The Modern

The trends of the modern aesthetic
He follows, a peripatetic.

Every twist and evasion

Of latest persuasion
Will find him at least sympathetic.

The Ancient

He emerges at times from his coma
In a lavender, mothball aroma
To condemn new ideas
With omniscient sneers.
He’s been round... but he lacks a
diploma.

The Authority

He expounds all the facts with elation—
Every name, every date, each quotation
Till the object of art
That gave him his start
ls befogged with exact information.

CONFESSION

| seek with profoundest endeavour
To be just as bright as | can,
To appear up-to-date, to be clever,
To paint just like Braque or Cezanne.
But if you insist that my dauby
Attempts to be brilliant and new
Are only the fruits of a hobby
Of a rather Victorian hue,
| can only assail my assailer
By saying, ‘’| don’t give a damn.
| exemplify Popeye the Sailor,

aa

‘lam what | am what | am’.

My verses are planned to be loud in
Their praise of the vague and obstruse,
Rather like Spender or Auden,
Or, as some say, Mother. Goose.
My quips that are planned to be darker
And edged like the tooth of a shark
Are modelled on Dorothy Parker
Whose bite is as bad as her bark.

The Mystic

Underlying the artist’s intention
He sees an occult intervention.
Every hue, every line
Is the evident sign
Of something too subtle to mention.

The Common Man

If you ask why he chose what he chose

He will snort that he certainly knows
The things worth the choosing.
He’d find it confusing

To explain how he came to know those.

The Gusher

She emotes over colour and form

And is never half-sure or lukewarm.
She thinks everyone ‘’swell’’
From Rembrandt to Ravel

And surrealists take her by storm.

Though my friends say they find them-
selves lacking
In skill to discover my trend
My retort that should send them all
packing
ls so deep they can’t comprehend.

| know about Freud's explorations,
| know about Jung and Gestalt,
About concepts and orientations . . .
But here | must come to a halt
And admit that | have to amass so
Much nonsense and give the stuff
voice,
Must pretend that | paint like Picasso,
Must quote from Miss Stein and
James Joyce,
Because of a slight indiscretion
That should have been mentioned
before.
Underneath my veneer of repression
I’m an early Victorian bore.

The Modern
The trends of the modern aesthetic
He follows, a peripatetic.
Every twist and evasion
Of latest persuasion
Will find him at least sympathetic.

The Ancient
He emerges at times from his coma
In a lavender, mothball aroma
To condemn new ideas
With omniscient sneers.
He’s been round . . . but he lacks a
diploma.

The Authority
He expounds all the facts with elation—
Every name, every date, each quotation
Till the object of art
That gave him his start
Is befogged with exact information.

CONFESSION
| seek with profoundest endeavour
To be just as bright as | can,
To appear up-to-date, to be clever,
To paint just like Braque or Cezanne.
But if you insist that my dauby
Attempts to be brilliant and new
Are only the fruits of a hobby
Of a rather Victorian hue,
I can only assail my assailer
By saying, “I don’t give a damn.
| exemplify Popeye the Sailor,
‘Lam what | am what | am’.’”
My verses are planned to be loud in
Their praise of the vague and obstruse,
Rather like Spender or Auden,
Or, as some say, Mother. Goose.
My quips that are planned to be darker
And edged like the tooth of a shark
Are modelled on Dorothy Parker
Whose bite is as bad as her bark.

a

The Mystic

Underlying the artist's intention

He sees an occult intervention.
Every hue, every line
Is the evident sign

Of something too subtle to mention.

The Common Man

If you ask why he chose what he chose

He will snort that he certainly knows
The things worth the choosing.
He'd find it confusing

To explain how he came to know those.

The Gusher

She emotes over colour and form

And is never half-sure or lukewarm.
She thinks everyone ‘‘swell’’
From Rembrandt to Ravel

And surrealists take her by storm.

Though my friends say they find them-
selves lacking
In skill to discover my trend
My retort that should send them all
packing
Is so deep they can’t comprehend.

| know about Freud's explorations,
| know about Jung and Gestalt,
About concepts and orientations . . .
But here | must come to a halt
And admit that | have to amass so
Much nonsense and give the stuff
voice,
Must pretend that | paint like Picasso,
Must quote from Miss Stein and
James Joyce,
Because of a slight indiscretion
That should have been mentioned
before.
Underneath my veneer of repression
I'm an early Victorian bore.