The Bumblebee

From the Squash blossom flies

Tired, pollen bathed and heavy eye lids dusty

150 million years of pollinating decried

Unknowing of dawning Ecocide


The Swift

Old enough to have seen T Rex in the flesh

Flies two million kilometres in its shift

No longer under my eaves reside

Unknowing of dawning Ecocide


The Koala

Iconic marsupial cuddly up a tree

Feeds on eucalyptus a priori

So dies trees expiring from Carbon Dioxide

Unknowing of dawning Ecocide


The Polar Bear

Can swim sixty miles without a break

Once smelling prey ten miles near

There is no smell the ice long fried

Unknowing of dawning Ecocide


Staghorn Coral

Architect of the subterranean deep

Bleached in warmer water, no food, not normal

Lodgers, clownfish. hornbill turtles, no longer abide

Unknowing of dawning Ecocide


Atlantic Cod

Cheap fish for every chippy battered feast

Over fished because of livelihood

An uncaring species’ genocide

Unknowing of dawning Ecocide


The Monarch Butterfly

Beautiful orange migrate 3 thousand miles

Their caterpillars left with milk wood dry

To die from herbicides and insecticide

Unknowing of dawning Ecocide


The Emperor Penguin

A happy Charlie Chaplin substitute

Happy feet say amen

On the long walk to its own regicide

Unknowing of dawning Ecocide





The Beluga Whale

Well meaning boated tourists

Motorised watching expeditions the Holy Grail

Destroying life, idly set aside

Unknowing of dawning Ecocide


The Leatherback Turtle

Lays eggs on disappearing beaches

Ever more hatching females infertile

Their hoped for progeny denide

Unknowing of dawning Ecocide


The Flamingo

Mann’s pretty pink flamingo not a pretty tune

A lost overture that made shrimps agogo

A colour on the palette atrophied

Unknowing of dawning Ecocide


The Climate Change Denier

Celebrating fossil fuel profits

Spitting on what others call Guya

Flouting science with such pride

Not giving a toss about Ecocide




Today’s Idiocies

There are three articles in today’s Guardian – just in case you missed them here are the headlines and a brief summary. They made me angry.

Page 13: ‘Amazon gets HMRC contract after halving its own tax bill

In 2018 UK central government paid Amazon £45.5M for digital services while Amazon only paid £1.7M corporation tax on a declared UK profit of £72M to HMRC for the relevant tax year.

Why is central government happy with this and content to allow Amazon to tax dodge?

Page 16: ‘Only 13 of 91 Windrush victims given aid despite “apology”’

Despite the piety and hand wringing of government concerning the lives wrecked by that same government only 16 of the 91 Windrush victims who applied for financial help have been ‘given’ ‘aid’.

What’s happened to the remaining 78 victims?

Page 35: ‘Arts under fire Universities rail at “catastrophic” plan to link fees to graduate pay’

The Augar report on student fees implies that there should be less spending on arts & humanities degree courses because the investment in such courses does not represent value for money when measured against early career earnings of arts & humanities graduates.

Why is former equities broker, Augar, allowed to aid and abet the further commodification of education where the only value is monetary?

These may be details of the bigger picture but the devil is in them. Though, I am, of course, powerless to make a difference to any of these outrageous idiocies, I can’t help thinking they are emblematic of this stage of capitalism where people are objects, money is god and cynicism is the life blood of the Tory government.

And all this is happening in the midst of the lunacy of the Tory leadership contest after which we’ll be foisted with a new prime minister of a minority government that has no mandate from the electorate.

I have one last question.

Why is the BBC, morning, noon and night, providing a racetrack, where the going is good, for the threadbare donkeys running in the Tory number 10 stakes?


The Wych Elm

wych elm

Tana French ‘The Wych Elm’

There are books and there are BOOKS!

‘The Wych Elm’ is astonishing.

Scrupulously, and brilliantly written from the protagonist’s point of view there is nothing allowed beyond the narration of Toby’s direct experience, tortured memory and/or imagination. I was so enmeshed in the narrator’s understanding, or lack of comprehension, of himself, and his history, that I almost came to doubt my own grasp of what ‘certainty’ might mean. The ensemble of characters, the detail of their behaviours and their ignorance of their realities is bewyching. No spoilers here – but as I finished the last page I was bereft, immensely sad and overwhelmed.

It is, ostensibly, a crime novel, which makes as much sense as saying that Dostoevsky’s ‘Crime and Punishment’ is a ‘thriller’. I hadn’t read any of French’s work until this book – I shall remedy that oversight.

Do read this fantastic book.

Don McCullin

Don McCullin

Don McCullin’s exhibition at Tate Britain is profoundly moving, perplexing, and, ultimately joyous.

The galleries were crowded. I had to go round one room in the opposite direction to avoid two people who, standing in front of the horrors of war, were laughing while happily talking about their recent holidays – were they blind?

I am familiar with many of McCullin’s photographs but in the majority of cases in reproduced form in magazines – it was inspiring to see his own prints made exactly the way he wanted.

By the time I reached the final room – that containing his landscapes and still lives – I was overwhelmed by the dedication and passion McCullin has used over so many years to represent the human condition in the worst of circumstances of war, famine and deprivation. His photographs capture the feeling of pain and suffering and it’s not just because the prints are dark – it’s because he feels, cares, and it comes across in his photographs so that I was nearly in tears. But then there was a moment of epiphany – I’ll come back to that.

What is both perplexing and saddening is that the lessons we learnt when we first saw the images from e.g. Biafra and Vietnam have faded. The men living on the streets of Shoreditch years ago are no different from the rough sleepers that now abound thanks to austerity and the destruction of the Welfare State. We are still responsible for war and the misery it causes – the Yemen and Syria to name but two. I found myself asking what was the point? Maybe the point is that the work exists, it was made, it was, is, true, evidence, and that we choose to ignore it at our peril.

His landscapes. The moment of epiphany. The realisation that in the ‘natural’ world, as rendered through his lens, there is beauty beyond measure.

McCullin has said

“So, there is guilt in every direction: guilt because I don’t practice religion, guilt because I was able to walk away while this man was dying of starvation or being murdered by another man with a gun. And that I am tired of guilt, tired of saying to myself: ‘I didn’t kill that man on that photograph, I didn’t starve that child.’ That’s why I want to photograph landscapes and flowers. I am sentencing myself to peace.”

Maybe the joy in these landscapes, this celebration of life and peace, would not have been so profound without the horror, without the guilt, and there would not be this beauty?

It was one hell of a price this man, this photographer, had to pay.

Thank you.


Saul Bellow ‘Herzog’


I’ve been reading Saul Bellow’s ‘Herzog’ (1964) and it’s given me pause for thought, not least because the intensity of the writing is overwhelming; the way Bellow works with the conjunction of improbable partners in misunderstanding and even (imagined?) malice reveals the plight of the creative mind. His prose is aggressive, sharp, staccato daggers as they pierce me with the uncertainty, challenge of life, but tempered, still softened, made conditional, by the salve of familial memory, love, and Moses’ Father Herzog.

And also pause for thought because it has made me, yet again, think about what I write and how I find the ‘right’ form to do that.

The constant commentary provided by the ‘letters’ Herzog writes captures the duality of writing one thing at exactly the same time as thinking about something quite else, of being something, or somewhere, else, evidencing the struggle of setting down the complexity of inner and public life in words, and not, moving images.

And he’s funny! But it’s funny that’s humourless;  the bone jolted in your elbow; the ‘humour’ engendered by the latest pogrom – but still funny!

Though it’s a book of its time it feels, somehow, like a work from the nineteenth century  set in the twentieth in the USA and not Europe in the ghetto (where it actually feels it’s set) from which it stems. Where does success, self worth, achievement and respect exist?

Bellow, aka Herzog (?), is erudite to a fault. Amidst the ‘academic’ arguments, the endless dropping of names that give Herzog purpose, validity, authenticity, everything, so that every memory and thought and plan collides with every other idea in spontaneous combustion as smoke and flames burst from the page leaving me exhausted and astounded hiding from the heat.

The personal becomes universally crucially relevant so that Herzog’s dilemmas are those  we all face in trying to make sense of one existential crisis after another whilst, in Herzog’s case, inflicting yet another upon oneself until the finale.

He asks. Am I this? Am I that? Is it me? Is it her? Is it? Is it real? Is it? What? What is my life? What is the point? What am I? Herzog bellows!

His life unravels, as it must, a tragedy, and it made me weep. Inevitability. Loss. But, also hope. That we, readers, may … do what?

What a writer – that isn’t interrogative (as he might say) but a statement of fact.

When I am, once again, ready, I shall read this book again – unhurriedly, ignoring plot, sustained by the joy of Bellow’s writing, laughing, frustrated, delighted and inspired. That’ll do for me.