Roamer's Column

OR, just today, we'll call it Roamer's rhyme
(a juvenile attempt, no crime).

I woke up Monday, thought I'd write this Sunday's column
as a poem
and wondered if 'twould turn out right;
like Frendo's well-planned CHOGM.

I know what led me, rather who, to this decision.
Clive James;
Don't think I'm dropping names,
a poet, critic and an author.
You've heard of him, or oughta.

Don't look him up and don't compare.
His league's not mine, I'm under no illusion;
nor is his perfect scan or rhyme.
Flee fast from such delusion.

One verse I think, just might suffice.
He writes of Brezhnev.
Who would have thought that half deaf
Soviet slice of ice
would merit any mention
still less receive Clive James' attention?

But no; I think I'll skip Clive's genius.
With him I'm not competing
To try at all would be ingenuous.
I merely am an also ran
Whose claim to fame is fleeting.

I'm finding this great fun.
Please note I have not yet begun
to tell you, reader, readers,
if there's more than one,
of haps and mishaps that took place
last week; some vanished without trace.

The Queen, I see, will visit in November
to celebrate her diamond annivers'ry;
a second honeymoon, what glee,
before she flies off God knows where.
But what the hell, how twee.
She was thirteen when first they met, did not cavort
Too young was she, not he, for royal sport.

The metre seems to be OK so far, iambic-ish
- a rhythm that allows no antic-ish
nor does the rhyme which might
or might not rise to dizzy heights.
Just hope it offers some delights.
It sometimes fails.

The scan's another thing. I will not grieve
if on this score you take your leave,
but you'll regret
that somewhat wet
reaction. This at least is my belief -
you have a pleasant change from prose,
a dose
of what is called poetic licence.
Feel free, you purists, to oppose.

Love and marriage, something something horse and carriage
or used to; wait, they're back in vogue
or will be in the Kingdom Disunited
if Iain Duncan Smith's report will turn the tide
and keep more married guys and dolls united.

But let us have a go at Malta
whence Winston Churchill went to Yalta
long ago, six decades plus, to meet
with Roosevelt and Joe Stalin
at surly, moustached Joe's retreat
to carve the world for certain
with no suspicion yet on Roosevelt's mind
of any iron curtain.

(How am I doing, Peter?)

I'm disinclined to write on Gonzi.
The challenge when it comes to rhyme his name is clear,
but that's not good enough for silly vacillation.
He has achieved far more than most men thought he'd dare.
The def'cit, structural or other, brought down against all expectation,
the infrastructure in a state of
constant agitation,
(as are environmentalists).
The GDP describes an upward trend.

All this drives Alfred round the bend.
But as to rhyme had Gonzi grown up Gonzo
'Twould have been easy to come up with Bonzo.
Ah, that would make a poet's life too easy.
This verse has over-run. I feel uneasy.
I beg your pardon
no promise did I make of a rose
garden.

I know. My stanzas are uneven in their length
I thought I'd have a problem with the rhyme - that Gonzi thing -
I feared I'd come to grief
I'll keep this stanza brief.
The scan's the thing.

Now Alfred Sant's another matter, don't you think?
There's hunt and punt, for two,
And had he been born Santo
There's panto
Or fanta
had his name been Santa.
Dear God, this scan!
A self-styled poet must do what he can.
unlike that Auden fellow, W.H.
with all his north and south and east and west
and, let us face it, rage.

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day
- sheer plagiarism.
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way
- I know, more plagiarism.
While Malta slowly sinks, or will, the climate change doomsayers bray,
beneath the waves - farewell doomed word - to everyone's dismay.

I've no idea how this piece will work
With Laurence Grech.
I've played Young Turk
or if you wish, I've been a jerk.
I kept it from him like a bolt from the proverbial blue.
I trust he will not raise a clichéd cry and hue.

I hear him moan: "What have you done? What have you done?
Do you not see that if I publish this I'm quite undone"!

Hush, Laur. 'They' will not dare
To touch one hair of yours, I swear.
Regardez what crafty scanning all this is
and once they read it through they will remark, "Sheer bliss!"
And raise your salary (and mine),
quite rightly too, for this audacious pantomime.

I lie. I let him have a peak
Because I did not know how verse could take the place of prose.
Well no. I knew, but I was not so sure
how many words would fill the page from start to close.
He called to tell me I was short by many spaces
A third again, he said, and we'll go places.
Pheyew!

My fear was how my scan would work in print, how 'twould be set.
But never has he failed
To find a way round things; not once has he impaled be
- accented that last syllable -
on horns of dull dilemma
or, if you wish, of dicey grammar.

But let us move to something more substantial.

Perverse it was last week and weeks before that, aye,
To see Mugliett come under Fred's Cyclopean eye,
to watch Fred focused as though
single-eyed,
prey-tranced and in full hunt
though God knows why.
Mugliett was not in flight.

No way; unflinching nearly was our Jesmond as the dung
Sant flung in his direction missed.
The more confused went on about 'Disgrace!'
While some at Jesmond, some at Alfred hissed.
A soupcon may have hit the fan
but most of it went down the can.

By Tuesday last Mugliett had filed four libels -
no wonder Labour's running out of cash.
Meanwhile the decibels
ascend to heaven, or to hell descend, a mishmash
echo of year '96, when Fred was told by Nobel
distract the people's minds and someone else is telling him today:
"if you can't act, then spin";
so what if it's ignoble?

It tends to take the minds off City, Smart that is,
Off waterfronts, off Mater Dei, oh Mother of God
protect us from amnesia that would make the populace
forget Tug Malta and Lufthans Teknik, the bliss
of euro-philia, successes in our finances.
The money sector -
do not hector
these, and please.
You'll come a cropper if you try.

And note, the government has really made things swing
in areas of investment.
Do not despair, ignore the thing.
Remember, spin.

Avoid all mention of the buoyant tourist trade.
Forget cruise liners, looks as though they've made
Great progress; just keep away
from stories that have managed to impress
a sometimes self-regarding, sometimes curt MHRA.

And hey! Get people's minds off Budget 2'08.
The pre-thing Gonzi published is a date
with vict'ry, with destiny if you wish.
October, when the thing's no longer pre-
is something else again.
Take care this does not paralyse your brain.
You'll need the blessed thing for the campaign
next May, or June, July, whichever month it is
that Gonzi makes his claim to fame.
A third defeat will put you in a tizz.

Mugliett and Censu Galea - stick to these
and any others you may care to
target. There's
thirty-five from which to choose. Choose any, all, and dare
to claim that you are better, different, chalk to cheese.
Cohesion Funds, IT and MCAST,
new profiles of employment, roads and education -
make each success an outcast.

For only if you do can you return to power
And this time serve for every hour
of five full years and ten. So don't be downcast.

Before what they have managed, do not cower.
Your time's run out if you don't run and run
Mugliett and Censu, then Mugliett again.
Spiteri's giving you some cover.
Abela George is not impressed.

What if we fail? - did I hear well?
Then 'stick your courage to the sticking point and we'll not fail'.

Perhaps. The Thane of Glamis, Cawdor, too,
then King of Scotland, did just that.
He stuck his courage to the sticking point and failed.
So watch it, Fred.
Don't swallow all that spin or you'll be fed
Back into opposition. That would be bad and sad and mad-
dening. Fred?