News

I was on the Sony Award-winning Saturday Live this morning. The show was charming as always. Richard Coles is good for the soul. It was nice and relaxed. I wrote my longer poem in response to the story of a British teenager going to the Vaganova Ballet School in St Petersburg. It’s very silly. The first, little piece is pretty self-explanatory. I really admired Christopher Hitchens. Even if one didn’t agree with the points he was making one always knew he had searched his own mind with intense scrutiny to get his ideas and that was always admirable and impressive.

For The Hitch

So long then Mr Hitchens
your perfect rage still burning bright
off to meet your maker
or maybe not, if you were right.

*

Luke Wright at The Vaganova School of Ballet

Six foot four and eighteen stone
a fag and bottle of Cote du Rhone
they’d always make me dance alone
at the Vaganova School of Ballet

A Playdoh lump of carnal sin
a whiff of l’eau de own-brand gin
no one knows who let me in
to the Vaganova School of Ballet

My pas de chat was more like dog
my chasse had them all a-gog
each jambre like a redwood log
at the Vaganova School of Ballet

In leotards I’d dilly-dally
somewhere in the Neva valley
less Swan Lake more Dead Duck Alley
at the Vaganova School of Ballet

They said my attitude was bad
my demi-plie not quite trad.
I looked a bit like someone’s dad
at the Vaganova School of Ballet

So much for those open bras
never once did I hear da
they kicked me out, just like the Csar
at the Vaganova School of Ballet