Satyrical

You'll be expecting 'funny', no doubt, a bit of pointed lampooning into somebody's broadside? If so, I'm sorry to disappoint. When it comes to suitable cases for satirical treatment, for the ridiculing of their follies and/or vices, there are just too many obvious targets on our doorstep. We have Blustering BoJo, Prickly Patel, Matt Halfcock, Liz the Cheese and demonic Dominic's Cummings and goings; while over the water the bloated Trumpkin and his legion of priestesses are noisily baying to God to overturn the result of the US election. None of them actually needs very much help from anyone to make themselves look completely ridiculous, so I'm fixing to train my fire on a more insidious target.

You know I like to twist and tease unexpected meanings and associations out of words. It's but a short step in my mind from satire and satirical to satyr and  satyrical  (this week's poem) so I've got it in for sex pests this week.

Satyrs were mythological Greek figures, of course, σάτυρος (sátyros), male nature spirits with ears and a tail resembling those of a horse and a permanent, exaggerated erection. They were companions of the god Dionysus, loved wine, music, dancing and women, inhabited remote locales like mountain slopes, woodlands and pastures, and often attempted to seduce nymphs and mortal women, usually without much success.

a satyr out on the pull

Over centuries, while retaining essentially human form, the satyr became more of a goat-boy, assuming caprine features, horns and shaggy hooves, for reasons lost now in the olive groves of mutating mythologies. What we are left with are two concepts. One is the faun, the relatively harmless creature of fantasy tales, ballet and children's literature. The other is satyriasis, a medical term denoting excessive lust or sexual desire, the male equivalent of nymphomania - though 'excessive' is a somewhat subjective measure.

Where satyrs of myth might have been ribald, relatively harmless and even rather sadly comic representations of unrequited male lust, modern-day satyrs in the guise of the work-place predator or sex pest are anything but harmless as the #MeToo movement, the accusations levelled against the likes of Hollywood's Harvey Weinstein, Roger Ailes (CEO of Fox News), Jeffrey Epstein in the USA and numerous naughty Tories and prominent business men in this country has proved. 

Having a fling with your boss because of a mutual attraction is not necessarily advisable, but it happens the world over. That is completely different territory from being expected to show someone sexual favours in order to get a part in a film or play (the infamous 'couch audition'), to gain advancement at work, even to just keep your job, or having to put up with unwanted sexual advances or inappropriate attempts at intimacy on a regular basis. Those are coercive acts rooted in power, or rather the abuse of it, patronising at best, bullying at worst. Is it coincidence that many of the perpetrators are, how shall I phrase it, not the most prepossessing of physical specimens?

I was always uncomfortable with 'lad culture' when I witnessed it in the work place or among friends. I'd like to think it's not as prevalent as it was forty, thirty, even twenty years ago; that the social conditioning that created predatory offenders like Weinstein and Ailes, or the eighteen serving Conservative Party ministers accused of various forms of inappropriate sexual behaviour, has not played a part in forming the attitudes of a new generation of workplace bosses, politicians, younger people in any position of power. It would be good to be able to consign the sex pest as a breed, along with male (and female) chauvinists, to the dustbin of history, unacceptable behaviour in the twenty-first century.

To lighten the mood, this sly and racy narrative is partially indebted to Greek myth but also to a novel I read earlier in the year of lockdown, Sylvia Townsend Warner's wonderfully witty tale of rural English witchery, Lolly Willowes. There may be the slightest nod to cult movie The Wicker Man in there as well. The rest of it - the piece which passeth all understanding - is merely the working of the imaginarium. I hope it surprises, entertains, even amuses (which is the intent).

Satyrical

Relishing the syzygy of a dark moon,

they've all slipped soft and soundless

from their beds, their sleeping houses,

these women of the village moving

like ghosts through midnight streets,

maidens, wives and widows all

answering the call of the thirtieth.* 

Bare of feet and beneath their cloaks

each one entirely naked,

they neither speak nor offer signs

of recognition as they hasten together

across dewy pasture to the woods,

the lady of the manor, vicar's wife,

farmers' daughters, affianced maids,

dowagers and spinsters driven alike

by an urging as old as the world.

Libidinous questing of the sisterhood

makes moist their loins,

nipples harden, pulses quicken

as they pass through the oak grove

to the slope beyond;  and there,

pricked out by starlight,

hard on the rise stand the satyrs.

The women form a circle round,

raise up their wanton eyes,

cast off their cloaks and sigh

with mounting anticipation.

* the thirtieth division is that final black-out phase before the first sliver of new moon appears

Thanks for reading. Mind how you go, S ;-)

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Saving Christmas Spirit

Last year Blackpool's Dead Good Poets held an event themed 'Propaganda'. The event took place in December, so life was starting to get festive, and I'd been reading How the Grinch Stole Christmas to my little nephew. As is usually the case with poetry - what you read influences what you write - I found myself rewriting Dr. Seuss' popular Christmas poem. Deciding to place the BNP leader Nick Griffin as the Grinch and attempting to write something that was both political and satirical (two things that I rarely write about in poetry). The poem was a challenge - I'm not a rhyming poet - but it was fun, therefore, I thought I would share the resulting poem with you. I hope you enjoy it.

    

How The Griffin Nicked Christmas

Every kid

down in England

liked Santa a lot...

                                               

                                                 But the man,

                                                snarling English from England,

                                                did NOT!

The man hated Santa and not caring who knew

he told Paxman, Blue Peter; his message soon grew.

He screamed, “I am Griffin and this is my plan:

“We’ll hold an election, get rid of that man.”

The vote it was simple, pick Griffin or Claus

and soon all the Santas were gone from the stores.

But not everyone fell for the Griff’s evil lies,

the children had sackfuls of questioning whys.

“Why’s Santa so bad?” they asked with a cheer.

“Does Griff not like Santa’s elves and reindeer?”

The Griffin pondered their questions, then gave his reply,

a ten minute advert that would make them comply.

“Santa’s not British,” the Griffin roared with disgust.

“We’ll get him, gift wrap him, send him back to the Dutch.”

Now, maybe the Griff’s heart was too cold to hold joy,

or perhaps he was dropped on his head as a boy.

But the truest, most plausible, reason of all

was that Griffin’s brain was six sizes too small.

On the first of December a newsman said,

“The poll has Griff losing and Santa ahead.”

By the second the Griff stood cocky and tall,

he’d won was the verdict, the final call.

It was clear he had cheated, brought many a vote,

but he wore a white beard and stole Santa’s coat.

“There’s a new Santa in town,” he said with a grin.

“It would seem that we English know how to win.”

His BNP members soon gathered and sung,

We’ll rewrite the rules in our pure mother tongue.

The ‘Naughty’ and ‘Nice’ were swept quickly away

as he hatched his new plan with little delay.

The Griffin’s two lists now read Black and White,

he checked birth records into the night.

When done, he admired, looked his lists up and down,

chuckled and danced to see white not near brown.

“This is the way that Christmas should work,”

said sinful Nick with a big yellow smirk.

As Christmas Eve came he got ready to leave –

with British-made toys, as a way to deceive,

all prettily packaged and filling his sleigh –

it was time for Griffin to hunt out his prey.

With a ho! and a yo! he took to the skies,

eager to deliver his unmerry goodbyes.

The Griffin descended upon every house

and crept around like an overweight mouse.

He tore pages from books so the history was English,

painted the Wise Men ‘til their skin was more pinkish.

He took all the Sony: the Playstation; the telly,

and posted each item to a landfill in Delhi.

The worst treatment of all was saved for one list;

the houses with people he despised and dismissed,

but he braved the chimneys and entered his hell,

leaving gifts that rang with a countdown bell.

He left lumps of coal with plane tickets attached,

and graffitied their walls with Time to Dispatch!

Yes,

the Griffin was bad, the meanest you’ll meet,

and no poet or poem can make him all sweet.

But justice was served on that starry night...

Something big and red came into sight,

it fell from the sleigh and plummeted down,

heading towards a small coastal town.

And as it tumbled closer, hit the street with a bang

“The Griffin. Nick Griffin is dead,” children sang.

Thank you for reading and wishing you all a wonderful Christmas,

Lar.

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