A Counterblast to Lord Rochester, by Freda Cook

A Pox on Rochester, the Bore! 

All that one does is stuff in more

purple words relentlessly.

He’s hounded by Necessity,

it seems. Kindlier Nature culled,

he plies his vigorous Pen; is pulled

to slap his parts on the Page so fast

you’d think his Time and not his Whore

had come - if she did. I’d cast

some doubt on that; our Peer is more

concerned with loucher takes on Lust.

Ah well, it happens when Love’s gone bust.

Admire the Poet? His work is slick,

but, basically, the man’s a Prick.

Battersea Fields, by Freda Cook

Do not forget me, Battersea fields,
in the park where grass
was ankle high and seed heads
crushed in the hand
sweetened the morning air
heavy with fat smells
from candle works,
where each green blade
seemed softer under fingers
than fine lawns did years on
at the north end of the staling city.

Do not forget me, Battersea streets,
whose gutters were cobbled,
grouted with gravel, dust
where summer-sole shoes
curved over their hunch, bent
unsteady ankles as mud
from the ‘mere slipped underfoot
and matchbox boats in rain
swirled slowly by sweet wrappers
down drains through whose wide grids
slopped childhood lives.

So, I can turn to the place
where, if I am not wiser now,
I still feel strong,
the last of your grass in my hands,
your cobbles under my feet.