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Only a fool would live in the country,
Hard by the shadows of copses and woods:
Better by far to live where there’s one tree,
And access to stores full of well-prepared goods.
Finer the whine of a wheel than a hoof-clop,
Warmer the press of a crowd in a street.
A garden appeals if it’s laid on a roof-top,
Ordered and tame, and its borders kept neat.
Imagine the racket if hearing the volume meant
Animals bleating at random all week:
Nature smells rancid, and brings no emolument.
You can coin it in cities, and join in their shriek.
Why brave the adder’s sting? Why brave the
wasp-spittle?
Who wants to die in a cold country cot?
In cities, a cab whisks you quick to the hospital:
Speed’s what you need, not the country’s slow rot.
Bill Greenwell
Muse, please instruct my spaniel not to bark
And see me safely through St James’s Park.
Around us lies the world that I adore:
Horse Guards Parade, Army and Navy Store,
The Abbey, which is such a holy spot,
Next to the House of Commons, which is not,
And Whitehall, whence we happy few are ruled,
Westminster School, where rulers may be schooled.
Along the Thames, the City plies its trade,
And fortunes lost exceed the fortunes made.
This urban life permits far greater sports
Than where Sylvanus holds his flowery courts.
I am content to walk within these bounds
And die, as I have lived, in such surrounds.
So, City Muse, when it is time to go,
Scatter my ashes on the Lord Mayor’s Show.
Paul Griffin
Where the sparrows sing and the muggers
spring lies a demi-paradise,
Where an urban fox with a pizza box is rarely a
surprise;
Where the unique charm of the car alarm is a
soothing serenade;
Where you drown your brains in the coffee chains;
where the SWAT squad daily raid.
You can growl and curse at the griefs you nurse
when you get the pavement shove;
You can dance at night by the searching light of
the chopper up above;
You can kill your bugs with exotic drugs, you
can shelter from the light
In the gruesome pubs and explosive clubs
where neuroses live by night.
It’s a mean machine, it’s a vibrant scene where
the beat meet the élite,
As the deals go down in the hustling town and
the word is on the street.
Where the pulses race with a vital trace of
endemic paranoia,
If you’re out to win, grow a second skin — buy
an understanding lawyer.
Can’t handle stress or unhappiness? Does high
tension make you weep?
Then find a farm where the rural calm is as
dozy as a sheep.
In this urban life vice may be more rife than in
Sodom and Gomorrah,
But its social ills teach survival skills in this
century of horror.
Basil Ransome-Davies
The Great God Pollen comes to earth in fall
with golden promise, I suppose, to plant
some seeds, to grow some trees, to have a ball
with Goddess Wind, I guess. But no, I can’t
rejoice in this romance, because my nose
is dripping, eyes are tearing, throat is sore,
and warm and sunny golden days are those
that bring Lord Pollen and his paramour
the closest to destroying inner peace:
I’m in a fury! Pouting, sullen, crying,
because the summer’s gone, because the geese
come down from Canada, because they’re flying
with Goddess Wind and Great God Pollen. Pity,
I doubt that I’ll survive outside the city.
Mary Meriam
Let’s say you’re in the countryside
and craving mocha chip.
It’s 3 a.m., too late to ride
to Podunk’s tiny strip
of stores (they’re closed) and buy a quart.
You’ll make your own, you vow.
But there’s no milk! So you exhort
your soundly sleeping cow
to give you some; she kicks your shin;
you yelp and wake the horse,
who wakes the pigs and geese, whose din
wakes up your wife, of course.
You trail her, sulking, back to bed —
a hungry man apart.
Let’s say you lived in town instead:
you’d hit the Jiffy Mart.
Melissa Balmain
Whenever I feel like a country gal wannabe,
yearning for nature to flora and fauna me,
to corn-feed and hayseed and sweet-Alabama me,
I sweatsuit and sneaker me, work-out and sauna me,
subway and Broadway and shop-on-the-corner me,
pakora and pad thai and deep-fried banana me,
movie and theatre and concert piano me.
Then the wish goes away like a fleeting insanity,
and I realise I’d rather turn into a manatee,
than leave this fair city, the place where I wanna be.
Marion Shore
No. 2605: County sounds
You are invited to compose an anthem for a county of your choice. Competitors from abroad may substitute state/canton/département, etc., as appropriate (16 lines maximum). Entries to ‘Competition 2605’ by 16 July or email lucy@spectator.co.uk.
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