Hidden No Longer
Like a poet hidden
In the light of thought,
Singing hymns unbidden,
Till the world is wrought —Shelley, To A Skylark
Before I’m rendered incommunicado once again by the henchmen of the Illuminati, whose destruction I am committed to and whose assassins dog my every footstep, I thought I’d pay tribute to Billy Mills, ringmaster and genius loci of The Guardian’s Poster Poems blog.
He has laboured mightily and brought forth a…erm…
…not quite sure yet, but whatever it is, it permits me to say I am a published poet, allowing me to lord it over lesser creatures (novelists, journalists, neurosurgeons, astronauts and such-like riff-raff).
I intend to take full advantage of this trump card and play it at every opportunity…
Policeman: Do you know how fast you were going, Sir?
Me: No, but I am a published poet…
Policeman: Well, that’s different, Sir. Doubtless you were rushing to a reading. Sorry to have troubled you, Sir.
Me: Vroom, vroom…screeeech….
So, thanks Bill. Here’s an affectionate ribbing I gave him a couple of years ago:
The Barber Of Civil Mills
Mills sly-slips into the chair
And indicates his mop of hair:
A little off the top and side
But leave my moustache nice and wide.
Si, Señor, the barber trills
Nasty weather, no?
April is the cruelest month, says Mills,
Breeding…well, you know.
Señor, you see the game last night, then?
Such brio, and the score!
Says Mills, We are the hollow men.
And contemplates the door.
Señor would like a little gel?
You know your hair is thinning?
Says Mills, while contemplating Hell,
In the end is my beginning.
Shall I part Señor’s hair behind?
Would Señor like a peach?
Says Mills, Careful of my flannel strides;
I’ve an engagement at the beach.
All done. Finito. Señor is pleased ?
Says Mills, after a pregnant pause,
I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
Perhaps you’d care to write your own verse tribute?