldn’t miss the wet brunt

of your storms. Then it was sand from the surf
in my bathing trunks; now snow fills up my scarf.

Frank O’Hara

[1]The image he was most enamored of was his own – sound familiar?

a previously unknown poem by Tennessee Williams.

Blue Song
I am tired.
I am tired of speech and of action.
If you should meet me upon the
street do not question me for
I can tell you only my name
and the name of the town I was
born in–but that is enough.
It does not matter whether tomorrow
arrives anymore. If there is
only this night and after it is
morning it will not matter now.
I am tired. I am tired of speech
and of action. In the heart of me
you will find a tiny handful of
dust. Take it and blow it out
upon the wind. Let the wind have
it and it will find its way home.
Tennessee Williams

The Viking Terror
Fierce is the wind tonight.
It ploughs up the white hair of the sea
I have no fear that the Viking hosts
Will come over the water to me.
Written in the margin of The St Gall Priscian – Irish, 9th century