On the whole, I am not a great fan of poetry. I would like to blame this on the ineptitude of all poets the world over but, sadly, this is down to the Philistine in me; I like the obvious, the brash and the gaudy. I like rhymes. I like poems that are without the need for any pretense on the part of either the poet or the reader. I should like to read an exchange of slightly threatening love-poetry between Pam Ayres and Billy Childish.
That said, here is a poem I do appreciate:
On reflection, it all came down to nylon -
stockings, bras, pants.
Of course, there were the other things -
swing of buttocks, flap of breasts,
a whole shape of arc and indent.
But somehow, it was the synthetics,
hitched by nylon, an erotic mechanics,
that set us light years apart.
What did we have when we undressed?
Socks. Jockeys. A string vest.
But when they stepped out
of shoes, blouse, and skirt -
voila! The French maid: that circumflex
of taut stocking-band; knickers
sheeny as a courtesan's; the stripper's
unhooking acrobatics; and the Lautrec
girl stooping as puckered hose slithers.
They held us in a man-made scissors.
Robert Maitre (1944- )
