Tag Archives: Magma

RHL, ‘Privelitch’

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Some suffer from a travel itch
but I call that a snivel glitch
I only want to travel rich
and love it: it’s my privelitch.
O privelitch, o privelitch!

I only go to schools most rich,
(and only eat foods superrich),
then college has to be Oxbritch,
for that’s my privelitch.
I love you, love you, bitch!

I wear the robes and coronitch,
I swear by God I’ve found my nitch,
for, be I tubby, tall or titch,
I’ve got my privelitch.
O privelitch, o privelitch,
I love you, love you, bitch!

I never on my class would snitch
(or if I do, it’s just a smitch);
I’m faithful – cept for those I ditch,
for that’s my privelitch.
O privelitch, o privelitch!

I down it nail, I up it stitch,
call me a wizard or a witch,
I’ve got it all, with perfect pitch,
for that’s my privelitch.
I love you, love you, bitch!

My life with none I’d ever switch,
I’m over all, no slightest twitch,
and even when I’m in Death’s ditch
my tomb shouts Privelitch!
O privelitch, o privelitch,
I love you, love you, bitch!

*****

Don’t think I’m unaware of my own privilege: white males with above-average education are a privileged minority in any country. But also you reading this, whoever you are, you are privileged to not be a child in Gaza or any of the other hells that humans make for each other on an otherwise beautiful planet; you are privileged to be alive during this affluent and pivotal time in human history. And of course those who in addition have cultivated a taste for poetry… is there maybe a hint of privilege there?

This poem, like Buccaneer, was recently published in Magma.

Photo: “General Election Bullingdon Club Members in 1987, including Boris Johnson and David Cameron” by Diego Sideburns is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 2.0.

Nonce form: RHL, ‘Buccaneer’

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These are the waters of the buccaneer–
they live large lives and lounge around with liquor,
floating on waters calm, gin-clear,
their risks outrageous and their thinking thin,
alert to bargain and to dicker
and not averse to sin–
a life erratic.

The time of storms starts… ends… another year
has gone by, always it seems quicker–
thoughts of a distant home fade, disappear–
beard covers sunken cheeks and chin
and there’s no comment, jibe or snicker,
only a rueful grin,
wry, enigmatic.

There’s no reflection or confession here,
for there’s no use for church or vicar.
Security is in the bandolier;
here, courts and coppers don’t look in,
the flame of justice can no more than flicker.
More feared is the shark’s fin:
steady, emphatic.

But years creep up–ears deafen and eyes blear–
dry stone gets harder and wet walkways slicker,
and friends go out upon a bier.
It’s hardly worthwhile trying to begin
new quests once you’ve absorbed this kicker:
‘Really, what’s there to win?’
Change becomes static.

O pirate with your dwindling sense of cheer,
while lounging on rattan and wicker!
Though others lack your lazy lack of fear,
their fine awards, like yours, are only tin.
Enjoy your days and friends; don’t bicker:
soak in life’s warmth and din.
Be undramatic.

*****

I wrote this poem two years ago, and thought it was strong enough to get me into a good new magazine for the first time. And so it turned out… after 20 rejections, the 21st accepted it. So now I’m proud to be featured on the promo page for the latest Magma.

And about time too – after being brought up in a house called ‘Buccaneer Hill‘, by parents who started the ‘Buccaneer Club‘ guest house and restaurant, this poem was long overdue.

Illustration: RHL + ChatGPT