Murray Lachlan Young
This week’s poet, Murray Lachlan Young, has performed in many diverse situations: Mega festivals (and little ones), TV, film and theatre. From Shakespeare’s Globe to Speakers Corner via the main stage at Glastonbury. He has won over hostile crowds, been threatened with violence and even had to run for his life.
Murray shot to fame in the late ‘90s after securing a one million pound record deal, the first spoken word artist to be given such a deal by the mainstream music industry. In an attempt to escape all the hype he hightailed it to Italy, then lived in Paris and Sussex before settling in Cornwall with his family.
Here are Murray's poems from this week's show:
If only I’d known
As Hitler declared from his bunker
Caressing his cyanide tab
“It all seemed such fun back in Poland
But now it seems dreadfully drab”
As Clinton said “Hey” to Lewinski
As Saddam invaded Kuwait
One moment there’s destiny calling
The next it’s the cruel hand of fate.
As Anne Boleyn said to her barber
“I suppose it’s the end of the ride.
If only I’d known he had ‘issues’
Oh make it a short back and sides”
As Eve said “what’s up?” to the serpent
As Icarus made for the sun
As Tony and George pressed the button to go
And the narrative started to run.
As Rumsfeld returned from the desert
Clutching his P45
If only he’d known of the ‘unknown known’s’
Perhaps he just might have survived
Then God looking down from the heavens
Gives a laugh, then a sigh, then a groan
He looks to his left and he looks to his right
And says “Jesus, if only I’d known”
--
Capes
The bearded behemoth the world’s strongest man
The strength of a horse and the might of a clan
But surely Mr. Capes you should be tossing the caber
Ripping up directories and shaking your hair
Indulging sweating grunting in some archetypal labour
Dragging heavy objects and punching the air
Then perhaps a sacrifice to Mithras or Thor
Overseen by Druid and sage
Before a night of revelry, of feast and ancient lore
(But you’re not doing that are you Geoff?)
You’re filling up the feeder on a budgerigar cage.
What would Bill ‘The Kaz’ Kazmire,
The world’s second ‘strongest man’,
Think of this -
This act of macho treachery
This metro sexual tendency
This Quite bizarre discrepancy
This work against the grain
You tweak you rake you swell with pride
With tiny friends there is no shame
Don’t tell me that Bill ‘the Kaz’ Kazmire,
The worlds second ‘strongest man’
Keeps Gerbils…. Geoff?
Aha! I see. How could I have been so foolish?
I see it all now.
You are a quiet missionary
To free the sensitivities
Of muscle bound monstrosities
Who harbour tiny friends?
Which means for boxers, power lifters?
Shame is at an end
Oh macho men around the world
Take heart take heart for Capes has come.
Put away those pit bulls fellas, prejudice is on the run
Bring out bring out your ocelots,
Your mice your midget parakeets
Take up your tiny secateurs
And tend your bonsai trees in peace
When Murray Lachlan-Young received his £1,000,000 deal, it coincided with a comment on Radio 4 by Les Murray to the effect that poets, mothers, housewives and priests were 'too sacred' to be paid. I realised that I fell within the first three categories and the following poem ensued.
Sacred (With apologies to ‘Right Said Fred’)
I’m too sacred to be paid,
too sacred to be paid, too sacred I’m afraid.
I’m more sacred than Cherie Blair,
more sacred than Cherie Blair,
I live on Sweet Fresh Air.
I’m a housewife, you know what I mean
and I wave my little wand around the kitchen,
round the kitchen, the kitchen, yeh,
I shake my little duster round the kitchen.
I’m too sacred to be paid,
too sacred to be paid, too sacred I’m afraid.
I’m too sacred for the nation,
too sacred for the nation,
don’t need remuneration.
I’m a mother, you know what I mean
and I’m trying to raise the future on a shoestring,
on a shoestring, a shoestring, yeh,
I’m dragging up the future on a shoestring.
I’m too sacred to be paid,
too sacred to be paid, too sacred I’m afraid.
I’m too sacred for a wage,
too sacred for a wage,
free copy for the page.
I’m a poet, you know what I mean,
and I thought that there was more to art than free verse,
than free verse, free verse, yeh,
I’m learning the rewards of writing free verse.
You media moguls, won’t you slip me a bung,
So I can write verses like young Lachlan Young?
I know about rhyme schemes, construction and scan
Tell me, would I be worth more if I were a man?
Bitter, or what!?
Lesley.
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