Written by
John Betjeman |
Cut down that timber! Bells, too many and strong,
Pouring their music through the branches bare,
From moon-white church towers down the windy air
Have pealed the centuries out with Evensong.
Remove those cottages, a huddled throng!
Too many babies have been born in there,
Too many coffins, bumping down the stair,
Carried the old their garden paths along.
I have a Vision of the Future, chum,
The workers' flats in fields of soya beans
Tower up like silver pencils, score on score:
And Surging Millions hear the Challenge come
From microphones in communal canteens
"No Right! No Wrong! All's perfect, evermore!"
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Written by
Adrian Green |
Pottering around the stage,
a hyperactive ancient in his own backyard -
independent of the band it seems.
Disrhythmic shuffling of ashtray,
beer, a pack of cigarettes,
adjusting microphones,
then in the middle eight
he draws, exhales, and catches breath,
stoops forward to the mouthpiece
and blows,
a tumbling counterpoint,
scales soaring from his horn.
The melody flows
until the break,
and then he shoulders arms,
a truce between the music and his ailing lungs.
Between choruses he sits apart
to light another cigarette,
a sideman counting out the bars
until he rises for the coda -
this Lazarus of swing.
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Written by
Czeslaw Milosz |
All my life to pretend this world of theirs is mine
And to know such pretending is disgraceful.
But what can I do? Suppose I suddenly screamed
And started to prophesy. No one would hear me.
Their screens and microphones are not for that.
Others like me wander the streets
And talk to themselves. Sleep on benches in parks,
Or on pavements in alleys. For there aren't enough prisons
To lock up all the poor. I smile and keep quiet.
They won't get me now.
To feast with the chosen—that I do well.
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