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Just in case the reference in my last post to G.K. Chesterton's marvellous poem, Antichrist, or the Reunion of Christendom: An Ode, wasn't clear enough, I've adapted it specially for the situation: Anticlimax, or the Rumours of Saatchidom: An Ode

(after G.K. Chesterton)

“She became involved in the Stuckists group around that time, and married Charles Thomson, the universally perceived dodgy founder of the Stuckists movement.” –  

Anna Finel Honigman, introducing a discussion with Stella Vine on the Saatchi Gallery site.

 

Do the artists in their garrets,

                        surfing Ana,

Reiterate her thoughts like parrots?

                        Do they, Ana?

Do the poets, when they’ve read

  Such accomplished use of words,

Sit around and nod their head

  “Thomson’s dodgier than turds”?

Do the actors in rehearsal

  boom, “He’s got a dodgy manner,”

Part too of the universal?

                        Truly, Ana?

 

Single mums in tower blocks,

                        Also, Anna,

Nightime workers in the docks,

                        As well, Anna,

Old guys strolling in the park

  While their wives sit quietly knitting,

Soldiers back home from Iraq,

  MPs in a late night sitting,

Couples striving for conception,

  Mechanics heaving on a spanner,

Doubtless all share your perception,

                        Don’t they, Anna?

 

Does the average Utah miner,

                        (Get real, Anna)

Do a billion souls in China

                        (each one, Anna)

And the generals ruling Burma

  And the tribes round Alice Springs

Find some time each day to murmer

  That they too perceive these things?

Does a merchant in Karachi

  Mock a Stuckist protest banner

After he has praised Charles Saatchi?

                        Well does he, Anna?

 

Starving children in Darfur,

                        Surely, Anna,

With their dying breath concur,

                        Don’t they, Anna?

They don’t let the fact intrude

  That we sit here getting podgy

Stuffing what could be their food –

  Now they know that I am dodgy.

I am sure your observation

  Falls upon them all like manna.

Life needs no more explanation

                        After Anna.

 

Doubtless you have got your fee,

N’est-ce pas, Anna?

You know nothing though of me,

                        Do you, Anna?

Maybe you could make enquiries,

  As all journalists should do

(rumour has it there are diaries),

  But as far as what is true

(this perception’s not just mine)

 You’d get more from Elsie Tanner

Than you would from Stella Vine.

So there, Anna!

  

……………………………………………

   Another of my recent versifications, A Failing in My Head, about Sir Nicholas Serota, can be found at http://www.stuckism.com/Tate/OfiliFailingPoem.html#Poem