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What is the use of books in bed,
The half-read and the to-be-read
With no-one at your side?
The clock becomes a mass of ticks,
The blankets do not yield to kicks
And vanish like a tide.
England
meanders into night –
A
room gone quiet after light –This dull autumnal day;
The U.S. with the poet’s wife
Beneath horizons bursts with life,
And makes demotic hay.
In
California golden men
With
names like Brewster and like BenAre riding on the surf;
The sun-soaked cities eat the coast
Like young PR’s devouring toast
Out on the morning turf.
In
Oregon, that lovely state,
Committed
young make drivers waitUntil they’ve checked the gasses
That spluttering from a cracked exhaust
Might visit minor holocaust
Upon the natural masses.
In
mid-West states the farmers bring
Their
combines to the harvesting –The glowing plains are shorn;
They loathe the Russians, all they do,
Think Carter should rough up a few,
But want them to eat corn.
In
the New South of dust and plain
A
cowboy flies an aeroplaneAnd drinks at Caesar’s Palace;
A businessman concludes a deal
To civilize the commonweal
And bring The Who to Dallas.
In
Washington and in New York
Discrimination’s
all the talkAgainst the blacks and women;
And Puerto Ricans, Mexicans,
Christopher Street and Indians,
And anyone not winning.
Off
Union Square a church is full –
A
group debate the pentacleAnd study the “I Ching”;
Next week it’s “You and Worry Beads”.
Outside, a faded notice reads
“The Church of Christ the King.”
On
campuses a few old men
With
shaky lips remember whenThey lectured on the Good;
Their students sat in quiet rows
Developing a canny nose
For what was gold or wood.
But
Giroux in his office grooms
The
products of cheap, rented roomsRefusing to allow
That Art and Culture should become
As hollow as a beaten drum
Or bellow like a cow.
In
England now the pundits write
As
if they ever had been rightAnd try to scan the times;
Boring as men in urinals
They only know that criminals
Incline to commit crimes.
Our
intellectuals drink their juice
As
subtle-arrogant as ZeusAnd open the New Statesman;
From front to back it’s full of “it’s”
And other non-elitist bits,
As surly as a placeman.
The
poets rise soon after noon
And
spread their butter with a spoonSinging a small “introit”;
If Pope or Chaucer stood before them
And spoke of wit or of decorum
I fear they would not know it.
The
people who produced the ballad
Now
struggle for a crazy saladAnd know not want they do;
The streets are like a vale of sighs,
Their windows are accusing eyes
Demanding “Who are you?”
As
sullen as an offshore rock
That’s
grazed by a forgotten flockAnd cut off by the tide,
England sings ditties to the sky,
Scratches its cheek, is jostled by
The flotsam at its side.
The
storm clouds of this latter world
Are
spreading fast like flags unfurled,The Furies search for blood;
We play our corner of the game,
Giving our number and our name,
And watch the rising flood.
Think
of the starving and the fraught
Whose
lives are no more than a thoughtAs officers prepare
To move their armies to the front
Where villages will bear the brunt
As if they were not there.
Come
back my love on the last ’plane
And
we shall bill and kiss againBefore the thunder starts;
For soon a sword will draw a line,
The generals will give the sign,
And frenzy grip our hearts.
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© January 1980