What the Chairman Told Tom – about philistines

My dad was always telling me to do proper work when I was a kid. “Lazy boy, reading all day long, always got ‘is ‘ead in a bloody book”.

My mother was a good reader, but guilty. When she was a girl back in the 30s, her dad saw her reading a library book during mealtime, and threw it on the fire. She always read secretly after that.

This is a poem by Basil Bunting, author of my favourite poem, Briggflatts. It was written in the 60s, when twelve quid was a fair amount of money.

Poetry? It’s a hobby.
I run model trains.
Mr Shaw there breeds pigeons.

It’s not work. You don’t sweat.
Nobody pays for it.
You could advertise soap.

Art, that’s opera; or repertory —
The Desert Song.
Nancy was in the chorus.

But to ask for twelve pounds a week —
married, aren’t you? —
you’ve got a nerve.

How could I look a bus conductor
in the face
if I paid you twelve pounds?

Who says it’s poetry, anyhow?
My ten year old
can do it and rhyme.

I get three thousand and expenses,
a car, vouchers,
but I’m an accountant.

They do what I tell them,
my company.
What do you do?

Nasty little words, nasty long words,
it’s unhealthy.
I want to wash when I meet a poet.

They’re Reds, addicts,
all delinquents.
What you write is rot.

Mr Hines says so, and he’s a schoolteacher,
he ought to know.
Go and find work.