Sinister: damn, damn , damn

[poetryplace2]

Shag satan? No, run! said:
>Conversely, 'Trousers' is a compliment of the highest order and thus should
be
>used sparingly.
>If something is 'trousers' it generally is of fantastic taste, humour,
style and
>good looks.

Trousers is also a term of abuse hurled at someone who can't get their
"shit" "together" enough to find a poem on a monday.

Another Tuesday poem, then. Actually Tuesday might be a better day for a
poem, because it *is* the most depressing day of the week. On Mondays'
you're refreshed from the weekend, but Tuesdays you still have another 4
days to go before the weekend...

Glyn Maxwell is the laureate of Welwyn Garden City. He's published 3
collections to extraordinary acclaim... people have called him the new
Auden, which is nice. To compound the Auden comparison he travelled to
Iceland with fellow-poet Simon Armitage a while ago, following in the
footsteps of Auden and MacNeice, and published a travelogue, "Moon Country",
which was rather good.

this poem was provoked by being kept awake by a screaming child on an all
night train through France.

Glyn Maxwell
Curse on a Child

May the love of your life get on at Ongar
    And wake up sleeping on Terminal 4.
May his anorak grow big with jotters
    Noting the numbers of trains that he saw.
May he read these out in a reedy voice,
    May he drink real ales with his mates while you
Blink in the smoke. May his hair be a joke.
    May his happiest hour have been spent in Crewe.

May he call for you in a lime-green van,
    May his innermost thoughts be anyone's guest.
May his answer to 'Who's your favourite band?'
    Be the only occasion he answers 'YES,'
But then may he add, 'When Wakeman was with 'em,'
    And play you the evidence. May what he wears
Never again be in vogue. May his mother
    Dote, devote, and move in downstairs.

May your French turn frog, may your croissant go straight,
    May your bread be Hovis, your wine home-made,
May your spice be Old Spice, your only lingerie
    Les fronts-igrec, and your beauty fade.
May you curl in the Land of Nod like the child
    You were when you wouldn't, and screamed all the way
>From Perpignan to the Gare de Lyon.
    Echoed through Paris, and on to Calais.

The man in the corner, who sat with his head
    Awake in his hands, has issued this curse.
He is far away now. What keeps him awake
    Isn't screaming, or crying, or writing verse.
It is sometimes nothing but quiet, sloping,
    My terrible infant, looming and deep.
May you never know it. May your life be as boring
    As men can make it, but, dear, may you sleep.


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