I wrote this poem on seeing a photograph of Elliott Morley in the London Times, on 14th May, after he was found to have been claiming expenses, from the public purse, on a mortgage that he no longer held. It's not a political poem, rather it's just what the title says - a portrait of a politician who has been caught out and faces the paparazzi. Here it is:
Leans against the stately door
little boy found out, says his face,
despite the coiffeured greying hair.
Is that twitch of mouth a plea?
No, too used to confident assertion for that.
Charm that's worked before
will work again, he hopes.
Right eye glancing over our shoulder
(a way out? A favour to call in?)
Left eye meets the camera full on.
Below the folded arms,
protective across the soft underbelly,
he knows he has no leg to stand on -
body ill at ease, off-balance
against the Georgian grandeur of his home.
The building is
the only thing that's genuine.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
haha, I can just picture this Jan....