Verse on poetic politics

The literary world: it's a jungle out there

Ruth Padel has resigned after just nine days as the Oxford Professor of Poetry in a mire of smears, sexual allegations and and counter-slurs.

How better to mark the sordid affair than with some poetry of our own?

You dream to become
Oxford's number one
Poet.
You win - Hooray! - then you go and blow it.

Yes, it's rubbish, no, it doesn't scan and no, it doesn't really rhyme. Have a go for youself in the form below. Surely you can do better.

Please include your full name if you would like your entry to appear in The Times tomorrow.

Comments

[ScottC]

Accusation of
Fornication
Protestation and
Resignation

[trevor pateman]

Walcott and the women
Entered into battle
Now Oxford's up the creek
Yeah :) - without a Padel

[Tom]

'See how this prof
doth prey upon his bookish flock',
She wrote, and much besides,
That now she rues e'er saw the light of day,
And caused her quick demise.

[Thomas]

Unimpressive chick.
Probably was quite fit too -
Twenty years ago.

[Trevor Hicks]

It's rare the muse
makes such great news
the papers now are full of it!
For smears and tears,
M.Ps and Peers
For what they've fiddled
o'er the years,
Can't rival any poet!

Not my best but, in the circumstances, who needs quality?

[michael]

As a poet, she said she did know it was she, who made the accusations, that finally led to her resignation.

[pete m]

Mire of smears
And counter-slurs
Ruth will out
To get what's hers

But having taken
Up the post
In nine short days
She gives up the ghost.

[Judith C]

I fancy you Walcott
Young Padel did say
But Walcott made hay
With a different young lay
Hence the attack!

[Thomas]

An emancipated woman.
A post that's for the few.
She proved her Independence
By calling a friend or two.

[RGPearson]

I would put most writing above Padel's verse,
Even Beryl Bainbridge,
Looks like Oxford's got a curse,
Wish I'd gone to Cambridge!

[John Wray]

Padel emailed on the smears
By accident or design
Denied it but got caught out
And now she has resigned
She really was too ruthless
For her career to go quite far
And now Oxford too is Ruthless
Ha ha ha ha ha ha

[andy]

My heart was good my motive pure my post it was delightful,
But oh the way I sought my goal was truly frightful

Misogyny they loudly cry those who might defend me;
But honour, truth, integrity no longer represent me.

[Nick]

Walcott is a God, Padel just God's grand daughter.
How can it be we might prefer the latter o'er the former.

[Arf]

O Padel, thou art sick,
The invisible slur that flew in the night,
Hath caused a howling storm on Fleet Street,
And thy dark secret love
Hath thine own plans destroyed.

[Steve Green]

A smear I fear, oh dear
What is going on there and here
Do not worry, live and sing, it's not that bad as
Walcott, playing the field, is racing down the wing...

They think it's all over; it is now.

[John Galpin]

There was an old poet Padel
Who went and poisoned the well
Now who will dare sup
From a so tainted cup
When its already made such a smell

[Charlotte Peters Rock]

Poets inconsequential
Presume they matter to the mass
Yet shut experimental
Inside their fundamental
Cerebrational 'upper' class
The joke - and consequential
Communication (its a gas)
Is only detrimental
To surly cliques of gentle
Poetasting complex and crass
Slimy people - sequential
for the single honour of 'brass'
or tarnished crown on rental
from cliquey mates judgemental
who - in their turn - exclude the mass

[Greg Whitehead]

They call themself, what? Poets? All the primp/
And posturing on late night TV shows,/
Sour lemon faces paid to minch and grimp/
Like blubberpus MPs hauled in to pose/
Refined? That's not the job, it should be grubbed/
And fetch up on the doorstep, stay the night/
And steal the valuables, it should be lubbed/
In prison, not this poncy pillow fight/
And flattery, to get these doilies' names/
Shuffed up the list to pat their botty. Sake!/
This country sometimes, playing baby games/
That mean bitch all. We're barely half awake/
To squirl such noise from such inconsequence./
We wanted more from life. We used to. Once

[Donal Kennedy]

Spite from a Boiler

'Twas spite from a boiler

Spineless, sly

Threw slick slime into

Walcott's Eye

[Simon R. Gladdish]

'A middle-aged poet named Ruth
Is now growing quite long in the tooth.
Described as precocious,
Her spelling's atrocious
And she has a hard time with the truth.'

[A.K Namdot]

Old Oxford sets the scene:
A story of two halves-
A poetic media dream
Two barely chafing calves

Celebrities are in the press-
As verse is now their passion-
She should have known a short black dress
Would cause strange stirs to happen

Now poetry is rock n’ roll
As Ruth and Derek tumble
Its virtues have not been extolled
As much as Walcott’s fumbles

Do any journos read Padel?
(Don’t worry, I don’t either)
The ripples which begin to swell
Are coated in saliva

At least it’s raising profiles-
How many have they sold this week?
Some poets can be docile-
And are not dead, or freaks.

I read a Walcott poem once-
It’s not the worst I’ve read-
Perhaps I am a mere dunce
But could be Oxford head.