Poems

1. Stritch Top ↑

With graceful curve bananas grow,
Beelines always wander.
Directly rarely flies the crow,
And rural paths meander.

The goat's horn makes a graceful curve,
All hilltops undulate.
Appealing things in nature swerve,
- Should saxophones be straight?

John Robert Brown

2. If Cat could speak Top ↑

If Cat could speak, I wonder what he'd say?
To doze, or groom upon a fresh made bed,
Or taste the fine-sliced ham that came today
He doesn't need to speak. To stay well-fed
He hints with purrs and mews to get his way.

A mackerel tabby, blessed with poise and grace,
Tom naps in shafts of sunlight, by the door,
Or prowls our mews, as though he owns the place.
At my PC he pokes a furry paw,
Then runs to listen to the double-bass.

Woo's bass holds many pleasures for a cat,
Its dark, soft, bag a secret place to sleep
Beneath my bed, a perfect habitat.
And notes - like giant cat purrs, extra deep -
Hold interest, more than any mouse or rat.

If Cat could speak, would what we heard be prized?
Would cat advice be something good to hear?
Or would he chatter, carp, and criticise,
Use evil words, and pester in my ear?
If Cat could speak, would what he'd say be wise?

John Robert Brown

3. New York Villanelle Top ↑

Steel-bright shine Gotham's treasures, some profound,
while skills unnumbered bless this famous isle.
In shade of lofty towers, fine works abound.

The planet's best, things most men deem profound,
are here. New York comes first for poise and style.
Steel-bright shine Gotham's treasures, some profound.

Achievements of the talented redound,
where powers of art and commerce reconcile.
In shade of lofty towers, fine works abound.

At Av'ry Fisher, hear the Phil's rich sound;
let world-class shows on Broadway spark your smile.
Steel-bright shine Gotham's treasures, some profound.

The Frick's and Morgan's contents are renowned,
their prints, their oils, their documents beguile;
in shade of lofty towers, fine works abound.

Grand buildings, tallest known to man, surround
the streets and avenues of this small isle.
Steel-bright shine Gotham's treasures, some profound.
In shade of lofty towers, fine works abound.

John Robert Brown

4. Double Bass Top ↑

Noble and supportive sounds my double bass.
Sustaining others that above us play.
Noticed, even when noiseless, in his lowly place,

I love his great grand grainy grace,
anchoring our music, whether grim or gay.
Noble and supportive sounds my double bass.

Bull-fiddle, whichever style of music we embrace,
his rich tones do it honour, and stay
noticed, even when noiseless, in his lowly place.

He plumbs the vital depths; nothing can replace
him in our instrumental interplay.
Noble and supportive sounds my double bass.

Spruce, maple, blackwood, the sounding air embrace.
Strings sing softly, E,G,D and A,
noticed, even when noiseless, in his lowly place.

Arco lines and pizzicato patterns trace
the ways my upright bass holds sway.
Noble and supportive sounds my double bass.
Noticed, even when noiseless, in his lowly place.

John Robert Brown

5. Cyclists Top ↑

We curse your furious breakneck speed.
With lamps unlit, you disobey
Red traffic lights. To one-way signs
And hatched white lines, scant heed you pay.

On footpaths, cycling quiet and fast,
You weave and glide. So asinine
That selfish way you ride. You sneer:
'What highway code?' You should be fined.

Cyclists use, free, the Queen's highway
For which we pay. Are we mad,
We drivers? Numbered, licensed, ruled,
We are the fooled, the mugs. How sad.

For we're endangered by your ways.
We curse today's velocipedes,
And execrate the fools astride
Those wobbling, risky, alloy steeds.

John Robert Brown

6. Young Mums Top ↑

At Lakeside Café, mothers congregate.
Their kiddies' squeals disturb our peaceful lunch.
Ignoring all, mums prattle, yak, debate
And snack en masse, a noisy, selfish, bunch.

Tits out to feed, while we avert our eyes.
Insensitive to all, these hostile mums
Bag the best tables, call out, criticise,
Steer pushchairs roughly, bare their infants' bums.

Their toddlers run amok, spill drink, and food,
Walk on the seats, wheel dolly's pram indoors,
Hog tissues, menus, chairs. The attitude
of these young graceless mothers one deplores.

Mums have the right to share this lovely place,
But not to disregard the others here.
We elders, whom they ostracise today,
Were also parents, only yesteryear.

John Robert Brown

7. A Tip Top ↑

What do you gain by withholding a tip?
My friend, you must meanness abjure.
Tipping your waitress will not make you broke,
You hoarder, you skinflint, you bore.
What do you gain when no pour-boire you slip?
You'll not be a popular bloke.

Twenty per cent is a generous drop,
While half that will strike folk as tight.
Clearly de trop when, aged more than fifty,
Good manners you constantly fight.
Such mean behaviour must come to a stop.
Please, do not claim that you're thrifty.

John Robert Brown

8. Miss Cope's Profession Top ↑

It says she began as an eacher.
I confess I've assumed all along
That eacher must surely mean teacher.
Eacher is teacher, spelt wrong.

This eacher appeared on the flyleaf
Of her booklet of serious verse.
Her printer should really proof harder,
His roof preading couldn't be worse.

John Robert Brown

9. In The Bedroom Top ↑

Morning. Dozing in my room,
No sound, no word, is said.
Softly Kate creeps through the gloom.
To crawl into my bed.
Lovely female snuggles near.
Downstairs, my wife: "You-hoo?"
Kate pretends she cannot hear.
"Darling... is Kate Cat with you?"

John Robert Brown

10. Railways Top ↑

If a Martian came to visit and travelled on our trains,
I wonder, would he ask himself: "Do British folk lack brains?
Why not make the railway wider? Broad gauge, like ours on Mars?
If these Earthlings made these changes they'd need far fewer cars.
Why are British trains so short? Is the reason lack of thought?"

If a Martian went to Japan, where trains move fast as planes.
He'd ask: "Why don't the Brits do that?" I wish I could explain
Just why our dining cars are closed, and how our fares are planned.
Or why our wretched commuters are forced each day to stand.
Why are British trains so sad? Martian man would think us mad.

John Robert Brown

11. For Adolphe Sax Top ↑

Don't ever call a saxophone a sax,
A terse abbreviation, lacking style.
A sousaphone is never called a sue,
You wouldn't call a xylophone a xyle.

You'll never hear a saxhorn called a sax,
By doing so you'd certainly mislead.
A saxhorn is a different kind of sound,
A member of the brass, another breed.

No, please don't call a saxophone a sax,
Lest people think you're slightly lower class.
Sax was a famous Belgian, not a pipe.
A person, not a tube of polished brass.

John Robert Brown

12. I am a College Principal Top ↑

I am a college principal. I have a PhD.
I'm paid a handsome salary, I drive an SUV.
Music's what we're teaching here, from tuba to celeste.
I wear a suit from Austin Reed, but rarely look well-dressed.

You ask me what it is I play. Well, these days I admit
I chair the academic board, send down each thimblewit.
No, I don't play, I work from home, or hit the conference trail.
But mostly I appoint new staff, and sign huge piles of mail.

I know about retention rates and how consultants work,
Can quote you aims, and mission statements, chastise staff who shirk,
Invest in People, validate, relax, take reading weeks,
But can't adjust my marking with statistical techniques.

I write some minor papers (research is such a bore),
Then fly abroad to read them out, to groups of three or four.
I specialise in arcane stuff, say free jazz, or brass bands,
And have my travel subsidized by extra-mural grants.

You cannot hear me play, on disc or Radio Three.
I don't write books and, sad to say, I'm never on TV.
Thus, few musicians know of me. Composing's not my sphere.
Despite all this I claim an international career.

I am a college principal. I have a PhD.
I'm paid a handsome salary, and drive an SUV.

John Robert Brown

13. Writerly Habits Top ↑

Check each book index, see if you're there,
Constantly google your name.
Your book to the front on the bookshelves,
Promote only you, without shame.

Then scan each day's paper for obits.
When did your rival depart?
Ignore what he wrote in his lifetime,
Thank God, you outlived the old fart.

John Robert Brown

14. Plus Tard Top ↑

I set my watch by trains in Japan,
Yet in the UK I never can.
British railways have such slight regard
For time. Often, trains arrive plus tard.

Other methods of public travel
Make my domestic trips unravel.
The omnibus, the boat and the plane,
For punctual arrival show disdain.

Today, I sat on the motorway.
In a tailback I wasted the day.
Why we were static, I'd no idea.
When I started out the roads were clear.

Forty years hence, who'll travel by car?
By then, wise people won't journey far
By road. Then, folk will remain at home
- Or use some new contraption to roam.

John Robert Brown

15. Foreign Language Top ↑

Yankee folk use words of their own,
Of a vayse or of erbs they speak.
Their bottom they call a fanny,
A word that to Brits sounds comique.

Decatur chimes with equator,
Poughkeepsie with gipsy will rhyme.
Nu-cu-lar bomb is hopelessly wrong,
And aloominum and Eye-raq are such awful mispronunciations that to use them should be categorised as petty crime.

John Robert Brown

16. Helpline Top ↑

I'm placed on a helpline, music on hold,
Though I show patience, my problem's unsolved.
Already ill-tempered, this makes me worse.
After waiting so long it's hard not to curse.
Must music on hold be four-to-the-bar?
Must every tape include a guitar?
With random starts, peremptory end,
Jingles on helplines drive me round the bend.
'Your call is important,' I'm told, yet again,
I listen, my patience much tested. Then:
'You're progressing,' I hear, 'You're in a queue.'
The tape is repeating, starting anew.
'Thank you for calling.' A voice from abroad
Asks for my password. She says her name's Maud.
Requesting my number, my age, and address.
Thence to Kolkata, and yet more duress.
Grace, now my mentor, soon says goodbye.
'You must be on broadband.' I'm moved to Mumbai.
This time it's Ken who is starting again.
Polite though he is, I can't comprehend Ken.
Then - can it be wilful? - Ken cuts me cold.
I'm back on the helpline, music on hold.
Music once more, steady four-in-a-bar.
Same old three-chord trick, distorted guitar.

Important? My call? That's hard to believe.
Less pleasant 'help' would be hard to conceive.

John Robert Brown

17. Saxophone Bore Top ↑

Big bore, small bore,
Baffle, facing, open lay,
Small bore, big bore
Extension down to bottom A.

Big bore, small bore,
Sticky pads, reeds that squeak.
Small bore, big bore,
Chatting with a saxo geek.

Big bore, small bore,
Mouthpiece, reed and ligature,
Small bore, big bore,
Tip-rail, baffle, embouchure.

Big bore, small bore,
Curving bells, fine pearls on keys.
Small bore, big bore,
Rollers on my bottom Bs.

Big bore, small bore,
Small bore, big bore,
Big bore, small bore,
No more big bore,
Big snore, small snore,
More snore,
Snore....snore.
ZZzzzzzzzzzzzzzz…

John Robert Brown