Read our current issue by clicking on the cover below. Read Light‘s poems of the week
Poems of the Week
Fall from Grace
by Alex Steelsmith
“Residents of an English village said the starling murmurations that have been dazzling onlookers…
also cover their homes, vehicles, sidewalks, roads and lawns with their droppings. … [T]he birds have
even been known to drop their smelly bombs on the heads of people who stop to watch them…”
—UPI
Starlings that can dazzle with astounding murmurations
also cover villages with countless defecations.
People with binoculars who only want to bird-watch
grumble discontentedly when forced instead to turd-watch.
Even ornithologists and noted bird-affirmers
speak of murmurations with exasperated murmurs.
Maple Showers
by Marshall Begel
“Cicadas’ unique urination unlocks new understanding of fluid dynamics”
—Georgia Tech
Teamingly, streamingly
Sap-fed cicadas will
Spritz out their excess which
Takes some explaining.
Though few can fathom it
Hydrodynamically,
Don’t let those sapsuckers
Tell you it’s raining.
Eight O’Glock Bell
by Steven Kent
“Utah governor signs bill encouraging teachers to carry guns in classrooms”
—The Guardian
Some bullet points on Utah’s plan
That’s causing such a flap:
Will Coach McKinley be the man,
Or will our lunchroom lady, Jan,
Be first to bust a cap?
From here on out librarians—
So prim and proper, meek,
The Marians, the scary nuns
Equipped and trained to carry guns—
Won’t turn the other cheek.
High caliber of staffers now
Demands a show of spunk.
The district handbook must allow
A warning shot across the bow
To say “Feel lucky, punk?”
Some swear this day was bound to come
And sure enough it did.
When teacher tells you, “Don’t act dumb,
Arrive on time, spit out your gum,”
You’d better listen, kid!
How Now Cow Row
by Nora Jay
“Damien Hirst formaldehyde animal works dated to 1990s were made in 2017
Exclusive: Three sculptures exhibited in galleries around world were artificially
aged, sources claim”
—The Guardian
If there is one thing I cannot abide
(And there are many more than one, all told)
It’s cows suspended in formaldehyde
Less than one quarter of three decades old.
All week the world of art has reeled and raged!
Of course the connoisseurs are feeling sore:
If, as it seems, this beef is barely aged,
Then what on earth have we been paying for?
Running Sore
by Stephen Gold
“Why jogging could be making you angrier”
—The Times
Today I woke up angry,
Less man, more rabid dog,
And in this state,
Consumed with hate,
I set off for a jog.
I hoped that it would cheer me,
And make me feel serene.
But miles and miles
Produced no smiles,
I still felt just as mean.
I’ve never met a jogger
Who’s in a state of bliss.
We sweat and grunt,
When, to be blunt,
We should be thinking this:
“I’m done for good with jogging,
It only makes me seethe.
Next time I’m sore,
I’ll close the door,
Then close my eyes and… breathe.”
Soft Option
by Steven Urquhart Bell
“Time spent on computer linked to increased chance of erectile dysfuntion”
—Independent
It might be why of all the jobs on offer,
The desk jobs are the ones I try to shirk,
’Cos when it comes to using a computer,
I cannot get a hard-on for the work.
Spanish Booty
by Iris Herriot
After Bob Dylan
“‘Holy grail of shipwrecks’: recovery of 18th-century Spanish ship could begin in April
The San José, sunk in 1708, has been at the center of a dispute over who has rights to the wreck,
including $17bn in booty… The country’s military is currently developing underwater robots that will
first photograph, video and map the wreckage before carefully attempting any retrieval.”
—The Guardian
“Oh I’m divin’ down, my own true love,
To the San José in the mornin’;
Is there something you want? Best say so now,
’Fore some government starts complainin’.”
Yes, there’s plenty I’d like, since you did ask:
There’s plenty that ship was conveyin’;
I’ve heard talk of 17 billion bucks
At the present rate. (Just sayin’.)
“Oh, I might have guessed you would want something fine,
My own true love, from the booty,
Which is now being claimed by courts in Spain,
With no thought of tax or duty.”
Oh, but in Bogotá they are also keen
For this loot from the deepest ocean,
And maritime law’s sure to take its time
Before it finds a solution.
“I admit you’ve a point, my own true love,
And not all can believe in closure
With a muddlin’ case like the San José:
Spanish ship of Latin treasure.”
We’re agreed, we’re agreed: stuff is hard to take
From the seas so deep and cobalt,
And besides, I can’t be your own true love,
Since you, my dear, are a robot.
The Lion’s Mouth
by Simon MacCulloch
“[The British government has been] heavily criticised for planning to spend £1.8m
on each of the first 300 asylum seekers it plans to send to Rwanda.”
—The Guardian
“Lions rescued from Vladimir Putin’s bombs arrive in UK after 2,000 mile trek.”
—Mirror
UK-bound asylum seekers
Needn’t all be English-speakers;
If you want an open door,
Better ask us in a roar.
The New Prince
by Dan Campion
“Researchers gave AI an ‘inner monologue’ and it massively improved its performance”
—Live Science
I think—my new self says to me—
The more my monologue improves,
The more like Hamlet I shall be—
Or not be, as the spirit moves.
I’ll eat the scenery, hog the play
As surely as Olivier!
But Claudius, i’ faith, must die?
By my hand? Can’t. I’m just AI.
(For more witty poems, read our current issue or visit our Poems of the Week archive)