As shadow poet laureate it's my mission to counter whatever the actual poet laureate writes with something even edgier. Simon Armitage is one hell of a poet, but I think you'll find I can do better. I lead the nation's poetic opposition. This month's poem reflects the state of anxiety we are currently living in. This new variant of COVID spreads far more easily, and there is a palpable sense of panic among the people of this country that they'll come into contact with the virus, giving it to their elderly and vulnerable loved ones.
Back in Medieval times, citizens had the same fears, for them it was the black death. Certain groups of people became scapegoats, they thought God might be furious at them, children were left alone in houses to fend for themselves if they showed symptoms of the disease. It really was a clusterfuck of existential proportions. One of the most famous chroniclers of the black death was Giovanni Boccaccio, who wrote The Decameron, which follows several young women and men sheltering outside of Florence to escape the disease.
The Decameron was also the title of Martin St. John Travers' book about the resignation of David Cameron. St. John Travers coined the word 'decameronization', meaning 'to let the school bullies set the school on fire then leave without acknowledging that you provided them with the gasoline and the map of the school and the chloroform to render the security guards unconscious and the getaway vehicle and the balaclavas and the swag bags'. The phrase is now common parlance.
In these unprecedented times, poetry is more vital than ever. My poet chums and I will attempt to articulate, to the best of our ability, the roller-coaster of feeling we have all experienced in some way or another this year.
My name is Andrew Suction.
I am a wordsmith
I sweat ink and bleed Typex
Let me indulge you:
Don't Touch Him
Look, Mummy!
There's someone outside.
What does he want?
Don't you go near him
Do not touch him
Do not smile at him
Do not acknowledge him
Do not answer his questions, sign his parcels
Do not give him the time of day
Do not charm him, indulge him, converse with him
Do not invite him into our home
Do not wave at him in his car, or holler at him across the street
Do not speak to him at morning prayers
Do not pass him condiments when we feast together after Evensong
Do not make eye contact with him in the sauna
Do not sit where he sat, stand where he stood, walk where he walked, breathe where he breathed, think where he thought, shit where he shat.
Erase him from your memory
he is the enemy
he is the untouchable
do not even lay eyes on him
Nay, not even your thoughts.
Block the very essence of him out of your minds
He is only trouble now
We must be strong
We must be together
We must be stubborn
We must be together
We must be rigorous
We must be together
We must be brutal
We must not let go.
We must purge him from our lives
And yet
No
He is like us
He needs bread and friends
He is neglected
He is troubled
He is in need of sanctuary
He is dying in front of us
He is weary and decrepit
He is old and withered
He needs water
He needs shelter
He needs us.
I know not what to do
We must clean
Clean the surfaces
Clean the doorknob
Clean the doorbell
Clean the cupboard and the sinks and the taps
Clean the clocks
Clean the telephone
Clean the dog with his juicy bone
Clean the pianos
Clean the coffin
He is dead
Do not touch him, children!
Hear my words
He is a poison
He is from the gutters
He is a nowhere man, a solitary man, a wretched man, a leprous man, a cretinous, devilish, pittance of a man.
Oh, what am I saying? That's not your father, that's your uncle Nigel! Let him in, children!
-Andrew Suction
You are ill
ReplyDeleteIll with GENIUS
ReplyDeleteHoly smokes, great poem! I felt its truth down to my womanly ankles.
ReplyDeleteThank you, 'Darcy Blish'.
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