Shortly after writing the poem below I was being driven to Broadcasting House to read it (along with the Kew poem), Radio 5 Live was playing and Beccy Adlinton had just won her second gold, breaking the world record as she did so, and for the first time my pulse quickened in response to the Olympics. I didn’t regret my Beijing Bull poem, though, for an instant. Because the battle to keep Tibet in the public eye has been the unacknowledged extra event in the games so far, and is to my mind far more important than who wins what and how we’re placed on the medals table. Medals schmedals, I say, and I used to a Steve Ovett fan. Still would be, if he hadn’t hung up his running shoes. And let his thighs go a little.

 

Beijing Bull

 

Okay, we’ve two more medals in - for swimming and for pedalling

But my pulse isn’t racing - I’m still not engaging

 

For me there’s a limp in Olympics

For me there’s just beige in Beijing

 

There’s medals for coming and medals for going

For running and jumping and diving and rowing

Medals for to-ing and medals for fro-ing

Medals for swivelling, knitting and purling

Wrestling, wriggling, curling and hurling

 

But what’s really impressed is the way the protesters

Do FREE TIBET banner unfurling

 

just for it’s own sake

 

I have a few friends who have BlackBerries - BlackBerrys I should probably say - or their equivalent, the iPhone or whatever. And while they are not so far gone as the character in the following poem, they’re close. Trust me, they’re close. As I a myself, and I don’t even have one - nor do intend to have one, as I recognise the addictive pull that cyberland has over me via the various interfaces available.

This poem first appeared in the Guardian Work section, in my Desktop Poetry slot.

Not Tonight, Dear, I Have a Blackberry

 

Your perky pocket PA winks and bleeps.

You take it to the loo to check your mail

 - The hand-held power hub that never sleeps -

Stay too long, come back sweaty, glass-eyed, pale

 

But in control. You’ve learnt to delegate,

Keep cyber tabs on things, bring far to near,

Send ’spin’ memos to every wobbling plate,

Become the wireless master puppeteer.

 

You’re never, now, not ever, quite away.

Unthinkable to turn it off – and churlish.

Your status slips from puppeteer to prey,

The gizmo’s got you by the late and earlies.

 

You are unfailingly available.

Resistance is feudal. You are in thrall,

Have lost rights that were once inalienable,

Are at its beck, buzz, flash, wink, beep and call.

 

Back to the bathroom, brush, wee, wash, click, wipe,

Then sit, unblinking, semi-catatonic,

In your online CA meeting, and type:

“Hi. My name’s Matthew. I’m a cyberholic…”

A Grip Too Far

 

Whenever Jessica made a slip

Her father would say to her

            Jess! Get a grip!

If ever she burped or slurped her tea

            He’d say: Jessica, sip!

            That’s my girl. Get a grip.

And when she let succumbed to the urge to skip

Or let rip with a fart

Or to say something smart…

            Jessica! Get a grip!

And if she came back with a quick, clever quip

He’d hiss: Less of your lip, Jess

And fetch her a clip

Round the ear

And if Jessica let slip a tear

It was: Jess, wipe your face

That’s my girl. Get a grip

And if she woke him up from an afternoon kip

            Then he’d practically flip:

            JESSICA! Get….a….grip.

 

Eventually Jessica had such a firm grip

            She was completely rigid

            And had to be put on a drip

And her father (bless him)

Would make the twenty-mile

            Round trip

            To her bedside, and say

Come on Jessie – give us a smile!

The other day I was lucky enough to do a gig with folk circuit legend Les Barker and wondermental star turn Jude Simpson. We were all up in Carlisle at the Brampton Live folk festival. It was a treat to meet Les and share a stage with him and Jude, and one  in particular of Les’s poems struck me as having fundamentally wondermentalist properties. I asked if he’d mind me putting a copy up here on the site and when I got home there it was in my inbox, all neat and rhyming and funny.

 

THE CHURCH OF THE WHOLLY UNDECIDED

 

Brothers and sisters;

I speak to you today in the Church of the Wholly Undecided;

I wanna hear you say “Yeah!”

I wanna hear you say “No!”

 

We are gathered here together,

Sister side by side with brother,

To proclaim we are Agnostic;

Don’t know one way or the other.

In this, we won’t be shaken,

Though hard the winds may blow;

In doubt we are united

And we cry: We do not know!”

 

Brothers and sisters;

I wanna hear you say “Errrrrrrrrrrrr!”

I wanna hear you say “There are two sides to this, you know!”

 

We hold no fear of persecution,

It pains us not to be derided

As we stand here in the Church

Of The Wholly Undecided.

Oh my brothers and my sisters,

I know I speak for you

When I say we know for certain

That we haven’t got a clue.

 

Brothers and sisters;

I wanna hear you say “It’s beyond my comprehension!”

I wanna hear you say “It’s a bugger, innit?”

 

I believe that some believe

That only their beliefs are true;

Do I believe what they believe?

I don’t believe I do.

O my friends, be ye contented,

For ignorance is bliss;

We stand foursquare behind our message

And we don’t know what it is.

 

Brothers and sisters;

I wanna hear you say “I am not a sheep!”

I wanna hear you say “I will not mindlessly do everything I am told!”

 

We know that we don’t know,

So let our vision still be pure;

We are Agnostic Fundamentalists;

We’re fundamentally unsure.

Peace, my sisters and my brothers;

The Agnostic does not smite;

We are tolerant of others;

There’s a chance they may be right.

 

Brothers and sisters;

I wanna hear you say “Death to nobody whatsoever!”

I wanna hear you say “The infidel might have a good point, you know!”

I want you all to clap now.

 

I’m hopeful we’ll be getting Les along to a Wondermentalist Cabaret in 2009. Watch this space. Apart from anything it’s just a great bit of space.