Tag Archives: wealth

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.

Weekend read: Sonnet variation: Michael R. Burch, ‘Erin’

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All that’s left of Ireland is her hair—
bright carrot—and her milkmaid-pallid skin,
her brilliant air of cavalier despair,
her train of children—some conceived in sin,
the others to avoid it. For nowhere
is evidence of thought. Devout, pale, thin,
gay, nonchalant, all radiance. So fair!

How can men look upon her and not spin
like wobbly buoys churned by her skirt’s brisk air?
They buy. They grope to pat her nyloned shin,
to share her elevated, pale Despair …
to find at last two spirits ease no one’s.

All that’s left of Ireland is the Care,
her impish grin, green eyes like leprechauns’.

*****

Michael R. Burch writes: “My poem is set in the present and really has nothing to do with poverty. All that’s left of Ireland of yore is the young mother’s red hair, fair skin, a tendency toward melancholy (“despair), and her train of children. She’s a practicing Catholic except for a few affairs. Otherwise she’s a modern woman, drinking and flirting in a pub. I was trying to capture a bit of Ireland in a young mother, very loosely inspired by one of my Irish cousins who was a bit of a “wild child” in her youth.”

(Editor’s aside: My bad for thinking that “All that’s left” implied poverty, which was not in Michael R. Burch’s mind at all. True, Ireland goes through enormous swings of fortune, but the Ireland of even some years ago no longer matches the fabulously rich Ireland of today – the people are 50% richer than Americans or Norwegians…

2024 top GDP.png

… putting the UAE and Switzerland in the shade as well.)

Michael R. Burch’s poems have been published by hundreds of literary journals, taught in high schools and colleges, translated into 22 languages, incorporated into three plays and four operas, and set to music, from swamp blues to classical, 61 times by 32 composers. He is also the founder and editor-in-chief of The HyperTexts.

Photo: “Irish Fire at the Barn” by Trey Ratcliff is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 2.0.

Gail White, ‘Money Song’

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Money won’t buy you the moon and stars,
but trips abroad and enormous cars
and fancy drinks in exclusive bars,
can all be purchased with money.

Money won’t buy you wisdom and truth
or permanent beauty or lasting youth,
but it makes a very good substituth,
which makes it nice to have money.

The dog and the cat that you adore–
money won’t make them love you more,
but it keeps the wolf away from the door,
which is why I wish I had money.

I’d have a fabulous London flat,
a house in Provence and a Persian cat,
and I’d give up being a Democrat,
if only I had enough money.

When all the sins of excessive wealth
had left me ruined, by speed or stealth,
I’d still have memories of my health,
and the fun I had with my money.

*****

Gail White writes: “I wrote the poem as a sort of updating of Arthur Clough’s ‘Spectator ab Extra‘, which has the refrain line ‘How pleasant it is to have money.’ Some things never change.”

Gail White is the resident poet and cat lady of Breaux Bridge, Louisiana. Her books ASPERITY STREET and CATECHISM are available on Amazon. She is a contributing editor to Light Poetry Magazine. “Tourist in India” won the Howard Nemerov Sonnet Award for 2013. Her poems have appeared in the Potcake Chapbooks ‘Tourists and Cannibals’, ‘Rogues and Roses’, ‘Families and Other Fiascoes’, ‘Strip Down’ and ‘Lost Love’. ‘Money Song’ is collected in ‘Asperity Street‘. Her new light verse chapbook, ‘Paper Cuts‘, is now available on Amazon.

Photo: “Crowne-Gold-Silver-Bullion” by digitalmoneyworld is licensed under CC BY 2.0.