Sonnet Six Pack: England, Home Sweet Home
by John Kendall Hawkins
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I. Lake District Blues
I'm fond of what they say about the Lakes.
It's true that they convey je ne sais quoi
up the yin-yang, or even qua qua qua;
Cumbria is a place for tea and cakes,
but also for a quick roll in the hey.
If they'd only shoot the iPhone tourists
with their I Survived X tees (borists),
so I could enjoy the clouds in peace. Yay!
Not really shoot them. I'm a pacifist,
a do-unto-other-ist. Tough year though.
Frankly, I've had too many rows to hoe.
I'm a punch-drunk turn-the-cheek masochist.
In the quaint postcard cottage warmed with peat,
Jenny and I make love, rinse and repeat.
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Ruskin Museum 18-06-2015 14-17-18.JPG
(Image by Wikipedia (commons.wikimedia.org), Author: Paul Hermans) Details Source DMCA
II. At the Ruskin Museum
Jesus, the guy was a monster of high intellect.
I could not read enough of him. Well, I could,
but I didn't. And true, probably I should.
Ruskin sure had that Vision Thang. I genuflect
before the almighty mind of his reasoning
and the explications of perfected beauty
bound up in his Stones of Venice. Its poetry
nuancing the cathedral's seasoning;
the handiwork of generations seen
in the space, spires and bones of its being;
the Gothic mentality and seeing --
the horror, the horror -- the Divine Mean.
Jenny, waiting, said, qua took you so long?
Kids whining in the car, chaos in song.
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Shakespeare grave -Stratford-upon-Avon -3June2007.
(Image by Wikipedia (commons.wikimedia.org), Author: David Jones) Details Source DMCA
III. The Bard's Bones
I just don't know why we even bothered
checking into Shakespeare's past in Avon.
At the church he's supposedly smothered
in -- dirt and rat sh*t and time -- you smell con;
his head is missing, like Yorick was here
etched on a toilet's wall, it hits you
that the Bard has been made to disappear,
or maybe Sotheby's winks at the few.
It's a story best handled with kid gloves.
So many theories out there already.
He torched the Globe. Foul slumlord. Had gay loves.
Reconnoitering the past? Hold steady.
As the Bard becomes more like Hamlet's ghost,
it's time to kick some tyrant king's ass. Toast?
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IV. The Chunnel of Love
You are supposed to stay inside your car
once they load you onto the Chunnel train,
but I notice in the rear and side view
mirrors that hanky panky is astew.
There's a blonde in an MG. I strain
to see if she might be a movie star.
One thing's sure: She's an eyeful of honey,
with the retinue of New Wave Frenchy
types around her ride, allures keened to bite.
Oops, she just told one guy to "fly a kite."
I start laughing and Jenny pulls at me;
she wants to know what's so goddamn funny.
I explained to Jenny and she just yucked --
Maybe Getlink should be renamed Getfucked.
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V. Blackpool on the Way Back
I dunno, I don't want to judge, but, jeesh, the place
looked like it went down with Brian London -- kapowed
by pre-rope/a/dope Ali 1966 --
and the whole place stayed down for the eight count. Dems tricks.
We stayed there for the night, but no sleep. A cat meowed,
really caterwauled, giving virtue to disgrace.
Well, do I have anything positive to say?
I came away with a deeper insight to time.
Felt, for instance, that I knew the Beatles better,
the early years, way before their hit, "The Letter."
Wait, that was The Box Tops. And O dear, my good blime,
I meant Liverpool. Black. Bile. Liver. Well. okay.
Still, the rates were sensible, a few quid, few bob,
but coulda done without the cat prowling for knob.
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VI. A Harrod's Harrow
One of those places that for some reason
folks go to browse wares, yowl at the prices,
and still end up buying a Harrod's tee shirt,
strangely wearing it proudly, an ad's dirt.
I've heard talk there of Princess Di, mices
(sic) spilling the beans, gossipy treason
of how Charles or Elvis or fuckin Tom Jones
mucked up something somewhere in time. Ears stare.
I note folks suddenly talking high posh:
Outside, "Goddamn my life!" In here, "Oh gosh."
Yes, if you're wondering, I got dragged in here.
I should be home boobing tube, smoking bones.
But while we're living in England, sight see,
sayeth the lord of commerce. Hey, it's free.
Pretense and sham everywhere you go.
So, Rodney King, I think the answer's No.
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