I’m going to the clinic—-I feel I am manic
My hand  has swelled up—–Send me  twelve cups
My burn has been  bleeding— the sparrows are feeding
My shoe is too tight…. do you rue  voting Right?
I feel so alone……..I sealed up my phone
I want to remarry—— I planted the story
I want an arm round me—I sent alarms fondly
What did  you say—Hot as a prayer
He said he liked tarts—- Asses  heal hearts
When do we start—Send in  the  parts
We love your new humour… you have the blue gloomies
Shall we pray before bed—–Tell me, where’s your head
Married love lasts—– Tarry, we’re pissed.
My wedding ring broke—–In bed with the Pope
Set the alarm…..Bet the old charm
Where is my sinner—- he’s eaten the dinner—– now he’s in Pinner
God loves my soul…… blood is not all.
Love those you can—— live  clothes are so fun
We went to Mass—– Tea in a glass.
Coffee with cream…….Laugh till I scream
Do you do it too?…….I am  a new Jew
Am I anti-semitic………….I and’ auntie’re  paralytic
The hills far away—- On the pill  for today
Are you full of lust——-Sue’s scared of wool dust.
Girls must be modest——- pearl  dust and porridge

Underneath the Marches and the Speech
What is the new meaning, do they preach?
Seven MPs resigned from  New Labour
Corbyn is too old and  rather grey.

Yet he won two contests , took some seats
Good News for  the Socialist on heat
What  has he not done for everyone?
Given them no butter for their scone

It seems they need a scapegoat,sacrifice
They have kept him on some  fragrant ice
Theresa May has got away  again
Doodling   in her Bible with a pen

I wonder if a makeover will do?
Buy J Corbyn  proper coats and shoes
Give him an old film of Tony Benn
Send him to a school for gentlemen

Make him do degrees in Politics
Make him a Magician with new tricks
Make him cleaner than a Vicar’s bun
Do not let him enjoy any fun

Underneath the Arches lie the lost
Homeless,human, what does living cost?
Into the Thames  men tumble  as and when
The struggle for  success has been and gone

Hold my hand,I feel the river’s pull
My heart has  its  own limits.I am full
Someone must stand up and say,Oh,No.
We shall  offer mercy to the low

I found myself in bed with an old man
He showed me where my soul dwelt and its light
He thinks we can be holy, and we can
Especially when we  love  with all our might

I found myself at a loose end today
Walking in the rain in  my wool coat
I didn’t know what else  to do but pray
There was  holy water but no boat

I found my self and knew I was a poet
For I had a pen  behind my ear
Useful for the  images I wrought
Out of words  and into sentence dear

Nowadays it’s harder for the young
No tablet fits behind the ear  or on the tongue
I guess one might well  sing it like a song
When we hear the bells of heaven ring

I found myself in photos on the news
I look like the terrorist  who schemed
Ah ahah,they’d need  me like a bruise
I am I, a figment of their dreams

On the whole I’d rather lose myself
In a novel or in tender arms
What about our spiritual  health
Let us feel the  holy love that calms

Losing, finding, what is it we seek?
If we are a self, are we  unique?
I read Latin,Hebrew,even Greek
I  forgot that human beings want to speak

https://electricliterature.com/what-can-poetry-do-that-politics-cant-89fce5a6dc41

 

Extract:

 Zapruder wants to have it both ways — to preserve poetry as a place for intellectual and creative freedom and also for the outcome of this unlimited freedom to be automatically ethical. “Following our internal sense of music leads us to revealing who we really are,” he continues. But what if “who we really are” is white supremacist or fascist or authoritarian? History is filled with examples of excellent artists who subscribed to odious systems of thought, not least of whom was Wallace Stevens, who serves as the kind of patron saint of Zapruder’s book. Stevens, it must be remembered, once wrote a poem called, “Like Decorations in a N****r Cemetery.” Beyond this more obvious example of historical villainy are the more mundane and widespread instances of contemporary white poets who write unconsciously white supremacist poems, contemporary male poets who write unconsciously male supremacist poems, contemporary capitalist poets who write unconsciously capitalist poems, and so on. To say that if a poet writes something that aligns with her own standards of truth and beauty the result will automatically be ethical is pure magical thinking. Poets are no more ethical than anyone else, nor are our inner lives any less poisoned by the political systems we inhabit.