for the worst poem published in English
as read on (and transcribed from) the BBC this morning
by its distinguished author
Simon Armitage, Poet Laureate to Her Majesty the Queen of lots of
unfortunate countries. It is called
STILL LIFE
but my title would be Bathos, Bathos, Bathos; Bla-bla-bla
The local cemetery is out of bounds,
entrance draped with a candy-striped helix
of incident-tape, chain and padlock
wreathing the gate.
We inch past on a path which flanks the hawthorn hedge,
exchange stares with an astronaut in a HazMat suit
and visor and mask and overshoes and white leather gloves
propped on his spade at an open grave;
the Universe breathless and muggy tonight,
a cold-blooded moon;
marooned villages under the hill,
a stagnant dusk that parts
to allow an ambulance through.
I have often said that poetry in English is dead.
Don't dig a grave for it. Throw it in a plague-pit.
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