Best Waistcoat Poems
Above: Wystan in fancy dress
as a beetle -1912
Photographs of Wystan
One of the world's
greatest poets
in a pose, similar
to an Anne Gedde's baby
Balancing beetle antennae
his head at an angle
a satin suit padded to
emulate the chest
of a beetle's,
Spare legs of black velvet
dangling while
he stands upright
feet together, his
expression, militant
Certain in this moment
of his current
resemblance to
a beetle
At five years old,
to think he held
potential for such poetry
A black and white photo,
frontspiece for "The Life of a Poet"
It appears to have been
snapped just before an
exhalation of his cigarrette.
At 65
his face is wrinkled
eye bags reminiscent of
a sharpei puppy
but it is the forehead
that so amazes
with grids as square as graphic paper
as if the poetry
had been mapped out
on his face
I've seen mud, cracking
like that, on a dried up river bed
His fingers are long, chiselled
and in relaxed contact
with that cigarette as
he holds back a chuckle
with the smoke
His air is of a casual formality- a waistcoat
teamed with with a plaid sports coat
In retrospect, here, he had
reached his full potential
I wonder if someone
uttered at his funeral
"Stop all the clocks."
I remember nineteen ninety six
like it was yesterday - the penalty
the way that Gareth kicked the ball and missed
I bet he never thought that day that he
would ever be back in the game again
his name engraved in Lions' hearts, their
lips aflame with songs of praise, and men
in waistcoat shops, and women swooning where
he might have been. You've got to love a man
who wears his pride so modestly, who's cute
who wears a new suit stylishly, who can
(if dream we dare) bring home the Cup to boot
If on that fateful day he'd walked away
we wouldn't be here, would we. Let us play.
© Gail Foster 11th July 2018
Every time I read Pessoa I think
I'm better than he is
Salutations to Fernando Pessoa-Alan Ginsberg
Me, the monocled one, with my foppish belted waistcoat,
I'm not unworthy of you, Walt,
I'm not unworthy of you, my saluting you proves it . . .
Salute to Walt Whitman- Fernando Pessoa
Here from a place in my heart, I salute you,
Female as I am, and unknown,
Should I be praising Emily, Plath or Achmatova?
But you started it Pessoa! with your Alvaro comparing himself
to Whitman, not content to admit to a greatness of your own
and now I find dear Mr. Ginsberg confessing to his greatness in
epic manner, name dropping from Socrates to Michelangelo
admitting faults in the same breath-tracking his enlightenment
and if it was written tongue in cheek, I missed it.
How I admire the great poets that wade into the mainstream
appearing where the greatest wrongs appear, risking even
death for their beliefs, celebrated by those who embrace their
point of view, but what of the unknown poets in the world;
so many whose work is equally astounding, yet unexposed.
Musings on every subject known to man, set down in metaphor
and rhyme makes me wonder what brings immortal recognition
Is it from making a devoted study or from mixing in the right circles?
The hallowed halls of academia or is it some -one's tiny jounal
of handwritten poems waiting for discovery, the enlightenment
of the next century?
Poets, don't often, answer to their fame - writing what's inside of them
for those to come.
Thursday, 06 September, 2001
I wrote this poem one morning (Thursday, 06 September, 2001)after I had read a poem by Alan Ginsberg in the 1995 edition of The Best American Poetry.
I had never seen the poem he referred to "Salute to Whitman"by Fernando Pessoa
and today when I found it on the web Friday, March 01, 2002, I was suprised to see how similar our opening lines were.
Here are current links to the poems mentioned
https://issuu.com/hbarbas/docs/1997_salutations_to_pessoa_ginsberg_h_barbas
https://modpo2015.wordpress.com/poems-of-note/fernando-pessoa-alvaro-de-campos-salute-to-walt-whitman/
Don Johnson Yuan-orang
We was in Coles a shopping center,
The wild man from Borneo appeared,
He reared up an started spraying
Yuan Oranaga-Taunga was here
Followers in their blue-gum robes,
With bark a prickling round their ears,
With dollar coins attached to ear lobes,
Dodged and sidestepped as they savoured
Uric acid and sweet urea,
Holy-man was gesticulating,
Gonads flashing so sincere,
Red hairy waistcoat ever stating,
Yuan a Tanga was the seer,
Deported then he was so,
Dropped by parachute we hear,
Back to the wilds of Borneo,
Thought blinking Wombats bloody *****…
Don
The maiden was carrying a basket
it was full of sweet flowers for market
once she got there she places a blanket
then lays the bunches around a casket
A toff came along and got one for Ascot
he doffed his hat showing a crew cut
the fabric of his trousers was tricot
made up fashionably in cross cut
He invites her to join him at Ascot
leading her down to a leafy short cut
intentions clear he opens his tricot
so she made good use of hidden off cut
Flees from situation most delicate
to get involved much too intricate
after all you must follow etiquette
to remain in the temple's syndicate
Collecting up her flowers and basket
she made her way home out of the market
she wrote never again in triplicate
as her cat came over to affricate
She sat down to a dinner of brisket
followed by a nice tasty biscuit
getting it down, she cleaned the musket
finishes day ironing her weskit
~~~~~~
affricate means to rub up against
Tricot is a fabric or material
weskit is a word for waistcoat usually very ornate
Though we got the land on name of religion,
But we tend to be far more traditional,
As being a post-colonial, still baffled,
But now again my nation is girdled!
Every province have its language but,
Radically alike semantics in our spirit,
Some wear waistcoat or some jeans,
This polarization persists in our teens,
But to this point of disparity, still,
We all offer Him together and will!
A time comes in a year, twice
Where we gather with family and cheer,
A reason of celebration twice the year,
One for the fasting in holy month inhere,
While merry on the Latter is premier,
Subdued in the celebrations we’re
Thus so in satisfaction of love,
only of father and mother,
This is the life in my homeland lived,
Mundanely lived … ah seems outlived!
Each time my Auntie Rosa went to shop in the High Street,
She’d bring us back a pink-iced bun; it was our special treat.
We’d take them up to Grandad’s (we preferred to eat them there)
We’d scoff them in the kitchen, in his big old Windsor chair.
And Grandad made us thick black tea, as thick as tarmacadam,
And carrots from the garden (if the rabbits hadn’t had ‘em!)
He tried, I guess, but honestly, his cooking was quite ropey,
And since he washed his plates in Daz, it always tasted soapy!
He kept rabbits out behind his house (some of them were tame.)
In the front grew antirrhinums – ‘bunny-rabbits’ once again.
Their soft and furry noses looked exactly like each other:
Each flower a tiny replica of its herbivorous brother.
His house was full of assegais, elephants and gongs.
He’d tell us of his voyages and sing us salty songs …
He always wore a waistcoat and a greasy old flat cap.
He still walked with a sailor’s roll, the nautical old chap!
When Grandad wanted 'baccy, I’d go down Kit-Cat Lane
To the musty shop in a wooden hut - ‘The Cabin’ was its name.
T’was just like in a cowboy film, with barrels and all-sorts;
But best of all was the real stuffed bear, moulting on the porch..
Sometimes we’d go to Gordon’s house. His garden had a swing.
We’d crawl under his veranda, and discuss Lee’s brother’s Thing!
Gordon did love swimming! He went in the sea each day.
He went in once too often, for he drowned out in the bay.
Those summers on the island seem so very long ago.
These days I can’t remember why it is I loved them so …
But sometimes, when a nasty pong comes drifting from a drain,
It smells just like the Canvey dykes, and I am there again …
I’m padding down a sandy path, between two slime-filled ditches,
My hair is wet, my skin tastes salt, my swimsuit rubs and itches.
I turn the corner of the lane; the graveyard smell is gone …
In Grandad’s garden, there’s my Dad! He’s come to take me home!
For the uninitiated (or simply younger!), an assegai is an African Zulu warrior's long spear,
and tarmacadam is the stuff you put on roads - blacktop!
A Giant
There is an unknown legend that comes
from the great Black Forest
of a creature fearsome and oh, so glorious.
Though his brain be small
and barely larger than a walnut
his head and jaws are held in fear and awe.
Those huge brown eyes hold such a stare
and his teeth are sharp as nails
with claws long and pointed reaching everywhere.
The body black and boldly trimmed in brown
short haired waistcoat thick yet soft
rapped snuggly at his belly round.
The form is slim and trim, the torso long and lank
a streamlined tail waving in the sun
satisfied when its task is done.
There he is, can you see him frown
thrashing through the field
everybody running as he comes into town.
His sound is loud and deafening,
it roars like echoed thunder
as feet imprint the earth he plunders.
There he stands with renewed vigor and vim
challenging every eye on him.
What's that you say, you're unafraid,
He is but a tiny Dachshund?
Stand back my friends, you doubting disbelievers,
be fearful and leary, despite his size
he is a giant,
a Rottweiler in disguise.
...inspired by 'The Outing' by Dylan Thomas
His waistcoat full to bursting
he harrumphed through the public house
like Hell itself was after him
and tripped, and missed his stool.
"Pull me a pint!" he cried,
"and never mind the bill, we'll settle up!"
A face pricked like a strawberry,
and just as red, spit spraying
as he bellowed he was jovial, inebriated,
in his cups before the opening bell
and known to one and all as Stumble.
The Snug was crammed, like-minded men
determined for a belly full.
At closing time they locked the doors
and started on the bottles.
They posted Ernie Jenkins as a
lookout for the constable,
lead tenor in the male voice choir.
Dispensing with his duties
he joined in with all the rest,
pickled voices still in tune,
until the pub was dry, the notes exhausted.
Stumble bade goodnight to all the rest
and staggered through the dim-lit streets,
his true and constant friend the flying moon.
West coast, east coast
This question is for you in the waist coat
What about us in the mid-west?
People like to boast
Pork and beans and roast beef
And other simple stuff
Like dumplings and toast
All the things that perish with the eating
Sleeping through productive meetings
I know you think I'm tripping
But get a grip
I'm also guilty. No kidding
You ask me how I know all this
And the answer is simple
I saw you sitting under the fig tree
Go figure, you are the whiz kid
But in a moment I'll clue you in
You say people look like trees walking
Singing twisted lyrics about feelings
You say you just want to make a killing
No hard feelings
It's all about the Benjamins
Images of bags filled with greenbacks
But I doubt it, and I'll tell you about it
Some are drowning
Runaway notions about emotions
I see you loud and clear
You'll have to know I'm not far but near
You keep on causing commotion
With your explosive concoctions
Contorting misdirected souls
She sang beautifully in the choir
But is now hooked on synthetic fire
Unfettered thoughts and desires
I hope you feel my ire
Tooting horns and screeching tires
Choo-choo, there it goes
Iron centipede
Runaway train speeding across town
Stop the world I want to get on
Collection of lost souls chasing a lost cause
Moving fast, hurtling past, grabbing about
Hoping to get their name announced
Jostling for their name to appear somewhere
Stop the car I want to get on
Get me on the fast track, I'm going nowhere
Stop the train I want to get off
The boy was aged about eighteen,
Pale and pensive,
Weary and frail in appearance.
He could have been
Goethe's Werther,
Senancour's Obermann
Or Chateaubriand's melancholy hero,
Embraced by a generation,
And about whom Sainte-Beuve said:
"Rene, c'est moi."
Tortured by a new mal du siecle,
He sought refuge
In the Club Bouzingo.
Two young poets,
One dark, the other fair,
Drifted past. The first,
Whose black hair
Hung in ringlets over his shoulders,
Wore a small pointed beard,
Black velvet tails,
A white linen shirt
Loosely fastened at the neck
By a thin pink taffeta tie;
The second wore a tight coat
That opened onto a silk crimson waistcoat
And a lace jabot, white trousers
With blue seams,
And a wide-brimmed black hat, and
In one of his hands
He carried a long thin pink-coloured pipe.
They were soon joined
By some of their dandified companions.
The music had stopped playing, and
The poet-leader in cape and gloves,
Dark and pomaded
With a Theophile Gautier moustache,
Took to the stage,
Where he proceeded to declaim
Selections from his subversive verses
To delirious cheers,
As if sedition was imminent;
Only the boy-poet remained silent,
His pale cheeks
Soaked by the freshest tears.
"Apres nous, le deluge,"
He said under his breath,
"Our leader preaches revolution
But provides no solution
As to the fate of coming generations,
Should the infant be cast out
With the bath water that is so filthy
In his sight
That, intent on doing right,
Gives no thought to the future,
Nor to what might supplant
The society he claims to despise."
The boy was aged about eighteen
Pale and pensive
Weary and frail in appearance.
He could have been
Goethe's Werther,
Senancour's Obermann
Or Chateaubriand's melancholy hero,
Embraced by a generation,
And about whom Sainte-Beuve said:
"Rene, c'est moi."
Tortured by a new mal du siecle,
He sought refuge
From the Club Bouzingo.
(The origins of "Bouzingo: The Gathering of the Poets" lie in an unfinished tale, possibly dating from around 1979.)
Neck-o-Flex
Twist-o-Flex
Single Roll,
Boogaloo
Scarecrow
Puppet,
Push and Pull,
Toyman, Robot,
Shamrock, Waving,
Eqyptian Twist,
Romeo Twist,
It's Funk we're making
Double Lock,
High kick, handkerchief
Apple Hat,
Splits, Knee drop, Wrist Twirl,
a Layout that's flat,
Stripey socks, bright Zoot suit,
Marshmallow shoes,
Candy Hush Puppies, big smiles,
no need for blues,
Waistcoat, Braces, a Cane,
Bowler or Derby hat,
Popping and Locking has style
we can't get enough of it.
Fact.
Walk-out, Electric Boogaloos,
Iconic Boogaloo Sam
He's the man who made Popping,
for Locking, Don's the man
James Brown, get down,
Breakdown, Rufus Thomas,
Everyone needs to get funky
Don't be shy, join us!
My daily drive; today through pouring rain,
Behind road fog snaking towards me from the truck ahead,
Slowly approaching the cloud-shrouded glass and metal,
Framed by downtown's bustling highways.
Graffiti on walls and overpasses define the city climate
Testimony of a divided space and time
Obscenities litter the viaducts and road signs
Racial slurs and sexual innuendos graphically apparent.
Beggars crowd each corner light.
Wheel chaired homeless; missing limbs and teeth,
Huddled beneath layers of sweaters and tattered jackets,
Mumbling into their private cyberspace of unreality.
Parking lots crowded with brown skinned men,
Waiting for one day's employment to wander by,
Speaking a language that is becoming the norm,
Twelve deep clustered in one room flats.
Sirens wail as the babies cry,
Crack head infants abandoned to a depleted system,
Children birthing children into a burdened structure,
Seams bursting in the waistcoat of mankind.
JIM
Gigging for free, for fun, our choice -
Fur coat, waistcoat, beads:
He sang of Prince Charlie, glens, hero’s deeds.
Scruffy blue jeans, timbre in his voice.
Fridays at the folkmusic club, jamming.
His place one night funniest thing ever heard -
His and his wife’s Glaswegian accent -
But we sang and played till drink was spent
And I couldn’t understand a word.
I liked his singing, they liked my playing.
Met him in Bishopsgate, London one day, said hi -
Was amazed - he was something in a merchant bank,
With camel-hair topcoat and cigar in hand, real swank,
With other banker types - Hong Kong and Shanghai.
Boy, that Jim could sing.
Not so many years ago
I revelled in rebellion,
Derided seniors
In sportsmobiles,
Comfortable bellies on
Wheels. Waistcoat
Fillers. Surreptitious
Pint spillers.
But now I sit and scoff
At youth and all its
Awkward agonising
Over lack of truth.
Merrily I mow the lawn
And curse because I
Can't get my wellies on.
And my wife orders me
To buy a larger pair.
And I cry 'No!' and
She groans and I ignore
Her as I turn the telly on
And I revel in my rebellion.