Poorly-Referenced Economic Theory

Hello. A few days ago I took part in an 'Election Special' poetry slam (I came second and had a wonderful time, thanks for asking). I wrote the following specially for it. It reads a little differently to me after Thursday, and I'm still making my mind up about it. But fuck it: I wrote it so it goes on the blog - them's the rules.If you disagree with the politics of it, hopefully you can get some joy from the way it flows. I can't think of a title I particularly like for it, so for now I'm calling it "Poorly-Referenced Economic Theory" because exhaustively citing one's sources can throw off a piece's rhythm. It goes thusly:

Poorly-Reference Economic Theory

Right. Brace yourselves, It's time to strap in. 'cos Aristotle and I, we've been chatting, and the chap in the chiton has sparked a thought in the mind of the one who holds court dressed in a stylish jacket. Don't worry: I'll pack it in a way which won't confuse you or lose your attention. The ancient boke's contention is this: what we'd call the state, and he termed "he polis" is at its heart a group striving to do more goo  together than they could ever do apart. Here's where my thoughts started to start running.

You see, doing good requires money, quite a bit of cash, but there are brash pricks in powder pink and pinstripes who think "Cripes! Quick! Hide my stash offshore where the interest will earn me more and the taxman won't be stealing it for silly little projects like healing bone cancer in children!"

It's bewildering that some people can't see that the health of general populace helps the whole gods-damned lot of us, but our well-being and your bank balance both increase in times of peace so let's talk about the Police. Flawed as they are, it is only threat of their Sting that guards every breath you take and every move you make. Remember: we're watching you, and, as much as it might be a duty, they will not work for free.

More important to me is the realm of the mind, so if you'd be so kind: It coes twenty-two-and-a-half thousand pounds to educate one child, according to that wild, socialist rag, The Telegraph. How can we begin to staff the nation, to do what needs to be done, without a system of taxation to fairly acquire these funds? Tell me, Mr Big-Spender, how it suits your agenda if your workforce has not been taught to do those myriad tasks whose aggregation has helped your wealth grow so very vast? Nevermind that it's this learning which helped them start earning and so be able to support themselves in some semblance of dignity.

Your anointed Highnesses, while we're on everyday people's finances, might I make a point whilst I have the temerity? Raising median prosperity is a fine end in and of itself, but it's when people spend - to put some circulation on those notes - that our economic health really shoots upwards like a rocket-powered mountain goat.

I'm shorter on time than I am examples on my list, but I think you've got the gist. It's not a tricky concept, I should have to say it more than once. It's both selfish and self destructive to hoard such wealth.

Got it? Good. Cheers. Thanks a bunch.


One hopes you're well,
yrs,
ADWoodward

The Tale of Joseph Spunkleson

Hello. I've written a little fable which I'd like to share with you. It's called The Tale of Joseph Spunkleson and it goes thusly:

The Tale of Joseph Spunkleston

"Hello, madam," said Joseph Spunkleston. "These are my genitals. Would you like to lick them?"
"No, thank you," she replied, as politely as she could manage.
"Fair enough," he replied. "The offer's still open if you change your mind."
Joseph Spunkleston never really learned the appropriate context for his penis and testicles. This led, later in life, to a rather embarrassing conversation with a lady paramedic after he tried to fuck the toaster

The End


One hopes you're well,
yrs,
ADWoodward

Sophrosyne

Hello. Since I last posted a thing on here, that part of my free time which has not been spent performing old poems to appreciative audiences has instead been spent writing new ones and being unable to finish them. I've finally broken the block, and have finished writing a thing which I'd like to share with you. It's called "Sophrosyne" and goes thusly:

Sophrosyne

The other day I was sat in the pub,
Just sitting and thinking,
Not really drinking my beer,
Which, me being me, and given my location,
Was sat right near.
A drop or two in blessed moderation,
As taught to us in Latin verse,
(The Horation, not the Lucretian)
Can be just the thing to calm taught nerves.
Do, though, try to keep your view even.
For Bacchus can back us or attack us,
He can unpack a map for the fast track to relaxation
Or he can splash us with flak 'til our foundations crack
And we crash from Olympian elevation.
Booze, that gift of the twice-born son of Zeus,
Is best in moderation.
This is the link between what I was thinking and my bar-room location.
The key to life seems to be Sophrosyne,
That is, the middle way,
Not too little, not too much.
You don't need a tower carved from sunlight,
Whose height makes heaven yours to touch,
But a stout floor - something to lift you out of the mud - is a must.
You see, once you're free from the dangers of poverty,
Material goods rapidly lose their novelty.
If you don't enjoy the journey,
How you spend your earnings
Will never summon the sun;
To quote Noel Coward,
'Good work is more fun than fun.'
It's not just me reporting this kernel of truth,
It was also in The Wall Street Journal.
There's a roof to how much happiness you can buy,
And, by-and-by, purchased peace fades.
So, before Death comes and smothers the last of your days,
I'd suggest you spend them helping and engaging with others,
Which is statistically shown to help your well-being improve.
To conclude:
Don't chase that unreachable ceiling,
Chase chairs and the energising chats to be found sat there.



One hopes you're well,
yrs,
ADWoodward

On Friendship & Distance

You may not be surprised, dear reader, to know that in the gap between this and the most recent update to the blog I have been writing. If this is not a surprise to you, you'll certainly neither be surprised to hear that I have been writing, and that finishing a piece is still the hardest part of the process for me. Fortunately, an idea occurred as I was lying down this evening; one of those which I felt I needed to get down before it escaped my grasp. I quite like how it's turned out, but I'll still be compelled to obsess over its minutiae, so don't be surprised if the piece has changed (possibly beyond recognition) between you reading it here and me performing it. Either way I like how it stands enough that I thought it worth sharing:

On Friendship & Distance

People are a great source of my fear.

It's not so much the people on the street,

It's possibly privilege, but I've yet to meet

The confrontation which can't be ended 

By saying "I'm terribly sorry, I didn't know"

Or upping the pace, leaving here, and heading for home.

It's that people matter. Humans are great.

This may be a point that you may've already heard me make,

But either way, it's true.

The people you know can always see through you.

They can cut you if you're not careful.

Beware full disclosure at the first meeting.

First impressions are fleeting,

but friendship takes time to be earned.

So, I worry, "Will this be the time that they learn

That I'm not good enough?"

It's tough to always be on high alert

Against one's perception of one's own inconsistencies.

That's nothing to the mystery of why they've stayed.

We've played with ideas in jest

For too long for this to be anything but the best sort of friendship,

But I worry, at what point would you end this?

Which text would be the one that I miss

Which makes you say,

"Man, fucking fuck this shit".

So I wonder,

Was that it?

Has my fear of cocking up social interaction

Finally come across as a motion to abandon

The game which we both had a nearly winning hand in?

Is this the bit where we go our separate ways?

Is this the end of those days in which I update you

Out of the blue,

And ask, with genuine interest, "What are you up to?"

I don't know where the line is,

but what I'm increasingly finding is 

No matter how much the time is since our last meeting in-or-decreases,

I miss you, man,

And I wish you were here to hear me read this.

One hopes you're well,

yrs,

ADWoodward

Poetry: A Poem

Hello. I have written a thing which I'd like to share with you. It's quite possibly an exercise in self-indulgent, navel-gazing, masturbatory nonsense because it is a poem about poetry. It's called, fittingly enough, "Poetry: A Poem" and it goes thusly:

Poetry: A Poem

A poem,

Said the dead and ancient Greek

Whom I'd read into life once more,

Is a made thing.

An act of creation.

Life with ink in its veins.

I do not wish to bleed,

But if life and my all too human brain

Do conspire against me

With sharpened, moonlit knives

I will let it scab upon the page.

I will trap it where it can be safely observed.

I will steal laughter and tears from my audience,

And into the silence that's left behind

I will shout my thoughts.

I will scream into this world the maelstrom

Whose nocturnal rages trap me in unwilling consciousness.

I will pray

With every part of my grubby, battered soul

That this time -

Please, O spiteful, capricious deities -

That this one time

Something will echo back at me which I understand.

And then I will have a pint,

Calm myself down, y'know.

Take the edge off, sort of thing.

It's bad enough that I make myself memorise this shit,

And need to recite it to anyone who'll listen,

But it really wouldn't do to pretend that poetry is magic.

And a double gin as well, I think,

With bitter lemon if you have it,

Or lime and soda if not.

I do genuinely love those moments

When two people, separated by time, or distance,

Or the breadth of the darkness behind two sets of eyes,

Meet across a crowded line of verse.

I know, then, that I am not alone,

And nor are you.

Oh, and a bag of pork scratchings, please,

It does you good to treat yourself.

It makes you feel alive.

One hopes you're well,
Yrs,
ADWoodward

Edges

Hello. I've written a thing. I think. I mean I think it's a thing, and - depending on quite how much conscious intent you think is needed before "I" becomes relevant - it might have been written by me. Until its real parents come along, I suppose I'll have to take care of it, anyway. A few days ago I couldn't concentrate, sat at a keyboard for a bit with this as the result, and then went back to whatever it was I was doing. Eating crisps, probably. I've reread it a few times, and have got two things out of the effort. The first is that I need to read it again in a different tone, and the second is that it refuses to be edited. So, fuck it, have a read and see what you think. Until something better suggests itself, I'm calling it "Edges", and it goes thusly:

Edges

Look to the edges. Look to those places where one thing seems to stop and another begins, or continues after a lengthy pause. Look at the spaces. The cracks / The joins. Is that mortar or dust accumulated between the stones? See the red mark on the white sheet. Stain or dye? The one should be smaller, should mar the beauty less. The other should be repeated; haphazard patterns allowed to shift with a moving eye. Make them into pictures with a stranger's imagination. What do you see? Broken fragments or pieces put together? The tumbled pebble gets wedged and refuses to budge. A tile, cut and carefully placed, strains to escape its newly mortared home. Ruined or returned to nature? Restrictions released or order removed? Pause. Continue. Stop. Repeat. Rebuild. Reduce. Reduplicate. Which? All or none? Yes, no, maybe? I'm terribly sorry I've forgotten the question? Was there one? Will there be one soon? Do you mind if I wait and see? I think I might be on the edge of something important here.

One hopes you're well,
yrs,
ADWoodward

End of Series

Hello. I've been on holiday recently. It was lovely, thank you for asking. This meant I spent a week looking at a sunlit sea, occasionally wandering to get another drink. I wrote a few things, the first of which I'd like to share with today. I'll put the others up as and when I get bored with editing them. You see, I also read a fair bit on holiday. One of the things I read was last couple of novel's of Raymond E. Feist's epic fantasy known as The Riftwar Cycle. Magician the first book, was one of the things that made me decide "Oh, I actually do like reading." Finishing it, and leaving the world's of Midkemia and Kelewan behind felt weird. Now, you humans can - I'm told- experience feelings without resorting to scribbling doggerel. I choose not to. So this poem is called "End of Series", and it goes thusly:

End of Series

The last page is turned,

The last chapter finished.

We leave our friends

Whose text-forged lives we've cherished

To continue on without us.

Other victories wait them.

Other loves through which to sing.

Other armies to command.

Other regimes to safeguard 

Against the demon legion.

We've loved our times together,

We cheered them through their darkest hours,

But now the pen is still,

The bardic voices silent,

And now they must carry on

Without their paperbacked cheerleaders.

Thirty years the printed word has praised them,

Ten lifetimes more they'll have my adoration.

But no more the press will know them,

No more will ink on metal sing their tales.

These characters who led me from my adolescence

Through goblin strife and elven grace

Continue on to blissful summers

Without my reading eyes to share their laughter and their tears.

I'll re-read their wins and their losses,

But the first time has been and gone.

A rediscovery is not the same

As the first time you turned that first fantastic page.

One hopes you're well,

yrs,

ADWoodward