Question. Not counting Shakespeare and the famous poets of earlier centuries, who in the last twenty years have been the most popular poets in England?
W.H. Auden Probably.
T.S. Eliot Certainly.
Brian Bilston. I beg your pardon? Who?
Brian Bilston. The Poet Laureate of Twitter (now called X).
Some of you may recognize him. My friend Donald Sosin suggested this column.
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Bilston, an almost unknown poet, came to prominence a few years back when he posted this poem on Twitter.
you took
the last bus home
don’t know how
you got it through the door
you’re always doing amazing stuff
like the time
you caught that train.
Bilston picked up a surprising number of social followers and responded with other Twitter-size verses, like this examination of grammar.
the grammar police got him
split his infinitive open
removed his colon
and left him lying commatose
the next day he was pronounced dead
full stop
Bilston, who tends to write brief poems or short stanzas soon realized that a social media platform was an ideal placement for his writing. The response grew rapidly, and Bilston amassed an army of viewers on Twitter. He wrote this about the day Twitter became unavailable for a whole afternoon.
That day I got things done.
I went for a long run.
Played ping-pong,
wrote a song.
It got to number one.
That day I did a lot.
I tied a Windsor knot.
Helped the poor,
stopped a war,
read all of Walter Scott.
O what a day to seize.
I learnt some Cantonese.
Led a coup
climbed K2,
cured a tropical disease.
That day I met deadlines,
got crowned King of Liechtenstein,
stroked a toucan,
found Lord Lucan,
then Twitter came back online.
Ultimately Bilston amassed more than 400,000 Twitter followers.
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Bilston’s approach to poetry is humorously inventive, and his connection with Twitter ingeniously captures the rhythm of today’s daily life. Here is a Bilston celebration of one of a poet’s prime activities: procrastination.
delay; defer; equivocate
make some tea; procrastinate
scroll through news; stroke the cat
readjust the thermostat
dawdle; dither; hem and haw
fill the kettle; chew my jaw
write nine words; spin on chair
play six games of solitaire
observe the merry, dappled light
dancing on the screen of white
print out words; paper scrunch
stroke the cat; break for lunch
prioritise new tasks to shirk
resolve myself to do some work
look at Twitter; spin on chair
make a brew; loiter; stare
scroll through news; stare some more
reorganise the kitchen drawer
write nine words; cross six out
stroke the cat; stoke self-doubt
make tea; stroke cat; scroll news; stare
Twitter; chair-spin; solitaire
stroke tea; spin news; scroll cat; wallow
write To Do list for tomorrow
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One could hardly call Brian Bilston a traditionalist, but he has posted some rules for aspiring poets. Among them:
Focus and concentration
are important skills to hone.
Turn the wi-fi off.
Don’t get distracted by your ph—
Avoid clichés like the plague.
The use of needlessly long words
may result in reader alienation.
Rein in your sesquipedalianism
in case it should cause obfuscation.
(And be careful of this next one! Check your spacing).
Always proof-read you’re work.
Accuracy can be it’s own reward!
And remember that the penis
mightier than the sword.
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Bilston may lack some of the sophistication of Dorothy Parker and Ogden Nash, but he surely knows his way around words and how to manipulate them, even in Italian. This piece is called “Remembrance of Things Pasta.”
She blew her fusilli,
my pretty penne,
when she found me watching
daytime tagliatelle.
Je ne spaghetti rien,
I responded in song,
but she did not linguini
for long,
just walked out
without further retort:
a hard lesson to be tortellini,
orzo I thought.
And so here I am
on my macaroni
and now my days
feel cannelloni.
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Bilston’s fascination with words is so great that he took the tune of the Rodgers and Hammerstein song, “My Favorite Things” from “The Sound of Music” and created new lyrics. He called it “My Favourite Words.” You can sing along.
Pipette and plectrum, obumbrate and flimsy,
Balderdash, spatchcock, flapdoodle and whimsy,
Obnubilation and nontrepreneur:
These are a few of my favourite words.
Sachet, humdudgeon, haboob, hurly-burly,
Scroddled and dottle, goluptious and surly,
Mumpsimus, tawdry, decumbent and blurb:
These are a few of my favourite words.
Susurrus, zephyr, rubescent, boondoggle,
Reboant, gaggle, hubris and hornswoggle,
Refulgent, plethora, plinth and perturb:
These are a few of my favourite words.
When the rose droops
When the branch snags
When I’m lachrymose
I simply remember my favourite words
And then I don’t feel morose.
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A common complaint of poets is finding the location of a poetry department. in a bookstore. Bilston takes this up with a clerk.
Poetry? Let’s see . . . yes, fourth floor.
No. I’m afraid there’s not a lift.
We used to keep them all down here
but they’re ever so hard to shift.
All those gloomy meditations
on the meaning of life and death!
Putting customers off, they were.
Now it’s all celebrity chef
and lifestyle books – they’re selling like
warm focaccia. But, as I say,
fourth floor – sandwiched between Transport
and Religion – out of harm’s way.
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When a humorous poet takes a serious tack, the result can have remarkable strength. This poem by Bilston surprised his fans but surely made its point.
England is a cup of tea.
France, a wheel of ripened brie.
Greece, a short, squat olive tree.
America is a gun.
Brazil is football on the sand.
Argentina, Maradona’s hand.
Germany, an oompah band.
America is a gun.
Holland is a wooden shoe.
Hungary, a goulash stew.
Australia, a kangaroo.
America is a gun.
Japan is a thermal spring.
Scotland is a highland fling.
Oh, better to be anything
than America as a gun.
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On a semi-serious note, Bilston contemplated how his poetic life might end in a piece called “The Bonfire.” As he said, “I dropped off to sleep on the sofa, beneath the cat. I had a dreadful dream in which all my poems were set on fire and everyone cheered.”
As I warmed myself by its fire,
I noticed on that burning pyre
A poem of mine, long since penned,
Now in flame from end to end
And next to it, another one,
The words alight and quickly gone,
Its rhymes and rhythms up in flame.
Just like the letters of my name.
Only then did it dawn on me.
The whole thing was my poetry,
A blazing bonfire of bon mots,
All my writing up in smoke.
More and more got thrown upon it:
Haiku, villanelles, and sonnets.
The people’s faces overjoyed
To see my work at last destroyed.
They hoisted up an effigy,
Which turned out to be really me,
Lighting up the evening sky.
Brian Bilston: what a guy.
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VIDEO. Brian Bilston might go up in smoke, but not the chap who invented him. Bilston’s real name is Paul Millicheap (b. 1970) who, until his poems became runaway hits, made his living as an academic publisher. Now the immense popularity of his poetry has made it inevitable that he go on tour where he plays nightly to sold-out audiences.
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In between engagements his preference is to have a quiet time at home with a cat in his lap. And if the cat begs for a poem, Bilston would likely perform this. It’s called “Job Interview with a Cat.”
Tell me, what is it about this position that interests you?
The warmth, perhaps? The security?
Or the power you must feel by rendering me useless?
Feel free to expand if you wish.
I see you have had experience of similar positions.
Can you talk about a time when you got someone’s tongue?
Or were set amongst the pigeons?
Have you ever found yourself in a bag only then to be let out of it?
Tell me, how would you feel if you had to walk on hot bricks?
What about a tin roof of similar temperature?
With reference to any of your past lives,
has curiosity ever killed you?
Finally, where do you see yourself in five years?
In the same position? Or higher up to catch the sunlight?
Or would you like to be where I am now?
Oh, it appears you already are.
Allowing a rare television interview, Bilston tells us that he sees social media as the most promising forum for the future of poetry. He could well be on to something.
CLICK ON THIS LINK FOR VIDEO: THE POET LAUREATE OF TWITTER
