Richard Byrt
Stuck
Sapphire, you streak, azuring up
over murk that lurks under plastic cups
chucked, submerging in floods.
Why do you choose to dazzle us here,
darting by rubble stuck by the weir:
bunged, dumped under mud?
I run along the towpath, thinking I spot you again.
But no, not a kingfisher, just a blue plastic bag abandoned in rain:
Spluttered, gunging in sludge.
Sapphire, you streak, azuring up
over murk that lurks under plastic cups
chucked, submerging in floods.
Why do you choose to dazzle us here,
darting by rubble stuck by the weir:
bunged, dumped under mud?
I run along the towpath, thinking I spot you again.
But no, not a kingfisher, just a blue plastic bag abandoned in rain:
Spluttered, gunging in sludge.
Your Poetry Changes Nothing
Your poetry changes nothing.
It doesn’t change her nappy,
or change trinitrates leaking in
electric kettle plugs.
Your poetry saves nothing.
It doesn’t save your granny
when she’s half way out and drowning,
and she struggles, dunked in mud.
It doesn’t save our silver
being taken by the flood.
Your poetry clears nothing:
doesn’t clear this nuclear rain,
or stop it dripping down the pipes
and bunging up the drain.
It doesn’t clear the fog that clogs
the Piccadilly line;
or stop the train to Rayners Lane from crashing.
Your poetry changes nothing.
It doesn’t change for dinner,
or change war, slavery, famine,
or make fat cats get thinner.
It doesn’t make you extravert
so that you would choose
to go to raves on Brighton beach
instead of stopping in.
Your poetry changes nothing.
It makes nothing happen.
But all you do is sit there writing poems.
Line 10 is quoted from: Shakespeare, W. (1599/1994). Julius Caesar, p206, 4, 2, 268 – 269. Oxford: Oxford University Press ed. A. Humphreys. (First performed around 1599).
Line 27. “…makes nothing happen…” is quoted from: . Auden, W. H. (1940). II. In Memory of W. B. Yeats (died January, 1939), 2, line 5. In: Auden, W. H. (1940). Another Time. New York: Random House, p94.
Your poetry changes nothing.
It doesn’t change her nappy,
or change trinitrates leaking in
electric kettle plugs.
Your poetry saves nothing.
It doesn’t save your granny
when she’s half way out and drowning,
and she struggles, dunked in mud.
It doesn’t save our silver
being taken by the flood.
Your poetry clears nothing:
doesn’t clear this nuclear rain,
or stop it dripping down the pipes
and bunging up the drain.
It doesn’t clear the fog that clogs
the Piccadilly line;
or stop the train to Rayners Lane from crashing.
Your poetry changes nothing.
It doesn’t change for dinner,
or change war, slavery, famine,
or make fat cats get thinner.
It doesn’t make you extravert
so that you would choose
to go to raves on Brighton beach
instead of stopping in.
Your poetry changes nothing.
It makes nothing happen.
But all you do is sit there writing poems.
Line 10 is quoted from: Shakespeare, W. (1599/1994). Julius Caesar, p206, 4, 2, 268 – 269. Oxford: Oxford University Press ed. A. Humphreys. (First performed around 1599).
Line 27. “…makes nothing happen…” is quoted from: . Auden, W. H. (1940). II. In Memory of W. B. Yeats (died January, 1939), 2, line 5. In: Auden, W. H. (1940). Another Time. New York: Random House, p94.