LIDIA VIANU

The Desperado Age

British Literature at the Start of the Third Millennium

JOHN WHITWORTH (b. 1945) is a master of rhyme and tender irony. His rhymes are not only very obvious but very resourceful as well. The strong music does not bore and does not urge the reader to mock at the meaning, either. Whitworth’s rhymes are a breath of fresh air in Desperado poetry, where rhymes are a cumbersome matter. Poets usually do not know how to treat them, and hide them in shame. John Whitworth parades his ability to match ending syllables and does it laughing full speed ahead.

The ideas are as much a game as sounds. The irony is not accompanied by Eliot’s heavy bitterness. It prances with joy and hurts no one, whether heroes or readers. Whitworth’s nature is warm and gentle, he likes to laugh but hates stabbing anyone with his meanings. Parenthood is a major force of his lines and his poems about childhood are incredibly rewarding:

Now daughter, hear your father. He

Is wise. At least he ought to be:

No money, lots of books, a lit-

tle beard, you may be sure of it.

So heed the advice he offers you.

It is the best that he can do.

Too soon you'll go to school, and for

A dozen years and maybe more,

You must be educated—what

Is what and who is who. Do not

Believe them much, but all the same

Be courteous. They are not to blame.

Be speculative, dreamy, kind,

Impractical. Don't speak your mind.

For your opinions, hold as few,

As it seems reasonable to do.

Hold them but do not be afraid

To bury them when they are dead.

Don't pick your friends with too much care

But such as happen to be there.

Trust—if you must—a pretty face.

There lies disaster, not disgrace.

Love soon, love easily—the fact is,

Like most things love improves with practice.

Don't weigh your conversation—talking

Should be as natural as walking

To take the Sunday morning air,

Not just because of getting there.

Watch trash on television. Read

Old books, not new. Do not succeed.

Try not to preach, try not to plan,

Try not to take the Guardian.

Tolerate spiders, snakes and bats.

Be on the best of terms with cats.

Love gardens, garlic, sunset, lambs,

Church weddings, babies in their prams,

Fairgrounds and Mozart, Keats and ... oh dear,

I said I wouldn't and there I go, dear.

It's only daddy rabbitting.

Same old daddy, same old thing.

My love, if you contrive to be

Just what you please, that pleases me.

And yes, p.s. do not believe in 

Words. Their business is deceiving. (Poems for a Very Small Daughter, 8)

The Complete Poetical Works of Phoebe Flood is the most satisfying book written through the eyes of a child since A.A. Milne. Each new poem is a wonderful experience. It shows technical skill, endless sympathy with the child’s psychology and gloomy fears – small as they may seem to grown-ups – , disarming gentleness and tenderness.

I’m dead bored

bored to the bone.

Nobody likes me.

I’m all alone.

I’ll just go crawl

under a stone.

Hate my family,

got no friends.

I’ll sit here till

the Universe ends

Or I starve to death.

It all depends.

Then I’ll be dead,

dead and rotten,

Less than a blot that’s

been well blotten,

Less than a teddy bear

that’s been forgotten.

Then I’ll go to heaven which is

more than can be said

For certain persons

when they’re dead

They’ll go you-know-

where instead.

Then they’ll be sorry,

then they’ll be glum,

Sitting on a stove till

kingdom come.

They can all go

kiss my bum.

Bum’s a sort of swearing.

People shouldn’t swear.

I won’t go to heaven but

I don’t care.

I don’t care.

I don’t care.

I’ll sit here and swear.

                        So there!

Except that it’s boring! (Boring)

Playful, serene, generous, John Whitworth is a poet of light, one of the very few in this Desperado age, consumed with the desire to be different and at a loss how to be so.