With bits of love. (No nuts)
Free Pelargonium with pots and gloves
Where is Pelargonia anyway?
They never have a war there.
He gets the hots for doves
She gets the shots for glue and yellow fever.
Shall we believe her?
With yachts of the above.
With affectless faces.
Lord. Oh,Lord it’s Percy.
Poetry is the complete opposite of this rash, careless cacophony. It’s where words, with all their immanent power, beauty and capacity to move us as human beings, find the most fertile soil. In poetry we road-test words to destruction; squeeze impossibilities out of them and combine them to form beautiful structures unimaginable in any other context.”
¨It is no exaggeration to say that the working class in Britain is in the throes of an identity crisis. It is particularly noticeable in those towns which a few decades ago were thriving centres of industry – former colliery towns, for example, in the Midlands and South Wales. Places that are far from Westminster; places which voted overwhelmingly for Brexit.
Identities here were once strong, tied to work and community. But in recent decades this proud demeanour has been replaced by something closer to humiliation. That’s why the ‘take back control’ rhetoric of the Brexit referendum resounded so powerfully in these parts of the country: the idea of ‘globalisation’ is here synonymous with the destruction of old industry and its replacement with insecure work in warehouses and call centres, much of not even done by the locals.