(after Horace Ode 1:23 Vitas inuleo)

I see that you’re avoiding me again,
as if our friendship posed some sort of threat
(or is it that you know I’m useless to you?)
Whatever, mate, don’t panic that my work

has topped the slush pile earlier than yours.
Just because somebody’s script is rustling
on editors’ desks, or brilliant gift-packed poems
are quickening, you’re ruffled head to toe!

Trust me Jo, I wouldn’t put the boot in,
wouldn’t steal your lines or cast a shadow
of doubt on your good words – no need to network.
Your verse is ready; it can hold its own.

i.m. Michael Donaghy
(after Horace Ode 1:24 Quis desiderio)

There’s competition for elegy
and why not for this much loved poet,
called to sing by the Muse of Tragedy
too long before his time? But then that’s fate.
Not even Michael’s creative wit,
his warmth and care for fellow poets
could conjure a way out of this one.
All who knew him grieve and weep: he lit
our rooms.  You, Simon, aim to recall light:
with your Patent and try to make
everlasting bulbs; dull the sun.
But light can’t fill a Jupiter shape.
Might Michael illuminate death for our sake
if we work into the night?
                                                                                               

 Notes:
1.  Michael Donaghy was an accomplished musician as well as a poet.
2.  Simon Armitage’s poem, ‘Patent’, is in memory of Michael Donaghy.
3.  One of Michael Donaghy’s collections is called Conjure.

(after Horace Ode 1:25 Parcius iunctas)

The rampant literati seem less keen
to finger scripts or rouse you with their praise.
You used to spread your lines across the page:
now they’re locked and frigid.

Young scribes were once among your greatest fans:
these days they never email for your verse
and while you romp round daily with your muse
they write you off.

Soon your skin will wither, and your words
will wrinkle on some Oxfam bargain rack
remaindered by indifference.  Mates step back:
your groupies leave you cold.

By looking for acclaim your hopes and dreams
will drive you like the rest of us insane.
Frustration bouncing round inside your brain,
you’ll feel neglected: you’ll moan

about the happy wannabees who follow
new hot shoots of fame, but what’s your quarrel?
You’ll have had your time, and so your laurels
grow brittle in tomorrow’s frost.

 (after Horace Ode 1:26 Musis amicus)

These women are my source of inspiration.
Without such feisty poets I’d be lost.
They plummet hidden depths to pluck out words
and make them burn forever in our souls.
                                                                                   

 Note:  The poem refers to Jackie Litherland and Cynthia Fuller, Wearside poets and Katrina Porteous, from Northumberland.  All three are gritty, determined yet gentle women poets who work vigorously at their art.

(after Horace Ode 1:27 Natis in usum)

All right, don’t let the beer go to your heads –
just enjoy a drink but keep the noise down.
Good poets would hold their booze better than this,
you’re not some engineering air-heads on the lash.

I’ve come in here to have a quiet pint
not bandy beered-up words with all of you.
Show your class and lose the traffic cone
and if you want me here at chucking out,

then stop this fighting talk. You, Abby’s brother,
why don’t you fill us in about your love life.
No ale for me unless you dish the dirt;
don’t be shy, your secret’s safe with me!

Whoever she is she’s got her claws in you,
best not to fight it, lad, that’s my advice.
Once they’ve got you wrapped around their finger
you might as well give in, there’s no escape.

(after Horace Ode 1:28 Te maris et terrae)

Your metre was meticulous, dear Horace;
as fine as sand, and yet you trickle through
the minds of a just a sprinkling of scholars.
What did verse gain you?
 
With brilliance you read the universe,
showed how we are, but yet your tongue is stilled.
And Ovid’s too, despite his god-like skill
and metamorphic hands.

Poor Sappho died before her thirst for verse
was quenched, so she’s in bits. Lucilius’ fresh
eleven hundred unconnected lines
are distant trails.

The words of Alcaeus used to crash and bang
like thunder and lightning in the public ear.
He penned ten Hellenistic scrolls; so what?
they’re sound bites now.

In my own time dear Brendan, man of rain,
whose heart stopped once and yet came back to beat
the shadowlands of life and death -  he too
will die one day.

One writer’s lost in conflict; while another
drowns in slush piles.  Others briefly shine
before they burn. Our poets too will dim.
Death catches all,

including me!  When breath fades and my flesh
is eaten up by worms, then I’ll be speechless.
So grant me shelf-space, please, since there are many
ways of dying.

You up-and-coming writers, thrown around
on crashing poetry waves, best play it safe.
Prosper and grow famous in the hands
that guard the canon.

But don’t forget that by ignoring me
you’re robbing those who might admire my words.
Be fair, or I may haunt you when I turn
my final page.

I know how busy literary folk can be
but how long would it take you, honestly,
to read me one more time before I’m laid
gently in the archive.

(Note:  Brendan is the Irish poet Brendan Kennelly, who following quadruple bypass surgery, wrote a collection called ‘The Man Made of Rain’ which tells of the shadowlands between life and death.)

(after Horace Ode 1:29 Icci, beatis)

So, old mate, you want to make your name.
To see yourself as one of the elite?
You think you’ll conquer Hooray Henry hearts
by buffing up your scruffy state-school vowels?

You’ve no chance pal.  Your glottal-stops will slip.
No poet-scholars will ever big you up
when scripts by them are hijacked and killed off.
They’ll tease you but they’ll keep you in your place.

Academic poetry boys still rule OK!
They flex their lyric muscles on the canon.
You think they want to hear what’s in your mouth
even though you watch your p’s and q’s?

Now you cross your t’s and dot your i’s
you think you’ve cracked it do you – think you’re in?
Well better think again you silly sucker,
you’ll find your novelty will soon wear thin

and we won’t want you either once you trim
your verse like them, on Sunday afternoons.
When you escape your accent then the Tees
will trickle up towards the Cleveland Hills.

(after Horace Ode 1.30 O Venus, regina)

Venus, Muse of lovers everywhere,
why not dump the eloquent well-served south?
Join me here by the Tees’ untutored mouth.
This wrinkly writer needs your lyric care.

Bring Eros with his band and Youth: I’ve heard
that with their help I’d capture hearts and minds;
seduce the academics on the Tyne,
till they embraced me, every thought and word.

(after Horace Ode 1.31 Quid dedicatum)

So what should poets ask of academia
once erudite façades have all been built?
What honours do they seek, what aspiration
ferments their thought until new words pour out?

Not the flowery praise of scholar-poets;
not fruits of southern fame meant as a lure
to so-called fertile ground where poetry houses
are slowly starved of funding, that’s for sure!

Let those with sponsors labour on their epics,
let them trim verse back not let it roll.
Let them toast their dry nouveau-success
gained from emptying hearts and baring souls.

I’ve no desire to ride their trendy wagon,
go celestial, have strange places for my head.
I’d rather have a cocoa then rest easy
in my loosely-sprung, uncontroversial bed.

So let me keep my common-grounded lyrics,
my colloquial tone, my gritty northern voice.
Let me prize these gifts in ripe old age.
Simple talent; good reason to rejoice.

(after Horace Ode 1.32 Poscimus si quid)

Whenever I’ve toyed with you before,
I pray, as I curl up with you in my still bed,
and play with words to outlive me,
come and drop your flaccid thoughts
into my ears to make them flap,
my Roman poet

first turned on for me by a man of Latin
who, whether battling with students
or relaxing by the oar-sprayed Isis,
still emails on Archilochus and Virgil,
On Ovid and Alcaeus,
on you, with your lyrical spirit
your lyrical tongue.

I glorify you, Horace, my bed-time book,
welcome at mind feasts;
poet who’s lit up my efforts:
Give me your worldly insights
whenever I think of you.