I didn't graduate from university, let alone collect the piece of bumf that identifies you officially as a graduate, so I couldn't vote as a nominee in the deadly race for the Oxford Chair of Poetry. However one of the candidates, who was at the same college as me and treated me kindly while I was there, is someone I have known ever since and like a lot.
He isn't the university's 'official candidate', supported by a long list of college principals, presidents, professors and so on. But his far more deserving list of nominees looks like the guest list for a thousand old parties, and includes at least two dear intimates of mine among a host of friends and acquaintances. It is also longer than any list of nominees except Geoffrey Hill's, so he is in with some sort of chance. Yesterday's Terrorflag gave him a plug with photo, and last night's Evening Standard gave him a double-page spread with veiled but strong recommendations from both writers.
So, let's hear a blast of vuvuzelas for Horrors. He doesn't really like being called that but he must be used to it by now. Michael Horovitz, surrealist, hipster, musician and most of all working poet, for Professor!
He will make a very good one. I can vouch for that personally.
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Oh well, he didn't win, but he would have made a good prof of poetry. The newspaper pix, and it must be admitted the short poem I saw quoted, won't have appealed to the tie-wearing respectabilios who alas, despite great advances by the lefty bohemian faction, have always been the majority in the old universities.
Anyone who's ever been to a poetry reading in London, from the 67 or whenever it was Albert Hall gig to a host of smaller ones, the Edinburgh fringe or a lot of other places might have heard Michael Horovitz's stuff. He got an OBE or something too. Agonized over accepting it but I thought he should have, and said so.
Horrors isn't just an indefatigable working poet though. He's learned too. He would have been good and not one of those overbearing high tory academic bullies.
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Professor Parthus puffed and proffered
With noble voice so cultured, coiffured.
rounded vowels - oh what a tone!
From England`s greatest, polished bone
He trumpets here and trumpets there
mellow fluting - oh so fair
now he`s reaching for`t learned tome.
far away from ancestral home
But we remember that young bloke
was our lecturer - with Northern croak
With an `e lad` this and `tha can lad` that
a twang so loud it scared the cat
He quavered sometimes, front of class
eyes rolling at the hint of grass
As my friend Ahmed puffed his pipe
his `special mix` was no one`s gripe
(In memory of a decent guy and outstanding professor - name slightly changed and Ahmed, who received ten million worried glances - but no challenge)
oilrag
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He's back and thank Gord for it.
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>> He's back and thank Gord for it.
Blimey Ive woken up in a parallel universe
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I dunno, I've had more spontaneous smiles this last few days than for ages.
Even more than when I managed finally to find Rex the Runt on Youtube.
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Another sporting contest - Armel Coussine
