Essays & poems

I’ve been your MP for many a year

And I spent all your money, took every due care

But please re-elect me, now I’ve paid back some loot

I managed to fiddle before this dispute.

 

Chorus

 

And it’s yeah, yeah, ever

Yeah, yeah, ever, more, more

For I’m your hog member

Your honourable whore.

 

I’ll tell you my tale if you’re willing to hear

I was born to find claret, malt whiskey – not beer

Like those commoners drink in their houses so small,

I’ve always believed I had a much higher call.

 

I served on the Council, but the perks were quite thin

Then my whelk stall went bankrupt, and my wife hit the gin.

I felt hopeless and angry, and vented my spleen

Then my party said ‘this man is hungry and mean’.

 

In the hustings I beat the do-gooding has-beens

And was chosen to echo my party’s machine

With my no–nonsense sound bites ‘bout Europe and cuts

Plus some local concerns about unmarried sluts.

 

My income as MP is a mere 70k

But with claims for expenses, I can double my pay

A second home in London and a flat by the sea

All mortgages paid for by a kind Treasury.

 

A larger home beckoned the fatter I grew

As did my status – t’was only my due.

So I switched my main residence round every year –

To suggest this was greedy is really a smear.

 

It’s a family business, when all’s said and done

So I claim for my wife as well as my son.

She is my secretary, he drives the car

When he’s not running his London wine bar.

 

I soon reached the limit of all I could claim

But at the start of the tax year, re-submitted again.

My duck house was sinking, it would no longer float

So I claimed for a new one, fixed the leak in the moat.

 

Three plasma screen tellies, five i-pods and more

Plus a new granny flat and a new ballroom floor;

I don’t think you realise how long it takes me

To claim these expenses, but I hope you now see.

 

So now I’ve been candid, I’ve held nothing back

I feel hurt and betrayed to be put on this rack.

It’s all about Britain – it’s not about me – – – –

So please re-elect me as your local MP.

 

 

T’was in the town of Northam

In a Spring election year

The time when politicians

Suddenly appear

With rosettes big as sunflowers

And a salesman’s slick handshake

And pleading eyes just like my dog’s

When he smells I’m eating cake

 

‘Can I count on you to vote for me

In this election year?

I’m fighting for the policies

That you and I hold dear.

I listen to the people

So please get out and vote

I’m completely independent

Within my party’s coat.’

 

‘And just what are your policies?’

I tried to ask of him

‘ I’m just a straight plain talker

I don’t believe in spin’.

‘So just what are your policies?’

I questioned him in vain

‘I listen to the people’

He informed me once again.

 

‘You’re on the Plan’s Committee

I recognise your mug.

You dine out with developers

At the local country club.’

‘What are you suggesting?’

He bared his teeth at me.

‘Have your interests all been listed

In the Members’ Registry?’

 

‘You stood as independent

Last election time

And then became a Tory

Six months down the line.

At the heart of all your thinking

Is – what’s in it for me.

Your just a willing lackey

Of local industry.’

 

 

T’was in the town of Northam

In a Spring election year

The time when politicians

Suddenly appear

With rosettes big as sunflowers

And a salesman’s slick handshake

And pleading eyes just like my dog’s

When he smells I’m eating cake

 

‘Can I count on you to vote for me

In this election year?

I’m fighting for the policies

That you and I hold dear.

I listen to the people

So please get out and vote

I’m completely independent

Within my party’s coat.’

 

‘And just what are your policies?’

I tried to ask of him

‘ I’m just a straight plain talker

I don’t believe in spin’.

‘So just what are your policies?’

I questioned him in vain

‘I listen to the people’

He informed me once again.

 

‘You’re on the Plan’s Committee

I recognise your mug.

You dine out with developers

At the local country club.’

‘What are you suggesting?’

He bared his teeth at me.

‘Have your interests all been listed

In the Members’ Registry?’

 

‘You stood as independent

Last election time

And then became a Tory

Six months down the line.

At the heart of all your thinking

Is – what’s in it for me.

Your just a willing lackey

Of local industry.’

 

‘I’ll tell you what I’m looking for

In my local Councillor.

A person with a vision,

Someone who will roar,

Who understands the forces

That shape our world today,

Who will fight to heal our planet

‘Cos there’s no other way.’

 

‘Your vision is consuming

More and more and more

And raiding the resources

That nature holds in store

For every generation

Who’ll ever live on earth –

You know the current cost of things

But not their real worth’.

 

‘You’re mad’ he said ‘You’re mad’ said he

‘ There goes my mobile phone’

I said ‘I’ll still remind you

You’ll reap what you have sown’.

He said – ‘ You’re an idealist

As green as green can be’

I said – ‘I am a realist,

You’ll die the same as me.’

 

‘Our little world is finite

Seven billion live on earth

And half of them are starving

And seen of little worth.

They want the same as you have

And you say – they’ll have their day

To gorge themselves like you do

And let their children pay.’

 

‘You’re mad’ he said ‘You’re mad’ said he

‘ There goes my mobile phone’

I said ‘I’ll still remind you

You’ll reap what you have sown’.

He said – ‘ You’re an idealist

As green as green can be’

I said – ‘I am a realist,

You’ll die the same as me.’

 

 

 

When your blank boot

Smashed into that defenceless face

Again and again

A face you’d never met before

Eyes you’d never looked into –

You revealed your real terror

Of becoming human(e)

Your terror of feeling joy

Your terror of love.

That’s why you hate your own soul

That’s why it is so malformed

So furious in it’s feeling of impotence

So hopeless.

Your own father must have hated you

Your mother ignored you

To show you such little humanity.

Has there ever been anyone in your life

Who cherished you

Such that it challenged your cowardice?

Every child seeks love

But now you have reached the chronological age of adulthood

You have stopped looking for it

And have chosen only to hate anyone and everything

That has the courage to grow in gentleness.

And shall these drills in modern times

Frack through the fields of England green

And shall those towers of slashing blades

On every hill and mount be seen

And shall that cancerous, nuclear waste

Poison her rivers and her streams

And GM weeds sprout in the ruins

Of England’s children’s shattered dreams.

Bring me my bow

Of burning gold

Bring me my arrows of desire

Bring me my spear

Oh clouds unfold

Bring me my chariot of fire

I shall not cease from mental strife

Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand

‘Til we have built Jerusalem

In England’s green and pleasant land.

Cllr Blather and Cllr Stern

And a builder named Cllr Hod

Were viewing some green belt round their town

And thinking it rather odd

That all the animals, plants and trees

Walkers and dogs and birds and bees –

And none to be seen with a frown.

‘They’re enjoying themselves’ cried Cllr Blather

‘Playing not working’ growled Cllr Stern

‘I’d cover it in houses’ said Cllr Hod.

 

‘I’ve a developer friend’ said Cllr Hod

‘Who will pay a good price for the lot

The Chief Execs in need of a penny

To add to his pension pot

And, as Chair of Planning, Cllr Blather,

I’m sure between us we could gather

A voting majority’

‘This town must grow’ mused Cllr Blather

‘We’ve got to compete’ growled Cllr Stern

‘We’ll each trouser a packet’ crowed Cllr Hod.

 

 

When the Planning Committee met to decide

Whether to build on the land

Hundreds e-mailed and hundreds wrote

Determined to take a stand

And fight for their right to enjoy this space

And give the Council a kick in the face

And threaten them with their vote.

‘The young need housing’ burbled Cllr Blather

‘And housing means jobs’ growled Cllr Stern

‘You can’t halt progress’ said Cllr Hod

 

 

An objector said ‘This land was bequeathed

To the people for recreation’.

But another replied ‘the deeds have been lost

Under council re-organisation’.

‘These woods may provide a rare habitat

For a natterjack toad or a long-eared bat

But to prove it will certainly cost’.

‘They hold all the cards’ a small man spat

‘We’ve got to keep trying’ squeaked a Green Party girl

‘This is Britain, they’ll listen’, quoth a prat.

 

 

The sun crept away from the fields and woods

Ashamed it had witnessed this scene.

A dog walker halted, shuddered – then ran

At the sight of the rope through the green

And the boy that hung from the end of the line

With eyes like grapes on a ripened vine.

‘Whose child hangs here by the bank of the burn?’

‘And who’s his father?’ they asked in dread

‘It’s the only son of Cllr Stern.’

 

‘Dad, please listen, please try and see

Publish this letter, let everyone know

And think of the reason I’ve done this –

Then this seed I have planted, may grow.

The arms of this oak held me and my den

That I built in it’s boughs when I was just ten

This is one of the friends I shall miss

And my woods, my stream and the way that it weaves

The songs of the robins, thrushes and larks

And the dance of the light through the leaves.’

 

‘This place is special, Dad, not just to me

But to hundreds of others who weighed down with care

Come to this place just to walk, think or sit

And be fed by the life that lives here.

The primroses, bluebells, blackberries, sloes

Hazel-nuts, squirrels, badgers and crows

Each and everyone holds this place dear.

But the threat to this land is little compared

To what’s happening all over the world

And that is what makes me so scared.’

 

‘This wood is my rainforest – don’t cut it down

The Amazon, like this my small stream,

But they’re often used as sewers and drains

So there’s far fewer fish to be seen

And far fewer whales, rhino and bear –

My woodpecker left this time last year

It’s all like a horrible dream.

We’ll starve if we wipe out the insect and bee

We need these animals, fishes and plants

Dad, they’re part of yourself and of me.’

 

Your son

Christopher Stern

 

 

 

 

 

 

I’ve traversed the borders of madness

In four dimensions of dance

Probed the horizons of Kismet

And suckled the memory of chance.

 

But the quanta have kept all their secrets

Forced me back into their play

Of simple, organic-becoming

In the three dimensions of clay.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Every wave of light and sound

Dances through the wakening ground

Creates a violin than a bow

To manifest the music’s flow

 

Alienated in a dream

Of frozen matter’s desperate scream

Fighting for each empty  gain

In vain attempt to break the chain

 

Of sense linked to external form

That analysis’s every dawn –

Like trying to pin down the dance

Of butterflies upon a lance

 

This patriarchal paradigm

Worshipping a god of time

This ego fight to rule the three

Dimensions of it’s agony

 

Can never cauterise the flow

Of energy that moves the bow.

Inside this hologram of now

We only breathe

The why and how.

Each apart and each a whole

A verse sung in an opening scroll

Of star and photon, soul and seed

In live dimensions of it’s need

 

Outside, the snow laid like a shroud

Death’s drape upon the waiting earth

Inside, I let the silence drain

My ego’s analysising worth

 

The atmosphere was warm and kind

With fire-warmth breathing from the grate

Red wine to stimulate and soothe

My passage through the listening gate

 

I heard a word, so petal soft

Pure harmony of sound and light

Beneath my brain’s incessant chatter

Deep inside the dance of matter

 

And waiting, waiting with sweet love

The king drew back my shaking veil

And planted kisses of sweet now

Upon the lips that sought his grail

 

 

This so solid sphere

Is but a light- kiss away

From other dimensions

This heavy, hurting hardness

And silky, soggy softness

Numb nudity of winter

And bursting heart of spring

These made desires of being

And arousing scents of feeling

The bruising bass of fury

Pure voice on angel wing

Sunrisefor the seeing

Sunset for the blinding

And all the shades of dying

In three dimensions cling

While beams of the eternal

From the holographic kernel

Seep through this clinging matter

To display upon the platter

A richer feast of plenty

And a grail that’s never empty

While the fisherman forsaken

Bids the sleeping guest awaken

And consume the offering.