MIX MEDLEY

SHE, OF THE CRIMSON HUSSARS.
(BASED ON AN OLD MUSIC HALL SONG.)

An officer in the crimson hussars.
She was in that glorious regiment.
Certainly warrants a round of hurrahs,
as in action, she, in her element.

In a campaign of blood, she did not shirk.
Rather, distinguished herself with honour.
‘Though at every turn, danger did lurk,
for bravery no-one could ask for more.

And now, with those medals pinned to her chest.
And saluted on sight by lower ranks,
she’s the pride of the deepest reds. Their best.
The nation expresses its grateful thanks.

This woman, the epitome of Mars,
subject of song, with the crimson hussars.

“WHAT DO I DO NEXT?”

The eminent Robotics professor’s
succinct description of intelligence
was “what do I do next?” Then, whatever
endeavour picked from thought of relevance.

That process with several components,
used instantly for the immediate;
to plan ahead when that’s of importance.
Judge it. Don’t want to be an idiot.

To understand there is complexity.
Includes environment in which present;
what senses perceive as likely to be;
what similar past experience meant.

“What do I want?, of course, is in there to,
and yet the unexpected may come through.

ROBOT AND MORE.

This, a significant development.
Likely to change things considerably.
Beyond programmed machine intelligent,
to, able to learn interpretively.

Thereby, some sort of thinking for itself.
A persona that is intelligent.
Pretty stable in terms of mental health.
Not thought that far away from sentient.

A functioning brain, the key element,
with sense antennae it’s connected to.
Understanding. Deciding what is meant.
And choosing what effectively to do.

May take more control over you and I,
eventually, this modern AI.

REFUGEES AND OUR MORALITY. (IAMBIC PENTAMETER)

We will not save abandoned refugees.
The childrens’ lives unsafe in squalid camps.
Our choice. Our moral disability.
Not have the generosity of tramps.

Allow to be forgotten, human kind.
Succumb to xenophobe and racist rule.
The consequences out of sight and mind.
A morality worse than drunken brawl.

No compassion, only hypocrisy.
That we are good in sea of not so good.
Can sell the arms which cause the refugees.
Does not impinge upon us, as it should

so we accept responsibility,
and help those desperate; those refugees.

FUNNY SHAPE … GREAT BRAIN.

We are this funny shape, with a great brain.
You are this funny shape, with a great brain.
I admit we are very much the same.
I am this funny shape, with a great brain.

I have this body that can do a lot.
You have your body which can do a lot.
Whether we make good use of it, or not.
Have our bodies able to do a lot.

And we have our brains which can think strange things.
You have your brain which, sometimes, thinks strange things.
Capable of all sorts ‘ imaginings.
My brain can think weird and wonderful things.

About my shape, I’m not one to complain.
Just funny to think contains a great brain.

WHAT IS THIS LIFE … ?

Merits a credible explanation,
not just biological description,
or the right chemical combination,
or any other code or encryption.

What is this life I have just the one of?
Of my skin shredding and being replaced.
A renewed person. What, then, become of
the old me? Just in memory, a trace.

This brain function and bodily feeling?
The sights I see? In fact, all the senses?
Would think all that’s bound to be revealing,
but along with facts, there’s false pretences.

As well as … how …what … why …, alive can be,
like to know my place in the mystery.

TO A YOUNG HEART.

“To a young heart, everything is fun.”
Poster, encouraging youthful ageing.
Charles Dickens quote. No idea where from.
Or the event organisers’ staging.

But a joyful spirit is suggested.
Being somewhat carefree in the moment.
In whatever doing, interested.
The Mind’s contribution sharp and cogent.

This, in the interest of enjoyment.
For seeking out and receiving pleasure.
Even, by some means, via employment.
Possible, whatever the endeavour.

Obvious logic, to be young at heart
being better than a boring old fart.

TO AN OLD DOG.

The little meanderer of the park
wanders around having no need to bark.
Might acknowledge a flattering remark.
Happy there, until it’s time to depart.

The little meanderer on the grass.
The one thing not going to be, is fast.
Doesn’t have to, at speed, to show has class.
Leg gets lifted up, then the dye is cast.

And sniffs all around for traces of scent.
May roll over in, if feels that way bent.
Need a bath, if to a smelly extent.
But carries an attitude that’s well meant.

Will stop to meet and greet. Friendly, at heart.
The little meanderer of the park.

ENANTIODROMIA.

Enantiodromia. Carl Jung’s term.
It’s the reaching of a polarity
where it begins to resemble, we learn,
its opposite. This, the duality.

I am thinking of its application.
How about men and women? Gays and straights?
Even, perhaps with some trepidation,
political opponents ‘about face’.

Opposing systems. Something and nothing.
Things that matter most, and those not at all.
Deadly dull, or fatally exciting.
What must forget, or just have to recall.

Deal and no deal. Sleep and insomnia.
Life and death? Enantiodromia.

SUI GENERIS.

Sui Generis. A class of its own.
One of a kind. Seems so, apparently.
At this level; at this standard, alone.
As ordinary, it could never be.

Exceptional, means might be another.
But not for this beholder; not for me.
Love with a truly wonderful lover.
There could only be one to this degree.

A baby, I think, would be so, as well.
I know there are lots of babies, … but ours!
Would be loved so much, would surely excel.
Could reach the heights, whatever that entails.

So obviously, truly generous.
A life so endowed. Sui Generis.

ALTERED IMAGE. (POETIC SAMPLING.)

What used to be called ‘Sampling’. Chosen song,
“I could be happy. I could be happy.”
With a bit of luck, may make it belong.
“I could be happy. I could be happy.”

Putting in what has been sung. Down, the line.
“I could be happy. I could be happy.”
If it made to work, that would be just fine.
Should I make it be, would be fine by me.

All this that I do. All I try to do,
is fit some phrases as if to a tune.
To have it come through, and be brought to you,
the outcome, I hope, the one I assume.

“I could be happy. I could be happy.”
And have that feeling belonging to me.

ENTOZOON.

Who’s the entozoon in my household?
Who is the host and who the parasite?
Depended on, dependant, when all’s told?
Contribute enough to make it alright?

Life with life seems mostly compatible,
unless it is a predator with prey.
Living together quite acceptable,
despite the differences on display.

Maybe the partnership gives extra strength.
A loyalty, and commitment, added.
Even if it exists at one’s expense,
from entropy, released, value-added.

So, the dog, the wife, and me, may well be,
although we claim we’re entozoon-free.

DRUMS. (IAMBIC PENTAMETER.)

I hear the sound of drums; their beats and bangs;
And am aware of tribal resonance.
In origin of music, this. Give thanks,
although I’m supposing the evidence.

They can deliver constant emphasis.
Be basis. Ready rhythms responsive.
For countless songs it supplies anchorage.
For others, presence quite demonstrative.

Discern varieties that audible;
in patterns, volume, quality of sound.
And conducive, now, to recordable;
for hearing once again the drummer’s pounds.

But think in moments uninhibitive
this basic noise derives from primitive.