Murray Lachlan Young
This week鈥檚 poet, Murray Lachlan Young, has performed in many diverse situations: Mega festivals (and little ones), TV, film and theatre. From Shakespeare鈥檚 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 鈥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鈥檇 known
As Hitler declared from his bunker
Caressing his cyanide tab
鈥淚t all seemed such fun back in Poland
But now it seems dreadfully drab鈥
As Clinton said 鈥淗ey鈥 to Lewinski
As Saddam invaded Kuwait
One moment there鈥檚 destiny calling
The next it鈥檚 the cruel hand of fate.
As Anne Boleyn said to her barber
鈥淚 suppose it鈥檚 the end of the ride.
If only I鈥檇 known he had 鈥榠ssues鈥
Oh make it a short back and sides鈥
As Eve said 鈥渨hat鈥檚 up?鈥 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鈥檇 known of the 鈥榰nknown known鈥檚鈥
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 鈥淛esus, if only I鈥檇 known鈥
--
Capes
The bearded behemoth the world鈥檚 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鈥檙e not doing that are you Geoff?)
You鈥檙e filling up the feeder on a budgerigar cage.
What would Bill 鈥楾he Kaz鈥 Kazmire,
The world鈥檚 second 鈥榮trongest man鈥,
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鈥檛 tell me that Bill 鈥榯he Kaz鈥 Kazmire,
The worlds second 鈥榮trongest man鈥
Keeps Gerbils鈥. 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 拢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 鈥楻ight Said Fred鈥)
I鈥檓 too sacred to be paid,
too sacred to be paid, too sacred I鈥檓 afraid.
I鈥檓 more sacred than Cherie Blair,
more sacred than Cherie Blair,
I live on Sweet Fresh Air.
I鈥檓 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鈥檓 too sacred to be paid,
too sacred to be paid, too sacred I鈥檓 afraid.
I鈥檓 too sacred for the nation,
too sacred for the nation,
don鈥檛 need remuneration.
I鈥檓 a mother, you know what I mean
and I鈥檓 trying to raise the future on a shoestring,
on a shoestring, a shoestring, yeh,
I鈥檓 dragging up the future on a shoestring.
I鈥檓 too sacred to be paid,
too sacred to be paid, too sacred I鈥檓 afraid.
I鈥檓 too sacred for a wage,
too sacred for a wage,
free copy for the page.
I鈥檓 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鈥檓 learning the rewards of writing free verse.
You media moguls, won鈥檛 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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